The Chinese Jars Read Free Page A

number on it. On a desk right next to the entrance door was a ledger book and a notepad. The examiner looked up the name Rockwell and wrote a number on the pad, then ripped it off and walked down the row of squares until he reached number twenty-five. He rechecked the number.
    â€œYou’re not suffering from heart trouble or anything like that, are you?” he asked Samuel.
    â€œNo, sir. I admit, though, I haven’t seen a dead person since my parents died a few years ago.”
    â€œYou’re sure you want to see it.”
    â€œYes, sir. It’s important to me.”
    â€œOkay, you asked for it,” and he opened the drawer.
    Samuel saw a white sheet covering the outline of a body on a metal tray. He felt the cold air from the open box. The examiner stopped pulling when the drawer was about three feet out, then slowly peeled back the sheet to expose the head and shoulders to just below the nipples.
    â€œThat’s him,” said Samuel, when he was able to speak after a long pause. He expected to see Reginald’s smiling face as he remembered it, but the violent death had smashed that face to bits. Samuel supposed that he’d fallen in front of the trolley bus and been dragged along the asphalt. His nose was flattened and one of his cheekbones was caved in; but it was his friend: the same black hair, well-defined eyebrows, and refined lips. He saw the autopsy stitches on his torso in between his breasts.
    â€œThat’s awful,” he murmured.
    â€œWhat did I tell you?”
    â€œWhat do these bruises on his arms mean? They look like someone had a pretty strong grip on him.”
    â€œI wouldn’t put too much emphasis on those,” said the examiner. “He was in a coma for several hours before he died. Obviously, the nursing staff was moving him around.” He waited a few seconds then asked, “Seen enough?”
    â€œYeah, thanks. You understand, don’t you? He was a good friend of mine.”
    â€œI understand,” said the examiner, covering the body and pushing it back into its place.
    On the way back to the office, Samuel asked, “What’ll happen to the body?”
    â€œWe’ll hold it for a month or so; if it’s not claimed or there’s no other problems, we donate it to science. They always need cadavers at the University of California Medical School.
    â€œI have one more favor to ask,” said Samuel. “Can I go through his belongings?”
    â€œThat’s sort of against the rules, too; but what the hell. We’ll say you’re helping to solve the mystery.”
    He picked up the phone and told the clerk to let Samuel see the property file. In a few minutes the clerk entered with a garment bag containing a tuxedo, a shirt, socks, and underwear; and a plastic bag with a wallet, watch, cuff links and studs for a dress shirt, an almost empty pack of cigarettes, a Zippo lighter, and seventeen dollars in cash.
    â€œHelp yourself. You can use the evidence room right through there. Make yourself at home.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll report back if I find anything that might help,” said Samuel.
    When he looked at the pile of stuff in front of him, tears welled up in his eyes. He didn’t cry easily, but it made him sad to think that this was all that was left of the poor bastard. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, realizing he just couldn’t turn and leave, as he had wanted to.
    Instead, he started methodically going through the wallet. There was no driver’s license, only a social security card and a photo of a younger Reginald in an army uniform. He had lieutenant’s bars on his shoulders, but Samuel couldn’t tell if they were silver or gold. Next, he searched the pockets of his tuxedo and found an invitation to a party for the night Reginald had apparently jumped in front of the trolley bus. It was to an exclusive cocktail bash in Pacific Heights at the home of a wealthy industrialist.