And suddenly Mr. Pimp slapped her.
"Whomp her good," the bartender said, nodding encouragement.
Eileen staggered back from the blow, her green eyes blazing. She bunched her fists and went at him as if she'd kill him, but he shoved her away, turned her toward the bar, shoved her again, toward the door of the bar this time, and then strutted back to the Caddy, lord of all he surveyed. Eileen was nursing her cheek. She glared at the Caddy as it pulled away from the curb.
Act One had begun.
Four pieces had become one piece.
Maybe.
They showed her the bundle of clothing first.
Black shoes, blue socks. Blue trousers. Black belt. White Jockey undershorts. Blood stains on the waistband of the trousers and the shorts.
"I… I think those are Frank's clothes," Marie said.
Some coins in one of the pants pockets. A quarter, two dimes, and a penny.
No keys. Neither house keys nor car keys.
A handkerchief in another pocket.
And a wallet.
Black leather.
"Is this your husband's wallet?" Brown asked.
"Yes."
Her voice very soft. As if what they were showing her demanded reverence.
In the wallet, a driver's license issued to Frank Sebastiani of 604 Eden Lane, Collinsworth. No credit cards. Voters Registration card, same name, same address. A hundred and twenty dollars in twenties, fives, and singles. Tucked into one of the little pockets was a green slip of paper with the words MARIE'S SIZES hand-lettered onto it, and beneath that:
Hat:
22
Dress:
8
Bra:
36B
Belt:
26
Panties:
5
Ring:
5
Gloves:
6½
Stockings:
9½(Medium)
Shoes:
6½
"Is this your husband's handwriting?" Brown asked.
"Yes," Marie said. Same soft reverential voice.
They led her inside.
The morgue stank.
She reeled back from the stench of human gasses and flesh.
They walked her past a stainless-steel table upon which the charred remains of a burn-victim's body lay trapped in a pugilistic pose, as though still trying to fight off the flames that had consumed it.
The four pieces of the dismembered corpse were on another stainless-steel table. They were casually assembled, not quite joining. Lying there on the table like an incomplete jigsaw puzzle.
She looked down at the pieces.
"There's no question they're the same body," Carl Blaney said.
Lavender-eyed, white-smocked. Standing under the fluorescent lights, seeming neither to notice nor to be bothered by the intolerable stink in the place.
"As for identification…"
He shrugged.
"As you see, we don't have the hands or the head yet."
He addressed this to the policemen in the room. Ignoring the woman for the time being. Afraid she might puke on his polished tile floor. Or in one of the stainless-steel basins containing internal organs. Three cops now. Hawes, Brown, and Genero. Two cases about to become one. Maybe.
The lower half of the torso was naked now.
She kept looking down at it.
"Would you know his blood type?" Blaney asked.
"Yes," Marie said. "B."
"Well, that's what we've got here."
Hawes knew about the appendectomy and meniscectomy scars because she'd mentioned them while describing her husband. He said nothing now. First rule of identification, you didn't prompt the witness. Let them come to it on their own. He waited.
"Recognize anything?" Brown asked.
She nodded.
"What do you recognize, ma'am?"
"The scars," she said.
"Would you know what kind of scars those are?" Blaney asked.
"The one on the belly is an appendectomy scar."
Blaney nodded.
"The one on the left knee is from when he had the cartilage removed."
"That's what those scars are," Blaney said to the detectives.
"Anything else, ma'am?" Brown asked.
"His penis," she said.
Neither Blaney nor any of the detectives blinked. This wasn't the Meese Commission standing around the pieces of a corpse, this was a group of professionals trying to make positive identification.
"What about it?" Blaney asked.
"There should be a small… well, a beauty spot, I guess you'd call it," Marie said. "On the underside. On the foreskin."
Blaney lifted the corpse's limp penis in one rubber-gloved hand. He turned it slightly.
"This?" he asked, and indicated a birthmark the size of a pin-head on the foreskin, an inch or so below the glans.
"Yes," Marie said softly.
Blaney let the penis drop.
The detectives were trying to figure out whether or not all of this added up to a positive ID. No face to look at. No hands to examine for fingerprints. Just the blood type, the scars on belly and leg, and the identifying birthmark—what Marie had called a beauty spot—on the penis.
"I'll work up a dental chart sometime tomorrow," Blaney said.
"Would you know who his dentist was?" Hawes asked Marie.
"Dentist?" she said.
"For comparison later," Hawes said. "When we get the chart."
She looked at him blankly.
"Comparison?" she said.
"Our chart against the dentist's. If it's your husband, the charts'll match.'"
"Oh," she said. "Oh. Well… the last time he went to a dentist was in Florida. Miami Beach. He had this terrible toothache. He hasn't been to a dentist since we moved north."
"When was that?" Brown asked.
"Five years ago."
"Then the most recent dental chart…"
