Vector

Chapter 11

Tuesday, October 19

1:00 p.m.

Jack tossed aside the textbook on infectious disease that he’d gotten from the library and cursed loudly. He was trying to read more about anthrax. The case of Jason Papparis was still bothering him, but he found concentrating difficult. He swung around and eyed Chet’s empty chair, wondering where his officemate was. Jack was eager to relate his most recent experience confirming his suspicion that women were impossible.

During the night, Jack had awakened to agonize over letting Laurie down by not being more positive about her new boyfriend. Although Jack was well aware that jealousy played a role in his evaluation of the man, he still felt there was something about the individual that he legitimately didn’t care for. As he’d implied to Lou, it involved the overly gallant gesture of sweeping Laurie off to Paris for the weekend. To Jack such behavior smacked of a kind of bribery. In Jack’s experience such men invariably resorted to overt male chauvinism once a relationship was established and the woman was emotionally committed.

Around four o’clock in the morning, Jack decided he’d eat humble pie. Even though it irked him, he resolved to go the whole nine yards and apologize. Then he’d compliment Paul in some way that he’d figure out on the spur of the moment. The decision had taken a number of hours. What had tipped the balance was Jack’s realization of how important Laurie’s friendship was to him.

But things had hardly gone the way Jack envisioned. After doing what he’d resolved to do, Laurie barely accepted his apology before walking off. All morning she’d gone out of her way to avoid him, much less voice any kind of appreciation of his gesture. Jack felt damned either way. She’d been mad because he’d not been complimentary about Paul and now she was mad because he had been. Jack shook his head. He didn’t know what more he could do.

Twisting around in his chair again, Jack reached for his phone. If he couldn’t read about anthrax, at least he could work the phone. Over the previous hour he’d called a half dozen New York hospitals to talk with chief residents in infectious disease or, if the hospital didn’t have one, the chief resident in internal medicine.

When he’d gotten the appropriate individual on the phone, he outlined the case of inhalational anthrax that had come from the Bronx General Hospital and asked if there were any cases in their hospital that might be anthrax. The responses had been uniformly negative, but at least Jack felt he was planting the seed of suspicion with the right people. In that way, if a case did come in or if they had a case undiagnosed, they’d at least think about it. Anthrax was never high on any New York hospital house staffs differential diagnosis list.

The chief resident in infectious disease at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center picked up Jack’s page, and Jack went through his spiel. Although shocked to hear about Mr. Papparis, the resident assured Jack that there was no one in his medical center who’d be considered a candidate for a diagnosis of anthrax.

Jack hung up and looked over to the open page in the yellow telephone directory for the number of another hospital. Before he could dial, the phone rang. He picked it up eagerly. But it wasn’t a resident calling him back with potentially interesting news. It was Mrs. Sanford, the chiefs secretary, with a familiar request. The chief wanted to see Jack ASAP.

Hardly in the mood for bureaucratic nonsense, as Jack termed his frequent run-ins with the front office, he took the elevator down to the first floor. Like a schoolboy expecting to be chastised, he presented himself to Mrs. Cheryl Sanford, who smiled at him and winked. Over the years Jack and Cheryl had become well acquainted, since every time the chief demanded Jack come quickly, Jack invariably had to wait. The time provided an opportunity for friendly conversation.

Jack winked back. It was part of an established method of nonverbal communication the two had evolved. It meant that Jack could relax, since the upcoming confrontation with the chief was procedural only, meaning the chief felt obligated, not motivated, to bawl Jack out for whatever the transgression was.

“How’s that boy of yours?” Jack asked as he sat down on the rock-hard vinyl sofa across from the secretary’s desk. The door to the chiefs office was to Cheryl’s left and it was always ajar. The chief could be heard on the phone.

“Just fine,” Cheryl said proudly. “He’s still getting all A’s in school.”

“Fantastic,” Jack said. By coincidence Jack knew Cheryl’s son, Arnold. Occasionally he played basketball on the same court as Jack. He was a young, tentative player but with obvious natural skill. Cheryl, an African American single mother, lived in a building on 105th Street that Jack could see from his bedroom window.

“He says he hopes to be able to play basketball as well as you some day,” Cheryl said.

Jack let out a derisive laugh. “He’s going to be ten times better than I ever was.” Jack was not exaggerating; Arnold had only recently turned fifteen and yet was a player sought after even by Warren.

“I’d prefer to see him take after your doctoring skills,” Cheryl said.

“He’s expressed some interest,” Jack said. “He and I had a chat last week when we were both waiting to get into the game.”

“He told me,” Cheryl said. “I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Hey, he’s a nice kid,” Jack said. “It’s a pleasure talking with him.”

At that moment the chief, Dr. Harold Bingham, bellowed for Jack to get the hell into his office.

Jack stood up and headed for the door. As he passed Cheryl’s desk she whispered, “Be nice now! Don’t aggravate him! He’ll be a bear all day.”

The chief was ensconced behind his massive, cluttered desk. He’d just reached his sixty-fifth birthday and looked every bit of it. In the four years Jack had been working at the OCME, Bingham’s bulbous nose had seemingly expanded along with the web of capillaries hugging his nasal alae. Light from the window behind him bounced off his perspiring bald pate to create a glare that made Jack squint.

“Sit down!” Dr. Bingham commanded.

Jack did as he was told and waited. He had no idea what he’d been called down for but knew there were lots of potential topics.

“Don’t you get tired of this routine?” Bingham questioned. He narrowed his rheumy, steel-blue eyes that were unwaveringly studying Jack through wire-rimmed glasses. Although he looked as old as Methuselah, the chief was as sharp as ever and was a veritable walking encyclopedia of forensic data and experience. He was recognized the world over as one of the giants of the field.

“It’s nice to see you once in a while, chief,” Jack said. He winced; he knew by his flippancy he’d already ignored Cheryl’s admonition.

Bingham took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes with his thick fingers. He shook his head. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t quite as sharp as you are, because then I’d know exactly what to do with you.”

“Thank you for the compliment, chief. I needed a little boost today.”

“The problem is, you are one big pain in the ass.”

Jack bit his tongue. A few witty quips came to his mind, but he resisted voicing them in deference to Cheryl. After all, she had to be around Bingham for the rest of the day. Bingham’s temper was almost as legendary as his wealth of forensic knowledge.

“Do you have any idea why you’re down here?” Bingham demanded.

“I refuse to answer on grounds of self-incrimination,” Jack said.

