Blindsight

1

The alarm of the old Westclox windup never failed to yank Laurie Montgomery from the depths of blessed sleep. Even though she’d had the clock since the first year of college, she’d never become accustomed to its fearful clatter. It always woke her up with a start, and she’d invariably lunge for the cursed contraption as if her life depended on her getting the alarm shut off as soon as humanly possible.

This rainy November morning proved no exception. As she replaced the clock on the windowsill, she could feel her heart thumping. It was the squirt of adrenaline that made the daily episode so effective. Even if she could have gone back to bed, she’d never have gotten back to sleep. And it was the same for Tom, her one-and-a-half-year-old half-wild tawny tabby who, at the sound of the alarm, had fled into the depths of her closet.

Resigned to the start of another day, Laurie stood up, wiggled her toes into her sheepskin slippers, and turned on the TV to the local morning news.

Her apartment was a small, one-bedroom affair on Nineteenth Street between First and Second avenues in a six-story tenement. Her rooms were on the fifth floor in the rear. Her two windows faced out onto a warren of overgrown backyards.

In her tiny kitchen she turned on her coffee machine. The night before, she’d prepared it with a packet of coffee and the right amount of water. With the coffee started she padded into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror.

“Ugh!” she said as she turned her face from side to side, viewing the damage of another night with not enough sleep. Her eyes were puffy and red. Laurie was not a morning person. She was a confirmed night owl and frequently read until all hours. She loved to read, whether the book was a ponderous pathology text or a popular bestseller. When it came to fiction, her interests were catholic. Her shelves were crammed with everything from thrillers to romantic sagas, to history, general science, and even psychology. The night before it had been a murder mystery, and she’d read until she’d finished the book. When she’d turned out the light, she’d not had the courage to look at the time. As usual, in the morning she vowed never to stay up so late again.

In the shower Laurie’s mind began to clear enough to start going over the problems that she would have to address that day. She was currently in her fifth month as an associate medical examiner at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York. The preceding weekend, Laurie had been on call, which meant that she worked both Saturday and Sunday. She’d performed six autopsies: three one day and three the next. A number of these cases required additional follow-up before they could be signed out, and she began making a mental list of what she had to do.

Stepping out of the shower, Laurie dried herself briskly. One thing she was thankful about was that today would be a “paper day” for her, meaning that she would not be assigned any additional autopsies. Instead she would have the time to do the necessary paperwork on the autopsies that she’d already done. She was currently waiting for material on about twenty cases from either the lab, the medical examiner investigators, local hospitals or local doctors, or the police. It was this avalanche of paperwork that constantly threatened to overwhelm her.

Back in the kitchen Laurie prepared her coffee. Then, carrying her mug, she retreated to the bathroom to put on makeup and blow-dry her hair. Her hair always took the longest. It was thick and long and of an auburn color with red highlights she liked to burnish with henna once a month. Laurie was proud of her hair. She thought it was her best feature. Her mother was always encouraging her to cut it, but Laurie liked to keep it beyond shoulder length and wear it in a braid or piled on top of her head. As for makeup, Laurie always subscribed to the theory that “less is more.” A bit of eyeliner to line her blue-green eyes, a few strokes with an eyebrow pencil to define her light, reddish blond eyebrows, and a brief application of mascara and she was nearly done. A dab of coral blush and lipstick completed the routine. Satisfied, she took her mug and retreated to the bedroom.

By then, Good Morning America was on. She listened with half an ear as she put on the clothes she had laid out the night before. Forensic Pathology was still largely a man’s world, but that only made Laurie want to emphasize her femininity with her dress. She slipped into a green skirt and matching turtleneck. Eyeing herself in the mirror, she was pleased. She’d not worn this particular outfit before. Somehow it made her look taller than her actual height of five foot five, and even slimmer than her hundred and fifteen pounds.

With her coffee drunk, a yogurt eaten and dried cat food poured into Tom’s bowl, Laurie struggled into her trench coat. She then grabbed her purse, her lunch, which she had also prepared the night before, and her briefcase, and stepped out of her apartment. It took her a moment to secure the collection of locks on her door, a legacy of the apartment’s previous tenant. Turning to the elevator, Laurie pushed the down button.

As if on cue, the moment the aged elevator began its whining ascent, Laurie heard the click of Debra Engler’s locks. Turning her head, Laurie watched as the door to the front apartment opened a crack and its safety chain was pulled taut. Debra’s bloodshot eye peered out at her. Above the eye was a tousle of gray frizzy hair.

Laurie aggressively stared back at the intruding eye. It was as if Debra hovered behind her door for any sound in the hallway. The repetitive intrusion grated on Laurie’s nerves. It seemed like a violation of her privacy despite the fact that the hallway was a common area.

“Better take an umbrella,” Debra said in her throaty, smoker’s voice.

The fact that Debra was right only fanned Laurie’s irritation. She had indeed forgotten her umbrella. Without giving Debra any sense of acknowledgment lest her irritating watchfulness be encouraged, Laurie turned back to her door and went through the complicated sequence of undoing the locks. Five minutes later as she stepped into the elevator, she saw that Debra’s bloodshot eye was still watching intently.

