Cause of Death (Detective Damien Drake Book 2)

by Patrick Logan

  Her presence alone seemed to fill the air with particles of ego like glittering dust motes.

  “Yes?” she asked again, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

  Beckett’s smile broadened.

  “My name is Dr. Campbell,” he said politely, trying to put himself on her level.

  Alas, there was only room for one atop ye pedestal of gold.

  “And? Do you need something?”

  Beckett stepped into the room, catching her flinch slightly as he did. The woman tried to hide her discomfort, but he saw through her mask.

  “I do, actually. I’m teaching the forensic pathology course and had a few questions for you.”

  The woman pressed her lips together tightly.

  “I thought Dr. Jablonsky was teaching that class.”

  Beckett shook his head.

  “He was, but not anymore. I took it over a coupla semesters ago. Look, I can see that you are busy,” he said, half hoping that she picked up on his tongue and cheek comment, “but I just had a few questions for you—about your slides.”

  A look of confusion crossed over her face.

  “What slides?”

  “The ones from your course… the test review material? For the final?”

  “Ah, yes. The written portion of the final. I always found that part of the course to be useless. Tried my best to get it removed. If the residents spent half as much time in front of bodies as they did at their computers, then maybe we would have some actual competent pathologists today.”

  Evidently, Beckett’s dig hadn’t gone over her head.

  She had just lobbed it back at him.

  Touché.

  Beckett didn’t say anything, and eventually Dr. Moorfield sighed and laid her pencil on her desk. Then, with an action so deliberate that it was almost comical, she interlaced her wrinkled fingers and leaned forward.

  “What about it, Dr. Camel?”

  “Campbell,” Beckett corrected.

  “Pardon?”

  He shook his head.

  “Never mind. I just… I just wondered if you could take them down, off the website. I mean, I think they’re great notes and all, but I feel like using the exact images from the prep exam as the actual exam is giving the students an unfair edge,” he said, surprised at how easily the lie came to him.

  When he had first called his friend in the Dean’s Office and had inquired about Dr. Moorfield—waking him up from what sounded like a deep, satisfying slumber—he hadn’t the forethought to come up with a story as to why he was inquiring about the notes.

  Surely, he couldn’t reveal his suspicions to this curmudgeon. So now he was flying by the seat of his pants.

  And it was… oddly exhilarating.

  “My notes are online? On the Internet?”

  “Yep. On the class website. It’s archived, but all you need is an NYU medicine email address and password and you can get in to view them.”

  The elderly doctor cleared her throat.

  “I was unaware of this. I’ll speak to the department, see if they can take them down in the morning. Lord knows, the last thing we need are immature, unqualified physicians that are getting hand fed the test answers, as well. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Boom, another dig.

  Beckett couldn’t help but smirk. She was good. Old, crusty, but adroit.

  “That would be great,” he replied, but made no move to leave.

  “Anything else?”

  Beckett chewed his lip.

  “Well, yeah, I guess. One more thing: did you take the photographs, personally? Like I said, we still use them today. I’ve been to my fair share of crime scenes—homicides, suicides, accidents—but have never been able to capture the poses and positions as accurately as the photographer of the test photos. I mean, geez, they must be, what? Fifteen years old? Twenty? And I’m still using them. That says a lot, given how cameras have evolved over time.”

  Dr. Moorfield stared at him for a good minute before replying. Beckett knew that she was sizing him up, trying to figure out if he was mocking her again, but he didn’t break.

  “I took them,” she admitted at last. “And they’re closer to twenty years old by now. Took them back during a time when becoming a doctor meant actually doing things—performing autopsies, surgeries, speaking to patients—instead of just reading about it. As for cameras, nothing has really changed. I mean, you can’t click a button and put bunny ears or halos on a face with the Nikon I used back then, but that’s about the only difference.”

  “Ah, well, I just wanted to say they are incredible pieces of art, really.”

  Dr. Moorfield scoffed at this.

  “Medicine is not an art; it’s a science, a discipline. You would do well to remember that, Dr. Camel.”

  “Of course, you’re right. But still… they really are unique. Let me ask you something, did you ever think to put them in an exhibit of sorts? Copyrighting them?”

  “An exhibit? No, Dr. Camel, it never crossed my mind. They are a surrogate for real learning, that’s it.”

  Beckett struggled with the phrasing of his next question. Unlike his previous lies, she really hadn’t given him an avenue to continue the conversation with the last one.

  “Well, if it were me, I would be worried that someone would take them off the NYU server and sell them. I mean, you can get photos of nearly anything online, but those photos? They might fetch a pretty penny.”

  Dr. Moorfield fought a scowl and lost.

  “I’m not interested in the money,” she said bluntly.

  Beckett held up his hands defensively.

  “Yes, of course not. I wasn’t thinking about you. I was thinking about others who might be inclined to steal them. I mean, once you take them off the website, there might still be other copies floating around somewhere. Any idea who might have copies?”

  “You mean aside from Internet pirates?”

  “Sure. There’s no stopping them, anyway.”