Bingham smiled in spite of himself, but the grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “You are a trip, my boy. But listen! I got a call from Dr. Patricia Markham, the Commissioner of Health, a little while ago. Seems you’ve been aggravating the city epidemiologist again, Dr...”

Bingham slipped on his glasses and rummaged through the papers in front of him looking for the name.

“Dr. Abelard,” Jack offered.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Bingham said.

“What was the charge?” Jack asked.

“He was angry that you were doing his job,” Bingham said. “What’s the matter? Don’t we give you enough to do around here?”

“I called the man, as Dr. Washington suggested,” Jack said. “I thought he’d want to know about the case of anthrax I diagnosed.”

“So I heard from Calvin,” Bingham said.

“But Dr. Abelard took the news in stride,” Jack said. “He said he’d get to it when he had time, or something like that.”

“But I understand the source is locked up tight in Queens,” Bingham said.

“True,” Jack admitted.

“Yet you took it on yourself to go out and rifle through the victim’s business records,” Bingham snapped. “What’s the matter with you, are you crazy? What if some civil liberty lawyer got ahold of this? You didn’t have a warrant or anything.”

“I asked the man’s wife,” Jack said with a shrug.

“Oh, that would hold up well in court,” Bingham said sarcastically.

“I was worried that some of the victim’s recent shipment had been sold. If it had, then the anthrax could have spread. We could have had a mini-epidemic.”

“Dr. Abelard is right,” Bingham fumed. “What you’re talking about is his job, not yours.”

“We’re supposed to be protecting the public,” Jack said. “I felt there was a risk that Dr. Abelard was not addressing. He wasn’t giving the situation the attention it deserved.”

“When you feel that way about a fellow civil servant, then come to me!” Bingham roared. “Instead of you running around playing epidemiologist detective, I could have called Pat Markham. As Commissioner of Health she can surely get people up off their fat asses if need be. That’s the way the system is supposed to work.”

“Okay,” Jack said with a shrug. In further deference to Cheryl he wasn’t about to get into an argument about bureaucratic inefficiency and frequent civil servant incompetence. It had been Jack’s experience as a city worker that all too often if he didn’t do something himself it didn’t get done.

“Fine, then get the hell out,” Bingham said with a wave of his hand. His mind had already switched to the next problem on his agenda.

Jack got up and walked out of the chiefs office. He paused at Cheryl’s desk. “How’d I do?”

“Honestly, about a C,” Cheryl said with a wry smile. “But since you generally get an F, meaning you aggravate him to a point just shy of apoplexy, I’d say you’re showing progress.” Jack waved and started for the corridor. But he didn’t get far. Calvin caught sight of him through his open office door.

“How’s progress on the David Jefferson case?” Calvin yelled.

Jack leaned in through the door. “Nothing’s back yet. Did you call John DeVries up in toxicology to speed things up from his lab?”

“Right after I said I would,” Calvin said.

“Okay, then I’ll head up there right now,” Jack said.

“Remember, I want that case signed out by Thursday!” Calvin said.

Jack gave the deputy chief a thumbs-up sign even though he doubted it was going to happen, since all the lab work wouldn’t be back. But there was no use arguing about it now. Instead, Jack took an elevator to the fourth floor. There was always the chance of a miracle.

Jack found John DeVries in his tiny, windowless cubicle and asked about the prisoner-in-custody case. In response, John launched into an impassioned lament about toxicology funding. By the time Jack left, he was even more sure he would not be able to finish the case by Thursday.

Using the stairs, Jack climbed up to the sixth floor and entered the DNA lab. Ted Lynch, the director, was in front of one of his many high-tech machines along with one of his technicians. The machine’s instruction manual was open on the counter. It was apparent the unit was malfunctioning.

“Ah, just the man I want to see,” Ted said when he caught sight of Jack. He straightened up and then stretched his back. Ted was a big man and a former Ivy League football star.

Jack’s face brightened. “Does that mean you have some positive results for me?”

“Yup,” Ted said. “One of all those samples you dropped off was positive for anthrax spores.”

“No kidding,” Jack said. He was surprised. Despite making the effort to take all the cultures, he’d not expected any positive results. “Which one of the samples? Can you remember?”

“Absolutely,” Ted said. “It was the one with the tiny blue iridescent star in it.”

“My word!” Jack commented. He could remember finding the star in the middle of the blotter on the desk. It seemed so out of place in the spartan surroundings. Jack had figured it was all that remained of some long-past celebration.

“Can you tell me anything else about it?” Jack asked.

“Yup,” Ted said agreeably. “I had Agnes send up a sample of the culture she’d taken from the patient. We’re running a DNA fingerprint now. We’ll be able to tell if it’s the same strain. I mean, one would assume it was, but it will be nice to have confirmation.”

“Indeed,” Jack said. “Anything else?”

“Like what?” Ted questioned peevishly. He thought Jack would have been more than satisfied with what he’d been told already.

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “You’re the one with all this high-tech wizardry. I don’t even know the right questions to ask.”

“I’m no mind reader,” Ted said. “I need to know what you want to know.”

“Well, how about whether the star was heavily contaminated with spores or only lightly contaminated.”

“That’s an interesting question,” Ted said. He stared off and chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment while he pondered. “I’ll have to give that some thought.”

“And I’ll have to give some thought to how it got contaminated,” Jack said.

“Wasn’t this from the victim’s office?” Ted asked.

“It was,” Jack said. “The star was on the desk in the office, but the source for the anthrax spores was his warehouse, not the office. Apparently the spores came in a shipment of goat skins and rugs from Turkey.”

“I see,” Ted said.

“I suppose the spores could have been on his person,” Jack said. “So when he came back to his office and sat down, they dropped off.”

“Seems reasonable to me,” Ted said. “Or what about the possibility of his coughing out some of the spores. I understand it was an inhalational case.”

“That’s an idea, too,” Jack said. “But either way, why the hell were they only on the star? I cultured several spots on the desk, and they were all negative.”

“Maybe he coughed out the star,” Ted said with a laugh.

“Now that’s a helpful suggestion,” Jack said sarcastically.

“Well, I’ll leave the sleuthing to you,” Ted said. “Meanwhile I’ve got to get back to my sick piece of equipment.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jack said absently. He continued to wrestle with the puzzle of the contaminated star as he wandered out of the DNA lab and descended the stairs to the fifth floor. He had the uncomfortable feeling the star was trying to tell him something that he couldn’t understand. It was like a message in a code without a key.

Jack leaned into Laurie’s office, but she wasn’t there. Riva, Laurie’s officemate, glanced up from her desk. In her soft, charming Indian émigré-accented voice, she told Jack that Laurie was still in the autopsy room.