As the elevator slowly descended, Laurie’s irritation faded. Her thoughts turned to the case that had bothered her most over the weekend: the twelve-year-old boy hit in the chest with a softball.

“Life’s not fair,” Laurie muttered under her breath as she thought about the boy’s untimely death. Children’s deaths were so hard to comprehend. Somehow she’d thought medical school would inure her to such senselessness, but it hadn’t. Neither had a pathology residency. And now that she was in forensics, these deaths were even harder to take. And there were so many of them! Up until the accident, the softball victim had been a healthy child, brimming with health and vitality. She could still see his little body on the autopsy table; a picture of health, ostensibly asleep. Yet Laurie had had to pick up the scalpel and gut him like a fish.

Laurie swallowed hard as the elevator came to a bumping stop. Cases like this little boy made her question her career choice. She wondered if she shouldn’t have gone into pediatrics, where she could have dealt with living children. The field of medicine she’d chosen could be grim.

In spite of herself, Laurie was grateful for Debra’s admonition once she saw what kind of day it was. The wind was blowing in strong gusts and the promised rain had already started. The view of her street that particular day made her question her choice of location as well as her career. The garbage-strewn street was not a pretty sight. Maybe she should have gone to a newer, cleaner city like Atlanta, or a city of perpetual summer like Miami. Laurie opened her umbrella and leaned into the wind as she trudged toward First Avenue.

As she walked she thought of one of the ironies of her career choice. She’d chosen pathology for a number of reasons. For one thing she thought that predictable hours would make it easier to combine medicine with having a family. But the problem was, she didn’t have a family, unless she considered her parents, but they didn’t really count. In fact she didn’t even have a meaningful relationship. Laurie had never thought that by age thirty-two she wouldn’t have children of her own, much less that she’d still be single.

A short cab ride with a driver whose nationality she could not even guess brought her to the corner of First and Thirtieth. She’d been shocked to get the cab. Under normal circumstances a combination of rain and rush hour meant no taxis. This morning, however, someone had been getting out of a cab just as she reached First Avenue. Yet even if she’d not been able to get one, it wouldn’t have been a disaster. That was one of the benefits of living just eleven blocks away from work. Many a day she walked in both directions.

After paying her fare, Laurie started up the front steps of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York. The six-story building was overshadowed by the rest of the New York University Medical Center and the Bellevue Hospital complex. Its facade was constructed of blue-glazed brick with aluminum windows and door casements of an unattractive modern design.

Normally Laurie paid no attention to the building, but on this particular rainy November Monday it wasn’t spared her critical review any more than her career or her street. The place was depressing. She had to admit that. She was shaking her head, wondering if an architect could have been genuinely pleased by his handiwork, when she noticed that the foyer was packed. The front door was propped open despite the morning chill, and cigarette smoke could be seen languidly issuing forth.

Curious, Laurie pushed into the crowd, making her way with some difficulty toward the ID room. Marlene Wilson, the usual receptionist, was obviously overwhelmed as at least a dozen people pressed against her desk as they plied her with questions. The media had invaded, complete with cameras, tape recorders, TV camcorders, and flashing lights. Clearly something out of the ordinary had happened.

After a brief pantomime to get Marlene’s attention, Laurie managed to get herself buzzed into the inner area. She experienced a mild sense of relief when the closing door extinguished the babble of voices and the acrid cigarette smoke.

Pausing to glance into the drab room where family members were taken to identify the deceased, Laurie was mildly surprised to find it empty. With all the commotion in the outer area, she thought she’d see people in the ID room. Shrugging her shoulders, she proceeded into the ID office.

The first person Laurie confronted was Vinnie Amendola, one of the mortuary techs. Oblivious to the pandemonium in the reception area, Vinnie was drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup and studying the sports pages of the New York Post. His feet were propped up on the edge of one of the gray metal desks. As usual before eight in the morning, Vinnie was the only person in the room. It was his job to make the coffee for the coffee pool. A large, commercial-style coffeemaker was in the ID office, a room that served a number of functions, including an informal morning congregation area.

“What on earth is going on?” Laurie asked as she picked up the day’s autopsy schedule. Even though she wasn’t scheduled for any autopsies, she was always curious to see what cases had come in.

Vinnie lowered his paper. “Trouble,” he said.

“What kind of trouble?” Laurie asked. Through the doorway leading to the communications room, she could see that the two day-shift secretaries were busy on their phones. The panels in front of them were blinking with waiting calls. Laurie poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Another “preppy murder’ case,” Vinnie said. “A teenage girl apparently strangled by her boyfriend. Sex and drugs. You know rich kids. Happened over near the Tavern On The Green. With all the excitement that first case caused a couple of years ago, the media has been here from the moment the body was brought in.”

Laurie clucked her tongue. “How awful for everyone. A life lost and a life ruined.” She added sugar and a touch of cream to her coffee. “Who’s handling it?”

“Dr. Plodgett,” Vinnie said. “He was called by the tour doctor and he had to go out to the scene. It was around three in the morning.”

Laurie sighed. “Oh boy,” she muttered. She felt sorry for Paul. Handling such a case would most likely be stressful for him because he was relatively inexperienced like herself. He’d been an associate medical examiner for just over a year. Laurie had been there for only four and a half months. “Where’s Paul now? Up in his office?”

