Pandemic

8

TUESDAY, 4:45 A.M.

Jack’s eyes popped open, and despite it being pitch black in the room and outside the window, he knew instantly that any more sleep was out of the question. His mind was in turmoil with a mélange of Emma, Dorothy, and the subway-death conundrum. Being careful not to awaken Laurie, he slipped out of bed and tiptoed into the bathroom. Since Laurie was the opposite of the morning person that Jack was, they had designed their bedroom such that Jack could go from the bathroom directly into their dressing room without having to return to the bedroom.

It didn’t take long for Jack to shave, shower, and dress. It was a little after five when he soundlessly descended the stairs to the kitchen/family room. At this point he wasn’t worried about disturbing Laurie. Nor was he concerned about waking the kids or Caitlin. It was Dorothy he was terrified of rousing. He knew she was a poor sleeper and would occasionally wander around in the dark like a specter. He was relieved when he didn’t see her. Already on two occasions he’d had to face her early in the morning when he’d made himself coffee and a bit of breakfast. Fearing it would happen again, Jack skipped the breakfast idea and continued down the second flight. The closer he got to the guest room door, the more catlike he became. Exiting the apartment, he closed the door as quietly as he could. With the final loud click, he winced and then descended the rest of the stairs quickly, worried that she might call out his name.

By the time Jack got his bike out of the storeroom, he found himself irritated all over again about Dorothy’s continued presence. He was not confident in the slightest that Laurie would do anything about it, despite their discussion the previous evening. They had talked again after his b-ball playing. All he could hope for was that she’d have a real talk with Caitlin, because the only thing Jack was absolutely certain about was that they could not afford to lose the nanny at this point. Maybe once Emma’s diagnosis was firmly established, as there was some disagreement, and a plan of action conceived and started, they might be in a better position. There was just too much up in the air at the moment.

Once he was on the bike, particularly when he reached the park and the wind was whistling in his helmet, Jack began to calm down. Instinctively he knew he had to leave the home problems at home, since they were not something his surgical personality could fix. He was also enough of a realist to fully comprehend that he could not metamorphose into a house husband. The requirements were simply beyond his current ken. Instead, he had to concentrate on the frustrating subway death, and as he shot along West Drive with a handful of other cyclists, he began to plan his day.

As Jack continued to pedal furiously, he found himself smiling. He could tell that his presence irritated the other bikers, who were all very serious. They were all decked out in biker’s gear, with special shoes and skintight shorts and tops in wildly bright colors, with European advertisements plastered on the arms and bodices. In contrast, Jack wore a leather bomber jacket with unstylish jeans and tennis shoes. But what annoyed them was that Jack was keeping up with them, despite his lack of appropriate apparel, and even pushing them to greater effort, especially on the uphill sections.

Jack exited the park at its southeast corner, cycling past the recently regilded statue of William Tecumseh Sherman. From there he rode over to Second Avenue before turning again to the south. Although Jack used to challenge taxis with an apparent death wish, he’d matured enough over the years not to do that anymore. Though he still weaved in and out of the traffic, allowing him to travel considerably faster than the cars, buses, and trucks, he no longer tempted fate. He even found it relaxing enough that he had a chance to think about his day. What he decided was to take a “paper day,” meaning he would not do any autopsies. Since he did many more autopsies than all the other MEs and rarely asked for a paper day, he knew it would not be a problem. His plan was to concentrate on the subway death. What he didn’t know was that by doing so, he would be facing more surprises.

Since it was so early and he was famished, Jack stopped at a bagel shop between 39th and 38th Streets and had a bagel smeared with cream cheese and piled with lox and sliced red onions. By the time he got down to the area where the two OCME buildings were located, it was still just after six A.M. Knowing that neither Vinnie nor Dr. Jennifer Hernandez, the current on-duty ME, would be available at 520, meaning there would be no fresh coffee and Jack wouldn’t be able to request his paper day, he continued all the way down to the 421 high-rise. He’d not heard from any MLI, despite having asked Bart to be sure he got called when the subway death case had been identified. But he wasn’t surprised. Requests that required word of mouth often got messed up.

The building seemed deserted as Jack rode up in an empty elevator. The only person Jack had seen was the security guard at the front desk, who’d looked at Jack with surprise when Jack had gone through the turnstile. When Jack got off on the notoriously busy fifth floor, he didn’t see a soul. It took a bit of effort to find Janice Jaeger, the lone night-shift medical-legal investigator, in the canteen along with the night-shift Communications person.

“Dr. Stapleton!” Janice called out with surprise when she caught sight of Jack. “What on earth are you doing here so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jack quipped. Professionally, he knew Janice very well. She was one of the most skilled and reliable MLIs. She and Jack had worked many cases together, and Jack knew that he could always count on her to do an extremely thorough job.

Guiltily, the woman from Communications got up as Jack sat down. She returned to her station.

“Busy night?” Jack asked.

“No, it’s been very light,” Janice said. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk about a case I processed yesterday afternoon,” Jack explained.

“Is this the subway death?” Janice asked, with no other provocation.

“Exactly,” Jack said. “I was supposed to be called when she was identified.”

“So I heard,” Janice said. “When I came on duty, the evening people told me.”