Still in a daze about the star, Jack headed for his own office. It occurred to him that the star might have had a slight electrostatic charge, since its sheen suggested it was made of either metallic or plastic material. That might have explained the reason the spores had stuck to it.

He turned into his office and sat at his desk, still obsessed by the mystery of the tiny, cerulean blue star. With his head cradled in his hands, he tried to think.

“What kind of blue star are you mumbling about?” a voice questioned.

Jack glanced up. He was surprised to see Lou. The detective’s expression was as hangdog as it had been when they met at the bar the night before, but he was back to his crumpled, perpetually disheveled look. Gone were the pressed suit and the polished shoes.

“Was I talking out loud?” Jack questioned.

“No, I’m a mind reader,” Lou said. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Jack said. He reached over and pulled one of the straight-back chairs he and Chet shared closer to his desk. He patted the seat with his hand.

Lou sat down heavily. It didn’t appear as if he’d shaved that morning.

“If you’re looking for Laurie, she’s down in the pit,” Jack said.

“I was looking for you,” Lou said.

Jack raised his eyebrows. “I’m flattered. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a confession to make,” Lou said.

“This sounds interesting,” Jack said.

“I felt so bad about it, I couldn’t sleep. I was up most of the night.”

“Sounds familiar,” Jack offered.

“I don’t want you to think badly about me or anything.”

“I’ll try not to.” Jack drummed his fingers impatiently.

“Because this is not something I usually do. I want you to know that.”

“For crissake, Lou, confess! How else am I going to give you absolution?”

Lou looked down at his clasped hands and sighed.

“Okay, let me guess,” Jack said. “You masturbated and had unclean thoughts.”

“I’m not joking around!” Lou snapped.

“Then tell me so I don’t have to guess.”

“Okay,” Lou said. “I ran Paul Sutherland’s name through the system.”

“Is that it?” Jack questioned with exaggerated disappointment. “I was hoping you’d done something significantly more salacious.”

“But it’s abusing my law enforcement prerogatives.”

“Maybe so, but I would have done the same thing,” Jack admitted.

“Honest?”

“Absolutely,” Jack said. “So, what did you find?”

Lou leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “He’s got a sheet.”

“Something serious?” Jack asked.

“Not really all that serious,” Lou said. “I suppose it depends on your point of view. The charge was cocaine possession.”

“Is that all?”

“It was a sizable amount of cocaine,” Lou said. “Not enough to suggest he was dealing, but enough for quite a party. He pleaded no contest and got probation and community service.”

“Are you going to tell Laurie?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know,” Lou admitted. “That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

“Oh, hell,” Jack said. He rubbed his forehead. It was a difficult question.

“I’d be asking myself why I was telling her,” Lou said.

Jack nodded. “I understand what you mean. She might ask the same question and then take out any anger the news generates on the messenger.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Lou said. “Yet as a friend, I kinda think she should know. Of course, he may have already told her.”

“My intuition tells me he hasn’t,” Jack said. “He’s too full of himself.”

“I feel the same,” Lou said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a figure fill his entire doorway. It was Ted Lynch from the DNA lab.

“I’m sorry,” Ted said. “I didn’t think you’d be busy.”

“It’s okay,” Jack said. He introduced Ted and Lou, but they said they’d already met.

“I couldn’t get your question out of my mind,” Ted said.

“You mean about the degree of contamination of the blue star?”

“Uh huh! And there is a way to do it!” Ted said excitedly. “It’s called Taqman technology. It’s a new wrinkle on the PCR.”

“What’s PCR again?” Lou asked.

“Polymerase chain reaction,” Jack said. “It’s a way of augmenting a tiny piece of DNA so that it can be analyzed.”

“Right!” Lou said, pretending he understood.

“Anyway this technique is fantastic,” Ted said eagerly. “It involves putting a specific enzyme in the PCR reaction mix. What the enzyme does is gobble up single strands of DNA like that old video game Pac-Man. Remember that?”

Both Jack and Lou nodded.

“The slick thing is that when it hits an attached probe for whatever it is you’re looking for, the enzyme signals. Isn’t that sharp? So you can quantify what was in the sample originally by knowing the number of doublings the reaction has gone through, since that’s time-related.”

Both Jack and Lou looked blankly at the excited DNA expert.

“So you want me to do it?” Ted asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Jack said. “That would be great.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Ted said. He disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared.

“Did you understand that?” Lou asked.

“Not a word,” Jack admitted. “Ted’s in his own world up there. That’s why they put the DNA lab on the top floor. We all think the results are coming from heaven.”

“I’ve got to learn more about that DNA stuff,” Lou admitted. “It’s becoming more and more important in law enforcement.”

“The trouble is the technology is changing so rapidly,” Jack said.

“What’s this about a blue star?” Lou asked. “Is that the same blue star you were mumbling about when I came in?”

“One and the same,” Jack said. He went on to tell Lou the story of the tiny, glittering star, including the fact that it was the only thing in the Corinthian Rug Company office that was contaminated with anthrax spores.

“I’ve seen little stars like you’re describing,” Lou said. “In fact, just this year the invitation I got to the Police Ball had them inside the envelope.”

“You’re right!” Jack said. “I once got an invitation with them in it as well. I’d been wondering where I’d seen them.”

“It’s a curious thing to find in a rug office,” Lou said. “I wonder if they’d had a party.”

“Let’s get back to your question,” Jack said. “How are you going to make this decision whether to tell Laurie or not about her new boyfriend’s criminal record?”

“I don’t know,” Lou said. “I suppose I was hoping you’d offer to tell her.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Jack said. “This is your ball game. You got this information, and it’s up to you to decide what to do with it.”

“Well, there is more,” Lou said.

Jack’s ears picked up. “I’m listening.”

“I found out what kind of business he’s in.”

“That’s in his police record?” Jack questioned.

Lou nodded. “He’s an arms dealer.”

Jack’s jaw slowly dropped open. As far as he was concerned, Paul Sutherland’s being an arms dealer was far more important vis-a-vis Laurie than his having been convicted of cocaine possession.

“He used to have a monopoly of sorts importing Bulgarian AK-47s, at least until 1994 when the Omnibus Crime Bill was passed and they were banned along with eighteen other semi-automatic assault weapons.”

“This is serious,” Jack said.

“Of course it’s serious,” Lou said. “These Bulgarian AK-47s are very popular with far-right militia groups and other screwy survivalists.”