“Nope,” Vinnie said. “He’s in doing the autopsy.”

“Already?” Laurie questioned. “Why the rush?”

“Beats me,” Vinnie said. “But the guys going off the graveyard shift told me that Bingham came in around six. Paul must have called him.”

“This case gets more intriguing by the minute,” Laurie said. Dr. Harold Bingham, age fifty-eight, was the Chief Medical Examiner of New York City, a position that made him a powerful figure in the forensic world. “I think I’ll duck into the pit and see what’s happening.”

“I’d be careful if I were you,” Vinnie said, struggling to fold his paper. “I was thinking of going in there myself, but the word is that Bingham is in a foul mood. Not that that’s so out of the ordinary.”

Laurie nodded to Vinnie as she left the room. To avoid the mass of reporters in the reception area, she took the long route to the elevators, walking through Communications. The secretaries were too busy to say hello. Laurie waved to one of the two police detectives assigned to the medical examiner’s office who was sitting in his cubbyhole office off the communications room. He, too, was on the phone.

After going through another doorway, Laurie glanced into each of the forensic medical investigators’ offices to say good morning, but no one was in yet. Reaching the main elevators, she pushed the up button and as usual had to wait while the aged machine slowly responded. Looking down the hall to her right, she could see the mass of reporters seething in the reception area. Laurie felt sorry for poor Marlene Wilson.

As she rode up to her office on the fifth floor, Laurie thought about the meaning of Bingham’s early presence not only at the office but also in the autopsy room. Both occurrences were rare and they fanned her curiosity.

Since her office-mate, Dr. Riva Mehta, was not yet in, Laurie spent only minutes in her office. She locked her briefcase, purse, and lunch in her file cabinet, then changed into green scrub clothes. Since she wasn’t going to do an autopsy herself, she didn’t bother putting on her usual second layer of protective, impervious clothing.

Back in the elevator Laurie descended to the basement level, where the morgue was located. This was not a basement in the true sense because it was actually the street level from the building’s Thirtieth Street side. A loading dock from Thirtieth Street was the route bodies arrived and left the morgue.

In the locker room, which she rarely used as such, preferring to change in her office, Laurie got shoe covers, apron, mask, and hood. Thus dressed as if she were about to perform surgery, she pushed through the door into the autopsy room.

The “pit,” as it was lovingly called, was a medium-sized room about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide. At one time it had been considered state of the art, but no longer. Like so many other city agencies, its much-needed upkeep and modernization had suffered from lack of funds. The eight stainless steel tables were old and stained from countless postmortems. Old-fashioned spring-loaded scales hung over each table. A series of sinks, countertops, X-ray view boxes, ancient glass-fronted cabinets, and exposed piping lined the walls. There were no windows.

Only one table was in use: the second from the end, to Laurie’s right. As the door closed behind Laurie all three gowned, masked, and hooded doctors grouped around the table raised their heads to stare at her for a moment before returning to their grisly task. Stretched out on the table was the ivory-colored, nude body of a teenage girl. She was illuminated by a single bank of blue-white fluorescent bulbs directly overhead. The lurid scene was made worse by the sucking noise of water swirling down a drain at the foot of the table.

Laurie felt a strong intuition she should turn around and leave, but she fought the feeling. Instead she advanced on the group. Knowing the people as well as she did, she recognized each despite their coverings, which included goggles as well as masks. Bingham was on the opposite side of the table, facing Laurie. He was a stocky man of short stature with thick features and a bulbous nose.

“Goddamn it, Paul!” Bingham snapped. “Is this the first time you’ve done a neck dissection? I’ve got a news conference scheduled and you’re mucking around like a first-year medical student. Give me that scalpel!” Bingham snatched the instrument from Paul’s hand, then bent over the body. A ray of light glinted off the stainless steel cutting edge.

Laurie stepped up to the table. She was to Paul’s right. Sensing her presence, he turned his head, and for an instant their eyes met. Laurie could tell he was already distraught. She tried to project some support with her gaze, but Paul averted his head. Laurie glanced at the morgue tech who avoided looking her way. The atmosphere was explosive.

Lowering her eyes, Laurie watched what Bingham was doing. The patient’s neck had been opened with a somewhat outdated incision that ran from the point of the chin to the top of the breastbone. The skin had been flayed and spread to the side like opening a high-necked blouse. Bingham was in the process of freeing the muscles from around the thyroid cartilage and the hyoid bone. Laurie could see evidence of premortal trauma with hemorrhage into the tissues.

“What I still don’t understand,” Bingham snapped without looking up from his labors, “is why you didn’t bag the hands at the scene? Could you please tell me that?”

Laurie’s eyes again met Paul’s. She knew instantly that he had no excuse. She wished she could have helped him, but she didn’t see how she could. Sharing her colleague’s discomfort, Laurie stepped away from the table. Despite having made the effort to get dressed to observe, Laurie left the autopsy room. There was just too much tension to make it worth staying. She didn’t want to make the situation any worse for Paul by giving Bingham more of an audience.

