Thicker Than Water

Death had not come easy. That much was clear. His body, once spry and athletic, lay on the cold, steel table under the harsh, unforgiving light of the autopsy suite. His face, once full of smiles, was bruised and blackened. His mouth, once full of a thousand stories, was swollen and nearly unrecognizable.

Both eyes were swollen shut. His nose was pushed to the left of his face at an impossible angle. Bruises covered his upper chest, arms, back, and thighs. The left knee was dislocated. Both hands, large and powerful when among the living, were flaccid in death. Every finger broken, every bone in each hand shattered.

He hadn’t gone down without a fight.

To add insult to injury, in the location one imagines when someone says ‘right between the eyes,’ there was a small, round hole, bordered by singled flesh.

“Well? Is that him?” Detective Walter Pratt’s tone was even and all business, the same as his plain brown shoes and cliché cop’s mustache.

I stood at the window of the morgue and looked down again at the beaten piece of flesh that has once been my younger brother. Before we came in, both Pratt and I knew the body cooling on the steel table belonged to Robbie. My older brother had already made the official identification, but I needed to see it for myself. Even after preparing for what I might see, my brain and mouth could only muster a simple nod.

“Robert Joseph Donnelly, is that correct?” Pratt asked.

I nodded again.

Pratt signaled and inside the autopsy suite the medical examiner, a younger doctor who introduced herself earlier but whose name was not even on the outskirts of my mind, covered Robbie’s body and wheeled it away from the window.

In the hallway, I stood side-by-side with Pratt, looking into the room as Robbie’s body disappeared into a cabinet like an unwanted appliance.

“What can you tell me about what happened?” I asked.

Pratt, tall and slim, in his mid-50s, with a battle-worn face, turned and looked at me with control.

“Not much. We’re still investigating,” he said in the practiced tone of a man accustomed to revealing as little about a case as possible, even to a grieving brother. “It’s still early, Mr. Donnelly. We’re collecting information. Following up on leads. If we need anything, we know where to find you- you and the rest of your family.”

The last bit was said with the vitriol most cops in Dolan Heights held for the Donnelly Family. 

“What sort of leads?” I asked.

Annoyed, Pratt stood like a cop now. Shoulders straight and back, chin up, eyes burning into mine. Gone was any semblance of sympathy.

“I appreciate your willingness to be involved, Patrick, I do, but the last thing we need right now is for you, or anyone else from down on Sixth Avenue, interfering with a murder investigation.”

I stood up straight to match him. At 6’2 and 215 pounds, I was at least two inches taller than Pratt.

“I’m not trying to interfere. I’m trying to help, you know, move things along.” My eyes were still red and swollen from crying, but I bore them into Pratt’s nonetheless.

The detective looked up into my eyes. “Yeah, I know how you guys do things down on Sixth Avenue but this isn’t about vigilante justice. This is a murder investigation,” he said. “Take my advice. Go home. Be with your family. Bury your brother. Let us handle it."

Before he was done speaking I reached into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, pulled out a business card out, and handed it to Pratt.

“As you can see, I don’t associate with anyone on Sixth Avenue anymore and haven’t for years,” I said.

Pratt let out a loud sigh that filled the empty hallway.

We both stood in silence, soaking up the tension.

“What’s the matter, you nervous, Pratt?” I looked deep into his brown eyes.

“Just trying to do my job.” He held out his hands in surrender.

"Me too,” I said.

I watched Pratt walk down the long, bright hallway and out the double doors into the late morning sun. In his world, he was the good guy and I was the bad guy and it was the good guy’s job to find a killer.

But he was wrong. Sometimes you needed a bad guy to find a bad guy.

I was going to find the guy who killed my brother Robbie, I owed him that much.