by Robin Cook
“What about the double suicide? Old or young?”
“Middle-aged. Carbon monoxide. They had their Escalade running with the garage door closed and a couple of vacuum hoses from the exhausts into the cab.”
“Hmmm,” Jack murmured. “Any suicide notes?”
“Hey, no fair,” Janice complained. “You’re grilling me about cases I didn’t handle. But as far as I know there was only one note, from the woman.”
“Interesting,” Jack commented. “Well, I better get down to the ID room. Sounds like it’s going to be a busy day. And you better get home to get some sleep.”
Jack was pleased. The anticipation of an interesting day swept away some of the irritation that had resurfaced about the morning. If Laurie wanted to go back to her own apartment for a few days, it was fine with him! He’d just bide his time, because he wasn’t going to be emotionally extorted.
Jack sped by the forensic investigators’ office, cut through the clerical room with its banks of file cabinets, and entered the communications room just beyond. He smiled at the day-shift telephone operators but got no response. They were preoccupied with getting themselves organized. He waved to Sergeant Murphy when he passed the NYPD detective room, but Murphy was on the phone and didn’t respond, either. Some welcome, Jack mused.
Entering the ID office, Jack got the same treatment. There were three people in the room, and all three ignored him. Two were hidden behind their morning papers while Dr. Riva Mehta, Laurie’s office mate, was busy going over the sizable stack of potential cases to make up the autopsy schedule. Jack got a cup of coffee from the communal pot, then bent down the edge of Vinnie Amendola’s paper. Vinnie was one of the mortuary techs and Jack’s frequent partner in the autopsy room. Vinnie’s regular and early presence meant Jack could start in the autopsy room well before anyone else.
“How come you’re not down in the pit with Bingham and Washington?” Jack asked.
“Beats me,” Vinnie said, pulling his paper free. “Apparently, they called Sal. They were already going at it when I got here.”
“Jack! How ya doin’?”
A third person emerged from behind his paper, but the accent gave him away. It was Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano, from Homicide. Jack had met him years ago when he had first joined the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Convinced of the enormous contributions of forensic pathology to his line of work, Lou was a frequent visitor to the OCME. He was also a friend.
With a bit of effort, the stocky detective heaved himself out of the vinyl club chair, clutching his paper in his beefy hand. With his aged trench coat, his tie loosened and the top button of his shirt open, he appeared like a rumpled character out of an old film noir. His broad face sported what could have been a two-day growth of beard, although from experience, Jack knew it was only one.
They greeted each other with a slapping, modified high-five, which Jack had learned out on the neighborhood basketball court and had jokingly taught Lou. It made both of them feel more hip.
“What’s got you up this early?” Jack asked.
“Up? I haven’t been to bed yet,” Lou scoffed. “It’s been that kind of night. My captain is worried sick about this supposed police brutality case, since the department is going to feel real heat if the involved officers’ story doesn’t hold up. I’m hoping to get an early scoop, but that’s not looking good with Bingham doing the case. He’ll probably be in there screwing around for most of the day.”
“What about Sara Cromwell’s case? Are you interested in that, too?”
“Yeah! Of course! As if I had any choice! Did you see all the media out in reception?”
“They would have been hard to miss,” Jack responded.
“Unfortunately, they were already here on the police shooting. Guaranteed there’s going to be a lot of newspaper and TV hype for that skinny psychologist, probably more than she would have gotten had they not been hanging around. And whenever a murder gets a high profile in the media, I know I’ll be getting lots of pressure from above to come up with a suspect. So, with that said, do me a favor and do the case.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. You’re fast and you’re thorough, both of which fulfill my needs. Also, you’re okay with me watching, which I can’t say about everybody around here. But if you’re not interested, maybe I can get Laurie to do it, although knowing her GSW bent, she’ll probably want to get involved in the police case.”
“She’s also interested in one of the Manhattan General cases,” Riva said in silky, British-accented voice, which was in sharp contrast to Lou’s New York twang. “She’s already taken the folder and said she wants to do that one first.”
“Did you see Laurie this morning?” Jack asked Lou. He and Lou shared an appreciation of Laurie Montgomery. Jack knew that Lou had even once briefly dated Laurie, but it hadn’t worked out. From Lou’s own admission, the problem had been Lou’s lack of social confidence. Graciously, Lou had become a strong advocate for Jack and Laurie as a couple.
“Yeah, about fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Of course. What kind of a question is that?”
“Did she seem normal? What did she say?”
“Hey! Why the third degree? I don’t remember what she said; it was something like “Hi, Lou, wassup?” or something to that effect. And as far as her mental state was concerned, she was normal, even bubbly.” Lou glanced over at Riva. “Was that your take, Dr. Mehta?”
Riva nodded. “I’d say she was fine, maybe a little excited about all the fuss around here. She’d apparently had a conversation with Janice about the Manhattan General case. That’s why she wanted it.”
“Did she say anything about me?” Jack asked Lou, leaning forward and lowering his voice.
“What’s with you today?” Lou asked. “Is everything copacetic with you guys?”
“Oh, there’s always a few bumps in the road,” Jack said vaguely. Laurie being “bubbly” added insult to injury, under the circumstance.