Returning back upstairs after peeling off her outer layer of protective clothing, Laurie sat down at her desk and got to work. The first order of business was to complete what she could on the three autopsies that she’d done on Sunday. The first of the cases had been the twelve-year-old boy. The second case was clearly a heroin overdose, but she reviewed the facts. Drug paraphernalia had been found with the victim. The victim had been a known heroin addict. At autopsy his arms had showed multiple sites of intravenous injection, old and new. On his right upper arm he’d had a tattoo: “Born to Lose.” Internally he’d shown the usual signs of asphyxial death with a frothy pulmonary edema. Despite the fact that laboratory and microscopic studies were still pending, Laurie felt comfortable with her conclusion that the cause of death was drug overdose and the manner of death was accidental.

The third case was far from clear. A twenty-four-year-old woman flight attendant had been discovered at home in a bathrobe, having apparently collapsed in the hallway outside her bathroom. She’d been found by her roommate. She’d been healthy and had returned home from a trip to Los Angeles the previous day. She was not known to be a drug user.

Laurie had done the autopsy but had found nothing. All her findings were completely normal. Concerned about the case, Laurie had one of the medical investigators locate the woman’s gynecologist. Laurie had spoken with the man and had been assured the woman had been entirely healthy. He’d seen her last only months before.

Having had a similar case recently, Laurie had instructed the medical investigator to go to the woman’s apartment and bring back any personal electrical appliances found in the woman’s bathroom. Sitting on Laurie’s desk was a cardboard box with a note from the medical investigator, saying that the enclosed was all she could find.

Using her thumbnail, Laurie broke through the tape sealing the box, lifted the flaps, and peered inside. The box contained a blow dryer and an old metal curling iron. Laurie lifted both devices from the box and laid them on her desk. From the lower right-hand drawer of the desk, Laurie lifted out an electrical testing device called a voltohmmeter.

Examining the blow dryer first, Laurie tested the electrical resistance between the prongs of the plug and the dryer itself. In both instances, the reading was infinite ohms or no current flow. Thinking that perhaps she was again on the wrong track, she tested the hair curler. To her surprise, the result was positive. Between one of the prongs and the casing of the curler, the voltohmmeter registered zero ohms, meaning free current flow.

Taking some basic tools from her desk, including a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, Laurie opened the hair curler and immediately found the frayed wire that was making contact with the device’s metal casing. It was now clear to Laurie that the poor flight attendant was the victim of low voltage electrocution. As was often the case, the victim had been shocked but had had time to put the offending device away and walk from the room before succumbing to a fatal cardiac arrhythmia. The cause of death was electrocution and the manner of death accidental.

With the hair curler “autopsied” on her desk, Laurie got out her camera and arranged the pieces to show the aberrant connection. Then she stood up to shoot directly down. As she peered through the viewfinder, Laurie felt pleased about the case. She couldn’t suppress a modest smile, knowing how different her work was from what people surmised. She’d not only solved the mystery of the poor woman’s untimely death, but had potentially saved someone else from the same fate as well.

Before Laurie could take the photo of the curler, her phone rang. Because of the degree of her concentration, the ringing startled her. With thinly veiled irritation, she answered. It was the operator asking Laurie if she would mind taking a call from a doctor phoning from the Manhattan General Hospital. She added that he’d requested to talk with the chief.

“Then why put him through to me?” Laurie demanded.

“The chief is tied up in the autopsy room, and I can’t find Dr. Washington. Someone said he’s out talking with the reporters. So I just started ringing the other doctors’ numbers. You were the first to answer.”

“Put him on,” Laurie said with resignation. She sank back into her desk chair. She was quite confident it would be a short conversation. If someone wanted to talk with the chief, they certainly would not be satisfied talking to the lowest person in the hierarchy.

After the call had been put through, Laurie introduced herself. She emphasized that she was one of the associate medical examiners and not the chief.

“I’m Dr. Murray,” the caller said. “I’m a senior medical resident. I need to talk to someone about a drug overdose/toxicity DOA that came in this morning.”

“What is it that you’d like to know?” Laurie asked. Drug deaths were a daily phenomenon at the M.E. office. Her attention partially switched back to the hair curler. She had a better idea for the photograph.

“The patient’s name was Duncan Andrews,” Dr. Murray said. “He was a thirty-five-year-old Caucasian male. He arrived with no cardiac activity, no spontaneous respiration, and with a core body temperature that we recorded at one hundred eight degrees.”

“Uh huh,” Laurie said equably. Holding the phone in the crook of her neck, she rearranged the pieces of the hair curler.

“There was massive evidence of seizure activity,” Dr. Murray said. “So we ran an EEG. It was flat. The lab reported a serum cocaine level of 20 micrograms per milliliter.”

“Wow!” Laurie said with a short laugh of amazement. Dr. Murray had caught her attention. “That’s one hell of a high level. What was the route of administration, oral? Was he one of those “mules’ who try to smuggle the stuff by swallowing condoms filled with cocaine?”

“Hardly,” Dr. Murray said with a short laugh of his own. “This guy was some kind of Wall Street whiz kid. No, it wasn’t oral. It was IV.”

Laurie swallowed as she struggled to keep old, unwanted memories submerged. Her throat had suddenly gone dry. “Was heroin involved as well?” she asked. In the sixties a mixture of heroin and cocaine called “speedball” had been popular.

“No heroin,” Dr. Murray said. “Only cocaine, but obviously a walloping dose. If his temperature was one hundred eight when we took it, God only knows how high it had been.”

