Blindsight

by Robin Cook

  “I was afraid the others would kill me if they found out I’d talked,” Frankie said.

  “So you were more worried about your friends than us?” Angelo questioned as he stepped behind Frankie. It was enough to hurt Angelo’s feelings. “That’s curious. But no matter. Now you don’t have to worry about your friends because we’ll take care of you.”

  “You got to get me something for my eye,” Frankie said.

  “Sure,” Angelo said. In a smooth motion and without a second’s hesitation, Angelo pulled out his Walther TPH Auto pistol and shot Frankie in the back of the head just above the neck. Frankie’s head snapped forward, then slumped down on his chest.

  The suddenness of the final act surprised Tony, who winced and stepped back, anticipating a gory mess. But there wasn’t any. “Why didn’t you let me do that?” he whined.

  “Shut up and untie him,” Angelo said. “We’re not here for your entertainment. We’re working, remember?”

  Once Tony had Frankie untied, Angelo helped carry the limp body over to the hole in the floor. On the count of three they heaved him into the river. Angelo watched just long enough to make sure that the running tide took the body out into the river proper.

  “Let’s head back to Woodside to pay the others a social call,” Angelo said.

  The address that Frankie had given was a small two-story row house with an apartment on each floor. The outer door was locked but it had a mechanism amenable to a credit card. They were inside in minutes.

  Positioning themselves on either side of the door to apartment one, Angelo knocked. There was no answer. From the street they’d seen that the lights were on.

  “Bust it,” Angelo said, nodding toward the door.

  Tony took several steps back, then kicked the door. The jamb splintered on the first kick and the door swung in. In the blink of an eye both Angelo and Tony were in the small apartment with their guns gripped in both hands. The apartment was empty save for several half-filled bottles of beer on the coffee table. The TV was on.

  “What do you figure?” Tony asked.

  “They must have got spooked when Frankie didn’t come back,” Angelo said. He lit a cigarette and thought for a moment.

  “What next?” Tony questioned.

  “You know where this Bruno’s family lives?” Angelo asked.

  “No, but I can find out,” Tony said.

  “Do it,” Angelo said.

  3

  * * *

  7:55 a.m., Tuesday

  Manhattan

  It was a glorious morning as Laurie Montgomery walked north on First Avenue, nearing Thirtieth Street. Even New York City looked good in the cool crisp air scrubbed clean from a day of rain. It was definitely colder than the previous days and in that sense a disturbing reminder of the coming winter. But the sun was out and there was enough breeze to disperse the exhaust of the vehicles jostling their way in Laurie’s direction.

  Laurie’s step had a definite spring to it as she approached the medical examiner’s office. She smiled to herself as she thought how differently she felt this morning as compared to how she’d felt when she’d left for home the night before. Bingham’s reprimand had been unpleasant but deserved. She’d been in the wrong. If she’d been chief she would have been equally as angry.

  As she approached the front steps, she wondered what the day would bring. One aspect of her work she particularly enjoyed was its unpredictability. All she knew was that she was scheduled to be “on autopsy.” She had no idea what kinds of cases and what kinds of intellectual puzzles she’d encounter that day. Just about every time she was on autopsy, she dealt with something she’d never seen, sometimes something she’d never even read about. It was a job that meant continual discovery.

  This morning the reception area was relatively quiet. There were still a few media people hanging around for more word on the “preppy murder II” case. Yesterday’s Central Park murder had made the front page of the tabloids and the local morning news.

  Just shy of the inner door, Laurie stopped. Over on one of the vinyl couches she spotted Bob Talbot deep in conversation with another reporter. After a moment’s hesitation Laurie strode over to the couch.

  “Bob, I’d like to talk to you a moment,” she said. Then to his companion, she added, “Pardon me for interrupting.”

  Bob eagerly got to his feet and stepped aside with Laurie. His attitude surprised her. She would have expected him to be more sheepish and contrite.

  “Seeing you two days in a row must be some sort of record,” Bob said. “It’s a pleasure I could get used to.”

