* * *
Why the fuckis this my job?
I guess normally the spouse of the deceased takes care of funeral arrangements, but Dad unloaded Mom a few months before he died.I’m his legal next of kin.
But given Dad’s position, you’d think the City of Chicago would be making his arrangements.
Then again, he plunged half the city into unemployment and homelessness in his last year, so maybe they didn’t feel particularly obligated to shell out for his posthumous expenses.
His estate is covering the cost of everything, but I’m the one who has to deal with all the little details.Pick out a coffin, arrange a burial, even decide which suit he’ll spend eternity in.
Probably that Armani suit he hated so much, the one he wore the night of my eighteenth birthday.That would be some fucking justice.
I got a call from Bill Lassard, the city coroner, asking me to come in and identify the body.
Such a fucking joke.Any person in this city could identify Henry Hathaway’s body.His face has been plastered all over protestors’ signs and unflattering political cartoons the last few years.Even after he lost the election, and even after his death, his face has become synonymous with political corruption and government overreach.
Bill Lassard meets me at the door.He’s a skinny guy, balding, wearing a suit two sizes too big and giant round glasses.A wiry goatee frames the lower half of his face.He reaches out a hand.
“Maddox Hathaway, I presume?”
“The First Disgrace himself,” I mutter.
That was what the newspapers called me after my birthday party.After I shunned the Hathaway political dynasty in front of all of Dad’s then-allies.
When Dad’s reputation went south, it took on a whole new meaning.
Bill frowns at my words.“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“That makes one of us,” I say.“Let’s get this over with.I have an appointment with the funeral home after this, and every second I spend dealing with my father’s corpse is a second away from my own business.”
“Of course, Mr.Hathaway.Right this way.”
Bill brings me inside to a sterile room laden with stainless steel from floor to ceiling.I instinctively cross my arms against the chill.Bill leads me to a small table and pulls back a sheet.
“Is this your father?”
I look at Dad.I haven’t seen him in person since my eighteenth birthday.He looks about the same.A few more wrinkles and gray hairs.
But one thing different is his left eye.It’s swollen and dark, like someone punched him.
“What happened to his eye?”I ask.
“Your father died of a heart attack.The kind that kills almost instantly.He likely collapsed and hit his eye on a table or other piece of furniture.”Bill takes a breath in.“But you haven’t answered my question, Mr.Hathaway.Is this your father?”
“Of course it’s my fucking father.”
“Thank you.”Bill grabs the sheet to cover my father’s head again.
“Wait.”
Bill sighs.“Yes?”
“What… What are you going to do to him?To prepare him for the funeral?”
“The mortuary will take care of all that.”
“So?You’re a coroner, so you know that stuff.Tell me anyway.”