“How about assigning me the Cromwell case!” Jack called over to Riva.
“Be my guest,” Riva said. “Calvin left a note saying he wanted it done ASAP.” She took the folder from the “to be autopsied” pile and put it on the corner of the desk. Jack grabbed it and opened it, revealing a case worksheet, a partially filled-out death certificate, an inventory of medical-legal case records, two sheets for autopsy notes, a telephone notice of death as received by communications, a completed identification sheet, an investigator’s report dictated by Fontworth, a sheet for the autopsy report, a lab slip for HIV analysis, and an indication that the body had been x-rayed and photographed when it had arrived at the OCME. Jack pulled out Fontworth’s report and read it. Lou did the same over Jack’s shoulder.
“Were you at the scene?” Jack asked Lou.
“No, I was still up in Harlem when this was called in. The precinct boys handled it initially, but when they recognized the victim, they called in my colleague, Detective Lieutenant Harvey Lawson. I’ve since talked with all of them. Everyone said it was a mess. Blood all over the kitchen.”
“What was their take?”
“Considering she was seminude, with the apparent murder weapon sticking out of her thigh just below her private parts, they thought it was a fatal sexual assault.”
“Private parts! So restrained.”
“That’s not quite how they described it to me. I’m translating.”
“Thank you for being so considerate. Did they mention the blood on the front of the refrigerator?”
“They said there was blood all over.”
“Did they mention blood being inside the refrigerator, particularly on the wedge of cheese as described here in Fontworth’s report?” Jack poked the paper with his index finger. Jack was impressed. Despite his previous experience with Fontworth’s desultory work, the report was thorough.
“Like I said, they reported blood was all
over the place.”
“But inside the refrigerator with the door closed. That’s a bit odd.”
“Maybe the door was open when she was attacked?”
“So then she carefully put the cheese away? That’s more than odd in the middle of a homicide. Tell me this: Did they mention footprints in the blood besides those of the victim?”
“No, they didn’t.”
“Fontworth’s report specifically says there were none, but quite a few of the victim’s. That’s odder still.”
Lou spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “So, what’s your take?”
“My take is that in this case, the autopsy is going to be significant, so let’s get the ball rolling.”
Jack walked over to Vinnie and slapped the back of his paper, making the tech jump.
“Let’s go, Vinnie, old boy,” Jack said happily. “We’ve got work to do.”
Vinnie grumbled under his breath but stood up and stretched.
At the door into the communications room, Jack hesitated, looked back at Riva, and called out: “If you don’t mind, I’d like to do that double suicide as well.”
“I’ll put your name on them,” Riva promised.
three
HOW ABOUT THIS,” LAURIE suggested. “I’ll call you just as soon as I finish and let you know what I found. I know it won’t bring your son back, but perhaps knowing what happened will be some comfort, especially if we’re able to learn from this tragedy, to keep it from happening to someone else. If by some slim chance we still don’t have any answers after the autopsy, I’ll call you after I’ve had a chance to look at the microscopic and give you the definitive answers.”
Laurie knew what she was suggesting was out of the ordinary and that skirting Mrs. Donnatello in the public relations office and giving out preliminary information would annoy Bingham and Calvin, both of whom were sticklers for rules, if they got wind. But Laurie felt the McGillin case warranted this change of protocol. After talking with them for only a short time, she’d learned that Sean McGillin Sr. was a retired physician who’d had a large internal-medicine practice in Westchester County. He and his wife, Judith, who’d been his office nurse, were not only fellow medical professionals but also extremely simpatico. The McGillins projected a salt-of-the-earth honesty and graciousness that made Laurie like them instantly; it also made it impossible for her not to feel their pain.
“I promise to keep you in the loop,” Laurie continued, hoping her reassurances would allow the McGillins to go home. They’d been at the ME’s office for hours, and it was obvious that they were both exhausted. “I’ll personally watch over your son.” Laurie had to glance away after her last comment, knowing it was deliberately misleading. She again caught sight of the crush of reporters in the reception area, even though she was trying to ignore them, and heard muffled cheering as coffee and donuts arrived. Laurie winced. It was unfortunate that as the McGillins were suffering their private grief, a media circus was going on in the next room. It had to make it harder for the McGillins, hearing banter and laughter.
“It just isn’t fair that it isn’t me who is lying downstairs in that refrigerated compartment,” Dr. McGillin said with a sad shake of his head. “I’ve had a good run at life. I’m nearly seventy. I’ve had two bypass procedures, and my cholesterol’s too high. Why am I still here, and Sean Jr. is down there? It doesn’t make sense; he’s always been a healthy, active boy, and he’s not even thirty.”
“Was your son’s LDH high as well?” Laurie asked. Janice hadn’t included anything about that in her forensic investigator’s report.
“Not in the slightest,” Dr. McGillin said. “In the past, I made sure he had it checked once a year. And now that his law firm contracted with AmeriCare, which requires yearly physicals, I know he’d continue to be checked.”