“I’m talking about in relation to Laurie,” Jack said. “Do you have any idea of her stand on gun control?”

“Not exactly,” Lou admitted.

“Well, let me tell you,” Jack said. “She’d like to disarm the entire country, including patrolmen. She’s made gunshot wounds her forensic specialty.”

“She never mentioned that to me,” Lou said. He sounded hurt.

“Well, I think the fact that her potential fiancé deals in guns is a hell of a lot more important to tell her about than the cocaine bust.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Oh, hell,” Jack said. “Won’t you? You found out about it, and she’ll surely ask me my source. I’ll have to say it was you anyway.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lou said. “I think you could do it better than I. You’ve got so much more in common with her.”

“Coward,” Jack said.

“Well, you’re hardly being courageous,” Lou pointed out. “Come on! You see her much more than I do. I mean, you work in the same building.”

“All right, I’ll think about it,” Jack said. “But I’m not making any promises.”

Jack’s phone rang. He snatched the handset from its cradle and his voice sounded almost angry. He quickly mellowed when he heard himself. Marlene Wilson, the receptionist, was on the other end of the line.

“I hope I’m not bothering you, Dr. Stapleton,” Marlene said. She had a slight southern accent.

“Not at all,” Jack said. “What’s up?”

“There are several gentlemen down here to see you,” Marlene said. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“Not that I know of,” Jack said. “What are their names?”

“Just a moment,” Marlene said.

“Hey, I gotta go,” Lou said. He stood up. “I better get out of here before I run into Laurie.”

“Keep in touch,” Jack said with a wave. “We’re going to have to make a decision about this sensitive intelligence you’ve gathered.”

Lou nodded and disappeared from view.

Marlene came back on the line. “It’s Mr. Warren Wilson and a Mr. Flash Thomas. What would you like me to say to them?”

“My word,” Jack said. “Tell them to come on up!”

Jack slowly hung up the phone. He couldn’t believe that Warren had come to visit him. Jack had suggested it a few times when he thought Warren would find it interesting to see firsthand what Jack did for a living. It was part of Jack’s attempt to get Warren to go back to school. But Warren had said that there was only one way he’d visit a morgue and that was dead!

Jack got the straight-back chair from next to Chet’s desk and pulled it over next to the other one. Then he stepped out into the hall and walked down toward the elevators. He’d timed it just about right, because when he got there the doors opened and out stepped his two basketball buddies.

“This place sucks,” Warren said, making an expression of disgust. Then he smiled. “How’s it going, man?” He held up his hand.

Jack smacked it as if they were greeting each other on the basketball court. He did the same with Flash, who was clearly more intimidated at the surroundings than Warren was.

“It’s going like most days,” Jack said. “Except for your visit. I’m shocked to see you guys, but come on into my office.”

Jack led the way down the hall.

“This place smells weird,” Flash said.

“It reminds me of a hospital,” Warren said.

“No hospital I’d ever want to be in,” Flash said with a nervous laugh.

“You told me you did autopsies in a place called the pit,” Warren said. “This whole place looks like a pit.”

“It could use a bit of a renovation,” Jack admitted. He gestured inside his office.

The three sat down.

Jack smiled. “Did you fellows come all the way down here just to make sure I was going to play tonight?”

“You should have played last night,” Warren said. “You had your chance to run with us. We never lost.”

“Maybe I’ll luck out tonight,” Jack said.

Warren looked at Flash. “You want to ask him or you want me to?”

“You do it,” Flash said as he fidgeted in his seat. He was clearly agitated.

Warren turned to Jack. “Flash got some bad news this morning. His sister died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jack said. He glanced at Flash, but Flash avoided his eyes.

“She wasn’t all that old,” Warren said. “About your age. It was sudden like. And Flash here thinks there had to be some negative stuff going on. You see, she and her old man didn’t get on too well, you hear what I’m saying?”

“Am I to assume there was a little domestic violence involved in this relationship?” Jack asked.

“If that’s what you call his smacking her around now and then,” Warren said.

“That’s the usual euphemism,” Jack said.

“A lot of domestic violence,” Flash interjected heatedly.

“Cool it,” Warren said to Flash. He gave Flash’s shoulder a reassuring pat. Turning back to Jack he added, “I had to talk Flash out of going out there and beating the pulp out of his sister’s hubby.”

“The son of a bitch killed her,” Flash growled.

“Come on, man!” Warren pleaded. “You don’t know that for sure.”

“I know it,” Flash said.

Warren turned to Jack. “You see what I’m up against. If Flash goes out there, there’s going to be trouble. Somebody’s going to be dead, and I don’t think it’s going to be Flash.”

“What can I do to help?” Jack asked.

“See if you can find out what killed her,” Warren said. “If she died of something natural-like, then Flash here’s going to have to take his irritation out on something else, like on you and me on the court.” Warren gave Flash a friendly cuff on the top of the head. Flash parried the blow irritably.

“Where is her body at the moment?” Jack asked.

“At the morgue in Brooklyn,” Warren said. “At least that’s what Flash was told by the Coney Island Hospital where she’d been treated.”

“Well, then it’s going to be easy,” Jack said. “I’ll talk to whoever does her autopsy, and we’ll have the answer.”

“There ain’t going to be no autopsy,” Flash blurted. “That’s part of what’s bothering me. They took her to the morgue to have an autopsy, but now she’s not going to. Something’s wrong here, you know what I’m saying?”

“Not necessarily,” Jack said. “Not every corpse brought into the medical examiner’s office is autopsied. In fact, that she wasn’t autopsied means that the chances of foul play are small. Since she died at a hospital, it means that the attending doctor certified the cause of death, and in that case an autopsy is not mandatory.”

“Flash is thinking conspiracy here,” Warren said.

“I can assure you there’s no conspiracy,” Jack said. “Incompetence, maybe, but conspiracy, no.”

“But...” Flash began.

“Hold on!” Jack interrupted. “I’ll still look into it for you. What was her name?”

“Connie Davydov,” Flash said.

Jack wrote the name down and reached for the phone. He called the Brooklyn office, which administratively was part of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York. Technically Bingham was chief, but the Brooklyn office had its own acting head. His name was Jim Bennett.

“Who’s the scheduling ME this week?” Jack asked the operator who answered after Jack had identified himself.

“Dr. Randolph Sanders,” the operator said. “Would you like me to page him?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Jack said. He wasn’t pleased. He was reasonably acquainted with Randolph, whom he put in the same category with perfunctories like George Fontworth. Jack tapped his pencil while he waited. He wished he’d be dealing with any one of the four other Brooklyn MEs.

