“I can do you one better—I’ll shoot you the details right now. I think it’s Friday at nine.”
“Got it. I’ll see you there. And Tuck? Please give my love to Cherie.”
“Will do.”
After they hung up, Gin found herself staring out the window, thinking not-entirely-professional thoughts about the chief of the Trumbull police department.
4
On Friday morning, Gin was walking from her car to the ME building when she nearly collided with a tall, angular woman who was speaking forcefully into her phone with her head down, not watching where she was going.
“You can consider that my final comment,” she was saying as she came barreling around the corner of the building. She shoved the phone into her bag just as Gin stepped awkwardly out of her way.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the woman said, tucking her chin-length, gray hair behind her ear. Gin realized it was Captain Maureen Wheeler, as recognition dawned on Wheeler’s face. “Gin! What brings you up here today?”
Gin hesitated—unsure whether anyone had informed her of Tuck’s invitation to observe the autopsy—and wondered what Wheeler was doing there. The county police department was located across town on Penn Avenue, too far to walk. Gin had had perhaps three conversations with the captain, always at the station, and had always found her pleasant, if slightly detached. “I’ve been asked to sit in on the Marnie Bertram autopsy,” she said, hoping Wheeler wouldn’t press her on who’d made the invitation.
“Oh, no kidding? I didn’t realize there was a decomp aspect to that case.”
Though Gin had worked on all kinds of cases while working at Cook County, the Allegheny County Medical Examiner’s office had no one on staff with as much expertise in decomposition, so her work focused on cases where bodies had been dead for some time before being found or, for other reasons, had been badly decomposed or damaged.
“Oh, there isn’t, really.” Gin cast about for a suitable excuse that wouldn’t put Tuck in a bind. “I’m strictly an observer, and of course the department won’t be paying for my time on this one—”
Wheeler snapped her fingers. “Wait. I just remembered, the victim was Jake Crosby’s mother, wasn’t she?”
“She—yes.”
Wheeler shook her head, eyes troubled. “That poor man has been through a lot. Look, I stand by my guys, of course, but I’m not insensitive to the fact that Jake’s found himself in the middle of a few cases, and I’m sorry it happened that way. Anything we can do to help out on this—well, I’m just glad the department can wrap this up quickly. And if we can get any information to help out Narcotics, I’ll count that a huge win.”
“Yes, of course,” Gin said, relieved that she hadn’t asked how the invitation came about. “I doubt I can add anything to Stephen’s assessment, but I’ll do my best.”
“Okay, sounds good. Listen, I’ve got to run—I’m late for a meeting.”
Gin said goodbye and walked briskly toward the entrance, checking her watch. The autopsy was starting in two minutes. She showed her ID and made her way to the rear of the building where the morgue was located. Washing and gloving-up as quickly as she could, she let herself into the examining room only to find a surprisingly large group of observers gathered.
Ordinarily, only a few people were present at an autopsy: the pathologist, trained technicians, and sometimes residents in training. In active police investigations, detectives sometimes attended, as well as crime scene investigators in certain circumstances, and occasionally a doctor who had treated the deceased requested permission to attend.
But in addition to Stephen Harper, Gin recognized Bruce Stillman and Katie Kennedy, a young crime scene analyst, as well as two officers she didn’t know. There were also two autopsy technicians, preparing the rolling cart containing the instruments that Stephen would need.
“Hi, Gin,” Stephen said, raising his gloved hand in a friendly wave. “Good to see you.”
“Didn’t expect you to be here,” Bruce said, rocking back on his heels, hands resting on his paunch. “Thought you only came out for the crispy critters and fossils.”
“But I do have a few other skills, Bruce,” Gin said, attempting to keep her tone light even though his tactless comments grated.
She turned to the others and smiled pleasantly. “Hi, Lance. Hi, Violet, nice to see you guys,” she greeted the autopsy technicians, who’d assisted on several of the cases in which she’d been involved. Then she turned to the unfamiliar officers. “I’m Virginia Sullivan. Please call me Gin.”
