Someone had scratched HELP! in the painted surface of the pay phone. The place smelled of something other than cleanliness. When I fumbled for coins, the pocket jingle prompted the shirtless ace of spades to turn his head. Focusfixed. The leer of a hungry wolf. One drooping eyelid, Pavlovian spittle slo-mo down the chin. I noted that the TURD tattoo on his arm had once read TORO. I assumed that fellow inmates had customized the lettering. Ballpoint pens and shank punctures. I hoped that his treatment wasn’t being delayed until his insurance claim cleared. One message at the house: Claire Cahill, looking for “any news, even bad.” Resignation in her words—with a few rays of sunlight, wisps of hope, under the cloud cover. A friend in need of a friend. Once more I envisioned myself stumbling over wording, cursing the fact that I couldn’t talk to her in person. I decided, for the moment, not to pass along bad news. I dialed Dr. Larry Riley, Monroe County’s medical examiner. I couldn’t call Larry a confidant, but he understood my quasi-official nosiness.