“Well, it sounds pretty straightforward,” Laurie said. “What’s the question? If you’re wondering if it’s a medical examiner case, I can tell you that it is.”

“No, we know it is an M.E. case,” Dr. Murray said. “That’s not the problem. It’s more complicated than that. The fellow was found by his girlfriend who came in with him. But then his family came in as well. And I have to tell you, his family is connected, if you know what I mean. Anyway, the nurses found that Mr. Duncan Andrews had an organ-donor card in his wallet, and they called the organ-donor coordinator. Without knowing that the case was an M.E. case, the organ-donor coordinator asked the family if they would permit harvesting the eyes since that was the only tissue besides bone that might still be usable. You understand that we don’t pay much attention to organ-donor cards unless the family agrees. But this family agreed. They told us that they definitely wanted to respect the decedent’s wishes. Personally, I think it has something to do with their wanting to believe their son died of natural causes. But, be that as it may, we wanted to check with you people as a matter of policy before we did anything.”

“The family truly agreed?” Laurie asked.

“I’m telling you, they were emphatic,” Dr. Murray said. “According to the girlfriend, she and the decedent had talked about the problem of the lack of transplant organs on several occasions and had gone together to the Manhattan Organ Repository to sign up in response to the Repository’s TV appeal last year.”

“Mr. Duncan Andrews must have given himself some dose of cocaine,” Laurie said. “Was there any suicide note?”

“No suicide note,” Dr. Murray said. “Nor was the man depressed, at least according to the girlfriend.”

“This sounds like a rather unique circumstance,” Laurie said. “I personally don’t think honoring the family’s request would affect the autopsy. But I’m not authorized to make such a policy decision. What I can do is find out for you from the powers-that-be and call you back immediately.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Dr. Murray said. “If we’re going to do something, we have to do it sooner rather than later.”

Laurie hung up the phone, and with a degree of reluctance, left her disassembled hair curler, and returned to the morgue. Without donning the usual layers, she stuck her head through the door. Immediately she could see that Bingham had departed.

“The chief left you to carry on by yourself?” Laurie called out to Paul.

Paul turned to face her. “Thank God for small favors,” Paul said, his voice slightly muffled by his mask. “Luckily he had to get upstairs to the news conference he’s scheduled. I suppose he thinks I’m capable of sewing up the body.”

“Come on, Paul,” Laurie said by way of encouragement. “Remember Bingham treats everyone like an incompetent at the autopsy table.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Paul said without conviction.

Laurie let the door close. She used the stairs at the far end of the morgue to go up to the first floor. There was no sense waiting for the elevator for a single flight.

The first-floor corridor was crowded with media people, and it was all Laurie could do to get to the double doors leading into the conference room. Over the heads of the reporters she could see Bingham’s shiny bald pate reflecting the harsh lighting set up for the TV cameras. He was taking questions from the floor and perspiring copiously. Laurie knew instantly that there was no way she’d be able to discuss Manhattan General’s problem with him.

Standing on her toes, Laurie scanned the crowded room for Dr. Calvin Washington, the Deputy Chief Medical Examiner. As a six-foot-seven, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound black man, he was usually easy to pick out of a crowd. Laurie finally spotted him standing near the door that led from the conference room into the chief’s office.

By going out into the main reception area, then cutting through the chief’s office, Laurie was able to approach Calvin from behind. When she reached him, she hesitated. Dr. Washington had a stormy temperament. Between his physique and his moods, he intimidated most people, including Laurie.

Marshaling her courage, Laurie tapped him on the arm. Immediately he spun around. His dark eyes swept over Laurie. He was not happy, that much was apparent.

“What is it?” he asked in a forced whisper.

“Could I speak to you for a moment?” Laurie asked. “There’s a question of policy regarding a case over at Manhattan General.”

After a glance back at his perspiring boss, Calvin nodded. He stepped beyond Laurie and closed the door to the conference room. He shook his head. “This “preppy murder II’ is going sour already. God, I hate the media. They’re not after the “truth,’ whatever that is. They’re nothing but a bunch of gossip hounds, and poor Harold is trying to justify why the hands weren’t bagged at the murder site. What a circus!”

“Why weren’t the hands bagged?” Laurie asked.

“Because the tour doctor didn’t think about it,” Calvin said disgusted. “And by the time Plodgett got there the body was already in the van.”

“How come the tour doctor allowed the body to be moved before Paul got there?” Laurie asked.

“How should I know!” Calvin exploded. “The whole case is a mess. One screw-up after another.”

Laurie cringed. “I hate to bring this up, but I noticed another potential problem downstairs.”

“Oh, and what was that?” Calvin demanded.

“What I imagine were the victim’s clothes were in a plastic bag on one of the countertops.”

“Damn!” Calvin snapped. He stepped over to Bingham’s phone and punched the extension in the “pit.” As soon as the phone was answered he shouted that someone would be on the autopsy table himself if the preppy murder II victim’s clothes were in a plastic bag.

Without waiting for an answer, Calvin slammed the receiver down onto the cradle. Then he glared at Laurie as if the messenger were responsible for the bad news.

“I can’t imagine a fungus would have destroyed any evidence so quickly,” Laurie offered.