“Reggie Clawitter, Narcotics,” the tall officer said. “I’d shake your hand, but these damn gloves—”
“It’s no problem,” Gin assured him.
“And I’m Serena Chiu,” his partner added. “I’ve heard good things about your work.”
“So that’s everyone, right?” Stephen said, looking around.
“Yeah, Liam’s probably out back upchucking into the bushes,” Bruce said. “No need to wait on his sorry ass.”
There were a few grins, but nobody said anything. It was common knowledge in the department that autopsies were not Liam Witt’s cup of tea. The young officer had famously thrown up during his first autopsy, and hadn’t returned unless absolutely necessary.
But Gin couldn’t help noticing that Katie was blushing at the mention of Liam’s name. She’d heard rumors that they were involved romantically. Gin liked them both; the young crime scene tech had impressed her as meticulous and sharp, and Liam had taken pains to offset some of Bruce’s more offensive comments with kindness during the investigations that had swirled around Jake. She hid a smile, grateful for the pleasant possibility in the midst of an otherwise depressing event.
Stephen started his digital recorder and began by naming all of those present and making note of the time and date. The autopsy technicians assisted in weighing the body, and Stephen made a methodical visual examination, noting all relevant physical evidence including scars and the partially healed gash in addition to the many injection sites along her arms, hands, and behind her knees. They ranged from nearly-healed red dots to more recent, irritated tissue to several swollen, pus-filled abscesses.
In addition to the tattoo on her shoulder, Marnie Bertram had a butterfly on her hip, and a design of a beaded anklet with a cross, none of them particularly artful. Somehow this seemed like the saddest detail.
Stephen picked up a scalpel and glanced at the narcotics officers. “Reggie, Serena, sorry to ask, but I haven’t had the pleasure of your company in here before—you going to be okay?”
“No problem,” Reggie said, a slight tremor in his voice indicating otherwise.
“I’ve been to half a dozen of these,” Serena said breezily. “I used to work homicide in Butler County.”
Stephen nodded and made the Y-shaped incision. Moving the flaps of skin aside, he used a rib cutter—a tool that looked much like a pair of pruning shears—to sever the ribs from the breastbone cartilage. Gin watched sympathetically as Reggie swallowed hard and focused on a point near the ceiling.
Next, the intestines were removed and placed on a scale. “Excuse me,” Reggie said. “I—I just need a minute. Be right back.”
“Wanna bet?” Bruce called after him. “Twenty bucks says you lose your lunch.”
“Nice,” Serena said sarcastically as the door closed behind him. “It’s his first time, Bruce, cut him a break.”
“If you don’t mind, Bruce,” Stephen said testily, “Lance and Violet’s time is valuable. Shall we move on?”
With their help, he removed the organs in one group, a technique known as the Rokitansky method. Gin knew that Stephen preferred it, as it allowed one of the technicians to begin closing the body while the other assisted in examining and taking samples from the individual organs.
The inspection and sampling moved quickly, since there were no notable anomalies in Marnie Bertram’s organs other than those expected with chronic heroin use, including mild edema of the lungs and inflammation of
heart tissue. As Violet placed the samples in storage containers and Lance prepared the body cavity to be closed, Serena went in search of her partner, and Bruce and the others began to file out.
“See you on the other side,” Bruce said, giving Stephen a mock salute.
“What does that even mean?” Stephen asked, sotto voce.
Gin managed a wry grin. “Well, it’s probably safest to assume he meant it in a professional sense.”
She exchanged a few words with Katie, and then it was just her and Stephen and the two technicians.
“Glad you could be here,” Stephen said. “And I’m sorry about the circumstances. I hope you’ll pass along my condolences to Jake.”
“I will, and thank you.”
“Listen, Gin, I’ll see what I can do to get the preliminary tox done today. Not much I can do about the rest of it.”
“Of course,” Gin said. The basic immunoassay would show what drugs had been in Marnie’s system, but details about the concentrations of each, in addition to the effects of their interactions, would require further testing at a remote lab. “I appreciate it, but I suppose we both know what it’s likely to reveal.”