  Laurie started right in. “I can’t believe you didn’t have more respect for my confidence. What I told you yesterday was meant for your ears only.”

  Bob was clearly taken aback by Laurie’s rebuke. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t think what you were saying was a secret. You didn’t say so.”

  “You could have thought about it,” Laurie fumed. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what such a statement would do to my standing around here.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bob repeated. “It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re right, it won’t happen again,” Laurie said. She turned and headed for the inner door, ignoring Bob as he called out to her. But although she ignored him, her anger had lessened. After all, she had been speaking the truth the day before. She wondered vaguely if she shouldn’t be more uncomfortable with the social and political aspects of her job that Bingham had referred to than with Bob. One of the attractions for Laurie of pathology in general and forensics in particular was that they tried to deal with the truth. The idea of compromise for whatever reason disturbed her. She hoped she would never have to choose between her scruples and the politicking.

  After Marlene Wilson buzzed her through, Laurie went directly to the ID office. As per usual Vinnie Amendola was drinking coffee and perusing the sports pages. If the date on the paper hadn’t been that day’s, she might have sworn he’d never left. If he noticed Laurie, he didn’t give any indication. Riva Mehta, Laurie’s office-mate, was in the ID office. She was a slight Indian woman with a dark complexion and a soft, silky voice. On Monday they’d not crossed paths.

  “Looks like today’s your lucky day,” Riva teased. She was getting herself some coffee before heading up to the office. Tuesday was to be a paper day for her.

  “How so?” Laurie questioned.

  Vinnie gave a short laugh without looking up from his paper.

  “You got a homicide floater,” Riva said. A floater was a body that had been in water for a period of time. They generally were not desirable cases since they frequently were in advanced stages of decomposition.

  Laurie looked at the schedule Calvin had made up that morning. Listed were that day’s autopsies and the people to whom they’d been assigned. After her name were two drug overdoses and a GSW homicide. The GSW stood for Gun Shot Wound.

  “The body was hauled out of the East River this morning,” Riva said. “An attentive security man had apparently seen it bobbing past the South Street Sea Port.”

  “Lovely,” Laurie said.

  “It’s not so bad,” said Vinnie. “It hadn’t been in the water long. Only a matter of hours.”

  Laurie nodded in relief. That meant she probably wouldn’t have to do the case in the decomposing room. It wasn’t the smell that bothered her on such cases as much as the isolation. The decomposing room was all by itself on the other side of the morgue. Laurie much preferred to be in the thick of things and relating to the other staff. There was a lot of give and take in the main autopsy room. Often she learned as much from other people’s cases as she did from her own.

  Laurie looked at the name of the victim and his age: Frank DePasquale. “Poor fellow was only eighteen,” she said. “Such a waste. And like most of these homicides, the case will probably never be solved.”

  “Probably not,” Vinnie agreed as he struggled to fold his newspaper to the next page.

  Lau
rie said good morning to Paul Plodgett when he appeared at the door. He had dark circles under his eyes. She asked him how his famous case was progressing.

  “Don’t ask,” Paul said. “It’s a nightmare.”

  Laurie got herself a cup of coffee and picked up the three folders for her day’s cases. Each folder contained a case worksheet, a partially filled-out death certificate, an inventory of medico-legal case records, two sheets for autopsy notes, a telephone notice of death as received by communications, a completed identification sheet, an investigative report, a sheet for the autopsy report, and a lab slip for HIV antibody analysis.

  As she was shuffling through all the material, Laurie noticed the names of the other two cases: Louis Herrera and Duncan Andrews. She remembered the name Duncan Andrews from the day before.

  “That was the case you asked me about yesterday,” a voice said from over Laurie’s shoulder. She turned and looked up into Calvin Washington’s coal black eyes. He’d come up behind her and put a finger by Andrews’ name. “When I saw the name, I thought you’d want the case.”

  “Fine by me,” Laurie said.