“That’s not entirely the point,” Calvin snapped. “We’re not out in the boondocks someplace. Screw-ups like this are not to be tolerated, especially not under this glare of publicity. It seems as if this whole case is jinxed. Anyway, what’s the problem at Manhattan General?”

Laurie told Calvin about Duncan Andrews as succinctly as possible and about the attending physician’s request. She emphasized that it was the family’s wishes to respect the deceased’s desire to be a donor.

“If we had a decent medical examiner law in this state this wouldn’t even come up,” Calvin growled. “I think we should honor the family’s request. Tell the doctor that in this kind of circumstances he should take the eyes but photograph them prior to doing so. Also he should take vitreous samples from inside the eyes for Toxicology.”

“I’ll let him know immediately,” Laurie said. “Thanks.”

Calvin waved absently. He was already reopening the door to the conference room.

Laurie cut back through the chief’s secretarial area and got Marlene to buzz her through the door into the main hall. She had to weave her way among the media people, stepping over cables powering the TV lights. Bingham’s news conference was still in progress. Laurie pressed the up button on the elevator.

“Ahhhh!” Laurie squealed in response to a deliberate jab in the ribs. Laurie swung around to chastise whoever had poked her. She expected to see a colleague, but it wasn’t. Before her stood a stranger in his early thirties. He had on a trench coat that was open down the front; his tie was loosened at his collar. On his face was a childlike grin.

“Laurie?” he said.

Laurie suddenly recognized him. It was Bob Talbot, a reporter for the Daily News whom Laurie had known since college. She’d not seen him for some time, and out of context it had taken a moment to recognize him. Despite her irritation, she smiled.

“Where have you been?” Bob demanded. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”

“I guess I’ve been a bit asocial of late,” Laurie admitted. “Lots of work, plus I’ve started studying for my forensic boards.”

“You know the expression about all work and no play,” Bob said.

Laurie nodded and tried to smile. The elevator arrived. Laurie stepped in and held the door open with her hand.

“What do you think of this new “preppy murder’?” Bob asked. “It sure is causing a fuss.”

“It’s bound to,” Laurie said. “It’s made-to-order tabloid material. Besides, it seems that we’ve already messed up. I suppose it’s reminiscent of what happened with the first case. A little too reminiscent for my colleagues.”

“What are you talking about?” Bob asked.

“For one thing, the victim’s hands weren’t bagged,” Laurie said. “Didn’t you hear what Dr. Bingham was saying?”

“Yeah, but he said it didn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Laurie said. “Besides that, the victim’s clothes ended up in a plastic bag. That’s a no-no. Moisture encourages the growth of microorganisms that can affect evidence. That’s another screw-up. Unfortunately the medical examiner on the case is one of us junior people. By rights it should be someone with more experience.”

“Apparently the boyfriend already confessed,” Bob said. “Isn’t this all academic?”

Laurie shrugged. “By the time the trial rolls around, he might have a change of heart. Certainly his lawyer will. Then it’s up to the evidence unless there was a witness, and in this type of case, there’s seldom a witness.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Bob said with a nod. “We’ll have to see. Meanwhile, I’d better get back to the news conference. How about dinner sometime this week?”

“Maybe,” Laurie said. “I don’t mean to be coy, but I do have to study if I want to pass those boards. Why don’t you call and we’ll talk about it?”

Bob nodded as Laurie let the elevator door close. She pressed five. Back in her office, she called Dr. Murray at Manhattan General and told him what Dr. Washington had said.

“Thank you for your trouble,” Dr. Murray said when Laurie was finished. “It’s good to have some guidelines to follow in this kind of circumstance.”

“Be sure to get good photos,” Laurie advised. “If you don’t, the policy could change.”

“No need to worry,” Dr. Murray said. “We have our own photography department. It will be done professionally.”

Hanging up the phone, Laurie went back to the hair curler. She took a half dozen photos from varying angles and with varying lighting conditions. With the curler out of the way, she turned her attention to the only Sunday case remaining, and the most disturbing for her: the twelve-year-old boy.

Getting up from her desk, Laurie returned to the first floor and visited Cheryl Myers, one of the medical investigators. She explained that she needed more eyewitnesses of the episode when the boy was hit with the softball. Without any positive finding on the autopsy, she would need personal accounts to substantiate her diagnosis of commotio cordis, or death from a blow to the chest. Cheryl promised to get right on it.

Returning to the fifth floor, Laurie went to Histology to see if the boy’s slides could be speeded up. Knowing how distraught the family was, she was eager to put her end of the tragedy to rest. She found that families seemed to come to some sort of acceptance once they knew the truth. The aura of uncertainty about a death of unknown cause made grieving more difficult.

While she was in Histology, Laurie picked up slides that were ready from cases she’d autopsied the previous week. With those in hand she went down several flights of stairs and picked up reports from Toxicology and Serology. Carrying everything back to her office, she dumped all the material on her desk. Then she went to work. Except for a short break for lunch, Laurie spent the rest of the day going over the slides from Histology, collating the laboratory reports, making calls, and completing as many files as possible.

What fueled Laurie’s anxiety was the knowledge that the following day she’d be assigned at least two and maybe as many as four new cases to autopsy. If she didn’t stay abreast of the paperwork, she’d be swamped. There was never a dull moment at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York, since it handled between fifteen and twenty thousand assigned cases each year. That translated to approximately eight thousand autopsies. Each day the office averaged two homicides and two drug overdoses.

