Remains Silent mm-1

by Michael Baden

  “BUONA SERA,” said Manny, as they followed the maоtre d’ to a corner table.

  Jake took off his blue blazer, loosened his maroon-and-black print tie below the fraying collar of his light-blue button-down shirt, and rolled up his sleeves-as though he’s about to begin an autopsy-all before he sat down across from her.

  “Do you care for wine?” their waiter asked. They each reached for the wine list. A tug of war ensued, which Manny won.

  “Red or white?” she asked.

  “Your choice.”

  She assessed the offerings. “We’ll have the ninety-five Amarone- the Reserva Ducale, piacere.”

  The waiter bowed. “Good choice. And your accent”- he kissed his fingers-“impeccable.”

  “I’m second-generation Italian.”

  “And a bottle of mineral water, with gas,” Jake told the waiter.

  She squinted at him. “How very European.”

  There was still an edge to her voice; Jake wasn’t sure if she was mocking him.

  He filled her glass when the sparkling water arrived.

  They were on dessert and espresso. When they’d arrived, Jake, rather than the maоtre d’, had pulled out her chair for her, a bit of old-fashioned gallantry she found charming. He’d also ordered sea bass for them both and talked virtually nonstop about violent death.

  “Now, about the Lyons case,” Jake finally said. “I think-”

  “Yes, about the Lyons case,” she interrupted. “Just what were you thinking?”

  Jake raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t hear from you between Terrell and Carramia- and after Carramia not so much as an apology after you crucified me. Then you call to tell me a woman I’ve never met is about to contact me so I can represent her because you think I’m a great lawyer.” Her eyes narrowed. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

  “I can see why it might seem a little odd. But you really impressed me in court, and when Mr. Lyons’s daughter-”

  “You’ll say anything, won’t you? Anything to get your way. I impressed you in court? How can you say that with a straight face? You made me look like an undergrad.”

  He smiled without condescension. “An impressive undergrad, then. Look, I’m a scientist. I’m hired to give an opinion based on science, and that opinion’s what it is, no matter who asks for it. I didn’t testify against you, I testified against false conclusions. Just as I wasn’t hired to testify for you in the Terrell case. If the police hadn’t shot your client in the back, I’d have told you so.”

  Okay, he’s not for sale. But he’s still smug. The spoon bearing a bite of tiramisu stopped halfway to her mouth. When he’d opened his collar and rolled up his sleeves before they’d sat down, she’d thought it bad manners; now his casualness and ease, his obvious sincerity and the frankness of his gaze opened a gate in her brain, and she let him enter.

  “You’d been given some wrongheaded opinions,” he went on. “But beyond that you were better prepared than any attorney I’ve ever seen. Digging up that study I did on witness accounts in police takedowns- amazing. And you’re obviously very… zealous in representing your clients’ interests. I’ve read up on some of your cases. You got a record settlement in the Terrell case when nobody else wanted to touch it. And when the governor refused to issue a permit to those anti-death penalty protesters, you headed the First Amendment challenge. That was an elegant brief you wrote, by the way.” He lunged across the table to grab her hand. “Watch out. The tiramisu’s about to drop on your jacket.”

  She swallowed it. “You bet I care about my clients. I didn’t traipse up to Poughkeepsie for you, I did it for Patrice Perez. And if I find out this is some sort of scam, I’ll roast her till she’s tender.”

  “Scam? No way. You haven’t met her. If there was ever a more vulnerable, more-”

  “Forgive me, Dr. Rosen, but I’ve found that scientists know little about the human heart. Vulnerable is a con artist’s stock-in-trade.”

  “You think she’s a con artist?”

  “I didn’t say that. Just mentioned the possibility.”

  She’s trying to one-up me, Jake thought. Pay me back. The idea pleased him. “Still, you traipsed up to Poughkeepsie.”