  Dr. Moorfield thought about this for a moment.

  “The police, I guess. They are, after all, from official crime scenes. Other than that, nobody. I don’t even have the originals anymore. Had a fire a while back.”

  Something happened to her voice when she said the word fire; not quite a hitch, but a flash of anger, maybe?

  Beckett locked this away for future reference.

  “And you didn’t put a folder on my desk? A couple of days ago?”

  “Excuse me?” Dr. Moorfield asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Never mind. Thank you,” he said.

  Dr. Moorfield made a hmph sound then unlaced her fingers and picked up her pencil. Turning her attention to the papers in front of her, she said, “If that will be all, Dr. Camel, then please, I have plenty of work to get through tonight.”

  Beckett chuckled.

  “I’m sure you do,” he said, and then left the room.

  What an odd and vile woman, Beckett thought. He was about to add more choice words to his description, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  Walking briskly down the hall and out of earshot of Dr. Moorfield’s open door, he answered it.

  “Dr. Campbell.”

  “Beckett? It’s Chase.”

  Beckett’s throat suddenly felt very dry.

  “Yes?” he croaked.

  “Need you down in Central Park. Have a drowned Jane Doe I need you to release.”

  Chapter 20

  “It’s called a foam cone,” Beckett said in a quiet voice. His heart was racing, sweat beaded on his forehead despite the fact that he was under-dressed for the chilly September night.

  “A what?” Chase asked, leaning down toward the drowned girl’s mouth.

  Beckett swallowed hard.

  The crime scene in Central Park was just like photograph four from Dr. Moorfield’s series. There were some differences—the light had been more diffuse in the original image, but, he thought, if he were so inclined, he might be able to adjust the lights to get so
mething that was nearly identical.

  “It’s a foam cone,” he repeated. “Happens with drowning: a mixture of surfactant, blood, water, and air from the lungs that emerges after a body surfaces.”

  “Is it… normal?” Chase asked.

  Beckett turned and looked up at her, his shock at finding another victim that matched the forensic pathology exam momentarily forgotten.

  “Normal?”

  Chase grimaced.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Beckett turned back to the body.

  “Normal for drowning, sure,” he grabbed her arm and turned it over. He was going to look for track marks on the woman’s arms, when he noticed her hands and stopped cold.

  It was another photograph from the exam.

  “Washer woman hands,” he whispered. This was too much.

  Too much to be a coincidence.

  He had to tell Chase.

  “What?”

  Beckett looked around and was surprised by the number of people that were crowded over the body. There must have been six or seven officers, some of which seemed to be taking longhand notes of all things.

  Their conversation would have to wait.

  “The skin gets super wrinkled, starts slipping. Happens when a body is submerged for a few days,” he said. To prove his point, he used the index finger of his gloved hand to push the flesh on the woman’s palm back and forth. It moved freely and much further than what would be normal in a living human. Satisfied, he lifted the girl’s leather jacket, revealing several track marks on the inside of her elbow.

  “Some of these are recent,” he informed Chase and the other officers.

  “Suicide?” Chase asked. “Accident?”

  Beckett had to bite his tongue.

  Under any other circumstances, he would have said accident. Partial overdose, followed by a poor decision to either go swimming, or simply falling into the water.

  But that was before the others.

  Beckett settled for, “Probably accidental. Will know more once we get her back to the morgue, do a couple of tests.”

  Chase, apparently satisfied, clapped her hands.

  “Okay, let’s wrap this up, people. Bullock and Noons, stick around with the crime scene until morning. Once I call you, after Dr. Campbell confirms that this was an accident, you can call Thomas Wilde to come clean it up. Everyone else, please help pack Jane Doe into the van and go home.”

  The group of detectives and officers started to move, and Chase leaned close to him.

  “You alright, Beckett? You seem… off.”

  Beckett rose to his feet.

  “I—there’s something I need to talk to you about,” he looked around. “In private.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Sure. My office, or yours?”

  “Mine. But not today. Tomorrow, maybe. But I won’t clear the body until after we chat.”

  This seemed to annoy Chase, which clearly showed on her face.

  “Please,” Beckett continued. “It’s important.”

  Although still not impressed, she nodded.

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you at your office at nine.”

  Beckett shook his head.

  “No, not my office—not the ME office, anyway. My office in the university. I’ll text you the room number.”

  “Fine. Now I’m going to get some sleep. Sorry to have dragged you out here so late.”

  With that, she turned and started to walk away, when something occurred to Beckett.

  “Hey Chase?”

  She turned.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did someone take pictures of the scene?”

  “Yeah—Officer Noons did. Took pictures just as you instructed.”

  Beckett nodded, remembering how he had told the burly man to take several pictures before he had started pointing out the details on the corpse to Chase.

  “Yeah, but before that—before I got here. A police crime scene guy? CSU?”

  “Yes. I think he was CSU. Took some photographs of the body being removed, of the hands, the face. Common practice. Why?”

  “No reason. But I would like to speak to him. Have a project idea. You know what his name is?”

