Free The Forgotten by David Baldacci Page A

set on a half acre of mostly asphalt with a narrow perimeter of sunbaked grass. Puller parked his car near the front door, got out, and a few moments later entered the building. The air-conditioning hit him in a wave as he closed the door behind him. The place must have been at least twenty-five degrees cooler than outside and Puller was glad he was not paying the electric bill here. But then it occurred to him that every funeral home he’d ever been in had felt abnormally cold, even in New England in the middle of winter. It was like they didn’t have heat, only air-conditioning. Maybe that’s what you were taught in the funeral home business—keep everyone as cold as the clients in the coffins.
    There was a small reception desk set a few yards from the front door. A young woman attired all in black—perhaps another funeral home tactic to show perpetual mourning—rose to greet him.
    “I’m John Puller. I called before. My aunt Betsy Puller Simon is here?”
    “Yes, Mr. Puller. What can we do for you?”
    “I’d like to see her body, please.”
    The young woman’s smile disappeared. “See her body?”
    “Yes.”
    She was only about five feet tall and even in her clunky heels Puller was about a mile higher than she was. He could see her dark roots among all the blonde strands.
    “We would need to see some proof of your relationship.”
    “She kept her maiden name as part of her married one. Do you have that as part of her records?”
    The woman sat back down and clicked some computer keys. “We just have her listed as Betsy Simon.”
    “Who identified the body?”
    “I’m not sure about that.”
    “Your records have to show that the body had been identified. The ME would have required that too. You can’t bury someone without confirming they are who you think they are. That might get your operating license pulled.”
    “I can assure you that we strictly follow all applicable laws and regulations to the letter,” she said in an offended tone.
    “I’m sure you do.” Puller took out his creds and showed her his badge and ID card.
    “You’re with the Army?”
    “That’s what it says. You want to kick me to someone higher in authority? You probably don’t want to make this call on your own.”
    The woman looked relieved by this suggestion. She lifted the phone, spoke some words. After a few minutes a man, dressed all in black with a white shirt that was so stiff with starch that it had left his neck permanently red, came out from behind a door with his hand extended.
    “Mr. Puller? I’m Carl Brown, how can I help you?”
    Puller showed Brown his cred pack and explained his situation. Brown looked suitably sympathetic. Puller figured that was taught in funeral home school as well.
    Brown led him off to a side room where there were empty caskets set on long tables. “It’s just that we have so many rules and regulations governing our industry,” said Brown. “We have to maintain the privacy and dignity of the people who entrust their loved ones to us.”
    “Well, her loved ones didn’t entrust Betsy Simon to you. I didn’t even know she was dead until a little while ago. And I didn’t request that her remains be brought here. Who did?”
    “The local police asked that we pick up her body. There are many retirees down here, and many live alone. Their families maybe scattered around the country or even the world. It takes time to contact them. But leaving the body in a tropical climate such as Florida’s is not exactly, how shall I say, a respectful avenue to pursue for the deceased.”
    “I understand that an autopsy has been performed on her remains?”
    “That is correct.”
    “And the ME has released the body?”
    Brown nodded. “This morning. Apparently, she found no evidence of a crime or anything like that.”
    “Have you seen the autopsy report?”
    Brown said hastily, “Oh, no. That’s not something that would be shared with us.”
    “You have her contact information.”
    “I