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“To the morgue by the Cheshire Hall Medical Centre. Lindstrom prefers to do his cutting at the hospital. But the free-standing morgue isn’t bad.”
When I said nothing in response to that ringing endorsement, she expanded.
“The Provo mortuary isn’t as big as the one on Grand Turk. That facility can store up to twenty cadavers. Ours can take six. It lacks a few things, radiology, a decent microscope, but still beats the snot out of the local funeral homes,” Musgrove went on. “They have no refrigeration at all.”
“Must be a motivator for quick turnarounds.”
Musgrove chuckled softly at my lame joke. “The Cheshire Hall Medical Centre houses a pathology department. The catch is, as you already know, there’s no resident pathologist on the island.”
“So Lindstrom commutes as needed.”
“He, or some other patho, is supposed to come weekly. But that doesn’t always happen.”
“Must be frustrating for families.”
“Indeed. After an autopsy, getting the registered death certificatesigned might take up to three weeks. Waiting that long can be torture for those wanting to bury a loved one.”
“No death certificate, no repatriation of remains back to home soil.”
“Exactly.”
Musgrove made a left.
“The good news is that our mortuary has a trained technician. You met him.”
I must have looked blank.
“Iggie Bernadin. The chap knows nix about bones, but he’s affable and a quick learner. You’ll like working with him.”
Musgrove made another turn, this time onto Hospital Road. Again, I admired the straightforward approach Provo took toward naming its streets.
The Cheshire Hall Medical Centre lay straight ahead, beyond moderately well-populated parking lots, given the early hour. The lots were separated by a triangular expanse of very green, very well-manicured grass.
The hospital was larger and more modern than I expected. The front-facing portion was two-tone white and yellow stucco, long and low, with narrow white columns supporting a central overhang shading double glass doors.
Blue hurricane shutters jutted out over windows running both levels of the building. A hedge, flowering shrubs, and precisely positioned palms graced its front.
An elderly man waited in a wheelchair outside the main entrance, gnarled hands resting on the curved handle of his cane, legs covered with a homemade multicolored wool blanket. The patchwork pattern made me think of the many afghans Gran had crocheted. Or maybe it was the old gent’s knobby fingers.
I flicked a wave at Gramps as we rolled by. He didn’t respond. Perhaps didn’t see. Maybe didn’t care.
Musgrove continued past the hospital to a small building of similar design but significantly less elegant landscaping. Sheparked on the strip of asphalt abutting the structure and we both got out.
An unmarked glass door gave onto a no-nonsense lobby. Mint green cinder block walls. Gray tile floor. Wooden chairs lining two sides. Unmanned desk straight ahead.
Our entrance must have triggered an alarm in back. Almost immediately, a man appeared through a door to the left of the desk.
I hadn’t taken much note of Iggie Bernadin the previous day. Now I couldn’t imagine how that had happened.
Bernadin was thin—very thin—with purple-black skin that gleamed like a well-polished eggplant. His hair, fast retreating from his forehead, was gray and buzzed close to his scalp. A raised scar squiggled like a night crawler beside his left eye.
“Iggie, this is Dr. Brennan.” Musgrove made introductions. “You two met yesterday.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Iggie said, smiling with rows of teeth that testified to years of smoking.
“You did a terrific job with the body bags,” I said, extending a hand.
When we shook, Iggie’s palm felt rough as steel wool.
