The Widower Murders

Chapter 18 - St. Joseph Mercy Hospital

For me, walking through the hallways of St. Joe's was a rollercoaster of mixed emotions.  In many ways knowing that we were en route to where the bodies were kept had my nerves on edge.  Eventually, images of half-dead zombies wandering about the room we came to swarmed my imagination.  Once inside, as we were led by a woman Samantha introduced as Belma to what appeared to be oversized filing cabinets, I couldn't help but wince at the sight of the corpse in a drawer she pulled out.

"God," Samantha gasped.  "Smells like...death."

Belma ignored the remark's obviousness.

Samantha covered her nose and took a step back.

I on the other hand moved closer, curiosity getting the best of me.

Injuries to the decomposed body were blunt and deliberate.  The face and chest looked as if they had been clawed by a wild animal.  Had I not seen similar wounds before, I would’ve guest they were made by a grizzly or black bear. I decided I’d wait until Samantha and I were alone before saying anything.

Belma took out a clipboard. "Autopsy report isn't complete but it says it's a male John Doe, age thirty-eight to forty-four. Aside from the visible signs of trauma, no other indications of disease or poor health."

Samantha regained her composure and re-joined us, the stench of the body seemingly no longer bothering her. "Any idea who he might be," she asked, signalling for the drawer to be closed.

Belma gave the metal door a shove and then flipped to the front page on the board.  "You know.  I do recall something about an ID being logged in with—"

Samantha perked up.  "An ID?  What ID?"

Belma sang, "Lockerrrrr..." headed to another file cabinet and opened number seventy-two.  "Here it is," she announced, retrieving a plastic bag of contents and pouring them out on an adjacent counter.

Among the items—a wallet, set of keys, tube of Chap Stick—laid a State of Michigan driver's license.  Without hesitation, Samantha hurried over, picked it up and read it.  "You have got to be kidding me," she exclaimed, turning and raising the card so that I could view it.

"Is something wrong?" Belma asked.

I squinted to make out the owner's name but before I could process who the card belonged to, Samantha passed it to Belma and began rambling through her purse.   "Where are you, where are you, where arrrrr... There you are!" she declared, pulling out a cell phone, dialling a number and then walking away with a finger to her lips.  "Uhm, yes.  Hi," the budding reporter began as Belma and I remained silent.  "This is Sam Patterson calling for Chief Wallace.  Is he in?  ...He's not.  Well, is there a way you can contact him and ask why is Spencer Mullson lying in St. Joe’s morgue labelled as a John Doe?”