  “Of course. If she’s straight, the poor woman thought her father abandoned her. Now she has no idea what happened to him. For all she knows, the doctors in that psycho ward botched his treatment and buried him in the backyard like a mad dog.” She sipped her wine, though all the talk of death and destruction made her want to chug it back. “Even if there’s no wrongdoing here, the State of New York still owes her an explanation. She may not have fifty dollars in the bank, but she has every right to stand up for her-” She cut herself off. “What are you smiling about?”

  “You really care. I like that.”

  She shrugged. “My father nicknamed me Saint Jude after the patron saint of lost causes.”

  “I see.” He took a bite of his warm chocolate cake. “But he named you Philomena Erminia.”

  They looked at each other, eyes lingering for a moment. “Found out my middle name, did you?”

  “I’m very thorough,” he said. “Besides, it was on the court records.”

  She digested that for a second. “Now we’re on the same team, you might as well call me Manny. Everybody does.”

  “Not Philly?”

  “Not,” she said, “if you want to keep your teeth.”

  ***

  They ordered more coffee. She told him about her trip to the Academie and how fruitless it seemed to her. “Interesting about the hospital’s history, but not a word about Lyons.”

  “Maybe that’s interesting in its own way. Significant.”

  “It is strange. There are files for other patients from around the same time. His is missing.”

  “Stolen, you think? Destroyed?”

  “Could be. Patrice said you found the remains. You and a Dr. Harrigan, who seems to have since died. Anything significant about them?”

  He wondered if she was mocking him, but her tone and expression were serious. The sparring they had engaged in earlier had ceased in the face of their mutual cause. “Lots,” he said. “For one thing, we made a positive identification through the dental records. But you already know about that.”

  “What about the cause of death?”

  “Fracture of the second cervical vertebra.”

  “The hangman’s break.”

  “O-ho! How did you know about that?”

  “The history of lynching intrigues me. I’m a collector of those moments when the courts have bestowed their imprimatur on the immoral. Keeps me from being too reverent about our legal system- as if I ever was.” She leaned forward. “How can you be sure his neck didn’t break when the body was dumped into the grave?”

  “Because when we looked under the microscope we saw iron, the residue of broken-down hemoglobin. That means there was bleeding at the fracture site, which in turn means-”

  “That he was alive when it happened. Do you think he could’ve been hanged?”

  “It’s possible. But given that he was in a mental hospital, I think there’s a likelier explanation. The broken neck could be a consequence of electroshock therapy.”

  She shuddered involuntarily. “Brutal.”

  “Years ago, if they used too much current and didn’t administer a muscle relaxant- or the staff wasn’t trained right- it happened. I can show you examples in the museum at the ME’s office.”

  “I’ll pass.” She swirled her tiny spoon in the espresso cup. “What gets me is that no one cared about his death. The court system only worries about statistics, how many cases the judge has closed.”

  He shared her cynicism. Careless autopsies, sloppy evidence, false testimony- these had always influenced courts, which didn’t seem to give a damn when the errors were discovered. Case closed all too often meant case closed forever. “Look,” he said, “you and I know this wasn’t a natural death. It should have been reporte
d to the medical examiner, but it wasn’t. It should have been reported to Lyons’s wife, but it wasn’t.”

  “Do you think the legal system’s concerned about truth, justice, and fairness? In my experience-no!” Manny’s voice was so loud the kissing couple at the next table stopped to look at her.

  “We’re not done yet. I haven’t even seen the X-rays. Dr. Harrigan’s secretary was supposed to forward them to me, but they haven’t arrived. I’m not sure what’s taking so long.”

  “What about toxicology?”

  “Harrigan was going to use an outside lab. Haven’t seen the paperwork, though.”

  “Why didn’t Harrigan let the hospital lab deal with it?”

  “Because he didn’t trust them. Regular hospital labs are notoriously bad at toxicology. They’re set up to do testing of normal body chemistry; it stops there.”