  Each one of the medical examiners had his own way of approaching his autopsy day. Some grabbed the material and went directly downstairs. Laurie had a different modus operandi. She liked to take all the paperwork up to her office to plan her day as rationally as possible. With her coffee in one hand, her briefcase in the other, and the three new files under her arm, Laurie set out for the elevator. She got as far as communications when Sergeant Murphy, one of the policemen currently assigned to the medical examiner’s office, called her name. He bounded out of the police cubicle, dragging a second man behind him. Sergeant Murphy was an ebullient, red-faced Irishman.

  “Dr. Montgomery, I’d like you to meet Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano,” Murphy said proudly. “He’s one of the brass in the homicide department at headquarters downtown.”

  “Happy to meet you, Doctor,” Lou said. He stuck out his hand. He was an attractive, dark-complected man of medium height, with well-defined features and bright eyes that just then were riveted to her face. His hair was cropped short in a style that seemed appropriate for his stocky, muscular body.

  “Happy to meet you as well,” Laurie said. “We don’t see too many police lieutenants here at the medical examiner’s office.” Laurie felt a bit nervous under the man’s unblinking stare.

  “They don’t let us out of our cages too often,” Lou said. “I’m pretty much glued to my desk. But I still like to sneak out once in a while, especially on certain cases.”

  “Hope you enjoy your visit here,” Laurie said. She smiled and started to leave.

  “Just a moment, Doctor!” Lou said. “I was told that you were assigned to autopsy Frank DePasquale. I wonder if you would mind if I observed the post. I’ve already cleared it with Dr. Washington.”

  “Not at all,” Laurie said. “If you can tolerate it, be my guest.”

  “I’ve seen a few autopsies,” Lou said. “I don’t think there will be any problem.”

  “Fine,” Laurie said.

  There was an awkward pause. For a moment no one spoke. Finally Laurie realized the man was waiting for some directions.

  “I’m on my way to my office,” Laurie said. “I usually go over the paperwork first. Would you care to come along?”

  “I’d be delighted,” he said.

  In the elevator Laurie looked at Soldano more closely. He was a square, athletic-

  appearing man of obvious intelligence whose rumpled appearance vaguely reminded her of Colombo, the TV detective made famous by Peter Falk. The crease in his suit pants had long since disappeared. Despite the fact that it was only a little after eight in the morning, he had a heavy five o’clock shadow.

  As if reading Laurie’s mind, Lou self-consciously ran a hand up and down the sides of his face.

  “I guess I look a wreck,” Lou said. “I’ve been up since four-thirty when the DePasquale body floated to shore. Didn’t have a chance to shave. Hope it doesn’t offend you. I’m not trying for the Don Johnson Miami Vice look.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Laurie lied. “But why is a detective lieutenant so interested in an eighteen-year-old homicide victim? Is there something special about this case that I should know?”

  “Not really,” Lou said. “It’s more personal. Before I got promoted to lieutenant and switched to Homicide, I’d been with the organized crime unit for six years. With DePasquale the two areas overlap. DePasquale was a young hoodlum on the fringes of the Lucia crime family organization. He might have been only eighteen, but he already had a long sheet.”

  The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and Laurie motioned for them to get off.

  “As you’ve probably already guessed,” Lou continued, following Laurie down the corridor, “DePasquale’s death was an obvious execution.”

  “It was?” Laurie questioned. As of yet, nothing was obvious to her.

  “Absolutely,” Lou said. “You’re going to find that he was shot from close range with a small caliber bullet into the base of the brain. It’s the usual, proven method. No mess, no fuss.”

  They went into Laurie’s office. Laurie introduced Lou to Riva, who was already hard at work. Laurie got a chair for Lou and put it next to her desk. They both sat down.

  “You’ve seen these gangland-style execution cases before, haven’t you?” Lou questioned.

  “I’m not sure,” Laurie said evasively. From medical school training, she knew how to be vague when asked a pointed question. She didn’t want to give the impression she was inexperienced.

