Page 19 of My Killer Blind Date

And OK, I’m not saying he’s a bad guy just because he looks so intense. But has it occurred to me that someone who deals with destroying corpses all day might be desensitized enough to be a killer? Of course.

I’m not even saying it’s likely he’s killed Zoe. Male serial killers usually choose to kill strangers as opposed to people they know. I’ve done my research. However … maybe he had a thing for Zoe? And if she wasn’t into him, maybe he got angry, killed her and burned the evidence. I realize this is a pretty big leap, and fully admit my imagination is probably going wild. Then again, I’ve been on Reddit enough to know that anything is possible.

‘Hi,’ I squeak out with a big smile, as if going into friendly cartoon mode will somehow protect me. ‘I’m Margot.’ I extend a hand, but instead of moving forward to shake it, he just tips his chin, turns and says,

‘Let’s go.’

*

‘So next, we’re going to, um, lift Mrs Baughman and move her from the bed on to the gurney,’ I say in my most calm, professional voice.

Though Devin has been very efficient positioning the gurney right next to the bed where Mrs Baughman lies in state, he is not at all talkative, and the dozen family members gathered around seem to be looking to me for what’s going on. In fact, the whole ride up, he blasted music so loud I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. I thought about just turning the music off, but that felt aggressive, and a bad way to start our chat.

‘On three,’ I say to Devin. He nods. I feel a bit sick as we grab the corners of her sheet. I’m at her head, Devin’s at her feet, and as I lift a little bit, she flops toward me, making my heart lurch into my throat. If I drop her in front of her loving husband of fifty years and the five-year-old grandkid who hasn’t blinked a single time … At this point, pure adrenaline is fueling me, and a voice in my head is chanting on repeat, Do not screw this up, do not screw this up …

‘One, two, three,’ I say, and suddenly Mrs Baughman is airborne, and we’re sliding her on to the gurney. Triumph overtakes me in one, hot wave, but air pumping my fist would not be appropriate. I keep my voice calm. ‘Next, we’re going to cover her with a sheet, secure her with some straps and then we’ll carry her out to the vehicle. Does anyone want to have a last moment with her before we cover her up?’

This initiates a whole fifteen-minute procession of family members taking a minute with her body and murmuring last words.

Honestly, it’s kind of beautiful. I mean, she doesn’t look great. Her mouth is hanging open, her eyes are half open too, like she drank too much and passed out, and her skin is a waxy yellow. But to all the family present, she’s not just a body, or a logistical challenge. This body is where a woman lived recently – up until ten hours ago.

It’s probably weird to feel jealous right now, but as I watch each person take their time, that’s what I’m experiencing. I never got to say goodbye to my best friend, and I realize the odds are I never will.

It’s hard to imagine Zoe dead. She was always extra alive. I felt like I was burning the midnight oil with my job at the dentist office alone, but she was always doing more. Working at Anderson & Pulaski, making her art, partying her ass off. And that’s not even getting into her activism. The Women’s March in DC. Take Back the Night. She loved to wax eloquent about women supporting women, which of course always pinged the coffee shop in my mind, and the ensuing guilt that I’d done nothing about it.

Sometimes I wondered if she had caffeine running through her veins instead of blood. Even over the past couple years, when she was feeling especially beaten down by the world and her art career wasn’t progressing the way she hoped, she didn’t fold inward like I did. She burned brighter. Fiercer. I look at Mrs Baughman, lying there so still – just a shell. It’s impossible to imagine Zoe snuffed out like that.

The family goodbyes culminate with Mrs Baughman’s husband, who presses kisses to her forehead, mussing her hair a bit.

I’m teary-eyed myself as I pull the sheet over this old woman I’ve never met. As Devin and I maneuver the gurney through the apartment, the family follows in a silent parade.

At the door, I say, ‘Why don’t we take it from here,’ and to my relief, after a chorus of goodbyes, they close the door behind us. Phew. At least we won’t have an audience for this next part.

‘We’ll detach the stretcher and come back for the wheels,’ says Devin, and I give him a brisk nod. Let’s do this.

*

I sag against the vehicle as soon as the doors are closed and massage my left shoulder while Devin runs back inside to retrieve the gurney. We survived the vertical journey with only one light bang and a couple violent jostles. Still, I’m sweating like a pig.

As the adrenaline wears off, exhaustion rolls through me.

Once Devin comes back, he lights a cigarette and offers me one.

‘Thanks but no thanks,’ I say, pleased at this turn of events. A smoke break is the perfect chance to get him talking. I search around for a subject matter to get things rolling that won’t sound too forced. ‘So. You like this line of work?’

‘“Like?” I don’t know.’ He squints at the van, like he’s looking with X-ray vision at Mrs Baughman inside.

‘Tolerate?’ I hazard.

The shadow of a grin darkens his lips. ‘I mean, a job’s a job. I’d prefer to be a millionaire. But since the bills keep coming, I guess I don’t mind death like other people do.’

‘Why do you think that is?’ I say, trying to keep my tone chummy. ‘If you don’t mind me asking …’

He shrugs, tucks a finger behind the knot of his tie and tugs it loose.

‘I was really scared of death as a kid. So I guess I did exposure therapy on myself? I watched all the horror movies, read all the horror books. I dropped out of school senior year and got a job in landscaping at a cemetery. Then, this job came up, and I’ve been here ever since. Yeah, death is scary. But I’m used to confronting that.’ He takes a drag.

‘Oh, OK. Cool.’ Actually, I’m kind of impressed with his answer. Though perhaps his deathly inclinations should make him seem more suspicious, somehow they make him seem less. There’s a strange gentleness to him under his hard exterior. ‘Can I ask you something?’