Gold of Our Fathers - [25]

“She says she wants to.”

“Then let’s go,” Dawson said, “because today is Friday and there will only be a skeleton crew over the weekend.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mr. Huang’s SUV was much roomier than Wei’s pickup, so with Dawson in the front passenger seat and Huang and Lian in the back, Wei drove ten kilometers north to KATH. On the way there, the weekend spectacle for which the Ashanti Region, Kumasi especially, was infamous was on full display. Starting every Thursday-sometimes earlier-Kumasi was thronged with funerals and their preparation. A sea of people filled the streets wearing traditional funeral outfits of the deepest blacks and brilliant reds from scarlet to maroon.

The deceased might have been nobody while he was alive, but now that he was dead, he’d be famous. The shack he lived in that none of his children offered to fix up despite his pleas for assistance would now become a palace for the funeral. Rich or poor, the family would try to put on a show to wow the “mourners,” who might choose to attend based on how good the food promised to be, how expensive the alcoholic drinks would be, how many dance and drumming troupes would perform, and how fancy the coffin was. And the so-called mourners? How many yards of silky wax print fabric could you display, and what was the latest and most expensive in funeral fashion? How many gold bracelets could you fit on your wrists, how many rings on your fingers, and how much money could you contribute to the family bereavement fund for all to see?

Dawson turned away in some disgust, busying himself with his phone by texting Christine to ask how she was doing.

At the entrance, the KATHhospital sign,with the H in red, was perched on top of a kiosk of three ATMs, in case one forgot that cash would be needed for any kind of medical treatment. Cash is still king. The National Health Insurance Scheme was poorly funded, and services were not even close to free.

Mr. Huang found a parking spot and they walked the palm tree-lined path that skirted the parking lot and approached the newly painted white-and-bronze building. KATH had been around for a while and still had some of the old style louver windows. None of them knew where the mortuary was, but in Dawson’s experience, a morgue was always to the rear of the main hospital building. Having it in front wasn’t a particularly good omen.

Dawson asked directions from a passing nurse.

“That way,” she said, pointing.

They crossed through a large waiting area and down a steep incline. Dawson stole a glance at Lian to see how she was holding up. Her jaw was rigid.

Lining each side of the walkway were clusters of men and women-mostly women-in black and red. Most of these people were waiting for the release of a relative’s body. The buildings around which they loitered were old and worn, but at the bottom of the hill came something modern and spacious. Dawson opened the door for the other three and then followed them into a bright spotless lobby cooled to blissful temperatures. Offices lined the hallway in one direction, and down the other were an auditorium and a large comfortable waiting room. The mortuary was here?It seemed almost too beautiful.

“May I help you?” a woman asked from behind a half window in the reception office to the left.

“Good afternoon,” Dawson said, moving closer. “Is the mortuary in this building?”

“No,” she replied. “This is administration. The morgue is around the corner to the left.”

Following her directions, Dawson and the others found the right place, and it conformed more to his general image of a mortuary. The inauspicious and unmarked entrance took them into a gloomy narrow hallway. A technician in khaki medical garb was walking down the corridor toward them. He knocked on a door and Dawson caught him just before he went in. The name on his breast pocket said nkrumah.

Dawson showed his ID.

Nkrumah, lanky with a bony face and shaved head, glanced at it. “Yes, please. How can I help you?”

“I’m working on the case of Bao Liu. Is the body here?”

Nkrumah sent a knowing glance at Dawson’s companions. “The Chinese man. Yes, he’s here. He just came. Please, one moment.”

He turned and went back down the corridor the way he had come, disappearing through swinging double doors on the far left. Dawson caught the first whiff of formaldehyde and corpses emanating from there. “Mr. Huang,” he said, turning to him. “You must warn Lian that Bao’s body will not be nice to look at. He will seem very different from when he was alive.”

Huang nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

He spoke quietly to her, and she nodded.

“Is she okay?” Dawson asked.

“She’s fine,” Huang confirmed.

Minutes later, Nkrumah emerged and beckoned to them. Dawson and the Chinese trio walked down to join him, and the sickly, fetid smell of the mortuary room grew stronger. A large space with only three tables, the autopsy room had an open door on the far end to facilitate ventilation.

Lian drew in her breath sharply, pressing a kerchief to her nose. Wei tucked her arm into his to steady her. What she had seen was shocking: a corpse occupied each one of the tables, but six or seven of them were on the floor.