They had already cut Hubert down by the time we got there. I stood on the sidewalk and watched as they carried him out of his building in a coroner’s bag. His memory played across the inside of my skul. I reached out, wanting to feel the weight. But he walked away from my touch and took his spot in the gal ery of dead faces, waiting, apparently, to witness my grief.
“I’m sorry, Michael.” Lawson stood at my shoulder, her words tight in my ear. “I don’t know what happened to the team I sent in.”
“It wasn’t you.” I stepped back from the ambulance and took a seat on the curb. “I was the one who waited. I was the one who decided he wasn’t a target. And I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry.” Lawson crouched down and seemed to lose her train of thought, if not her composure, for a moment. “We were too late and I’m sorry.”
I felt her hand on mine, her face shining white in the night.
“Michael Kel y.”
I looked up. A middle-aged black woman was standing over me, removing a pair of latex gloves. Marge Connel y spent her life in the company of death, her features ful of the hard grace necessary to the job. I had known her for more than a decade and seen the look before. This time I was on the receiving end.
“Hi, Marge.” I stood up, Lawson with me. “This is Katherine Lawson, from the Bureau. Marge Connel y, Cook County ME.”
The two women shook hands.
“You two involved in this?” Marge said.
“Hubert was a friend of mine,” I said.
Marge raised her eyes a fraction and looked to the FBI agent, waiting for more.
“We might have an interest in the case,” Lawson said.
“This wasn’t a suicide,” I said.
“Who claimed it was?” Marge opened the back door to the ambulance. The black body bag rested inside.
“What did you find?” Lawson said.
“Off the record? Death by asphyxiation. He was hung by a length of rope from his ceiling fan. How he got there?” Marge shrugged. “Just don’t know right now. Young man, though. And that’s an awful shame.”
I moved closer to the bag. Marge slid down the zipper without a word. I took a last look, but my friend was gone, his features already cast by death’s heavy hand.
“I should have something tomorrow,” Marge said and closed up the bag. Lawson nodded and thanked her. Marge climbed into the front of the ambulance. Then Lawson and I watched as they took Hubert Russel to the morgue.