After a quick glance at her watch, Laurie made direct eye contact with the McGillins, looking from one to the other. They were sitting bolt upright on the brown vinyl couch, their hands folded in their laps, clutching the identification Polaroids of their dead son. Rain spattered intermittently against the glass. The couple reminded her of the man and woman in the painting “American Gothic.” They radiated the same resoluteness and moral virtue along with a hint of Puritanical narrowness.
The problem for Laurie was that she was organizationally shielded from the emotional side of death, and consequently had limited experience with it. Dealing with the grieving families, as well as helping them through the identification process, was done by others. She was also sheltered by a kind of academic distance. As a forensic pathologist, she saw death as a puzzle to be solved to help the living. There was also the acclimatization factor: Although death was a rare event for the general public, she saw it every day.
“Our son was to be married in the spring,” Mrs. McGillin said suddenly. She hadn’t spoken since Laurie had introduced herself forty minutes earlier. “We were hoping for grandchildren.”
Laurie nodded. The reference to children touched a tender chord in her own psyche. She tried to think of something to say but was saved when Dr. McGillin suddenly stood up. He took his wife’s hand and pulled her to her feet.
“I’m sure Dr. Montgomery has to get to work,” Dr. McGillin said. He nodded as if agreeing with himself while collecting all the Polaroids and pocketing them. “It’s best if we go home. We’ll leave Sean in her care.” He then took out a small pad of paper and a pen from his inside jacket pocket. After writing on it, he tore off the top sheet and extended it to Laurie. “This is my personal phone line. I’ll be awaiting your call. I will look forward to it sometime before noon.”
Surprised and relieved at this sudden change of events, Laurie stood up. She took the paper and glanced at the number to be sure it was legible. It was a 914 area code. “I’ll call as soon as I can.”
Dr. McGillin helped his wife with her coat before putting on his own. He extended his hand toward Laurie. She shook it and noticed that it was cold.
“Take good care of our boy,” Dr. McGillin said. “He’s our only child.” With that, he turned, opened the door to the reception area, and urged his wife forward into the press of reporters.
Desperate for news, the reporters instantly fell into an expectant silence the moment the McGillins appeared. Anticipating a news conference, all eyes followed their progress. The couple had advanced halfway across the reception area on their way to the main door when someone broke the silence by yelling out: “Are you part of the Cromwell family?” Dr. McGillin merely shook his head without slowing his progress. “Are you related to the police custody case?” someone else demanded. Dr. McGillin shook his head again. With that, the reporters switched their attention to Laurie. Apparently recognizing her as one of the medical examiners, a number even spilled into the ID room. An avalanche of questions followed.
Initially ignoring the reporters, Laurie went up on her tiptoes to see the McGillins exit the OCME. Only then did she look at the people pressed around her. “Sorry,” she said, pushing microphones away. “I know nothing of those cases. You’ll have to wait for the chief.” Luckily, one of the OCME security personnel had materialized from within the reception area, and he managed to herd the reporters back to where they’d come from.
Relative silence returned to the ID room once the connecting door had been closed. For a moment, Laurie stood with her arms hanging limply at her sides. She had Sean McGillin Jr.’s folder in one hand and his father’s scribbled phone number in other. Dealing with the grieving couple had been trying, especially since she was feeling psychologically fragile herself. But there was a positive side. Knowing herself as well as she did, she knew it was helpful to be involved in an emotionally wrenching situation, because it put her own problems in perspective. Keeping her mind occupied was a good hedge against backsliding into what she’d come to recognize as an unacceptable status quo.
Fortified to a degree, Laurie headed into the ID office while pocketing Dr. McGillin’s phone number. “Where’s
everybody?” she asked Riva, who was still busy with the scheduling process.
“You and Jack are the only ones here so far, besides Bingham, Washington, and Fontworth.”
“What I meant was, where are Detective Soldano and Vinnie?”
“Jack came in and took them both down to the pit. The detective asked Jack to do the Cromwell case.”
“That’s curious,” Laurie remarked. Jack usually shied away from cases that attracted a lot of media attention, and the Cromwell case certainly fell into that category.
“He seemed genuinely interested in it,” Riva said, as if reading Laurie’s mind. “He also asked for the double suicide, which I didn’t expect. I had a feeling he had an ulterior motive, but I have no idea what it could have been.”
“Do you happen to know if any of the other techs are here yet? I’d like to get started myself with McGillin.”
“I saw Marvin a few minutes ago. He got coffee and went downstairs.”
“Perfect,” Laurie said. She enjoyed working with Marvin. He’d been on evenings but had recently been switched to days. “I’ll be in the pit if you need me.”
“I’m going to have to assign you at least one more case. It’s an overdose. I’m sorry. I know you said you had a bad night, but we’ve got a full schedule today.”
“That’s fine,” Laurie assured her. She walked over to get the overdose folder. “Work’s a good way to keep my mind off my problems.”
“Problems? What kind of problems?”
“Don’t ask!” Laurie said with a dismissive wave. “It’s the same old, same old with Jack, but this morning I laid it on the line. I know I sound like a broken record, but this time I mean it. I’m moving back to my own apartment. He’s going to have to make a decision one way or the other.”
“Good for you,” Riva responded. “Maybe it will give me strength.”