  Chase pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  “No clue. I’ll find out, though. That all?”

  Beckett forced a smile.

  “That’s it. Go get some sleep.”

  Chase frowned.

  “Yeah, like I’m going to get any sleep after learning about washer woman hands and foam cone,” she replied.

  Chapter 21

  It was clichéd, it was annoying, but damn it felt good.

  Damien Drake was actually whistling as he strode toward his small office in the plain, Medical Arts building.

  Whistling, and smiling broadly.

  Last night had been good… no, it had been great.

  And the woman—who he had later deftly determined was named Alyssa—she had been even better.

  Drake sipped on his coffee as he walked up the first flight of stairs—he couldn’t remember the last time he had taken the stairs when there was a fully functioning elevator—and when he made it to the door emblazoned with the words Triple D Investigations, he was surprised to find it unlocked.

  He pushed the door open.

  “Hello?”

  Screech, who in addition to being Triple D’s techno-wizard also acted as the secretary, was sitting in his chair, a pair of earbuds jammed in his ears. He didn’t look up when Drake entered.

  “Screech, take the fu—”

  Drake caught himself before cursing.

  Screech wasn’t the only person in the office, he realized. The four chairs that they had optimistically pushed off to the right—worn burgundy things that they had scavenged from the dental office below them that was undergoing renovations—were filled. Not only that, but there was a woman in a walker leaning awkwardly against the wall.

  Drake tried to disguise his shock with a smile.

  He never took the stairs, and these chairs were never full.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Three of the four women, who were all gray-haired soup slurpers, raised their heads and returned the greeting. The fourth appeared to be sleeping.

  What the hell are they doing here on a Sunday? On any day? He wondered.

  “I’ll be right with you,” he said, still smiling. He strode over to Screech and yanked the earbuds out by the cord. The man yelped, then his eyes widened when he saw it was Drake.

  “Hey Screech, can you by any chance see me in my office for a minute? Please, if you aren’t busy, of course.”

  ***

  “What in the fuck are they doing here?” Drake asked in a hushed tone once the office door was shut behind them.

  Screech’s eyes bulged.

  “How the hell should I know? My guess is that Mrs. Armatridge told her bridge buddies about us.”

  Drake stared at his partner for a long while, trying to get a glimpse into the inner workings of his brain.

  “What?” the man said, recoiling slightly. “You’re looking at me like I got two heads.”

  Drake ignored him.

  “Mrs. Armatridge? Really?”

  He was picturing the woman with her pearls, and then the strange expression on her face as she pulled the knife from the cutting block.

  But then his mind flicked to the check worth ten grand that he had already cashed.

  Drake pushed his lips together and rocked his head back and forth.

  “Well shit, what are we waiting for? Let’s get them in here and see what we can do for them,” he said with a grin.

  Screech nodded, turned, and walked toward the door, a spring in his step. His hand grabbed the doorknob, but before turning it he paused.

  “Wait a second… wait just a seeeeeecond.”

  Screech turned to face him, a sly expression on his face.

  “What?”

  “Why you so happy? You come in he
re, whistling, clicking your high heels together like Dorothy on speed. What gives?”

  Drake went to his desk and sat. Instead of answering, he concentrated on shuffling papers aimlessly across the worn surface.

  “You fucking sly dog,” Screech said with a chuckle. “You boned last night, didn’t you?” he looked toward the door, peering through the frosted glass at the hunched shapes in the reception area, then turned back to Drake and leaned toward him. “You got your tip wet, didn’t you?”

  Drake laughed; he couldn’t help it.

  Tip wet… sick.

  “Shut up, Screech. Just keep your mouth shut and let’s make us some money.”

  ***

  It was nearly noon by the time the last of the octogenarians scuttled out of Triple D like some sort of clutter of spiders. Drake was tired, tired of placating old women, of speaking in a louder than average voice, of repeating the same thing over and over again.

  But despite his minor hangover and major annoyance, the smile on his face remained. It would take a lot more than this to make it go away, he realized. When they were finally gone and he was alone with his thoughts, he even resisted the urge to pour himself a drink.

  “Screech! Get in here!” he hollered.

  A moment later, the door opened and Screech’s narrow face appeared in the gap.

  “Yes, Leisure Suit Larry?”

  Drake made a face. Screech’s references were slowly degenerating into something reminiscent of Chase’s. Obscure pop-culture nonsense that always flew over his head.

  Drake took his time in answering, and the impatient Screech rolled his eyes.

  “What is it, boss?”

  “Come on in, sit down.”

  “Okaaaay,” Screech said, doing as he was bid. “What’s up?”

  Drake let the man suffer a little while longer, but soon the charade was even starting to get on his own nerves. He reached into the top drawer of his desk, grabbed the four checks and threw them down.

  “Seriously?” Screech tittered and grabbed the checks, eyes widening as he looked at them individually. “You closed every one of them?”

  Drake held up his hands and forced a smug expression onto his face.

  “What can I say? The going rate has been set.”