When Randolph came on the line Jack wasted no time getting to the point. He asked why an autopsy wasn’t done on Connie Davydov.

“I’ll have to get the folder,” Randolph said. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve gotten a request to look into the case,” Jack said. He left it vague who had asked him. If Randolph wanted to think it was Bingham or Calvin, that was fine with Jack.

“Hold on,” Randolph said.

Jack turned to Flash with his palm over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Davydov doesn’t sound like any African-American name I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not,” Flash said. “Connie’s husband is a white boy.”

Jack nodded, sensing there was more reason for possible hostility between Flash and Connie’s spouse than the purported history of domestic violence. “Did he get along with the rest of your family?”

“Ha!” Flash voiced contemptuously. “The family wouldn’t talk to either one of them. They didn’t want her to marry him, no way.”

“Okay, I have the folder,” Randolph said into the phone, capturing Jack’s attention. “And I’ve got the PA’s report in front of me.”

“What’s the scoop?” Jack asked.

“The attending doctor, Michael Cooper, gave a diagnosis of status asthmaticus leading to death,” Randolph said. “There was a long history of asthma with hospitalizations and multiple ER visits. She was also grossly obese, which I’m sure didn’t help her breathing when she got into trouble. It also says she had lots of allergies.”

“I see,” Jack said. “Tell me, did you look at the body?”

“Of course I looked at the body!” Randolph was clearly offended by the query.

“In your professional opinion, were there any signs of domestic violence?” Jack asked.

“If there’d been signs of domestic violence I would have done the goddamned autopsy,” Randolph said defensively.

“Any signs of suffocation?” Jack asked. “Like petechial hemorrhages in the sclera. Anything like that?”

“You’re insulting me with such questions,” Randolph shot back.

“How about toxicology?” Jack asked. “Were any samples taken?”

“An autopsy wasn’t done!” Randolph snapped. “We don’t do toxicology on cases we don’t post. Neither do you.”

Randolph disconnected without another word. Jack raised his eyebrows as he hung up the receiver. “Kinda sensitive guy although in his defense my lack of diplomatic skills is legendary. Anyhow, did you hear the other end of that conversation?”

Both Warren and Flash nodded.

“He said there was no sign of domestic violence,” Jack said. “Now he’s not the world’s greatest medical examiner in my opinion, but recognizing domestic violence isn’t that hard even though it can be subtle.”

“Why did you ask about toxicology?” Warren questioned.

“Poisons, things like that are picked up in toxicology,” Jack said. “That kind of stuff goes on.”

Warren looked at Flash.

“Do you want me to continue looking into this?” Jack asked.

Flash nodded. “I’m sure he killed her.”

“After what you just heard, why do you still feel that way?”

“Because she didn’t have no strong history of asthma and allergies.”

“Are you sure?” Jack asked with astonishment.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Flash said. “I’m her brother, ain’t I? Hey, she had a little when she was young. But I’m talking about when she was ten. Over the last couple of years I’ve been talking to her at least once a week. She didn’t have no allergies and no asthma.”

“My word,” Jack said. “That puts a new spin on all this.”

“What else can you do?” Warren asked.

“I can call the attending doctor, for one thing,” Jack said. “The doctor that took care of her at the Coney Island Hospital.”

Since Jack had the Yellow Pages open to the hospital section, it was easy for him to get the number. He called and asked for Dr. Michael Cooper to be paged. When he got the man on the line, he went through his usual ME routine of explaining who he was and why he was calling. In contrast to Randolph, Michael was cooperative and not at all defensive.

“I do remember Connie Davydov,” Michael said. “Tough case! She came in essentially moribund. The EMTs described her as very cyanotic when they arrived at her home and barely breathing if at all. She’d collapsed in the bathroom where her husband found her. They gave her oxygen immediately and ventilated her. When she got here to the ER she was acidotic with a CO₂ off the chart and low arterial oxygen saturation. The numbers improved with adequate ventilation but her clinical state didn’t. She had no peripheral reflexes, dilated and fixed pupils, and an essentially flat EEG. There wasn’t much we could do.”

“How did her chest sound?” Jack asked.

“By the time she got here, it sounded clear,” Michael said. “But that didn’t surprise us with the low oxygen saturation and the degree of acidosis she had. All her muscles, including her smooth muscles, were essentially paralyzed. Considering her size, she was like a beached whale.”

“Any suggestion of a heart attack?”

“Nope,” Michael said. “The EKG was essentially normal, although the rate was very slow, and there were some changes consistent with her low arterial oxygen.”

“What about stroke?”

“We ruled that out with a CAT scan that was normal,” Michael said. “We also did an LP, and the fluid was clear.”

“Any fever, skin lesions, or other signs of infection?” Jack asked.

“Nothing,” Michael said. “In fact, her temperature was subnormal.”

“And you did get a strong history of asthma and allergies,” Jack said. “How did you get it? Was it through hospital records?”

“No, from the husband,” Michael said. “He was pretty together despite his ordeal and was able to give us a good history.”

Jack thanked the man and hung up. He turned to Warren and Flash. “This is getting more interesting. It doesn’t sound as if the history was corroborated. I think maybe I ought to take a look at Connie.”

“Can you do that?” Warren asked.

“Why not?” Jack said.

Jack went back to the phone to try to get Randolph on the line directly, but no one picked up. Next he tried paging him. When the operator came back to ask who was calling, Jack gave his name and waited again. When the operator returned the second time, she told him that the doctor was busy. Jack left a message that he was on his way over.

“Seems that Dr. Sanders is indulging in a bit of passive-aggressive behavior,” Jack said as he stood up. He picked up his cellular phone and his small camera and pocketed both. “What do you guys want to do? You’re welcome to come along.”

“You want to go?” Warren asked Flash. “I got the time.”

Flash nodded. “I want to see this to the end.”

“How’d you get here to the ME’s office?” Jack asked.

Warren held up an ignition key. “I got my wheels parked right outside on Thirtieth Street.”

“Perfect,” Jack said. “Let’s go!”

They took the elevator down to the basement and were about to exit through the loading dock area when Jack paused.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he said. “Who knows what my reception’s going to be over in Brooklyn. It might be best to bring my own supplies.”

“What kind of supplies you talking about?” Warren asked.

“It’ll take too long to explain,” Jack said. “You guys wait here or out by the car. I’ll be right back.”