  She pushed back her espresso cup. “In the meantime, I’ll try to run down Lyons’s medical records. Maybe they overlooked some in the hospital before it closed. And I’ll see if I can find anybody who knew him, in the hospital or before. Maybe some of his army buddies are still alive. I can also try to talk to the doctors who treated him, if I can find out who they are. Patrice will waive the medical privilege.”

  He looked at her sympathetically. “You should hire an investigator. You must be busy.”

  “I can’t afford one. Losing Carramia wasn’t pretty for me. I spent a lot of money on that case, and when you lose it doesn’t get refunded. And new clients don’t start running your way, either. Thank God for the Terrell settlement. Without it, I’m reduced to last year’s clothes. “

  Jake shifted uncomfortably. I won’t say I’m sorry she lost. “I can pay for a private investigator, if it would help.”

  Manny thought she’d been reduced to a third-grader in Catholic school, sitting in front of her stern teacher, her hands folded in front of her. I guess you can afford it when you bill five grand for a day, she thought, her sassiness trumping softness. “Thanks, but I’d just as soon do it myself.”

  “You’re really going up to Turner Hospital? It’s a dreadful place. Better take someone with you.”

  But not you. You’re too busy. She felt resentment return like nighttime and stood, anxious to get home.

  His cell phone rang, and he motioned her down. “I’ll be right back.” The caller ID said it was from upstate. He moved toward the bar.

  Manny sat in his chair and rummaged through his jacket pockets. There were car keys, house keys, a quarter and a penny, a roll of Tums, and a letter from a woman that her conscience didn’t let her read. Maybe he does spend time with people who still have a pulse.

  She retreated to her own seat, wondering if she should have tried to work things out with Alex, whom she had dated for a year. He was a banker with a self-involvement that often left her a bystander, but kind nevertheless. He had wanted to marry her, but he had also wanted her to “leave the trial work to others,” so that was that.

  Jake returned. He tried a smile, but it was obvious that he was troubled.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You look freaked out.”

  “I’ve been called upstate to do an autopsy. There’s no medical examiner, and the family asked for me.”

  Turner, she thought, and felt a spasm of foreboding. “Who died?”

  “Dr. Harrigan’s housekeeper,” he said soberly, gazing at the wall.

  ***

  “Dinner’s on me,” Manny said, reaching for her credit card. “Patrice is my client; protocol dictates I pay.”

  His own card materialized. “My mother taught me never to let a lady pay for dinner. She dictates who pays.”

  Charming. Fashion-challenged, but a courtier. “My turn next time,” she said feebly, not sure that, after the Vuitton bag, there was room for another hundred-dollar charge on her account. If there is a next time. He paid. They stood.

  “I’ll escort you home,” he said, “then head out to Turner.”

  “Now?”

  “Her family sounded desperate.” His voice was weary. “Corpses don’t seem to care about time. And the sooner you get to them, the more you can find.”

  I don’t want him to leave. The thought, unbidden and unexpected, stunned her. “I’ll drive,” she said.

  He struggled to put on his jacket. One hand seemed to be stuck in the sleeve. He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Turner. I’m coming with you.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Really? Try to get rid of me.”

  He thought for some moments. She waited for his answer, surprised by her own anxiousness. “Okay.”

  Is he humoring me or does he actually want me with him? No matter. “Good. We’ll take my car.”

  ***

  “A Porsche! For a woman who lost the Carramia case, isn’t it a bit extravagant?” They were in the parking garage near the restaurant. She didn’t tell him the car was “previously owned.”

  “I bought it before Carramia. I do win, and sometimes win big, from time to time,” she said. “And besides, clothes and cars aren’t extravagances.” She decided not to explain her mother’s philosophy.

  He held out his hand for the keys. She looked at it. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I should drive.”

  “You may have failed to notice,” she said, “but this is my car. Besides, you’re in no condition to drive. You had two glasses of wine.”

  He rubbed his temple; she was giving him a headache. “Two hours ago. I’m a male weighing a hundred and ninety-five pounds who just ate a full meal. Would you like me to explain the metabolism rate of alcohol in the human body?”

