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One of the saddest du'as Perlah had ever heard had been uttered by her grandmother, many years ago now. Perlah had a vague memory of being in her lola's house, being maybe five or six years old, and listening to the chatter that always filled up her kitchen when meals were being prepared. The afternoon sun had been streaming in through the big window near the sink, and one of her aunties had come by to say that an old man who lived several houses down from them had died. Perlah's grandmother had shook her head solemnly at the news and said, "May Allah have mercy and compassion on every dead one who finds no one to pray for them."
When she was younger, Perlah had never been able to understand how someone could leave this world like that: with no parents or aunties or siblings to grieve for them, no friends to cry for them or neighbours to speak respectfully of them. Just the thought of it was horrifying. It made no sense to her at all.
Now, all these years later, Perlah stood in the Pitt and watched the colour drain from Whitaker's face at Ogilvie's words, and she got it.
"He croaked," Ogilvie drawled, and Perlah saw how the news of Louie's death hit Whitaker like a physical blow before he turned and ran. Ogilvie saw it too, but he just walked off, like he'd said nothing more significant than a comment about how humid it was outside, and the flash of anger that Perlah felt was pure and true.
"Fucking new guy," she spat, and thought well there, there was a man who was going to struggle to find someone to mourn for him.
Perlah finished gathering the supplies that would be needed for laying out Louie's body and followed Whitaker over to 15. She knew that her steps were dragging a bit. But no matter how many dead bodies she'd seen in her time, she didn't like the thought of seeing Louie lying limp on that gurney, blood-stained and grey. It was a sad end for a good soul. The fact that all of them had known it was coming didn't make it any easier.
"Did Louie ever mention anything about a wife and kids?" Langdon asked her once she got there.
Perlah thought about it. Louie had always taken the time to ask her about how Omar and the kids were doing—had been genuinely pleased to hear about trips back home and toddler's wobbly steps and first days in school—but he'd never shared anything about a family of his own. No names mentioned. No fond stories about the good old days. Towards the end it had seemed like Louie's world had only been big enough for him and his bottle.
"Not as far as I know," Perlah said with a shake of her head. "He only had eyes for Rita Moreno." For a moment, she heard his laugh again, and his voice saying Let me tell you, seeing West Side Story for the first time, seeing Anita on the screen? Now that was an awakening. Never a story about himself, but he'd known enough about the big old Hollywood musicals to put a film student to shame.
Langdon held up a creased photo to her, of a younger, healthy, smiling Louie with his arm around a petite, pretty woman of around the same age. "Well, this is not Rita Moreno."
"No, it's not," Perlah agreed.
Perlah left 15 while Langdon made the call to Louie's emergency contact. She wasn't sure she could face hearing what was on the other end of that line, and finding out whether it would be grief or indifference. It would mean pain, either way.
And of course then the call only looped back to here. For better or worse, all Louie had had at the end had been them.
"Our social worker’s going to do their thing," Dana said gently, as if she thought Perlah needed the reminder. Maybe she did. "If Louie had any family left, they’ll find them. You okay?"
Perlah shrugged, sighed. "Guess it’s good it happened here, not out on the street?" She didn't sound particularly convincing, even to her own ears.
"Well, you're off the hook with Louie," Dana said. "I'm going to teach Emma here how to clean a dead body."
That was a relief, and it wasn't. Laying out a body had never been Perlah's favourite part of the job, but she'd always thought of it as its own kind of fardh, one last duty she could fulfil to someone who'd been in her care. But Perlah knew Dana would do right by Louie, and so she went off to help with another patient, and another, and when it was time to gather in the viewing room, it was clear that Dana had done just that. He was washed and dressed in a clean gown, and Perlah didn't know if it was just her imagination or if Dana's touch had really helped to smooth out some of the deepest lines on his face, the ones that had been put there by sorrow instead of by joy.
People shared memories of Louie: the good ones, and the ones whose sharp edges were blunted now by affection and by the knowledge that his struggle was over. Perlah smiled to hear them, and to hear Robby—the department's walking, talking memory bank—tell them what he knew about who Louie had been. And then the pain of it, to hear an answer to the question that Perlah would never, ever have asked: why?
A wife lost; a child never known. Perlah closed her eyes.
"May his memory be a blessing," Robby said, gravel in his voice, and he was echoed by those around him before they began to file out.
Perlah lingered for a moment longer, and sent up a du'a of her own: Forgive him and have compassion on him and give him strength and pardon him. And the prayer for Louie was a mercy, she thought; but what a mercy for her, too, to be the one who was able to say it.