Jack detoured into the depths of the morgue, passing the bank of refrigerated compartments where the bodies were stored prior to being autopsied. Conveniently, he ran into Vinnie coming out of the pit. Jack asked the mortuary tech to get him a bunch of sample containers for various body fluids, a mask, rubber gloves, a clutch of syringes, a couple of scalpels, and a nasogastric tube.

“What the hell are you going to do?” Vinnie asked. He eyed Jack suspiciously.

“Probably going to get myself in hot water,” Jack said.

“Are you going out of house?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You want me to come along?” Vinnie asked.

“Thank you, but no,” Jack said. “But I appreciate the offer.”

It didn’t take Vinnie long to get the material, and by the time he reappeared Jack had gotten a small satchel he used to carry an extra set of underclothes back and forth between work and his apartment. Especially during the summer, he sweated profusely on his morning bicycle commute and had to shower and change.

Jack threw all the supplies into the satchel, thanked Vinnie, and headed back to the loading dock. He found Warren and Flash sidewalk. They were again arguing about whether Flash should go out to confront his brother-in-law.

As they piled into the car the two lifelong friends behaved as if they were angry with each other. Jack got into the spacious back seat, while Warren and Flash climbed into the front. The car was a five-year-old Cadillac.

“Can’t we make this a pleasant trip?” Jack asked, hoping to ease the tense atmosphere.

“He’s crazy!” Warren complained throwing his hands in the air. “He’s going to get himself in big trouble or killed, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, but it was my sister who was murdered,” Flash shot back. “If it were yours, you’d feel the same way I do.”

“But you don’t know she was murdered,” Warren said. “That’s the whole point. That’s why we’re here talking to the doc.”

“Listen, Flash,” Jack said. “I’m reasonably confident I’ll be able to tell if there was foul play, but you might have to be patient. I might not be able to say definitively for a couple of days.”

“How come a couple of days?” Flash asked. He swung around in his seat to glare at Jack. “I thought you could tell if you just looked at her.”

“That might be,” Jack said. “But I kinda doubt it, since Randolph didn’t see anything. He’s not that bad an ME. What I’m concerned about is some kind or poison.”

“Like what?” Warren asked. He looked at Jack in his rearview mirror.

“Cyanide, for instance,” Jack said. “Of course that doesn’t fit, since the oxygen level in her blood was low. Still, it’s something to think about.”

“What else?” Warren asked.

“Carbon monoxide has to be considered,” Jack said. “But the trouble with that is that she was described as being cyanotic, or blue, by the EMTs.”

“Is that all?” Warren asked. “No other poisons?”

“What is this, a test?” Jack asked.

“No, I’m just interested,” Warren said.

“Well, now you’re pushing me,” Jack said. “But I suppose I’ll be thinking about barbiturates, benzodiazepines, like Valium, ethylene glycol, and stuff like that. What all these agents have in common is they cause respiratory depression, which apparently Connie had.”

“How could her husband have killed her with carbon monoxide?” Flash asked.

“Did they have a car?”

“Yeah,” Flash said. “They even had a garage.”

“Well, he could have gotten her drunk or drugged enough to put her in the car while it was running in the garage,” Jack said. “Or better still, with the exhaust piped directly into it. Then when she was nearly dead, he could have carried her into the bathroom and called nine-one-one.”

“He couldn’t have carried her anyplace,” Flash said. “She was about three hundred fifty pounds.”

“I’m just giving you a hypothetical situation,” Jack said. “Hell, you guys! Come on, let’s go!”

“You gotta tell me where to,” Warren said.

“Kings County Hospital,” Jack said. “It’s southeast of Prospect Park over in Brooklyn.”

“Should I take the FDR Drive?” Warren asked.

“Yes,” Jack said. “And go over the Brooklyn Bridge. Then get on Flatbush Ave.”

Warren started his car and they set off.

“Flash,” Jack called from the back seat as they were heading along the East River. “What are the chances that your sister could have committed suicide?”

“No way!” Flash said without hesitation. “She wasn’t the type.”

“Was she ever depressed?”

“Not in the usual sense,” Flash said. “But maybe a little. It could have been why she ate so much. She knew she’d married a mental case.”

“How so?” Jack asked.

“The dude did nothing,” Flash said angrily. “He’d come home from work and drink in front of the television. That was it, at least until a few months ago, when he started spending all his time in the basement.”

“Doing what?” Jack asked.

“Tinkering around, I guess,” Flash said. “Connie didn’t tell me what he did. I don’t think she knew.”

“Did she drink a lot herself?”

“Nope,” Flash said. “Provided you’re talking about booze. Milkshakes are another story.”

“What about drugs?” Jack asked.

“She wasn’t into drugs,” Flash said. “Never was.”

“Where in Brooklyn did she live?” Jack asked.

“Fifteen Oceanview Lane,” Flash said.

“Where’s that?”

“Brighton Beach,” Flash said. “She lived in a kinda cute area with a bunch of small wooden cottages. In the summer she could walk to the beach and take a swim. It was pretty nice.”

“Hmmm,” Jack commented. He wondered what the place looked like. He couldn’t imagine cottages within the New York City limits.

Parking around Kings County Hospital was a nightmare come true, but it didn’t rattle Warren. In the trunk he had an old beat-up ash can with the bottom cut out. All he did was find a spot in front of a fire hydrant, park, and then cover the hydrant with the modified garbage can. Jack marveled at the adaptions that city living required.

Outside of the medical examiner’s office both Warren and Flash paused.

“Maybe we should wait out here,” Warren said. He looked at Flash. Flash nodded.

“Fine by me,” Jack said. “I’ll try to make it fast.”

Jack entered the building. He flashed his badge to the receptionist, who’d never seen him before. Duly impressed, she buzzed him in.

Not wanting to waste time, Jack went directly to the mortuary office next to the autopsy room and walked through the open door. A mortuary tech was at the desk.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Jack Stapleton from the Manhattan office,” Jack said with alacrity. He showed his badge as he’d done with the receptionist.

“Hello. I’m Doug Smithers. What can I do for you?” The man was plainly surprised. Exchange visits were not the norm.

“A couple of things,” Jack said. “First, as a courtesy, would you page Dr. Randolph Sanders for me? Ask him if he wouldn’t mind coming down here.”

“Okay,” Doug said with a tinge of uncertainty. It wasn’t part of a mortuary tech’s job description to dictate to the MEs. He picked up the phone. When he got the doctor on the line, he relayed Jack’s request verbatim.

“Perfect!” Jack said. “Now I’d like you to find a body for me and wheel it someplace where I can take a look at it.”