By four o’clock in the afternoon, Laurie was beginning to slow down. The volume of her work and its intensity had taken its toll. When her phone rang for the hundredth time, she answered with a tired voice. When she realized it was Mrs. Sanford, Dr. Bingham’s secretary, she straightened up in her chair by reflex. It wasn’t every day that she got a call from the chief.

“Dr. Bingham would like to see you in his office if it is convenient,” Mrs. Sanford said.

“I’ll be right down,” Laurie answered. She smiled at Mrs. Sanford’s phrase, “If it is convenient.” Knowing Dr. Bingham, it was probably Mrs. Sanford’s translation of: Get Dr. Montgomery down here ASAP. En route she vainly tried to imagine what Dr. Bingham wanted to see her about, but she had no idea.

“Go right in,” Mrs. Sanford said. She looked at Laurie over the tops of her reading glasses and smiled.

“Close the door!” Bingham commanded as soon as Laurie was in his office. He was sitting behind his massive desk. “Sit down!”

Laurie did as she was told. Bingham’s angry tone was the first warning of what was to come. Laurie immediately knew that she wasn’t there for a commendation. She watched as Bingham removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and placed them on his blotter. His thick fingers handled the glasses with surprising agility.

Laurie studied Bingham’s face. His steel blue eyes appeared cold. She could just make out the web of fine capillaries spread across the tip of his nose.

“You do know that we have a public relations office?” Dr. Bingham began. His tone was sarcastic, angry.

“Yes, of course,” Laurie replied when Bingham paused.

“Then you must also know that Mrs. Donnatello is responsible for any information being given to the media and the public.”

Laurie nodded.

“And you must also be aware that except for myself, all personnel of this office should keep their personal opinions concerning medical examiner business to themselves.”

Laurie didn’t respond. She still didn’t know where this conversation was headed.

Suddenly, Bingham bounded out of his chair and began pacing the area behind his desk. “What I’m not sure you appreciate,” he continued, “is the fact that being a medical examiner carries significant social and political responsibilities.” He stopped pacing and looked across at Laurie. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I believe so,” Laurie said, but there was still some significant part of the conversation that eluded her. She had no idea what had precipitated this diatribe.

“‘Believing so’ is not adequate,” Bingham snorted. He stopped his pacing and leaned over his desk, glaring at Laurie.

More than anything, Laurie wanted to remain composed. She didn’t want to appear emotional. She despised situations like this. Confrontation was not one of her strong points.

“Furthermore,” Bingham snapped, “breaches in the rules pertaining to privileged information will not be tolerated. Is that clear!”

“Yes,” Laurie said, fighting back unwanted tears. She wasn’t sad or mad, just upset. With the amount of work that she’d been doing of late, she hardly thought she deserved such a tirade. “Can I ask what this is all about?”

“Most certainly,” Bingham said. “Toward the end of my news conference about the Central Park murder, one of the reporters got up and began asking a question with the comment that you had specifically stated that the case was being mishandled by this department. Did you or did you not say that to a reporter?”

Laurie cowered in her seat. She tried to return Bingham’s glare, but she had to look away. She felt a rush of embarrassment, guilt, anger, and resentment. She was shocked that Bob would have had such little sense much less respect for her confidentiality. Finding her voice she said: “I mentioned something to that effect.”

“I thought so,” Bingham said smugly. “I knew the reporter wouldn’t have had the nerve to make something like that up. Well, consider yourself warned, Dr. Montgomery. That will be all.”

Laurie stumbled out of the chief’s office. Humiliated, she didn’t even dare exchange glances with Mrs. Sanford lest she lose control of the tears she’d been suppressing. Hoping she wouldn’t run into anyone, Laurie sprinted up the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator.

She was particularly thankful that her office-mate was still apparently in the autopsy room. Locking her door behind her, Laurie sat down at her desk. She felt crushed, as if all her months of hard work had been for naught because of one foolish indiscretion.

With sudden resolve, Laurie picked up the phone. She wanted to call Bob Talbot and tell him what she thought of him. But she hesitated, then let go of the receiver. At the moment she didn’t have the strength for another confrontation. Instead she took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

She tried to go back to work, but she couldn’t concentrate. Instead she opened her briefcase and threw in some of the uncompleted files. After collecting her other belongings, Laurie took the elevator to the basement level and exited through the morgue loading dock onto Thirtieth Street. She didn’t want to take the risk of running into anyone in the reception area.

Befitting her mood, it was still raining as she walked south on First Avenue. If anything, the city looked worse than it had that morning, with a pall of acrid exhaust fumes suspended between the buildings lining the street. Laurie kept her head down to avoid the oily puddles, the litter, and the stares of the homeless.

Even her apartment building seemed dirtier than usual, and as she waited for the elevator, she was aware of the smell of a century of fried onions and fatty meat. Getting off on the fifth floor, she glared at Debra Engler’s bloodshot eye, daring her to say anything. Once inside her apartment, she slammed the door with enough force to tilt a framed Klimt print she’d gotten from the Metropolitan.