  “God, no!”

  “Fine. Then give me the keys. We’ve got to drive up there, do the post, then come back to the city. There’s no sticking to the speed limit.”

  She gave him the keys. He slid into the driver’s seat. “Where’s the damn ignition?”

  She held back a laugh. “To the left of the steering wheel, exactly where it belongs in a Porsche Cabriolet, in homage to its racing-car roots.”

  He looked down. “Shit. It’s got three pedals.”

  The laugh exploded. “Of course. It’s a Porsche.”

  He got out of the car and handed her the keys. “I don’t drive a stick,” he said.

  She thought of a dozen nasty comebacks but didn’t share them. What man under eighty can only drive an automatic?

  They zoomed out of the garage, crosstown, then stopped in front of a building. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t know how to drive a stick?”

  She glared at him. “I can’t leave my baby alone all night. Watch the car.”

  “Baby?” he yelled after her, but she was already gone.

  He waited in the car while she went up to her apartment. Had she ever mentioned a baby? He pictured himself trying to help a crazy woman buckle a child’s car seat into the Porsche. Was she seriously intending to bring an infant to a postmortem? Why did I agree to let her come? he asked himself, but he did not attempt an analysis.

  She returned, carrying a bundle and a tote bag. “What took you so long?” he asked.

  “Mycroft needed a walk around the block.” She took her place at the wheel and deposited the bundle in his lap.

  It moved. “A poodle!” She’s certifiable.

  “Just one year old. I can’t leave him for most of the night. He likes to be held.”

  “You’ve got to be-”

  “And could you roll down your window? Mycroft likes fresh air.”

  She passed him the tote- Prada- filled to bursting. He tried to find space on the floor for both it and his feet, knowing which she’d insist had preference.

  “What the hell have you got in here?”

  “Some catch-up reading to do while you hack up the body. Most of it is for Mycroft: his security blanket, toys, bowl, Evian, and bully stick; his fleece, in case it gets cold; his favorite little red pillow. You know- the basics.”


  “You carry a bottle of spring water for your dog?” Jake and Mycroft eyed each other. The animal’s coat was shiny and neatly clipped, but his lower jaw jutted out oddly, a tooth skewing to one side. “Hell of an underbite,” he said. “And the hair around his mouth makes him look like he just ate a doughnut.”

  “He’s too young for an orthodontist. But I’ll have you know Mycroft’s an entrepreneur. His groomer named a perfume after him: Mycroft Millefleurs, Parfum for the Precious Pooch.” She looked directly at him. “All men should be so lucky.”

  They reached Baxter Community Hospital in under two hours, which Jake filled by telling her about Pete Harrigan and the cancer that took his life. When they arrived, Jake went right to the morgue, leaving Mycroft in the car with his favorite chew toy and a bowl of spring water and depositing Manny in the adjacent waiting room, intended for families brought to identify their loved ones. It was a depressing little room, with flickering fluorescent lights and no windows. Manny felt her excitement disappear, replaced by the grim reality of death and sorrow. She wondered how a man like Jake could spend his life facing it. What tragedies had he seen? How did he defend himself against them? Death from old age usually requires no autopsy, she knew. So the deaths Jake contemplated were homicides, suicides, accidents- lives cut short. She had seen a few dead bodies in her work and often felt she was their champion. But to handle them, to dwell on them? Unthinkable.

  “Manny?”

  She nearly jumped from her couch. “Jake! You scared me. Finished so soon?”

  “Haven’t started. There’s no diener.”

  “Diener?”

  “Autopsy assistant. Moves the body, sews it up when the ME’s finished, helps with the stuff in between.” The skin under his eyes was gray with fatigue. “I just got off the phone with the coroner in the next county over. He’s running things here since Pete… since there’s no Baxter County ME. He said the regular diener’s out of town and they can’t track down the backup man.”