Death Notice. Todd Ritter

She had been a jovial woman, quick with a smile and a free Jolly Rancher. Standing in the same room as her corpse, Kat felt like she was violating the woman in unspeakable ways.

      She was grateful when Nick finally entered the embalming room. His new uniform of crisp scrubs gave her something other than Mrs. Hanover’s body to look at.

      “I’m assuming both of you know very little about the embalming process,” Art said.

      “Nothing at all,” Nick said, answering for both of them. “But I understand it’s very important.”

      The mortician beamed. “Oh, it is. The most important aspect of my job is creating a memory picture for the family of the deceased to take with them. They find it helps with the grieving process.”

      Kat recalled the way both her mother and father had looked in their caskets. Contrary to what Arthur McNeil thought, it didn’t help her one bit. The images were something she wished she could forget.

      The door to the embalming room opened and Art’s son, Robert, emerged, also dressed in scrubs. Unlike the rest of them, he wore a rubber apron tight around his torso.

      “What are they doing here?” he asked, his voice harsh in the hushed atmosphere of the embalming room.

      Kat graduated high school a class behind Bob, and the intervening years hadn’t changed him one bit. The polar opposite of his father, he was without manners of any stripe. Kat knew part of Bob’s rudeness stemmed from his lifelong outcast status. He was an ungainly, unattractive boy, whose social life didn’t benefit any from living above a funeral home.

      Things only got worse for Bob when he turned ten, the year his mother, no longer able to live among the dead, decided to become one of them. Wearing three layers of heavy clothes, a brick shoved into every pocket, she threw herself into Lake Squall, the water quickly consuming her.

      Leota McNeil stayed underwater for three days. When she finally floated to the surface, Kat’s father was unlucky enough to find her.

      Kat vividly remembered the conversation that took place that night at the dinner table. Her father doled out details to her mother, who clucked with sympathy. He then turned to Kat and said, “Be nice to Robert McNeil the next time you see him at school. Give him a little smile in the halls.”

      The next day, to everyone’s surprise, Bob showed up at school, thudding through the halls with the same old chip on his shoulder. When he neared her, Kat recalled her father’s words and forced a smile. Bob ignored it, giving her a withering glance as he barreled on by.

      It surprised no one when he went into the family business after high school. The general thinking was that Bob McNeil had to work with the dead because he didn’t know how to act among the living. They also suspected that he continued to reside with his father because Art was the only person who could tolerate him.

      “Chief Campbell and Lieutenant Donnelly are here to observe the embalming process,” Art said, as his son moved deeper into the embalming room. “You will extend them every courtesy, understand?”

      He then turned to Kat. “Despite his ornery mood, I know Robert will be a huge help. He always is. I’ve found that children of single parents are especially attuned to the needs of the remaining parent. Like your son, for instance. How is James?”

      “He’s doing great,” Kat said.

      Art seemed pleased by the news. “I’m happy to hear that. James is such a good boy. Very special. You should be proud of him.”

      She assured him she was, which satisfied Art. With a smile and a wave, he said, “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Kat. And very nice meeting you, Lieutenant. Be sure to ask Robert any question you want.”

      “You’re leaving?”

      The nervousness in Kat’s voice was obvious to both father and son, but she couldn’t help it. Bob McNeil was the last person she wanted to be with in an embalming room.

      “Unfortunately, yes,” Art said. “I work days. Robert works nights. But truth be told, he’s a better embalmer than I’ve ever been. You’re in good hands.”

      Arthur departed, leaving Kat and Nick alone with one corpse and one mortician. It was like school all over again, with the mere presence of Bob McNeil creeping her out.

      “How have you been, Bob?” she asked, trying to make an effort to sound casual and friendly.

      The mortician wasn’t buying any of it. Slipping a surgical mask over his nose and mouth, he said, “You ready?”

      With the mask and cap on, the only part of Bob’s face still visible were his too-large eyes. They were exaggerated further by the pair of Coke-bottle glasses he was forced to wear beginning in junior high. The lenses caused his eyes to look positively huge, which always made Kat think of a deranged Muppet.

      “I guess we are,” she said. “How long do you think this will take?”

      “Not long. This one should be pretty easy. She’s in good shape. Bodies that are really banged up or autopsied like George take much longer.”

      Bob whipped off the white sheet, leaving the body of Barbara Hanover fully exposed, with every wrinkle and sag on her chalk-colored skin visible. Nearby sat a stainless steel tray on wheeled legs, which he pulled to his side. Arranged on the tray were plastic bottles, a few folded towels, and medical instruments of various shapes and sizes. Within seconds, Bob was dipping a sponge attached to a wooden stick into a sudsy fluid. He then used it to swab the body.

      “What are you doing?” Kat asked, oddly fascinated by the way Bob efficiently wiped down the body.

      “Cleaning her,” he replied, the sponge sliding over the corpse’s drooping breasts. “I’m using a germicide. Kills off bacteria.”

      When he finished with the skin, Bob dipped a smaller sponge attached to a longer stick into the cleaning solution. This he used to swab first inside the corpse’s mouth and then in each nostril.

      With the cleaning over, he began to knead the body, his hands working down its arms and legs.

      “This loosens things up,” he said, moving to the shoulders. “Rigor mortis makes the corpse tight.”

      “Is this done to all the bodies?” Nick asked.