  “They usually mean friction between rival organizations,” Lou said. “And in this case it would mean friction between the Lucia and the Vaccarro crime families. They are the major players in the Queens area and their respective interests are controlled by midlevel bosses, Vinnie Dominick and Paul Cerino. My guess would be that Paul Cerino had a hand in poor Frank DePasquale’s murder, and if he did, I’d like nothing better than to nail him with an indictment. I was after the guy for the entire six years I was assigned to Organized Crime. I could never get an indictment to stick. But if I could link him to a capital offense like whacking DePasquale, I’d be in fat city.”

  “That puts the burden on us,” Laurie said as she opened DePasquale’s folder.

  “If you or your lab could come up with something, I’d be eternally grateful,” Lou said. “We need some kind of break. The problem with guys like Cerino is that they keep so many layers between themselves and all the crime committed in their name, we seldom get any charges to stick.”

  “Oh, damn!” Laurie said suddenly. She’d been listening to Lou as well as going through the DePasquale file.

  “What’s the matter?” Lou asked.

  “They didn’t take an X-ray on DePasquale,” Laurie said. She reached for her phone and dialed the morgue. “We have to have an X-ray before the autopsy. Unfortunately that’s going to hold things up. I’ll have to post one of the other cases first. I’m sorry.”

  Lou shrugged.

  Laurie told the mortuary tech who answered the phone to X-ray Frank DePasquale as soon as possible. The tech said he’d do his best. As she was hanging up, the doorway to her office was filled by Calvin Washington.

  “Laurie,” Calvin said, “we’ve got a problem that you should know about.”

  Laurie stood up when Calvin entered. “What is it?” she asked. She noticed that Calvin was eyeing Lou questioningly. “Dr. Washington, I believe you met Lieutenant Soldano.”

  “Ah, yes,” Calvin said. “Don’t mind me. It’s just Alzheimer’s setting in. We met just this morning.” He shook hands with Lou, who’d stood when Laurie introduced him.

  “Sit down, both of you,” Calvin boomed. “Laurie, I have to warn you that we’ve already been getting some heat from the Mayor’s office about this Duncan Andrews case. It seems that the deceased has some powerful political connections. So we’re going to have to cooperate. I want you to look ha
rd for some natural cause of death so that you can downplay the drugs. The family would prefer it that way.”

  Laurie looked up at Calvin’s face, half expecting it to break out in a broad smile, saying that he was only joking. But Calvin’s expression didn’t change.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Laurie said.

  “I can’t be much clearer,” Calvin said. His infamous impatience began to show.

  “What do you want me to do, lie?” Laurie asked.

  “Hell, no, Dr. Montgomery!” Calvin snapped. “What do I have to do, draw you a map? I’m just asking you to lean as far as you can, okay? Find something like a coronary plaque, an aneurysm, anything, and then write it up. And don’t act so surprised or self-righteous. Politics play a role here and the sooner you learn that the better off we’ll all be. Just do it.”

  Calvin turned and left as quickly as he’d come.

  Lou whistled and sat down. “Tough guy,” he said.

  Laurie shook her head in disbelief. She turned to Riva, who hadn’t paused in her work. “Did you hear that?” Laurie asked her.

  “It happened to me once, too,” Riva said without looking up. “Only my case was a suicide.”

  With a sigh, Laurie sat down in her desk chair and looked across at Lou. “I don’t know if I’m prepared to sacrifice integrity and ethics for the sake of politics.”

  “I don’t think that was what Dr. Washington was asking you to do,” Lou said.

  Laurie felt her face flush. “It wasn’t? I’m sorry, but I think it was.”

  “I don’t mean to tell you your business,” Lou said, “but my take was that Dr. Washington wants you to emphasize any potential natural cause of death you find. The rest can be left to interpretation. For some reason it makes a difference in this case. It’s the real world versus the world of make-believe.”

  “Well, you seem pretty blasé about fudging the details,” Laurie said. “In Pathology we’re supposed to be dealing with the truth.”

  “Come on,” Lou said. “What is the truth? There are shades of gray in most everything in life, so why not in death? My line of work happens to be justice. It’s an ideal. I pursue it. But if you don’t think politics sometimes plays a lead role in how justice is applied, you’re kidding yourself. There’s always a gap between law and justice. Welcome to the real world.”