“Don’t tell me there’s still no ID.”

“Apparently not.”

“That’s incredible,” Jack said. “Bart was so sure there’d be a call. It was a young woman, well dressed. She even had a coat from Bergdorf’s that I’d probably have to take out a mortgage to buy.”

Janice laughed and then shrugged. “What can I say. Maybe she’s from out of town and here on her own.”

“I suppose,” Jack said, even though his intuition was telling him something else. How many people from out of town rode the R train from Brooklyn? The answer was zilch, in his estimation.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more help. If a call had come in, I was prepared to do some footwork for you. But there was nothing.”

Jack ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. He wondered how the hell he was going to use the case as a diversion from his own domestic problems if he couldn’t learn anything about it.

“What did she die of?”

“Some sort of an acute pulmonary problem,” Jack said. “My first fear was it was a new lethal strain of influenza, reminiscent of the infamous influenza pandemic of 1918. And it looked like it could be influenza grossly, but it wasn’t. The samples all tested negative.”

“A call will most likely come in today,” Janice said encouragingly.

“What time does Bart usually get here?”

“Early. He’s always the first day person to arrive. He’s usually here between six forty-five and seven o’clock. Should I ask him to give you a call?”

“It’s not necessary unless there’s an ID,” Jack said. “I’ll be back over here to talk with Sergeant Murphy and Hank Monroe at some point. We’ve got a body in the cooler who is certainly not a homeless person. It’s their job to figure out who the hell it is. I’ll stop in to see Bart at that point.”

Jack left 421 and rode his bike up to 520. By the time he had it stored in its usual location it was going on seven. Since he knew there was one person who made it a point to come in early every morning to avoid traffic, Jack headed up to the sixth floor. The person he wanted to see was John DeVries, toxicologist extraordinaire. There had been a time when Jack had first joined the staff that John DeVries, the Toxicology head, had been a major problem for him. The man was a bear to get along with, and he took forever to produce the data that was sorely needed in so many of Jack’s cases. The explanation for both problems was simple. Toxicology was crammed into a space that was far too small — the director’s private office literally had been a broom closet — and the department’s budget was totally inadequate for the key role it was expected to play.

But then the tragedy of 9/11 occurred. Because of the enormous increase in workload that the OCME shouldered, its overall budget was increased proportionately and the new high-rise building was funded. The result was that John DeVries ended up with two complete floors of the old OCME building and a spacious private office that got sunlight, and his budget was quadrupled. The effect on his personality had been nothing short of miraculous. Overnight he changed from an unpleasant curmudgeon to one of the nicest, most agreeable members of the OCME staff. It was now a pleasure to deal with him. The previous day, when Jack had gone up to his lab with the serum samples from the subway death to ask for a screen on immunosuppressant drugs, John had cheerfully told him without being asked that he’d run the screen overnight and that Jack could stop by in the morning.

“My, my! Aren’t we the early bird,” John joked with raised eyebrows when Jack walked into his office. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here this early.”

“For good reason,” Jack said. “I’ve never seen myself here this early.”

John chuckled. “Are you looking for the results of the screen for the sample you brought up yesterday?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Well, it was negative,” John said. “I just looked at it a few minutes ago.”

Jack’s mouth slowly dropped open. “You’re kidding? Please tell me you are kidding.”

“Why would I kid about such a thing?” John asked.

“How accurate is this screen?”

“It’s very accurate, with high sensitivity,” John said. “Does this surprise you? Was the patient supposedly on immunosuppression?”

“She’d had a cardiac transplant a few months ago,” Jack said with exasperation, as if John was trying to prank him. “Every heart transplant patient is given high doses of immunosuppression.”

“Not this one,” John said. “Sorry!”

“It’s not your fault,” Jack said. “I apologize for overreacting. It’s just that I’m finding this case really frustrating. It’s like it’s mocking me.”

“One thing did come up positive on the screen,” John said. “Are you interested?”

“Of course.”

“Cannabis. Most likely recreational cannabis. It was just a screen, but if you’d like a level, I could use gas chromatography.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Jack said. “A bit of marijuana certainly didn’t contribute to her dying on the R train.”

“I’m sure not. But if you change your mind, let me know.”

With yet another surprise about the subway death needling him, Jack left Toxicology and took the elevator down to the first floor. He thought it was possible that Vinnie and Jennifer might have arrived. He was right on both counts. Unfortunately, things didn’t go as he expected with Jennifer Hernandez. Despite Janice’s quiet night, a rash of cases that didn’t need her services had come in overnight, and two of the MEs had already called in sick. As inexperienced as Jennifer was in how to handle such a situation, Jack could tell she felt overwhelmed.

To help out, Jack immediately volunteered to take two fentanyl/heroin overdose cases. As a general rule, overdoses were the least popular autopsies to do, since there had been so many. But Jack knew they wouldn’t take long, as he and the other MEs had them down to a science. He sent Vinnie down to the pit along with his sidekick, Carlos, to get ready while Jack had a coffee and made suggestions to Jennifer on how to divide up the rest of the autopsies. So much for the paper day he had planned on, but he didn’t mind. Without an ID on the subway case, his hands were tied.