Even feisty Tom couldn’t elevate her spirits as he rubbed back and forth across her shins as she hung up her coat and stashed her umbrella in her narrow hall closet. Going into her living room, she collapsed into her armchair.

Refusing to be ignored, Tom leaped to the back of the chair and purred directly into Laurie’s right ear. When that didn’t work, he began to paw Laurie’s shoulder repeatedly.

Finally Laurie responded by reaching up and lifting the cat into her lap where she began absently to stroke him.

As the rain tapped against her window like grains of sand, Laurie lamented her life. For the second time that day she thought about not being married. Her mother’s criticism seemed more deserved than usual. She wondered anew if she’d made the right career choices. What about ten years from now? Could she see herself caught in the same quagmire of lonely daily life, struggling to stay ahead of the paperwork associated with the autopsies, or would she assume more administrative duties like Bingham?

With a sense of shock, Laurie realized for the first time that she had no desire to be chief. Up until that moment, she’d always tried to excel whether it was college or medical school, and aspiring to be the chief would have fit into that mold. Excelling for Laurie had been a kind of rebellion, an attempt to make her father, the great cardiac surgeon, finally acknowledge her. But it had never worked. She knew that as far as her father was concerned she’d never be able to replace her older brother who’d died at the tender age of nineteen.

Laurie sighed. It wasn’t like her to be depressed, and the fact that she was depressed depressed her. She never would have guessed that she’d be quite so sensitive to criticism. Maybe she’d been unhappy and hadn’t even realized it with her workload.

Laurie noticed that the red light on her answering machine was blinking. At first she ignored it, but the darker the room got, the more insistent the blinking became. After watching the light for another ten minutes, curiosity got the best of her, and she listened to the tape. The call was from her mother, Dorothy Montgomery, asking her to call the moment she got home.

“Oh, great!” Laurie said out loud. She debated about calling, knowing her mother’s capacity to grate on her nerves in the best of circumstances. She wasn’t feeling up to another dose of her mother’s negativity and unsolicited advice just then.

Laurie listened to the message a second time and, after convincing herself that her mother sounded genuinely concerned, she made the call. Dorothy answered on the first ring.

“Thank God you called,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t. I was thinking of sending a telegram. We’re having a dinner party tomorrow night, and I want you to come. We’re having someone here I want you to meet.”

“Mother!” Laurie said with exasperation. “I’m not sure I’m up for a dinner party. I’ve had a bad day.”

“Nonsense,” Dorothy exclaimed. “All the more reason to get out of that dreadful apartment of yours. You’ll have a wonderful time. It will be good for you. The person I want you to meet is Dr. Jordan Scheffield. He’s a marvelous ophthalmologist, known all over the world. Your father’s told me. And best of all he was recently divorced from a dreadful woman.”

“I’m not interested in a blind date,” Laurie said with irritation. She couldn’t believe that not only was her mother oblivious to her mental state, but she wanted to fix her up with some divorced eyeball doctor.

“It’s about time you met someone appropriate,” Dorothy said. “I never understood what you saw in that Sean Mackenzie. That boy is a shiftless hoodlum and a bad influence on you. I’m glad you finally broke up with him for good.”

Laurie rolled her eyes. Her mother was in rare form today. Even if there was a certain truth in what she was saying, she didn’t feel like hearing it just then. Laurie had been dating Sean on and off since college. From the start, their relationship was a rocky one. And though he wasn’t exactly a hoodlum, he did hold a sort of outlaw’s appeal for her between his motorcycle and bad attitude. There was a time when his “artistic” personality excited Laurie. Back then she’d even been rebellious enough to try drugs with him on several occasions. But she hoped this last breakup would be their last.

“Be here at seven-thirty,” Dorothy said. “And I want you to wear something attractive, like that wool suit I gave you for your birthday in October. And your hair: wear it up. I’d love to talk longer, but I’ve got so much to do. See you tomorrow, dear. ’Bye.”

Laurie took the phone from her ear and looked at it in the darkened room with disbelief. Her mother had hung up on her. She didn’t know whether to swear, laugh, or cry. She replaced the receiver on its cradle. Finally she laughed. Her mother was certainly a character. As she played the conversation back in her mind, she couldn’t believe it had taken place. It was as if she and her mother talked on different wavelengths.

Walking around her apartment, Laurie turned on the lights, then closed the curtains. Shielded from the world, she took her hair down and stepped out of her clothes. For some reason, she felt better. The crazy conversation with her mother had shocked her out of her depressive thoughts.

Climbing into the shower, Laurie admitted to herself that she tended to be more emotional in business situations than she would like. The realization irritated her. She didn’t mind dressing femininely, but she didn’t want to lend credence to the stereotype of a fragile, fickle female. In the future, she would try to be more professional. She also realized what a mistake she had made in confiding in Bob. She would have to be sure to keep her opinions to herself, particularly where the press was concerned. She was lucky Bingham hadn’t fired her.

Standing under the jet of water, Laurie thought about making herself a salad and then doing some studying for her forensic boards. Then she thought about dinner the following night at her parents’. Although her initial reaction had been overwhelmingly negative, she began to have second thoughts. Maybe it would be an interesting break in her routine. Then she wondered how insufferable the newly divorced ophthalmologist would be. She also wondered how old he’d be.