Stephen nodded somberly. “These opiate deaths are the biggest crisis I’ve seen in twenty years on the job.”
“So many lives needlessly lost,” Gin said, shaking her head sadly. “When will our country finally understand that addiction is a disease epidemic and treat it accordingly?”
But there was no answer to the question. She said goodbye to her colleague and left him to the task of preparing one more victim of the epidemic to be laid to rest.
* * *
On the days Jake stayed in Trafford, he usually called Gin from his motel room after dinner. Occasionally he took guys from his crew out for a beer, and sent a text rather than calling if they got in late.
But Jake hadn’t been in touch at all last night, and on Wednesday he’d only texted to say he was crashing early. Gin had tried not to read too much into his lack of communication. Jake was the sort of man who turned inward under pressure, and Gin guessed that the death of his mother was weighing on him more than he was aware.
She considered waiting until he arrived home to give him a summary of what she’d learned at the autopsy, but decided that it would be better not to keep him waiting. After leaving the county offices, she walked the short distance to the shops and markets lining the Strip District. She passed bins filled with fresh produce and meat, shop windows displaying cookware and handmade goods, as well as a dizzying variety of pasta and olive oil and other dry goods. Browsing the strip had always been a pleasant diversion for Gin, but today she barely noticed the colorful sights, picking up a sandwich for which she had little appetite. Before eating, she found a shaded bench in front of an old converted warehouse, and called Jake.
He picked up on the third ring, sounding out of breath.
“Hello?”
“Jake, it’s me. I’m just coming from … Marnie’s autopsy.” She stopped herself from saying “your mother,” suspecting it would be best to be as clinical as possible. “I wanted to let you know what they found. I’ll just say up front that there weren’t really any surprises; everything we saw was consistent with opioid overdose.”
Jake was silent for so long that Gin wondered if he was still on the line. “Jake?”
“I’m here. I just don’t have anything to say. You’re telling me that my … that Marnie got into the kind of trouble that people who make terrible life choices end up with.”
Gin bit back the response she usually saved for people who used the “addicts get what addicts deserve” line on her. The belief she shared with Stephen and the rest of her colleagues was that addiction is a disease, just like any other disease of the body or mind, and its victims deserve compassion and treatment.
But it was more complicated than that, of course. Gin had known plenty of people who rose above the curse of addiction to lead good, productive lives. But for every one of those, there were others who turned to crime and self-defeating behaviors to satisfy their addictions. She was not naïve enough to deny the terrible strain on hospitals, prisons, and communities posed by addicts and those who supplied them.
“She would not have suffered,” she said instead, changing the subject. “She likely lost consciousness slowly and painlessly.”
“So when are they releasing the body?” Jake asked.
“As soon as tomorrow—you just have to let them know where to release her to. Have you, um, thought about who you want to use? Because I could make a few calls, if you like.”
“I’ll probably just use Crogan’s,” Jake said, naming the largest funeral home in Trumbull. “They’ll hold her for a while until I figure out what to do—I called.”
Gin was surprised; Jake had given no indication that he’d done any research at all. Maybe he cared more than he was letting on. “I can get you some information about the various options … if you’d like to consider cremation or—”
“No need. I’ll handle it.”
“I—I was only trying to help,” Gin stammered, stung by his harsh tone.
“It’s okay,” Jake said. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. Look, I will take care of it. But now’s not the time, okay? If it can wait, it needs to, because we’ve got a big problem with some code issues—we’re going to have to regrade thirty percent of the site. We’re looking at one day of overtime this weekend, possibly two, because we need to have the work done by early next week when they come back to reinspect or we’ll be slapped with a huge fine. In fact … I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“About what?”
“I know I promised to help get ready for the party, but I don’t feel right asking the guys to show up tomorrow unless I at least make an appearance. Look, I’m really sorry to do this, but I need to stay tonight and try to make sure everything’s set for tomorrow. We can’t afford to get this wrong.”