“Would you like it on a table in the autopsy room?”

“No,” Jack said. “I’m not going to be suiting up. I merely want to take a peek at the corpse and take a few body fluid samples. So just find someplace with adequate lighting.”

Doug Smithers got to his feet. “What’s the accession number?”

“That I don’t know,” Jack said. “The name is Connie Davydov. She came in, I believe, early this morning.”

“That body’s not here,” Doug said.

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. It went out not that long ago: maybe a half hour.”

“Damn!” Jack yelled with a shake of his head for emphasis. He tossed his satchel onto the desk with a clatter. His face reddened.

“I’m sorry,” Doug said. He hunkered down as if he expected Jack to take a swing at him.

“It’s not your fault,” Jack snapped. He cracked his knuckles in frustration. “Where did the body go?”

Doug warily bent over the ledger book on the desk. He used his index finger to scan down the column. “It went to Strickland’s Funeral Home.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“I believe it’s on Caton Avenue over near Greenwood Cemetery.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Jack muttered. He began to pace while he tried to think what to do next.

“Dr. Stapleton, I presume,” a voice said with a distinctly condescending air. “Aren’t you wandering a little far afield?”

Jack glanced up at the doorway. Framed between the jambs was Dr. Randolph Sanders. He was a bit older than Jack with mostly gray hair brushed back from his narrow face. He wore thick-rimmed black glasses that gave him an owlish appearance. In the hierarchy of the medical examiner’s office, he was far above Jack, with almost twenty years of experience.

“I thought I’d dash over here and give you some very needed help,” Jack shot back.

“Oh, please!” Randolph remarked contemptuously.

“Why in hell’s name did you send the Davydov body out when you knew I was coming over here?”

“I got a mysterious message that you might pay us a visit, but there was no request to keep the body here.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, since an IQ of fifty or more would have been necessary to have presumed as much.”

“I don’t have to listen to your juvenile slander,” Randolph said. “Have a nice trip back to Manhattan.” He spun on his heels and disappeared from view.

Jack stepped out into the hall. He called out to the retreating Randolph. “Well, let me tell you something. Connie Davydov did not have either asthma or allergies. She was an entirely healthy woman who suddenly experienced respiratory failure without having a heart attack or a stroke. If that’s not the kind of case that deserves an autopsy, I don’t know what is!”

Randolph stopped at the elevators and faced around.

“How do you know she didn’t have asthma and allergies?” he demanded.

“From her brother,” Jack said.

“Well, let me tell you something,” Randolph said disdainfully. “My source of the woman’s history happens to be this office’s most experienced forensic investigator. You can believe whomever you wish. I’ll rely on a professional.”

Randolph turned and calmly pressed the elevator button. He glanced back briefly to give Jack a condescending smile.

Jack was about to counter angrily Randolph’s last statement when it dawned on him how ludicrous it was for him to be arguing with such a blockhead. Besides, a confrontation with this ME would do nothing to advance his looking into Connie Davydov’s case. Shaking his head, Jack went back into the mortuary office and grabbed his satchel from the desk. Doug looked at him curiously but didn’t say anything.

Still fuming, Jack stalked out of the Brooklyn ME’s office and strode down the sidewalk toward Warren’s car. Warren and Flash were leaning up against the Caddy’s fenders. They looked at Jack expectantly as he approached, but Jack didn’t say a word. He just climbed into the back seat.

Warren and Flash glanced at each other and shrugged before climbing into the car themselves. Each twisted in his seat and regarded Jack, who had his mouth and lips clamped shut.

“You look pissed,” Warren commented.

“I am,” Jack admitted. He looked off for a moment, obviously thinking.

“What happened?” Flash asked.

“They sent the body to a local funeral home,” Jack said.

“How come?” Warren asked. “They knew you were coming.”

“It has something to do with how competitive doctors are with each other,” Jack said. “It’s hard to explain and you probably wouldn’t believe it.”

“I’ll take your word,” Warren said. “So what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I’m thinking.”

“I know what I’m going to do,” Flash said. “I’m going to Brighton Beach.”

“Shut up, man,” Warren said. “This is just a wrinkle here.”

“Some wrinkle,” Flash said. “If she’d been white, none of this would have happened.”

“Flash, that’s not the problem,” Jack said. “There’s a lot of racism around this city, that I’ll grant you, but it’s not the problem here, believe me.”

“Why can’t you just have the funeral home send the body back?” Warren suggested.

“I wish it were that easy,” Jack said. “The problem is it’s a Brooklyn case, and I’m from the Manhattan office, which means there’s a lot of politics involved. I’d have to get the super chief to do it, which would get the Brooklyn chief defensive, since he’d assume the affair was a reflection of how he’s running the office. It would become a bureaucratic turf war of sorts. Plus it would take eons. By the time all the paperwork was done, the phone calls made, and the battles waged, the funeral home might have embalmed the body, or worse yet, cremated it.”

“Shit,” Warren said.

“That settles it,” Flash said. “I’m going to Brighton Beach.”

“No, let’s all go to the funeral home,” Jack said. “It might create some waves, but I don’t see we have much choice to keep Flash from self-destructing. Maybe we’ll be lucky. It’s on Caton Avenue near the Greenwood Cemetery. You got a map?”

Warren nodded. He had Flash dig it out of the glove box. While the two of them bent over it, Jack tried to anticipate what they’d be up against in the funeral home. He imagined the funeral director would not be particularly cooperative.

“When we go into the funeral home we’re going to have to kinda barge in and overwhelm them,” Jack said.

Warren looked up. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve got to try to do what we have to do before they have much of a chance to think about it.”

“But you’re a medical examiner,” Warren said. “You’re a city official.”

“Yeah, but this is irregular, to say the least,” Jack said. “The funeral director is not going to like it. You see, the way the system works is that the body is technically released to the next of kin, in this case the husband, even though the funeral home picks the body up. Nothing is supposed to happen to the body unless the husband says so. Obviously we don’t want them calling the husband, because if he’s guilty of what Flash suspects, he’d scream bloody murder.”

“Why not just say you’re from the Brooklyn office and there was a couple things you forgot to do.”

“The funeral director would be sure to call the Brooklyn office,” Jack said. “They’d wonder why they hadn’t gotten a call to bring the body back. Remember, they work with them all the time and know the MEs. For me to suddenly show up will be very irregular. Trust me!”

“So what do you propose?” Warren asked.

“I’m thinking,” Jack said. “Did you find it on the map?”

“I think so,” Flash said.

“Let’s go before I chicken out,” Jack said.