“I understand,” Gin reassured him. “It’s all right—I’ve already picked up almost everything I need, and I can start cooking tonight. I’ll even buy the wine.”
“Oh, no,” Jake said in mock horror. He had a fine palette, while Gin was a self-proclaimed beginner when it came to choosing wines. “Maybe you’d better leave that to me.”
“Jake!” Gin scolded. It felt good to laugh. “I promise I’ll have the guy at the shop help me.”
“Make sure you do,” Jake said. “In fact, ask him for a couple of bottles of that Borolo I got that time I made pheasant. He’ll remember.”
“Okay. Get back out there and do what you need to do.”
She was about to add I miss you—but he’d already hung up.
5
“You call this a pepper?” Rosa Barnes said, holding up the vegetable in question and squinting at it comically. “My mother would have a fit!”
Gin laughed. It was a little after five o’clock on Saturday evening, and the rest of the guests would arrive in an hour. When Jake called around lunchtime to say that he was tied up at the site longer than he’d expected, she decided to call her friend to keep her company while she put the finishing touches on the meal.
Gin was pleased with how her first attempt at entertaining in their home was going. After giving the house a thorough cleaning last night, she’d arranged the stems she’d purchased from the flower market in a pair of hammered copper vases and set the table with Jake’s simple stoneware, accenting it with new hand-dyed placemats and napkins that she’d found in a little shop on Penn Avenue.
After a morning spent prepping and assembling the meal, all that was left was to put the eggplant parmesan in the oven and dress the salad.
“That’s actually a friggitello,” she said. “It was hard to find—serves me right for choosing a recipe that’s way out of my league. The woman from the market knew exactly what I was asking for, at least—even if I pronounced it wrong. She says it will give a bit of heat to the dish.”
Rosa laughed at Gin’s attempt at an I
talian accent. “Do you want to go change? I can make sure nothing burns.”
“I’d better, or you’ll get all the attention,” Gin joked, gesturing at Rosa’s soft, fitted pink sweater and flowing skirt, which set off her generous curves and dark curls. “Seriously, you look beautiful tonight. Are things going well with Doyle?”
Rosa’s blush gave her away. “Really well,” she said shyly. “I’m almost afraid to jinx it … but Gin, we’ve been dating for six months now, and we’ve never even had so much as an argument. He’s just so sweet, you know? Always leaving me little notes, flowers almost every weekend. And he’s so good with my mom and Antonio!”
“I’m really happy for you,” Gin murmured.
“I mean, after my divorce, I never thought I’d find love again. I guess I gave up on there being any guys out there who would treat me so well. Who’d be so open about wanting to share what’s important, you know?”
“I—I do,” Gin said, turning away so that Rosa wouldn’t see her tear up. “Be right back.”
Upstairs, she splashed water on her face and dressed on autopilot, tossing her sweats in the hamper and putting on the outfit she’d laid out earlier in the day. Rosa’s words echoed in her mind: sweet … positive … put a woman first. As happy as Gin was for her friend, her effusive praise for Doyle were not words that could be applied to Jake.
He had been sweet, once. Positive … well, that was another matter; Jake had always been moody, but it hadn’t seemed important back when they were each other’s rock. But if Gin was honest with herself, since reuniting they hadn’t reached the same level of emotional intimacy that they’d had when they were teens. After Jake had finally gotten free of the murder investigation on his job site last fall, they both had tried to put more effort into the relationship; but as his business picked up again, Jake had become distant once more.
Doyle was a wonderful man, though he wouldn’t be right for Gin. Was there something wrong with her, choosing a man with such a complex background, whose dark moods tended to take him away from her for days at a time? But there was so much she loved about Jake. He was a true artist, with the vision to create beautiful things on any scale, from the hand-carved wooden bowl he’d made her for Christmas to the breathtaking homes he’d built. Jake was passionate about his work, and—despite the trouble he’d been in earlier in his life—honest and ethical. And he was determined to care for her.
In the Darkest Hour Page 3