After driving a few blocks Jack got an idea. Taking out his cell phone, he placed a call to Bingham’s office. As expected, Cheryl Sanford answered with her honeyed voice. Jack identified himself and asked if the chief was within earshot.

“Hardly,” Cheryl said. “He’s over at the Commissioner of Health’s office for an impromptu meeting.”

“That’s even better,” Jack said. “Listen, I have a problem, and I need your help.”

“Is this going to get me into trouble?” Cheryl said warily. She knew Jack too well, given the number of times that he’d been on the carpet in Bingham’s office.

“It’s possible,” Jack admitted. “If it does, I’ll take full responsibility. But it’s for a good cause.”

Jack went on to explain about Flash’s loss, the dilemma about Connie’s body, and the discrepancy about the medical history suggesting foul play. Ultimately, Cheryl’s generous nature and sense of fairness won out. She agreed to at least hear what Jack had in mind.

Jack cleared his throat: “If you get a call from Strickland’s Funeral Home within the next half hour or so for the chief, tell them that he’s with the commissioner, which is true. But then add that Dr. Jack Stapleton has been authorized to take some body fluid samples from Connie Davydov.”

“Is that all?” Cheryl asked.

“That’s it,” Jack said. “If you want to get fancy, you can say that you’d meant to call earlier, but it had slipped your mind with the chief’s sudden need to see the commissioner.”

“You are devious,” Cheryl commented. “But it is a good cause, especially if a homicide is involved. Anyway, I’ll do it.”

“I like to think of myself as resourceful, not devious,” Jack joked. He thanked Cheryl on both his behalf and Flash’s, then said goodbye and hung up.

“Sounds like you got it arranged,” Warren said.

“We’ll see,” Jack said. He wasn’t all that confident. In his experience, funeral directors tended to be both touchy and sticklers for detail. There were a lot of potential pitfalls. If there was a big staff, Jack could even envision them physically restraining him.

Strickland’s Funeral Home was a two-story stucco building that in a previous life had been a grand home of some wealthy Brooklynite. It was painted white in an apparent attempt to make it look cheerful. Even so, it remained a ponderously bulky structure of indeterminate style. All its windows were blocked by heavy drapes. From its parking lot a wedge of Greenwood Cemetery could be seen bristling with headstones.

Warren put on his emergency brake and turned off the ignition.

“Kinda ominous-looking, isn’t it?” Jack commented.

“What do they do in there?” Warren questioned. “I’ve always wondered.”

“Don’t ask! You don’t want to know,” Jack said. “Let’s get this over with before I lose my nerve.”

“We’ll wait here,” Warren said. He glanced at Flash. Flash nodded in agreement.

“Oh, no! Not this time,” Jack said. “When I said ‘we’ earlier, I meant it. This is going to be like a mini-invasion, and I need both you guys’ powerful presence. Besides, Flash, you’re kin, which lends us some legitimacy.”

“Are you serious, man?” Warren said.

“Absolutely,” Jack said. “Come on! This isn’t up for discussion.”

Jack resolutely headed for the front door carrying his satchel. He could hear Warren’s and Flash’s footsteps behind him. He knew they were coming reluctantly. He didn’t blame them. He knew that they were emotionally unprepared for what they were going to see.

The interior of the funeral home was fairly standard. There was a lot of dark wood, velvet drapes, soft lighting, and low-volume hymns playing in the background, giving an overall impression of serenity. In the entrance hall a visitors’ book was open on a console table. Next to it stood an austere-looking woman in a black dress. In the center of the room to the right was an open casket on a waist-high bier with a few rows of folding chairs set before it. The lid’s interior was upholstered in white satin. Jack could just make out the profile of the casket’s occupant.

“May I help you?” the woman asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Jack said. “Where’s the director?”

“He’s in the office,” the woman said. “Should I get him?”

“Please,” Jack said. “And quickly if you wouldn’t mind. This is an emergency.”

Jack looked over his shoulder at Warren and Flash who were close behind him.

“Shit, man!” Warren whispered. “Are you sure you need us?”

“Without a doubt,” Jack whispered back. “Just stay cool.”

It took only a few minutes for the worried director to emerge from a side door accompanied by a pair of brawny men in suits who could have moonlighted as bouncers. The funeral director could have been from central casting, with his immaculate black suit, crisp white shirt, and pomaded, painstakingly combed hair. The only thing out of place was his complexion. He was tanned as if he’d just come back from a Florida vacation.

“My name is Gordon Strickland,” he said in a hushed tone. “I understand there is an emergency. How can we be of assistance?”

“My name is Dr. Jack Stapleton,” Jack said with all the authority he could muster. He held up his medical examiner badge in front of Gordon’s nose. “I’m a representative from the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Manhattan, Dr. Harold Bingham.”

Gordon tilted his head so he could see Jack around the medical examiner’s badge. “I’ve heard the name. How does this involve us here in Brooklyn?”

“I’ve been sent to view the body of Connie Davydov,” Jack said. “As well as to obtain some needed body fluid samples. I assume you got a call to that effect.”

“No, we didn’t get a call,” Gordon said. His upper lip began to twitch.

“Then I apologize for the surprise,” Jack said. “But we do have to see the body.” He took a step forward in the direction of a pair of double doors heading into the center of the building.

“Just a minute!” Gordon said, holding up his hand. “Who are these other gentlemen?”

“This is Warren Wilson,” Jack said while nodding toward Warren. “He is my assistant. This other gentleman is Frank Thomas, the brother of the deceased.” Jack couldn’t help wonder how all this was going to play, since both his friends were clothe in a modified hip-hop style. Warren certainly didn’t look professional by any stretch of the imagination.

“I don’t understand,” Gordon said. “The body was released to a Mr. Davydov. He’s not contacted us about this situation either.”

“We’re investigating a potential homicide,” Jack said. “New information has come available.”

“Homicide?” Gordon repeated. The frequency of the twitch increased.

“Indeed,” Jack said. He started forward again, forcing Gordon to back up. “Now if you’ll just direct us to your cooler or wherever you keep your newly arrived bodies, we’ll do our thing and be on our way.”

“The body is in the embalming room,” Gordon said. “We’ve been awaiting Mr. Davydov’s instructions. He was supposed to call once it got here.”

“Then we’ll view the body in the embalming room,” Jack said. “It’s all the same to us.”

Nonplussed, Gordon turned around and pushed through the double doors. Jack, Warren, and Flash followed. Gordon’s silent minions brought up the rear.

“This is highly irregular,” Gordon voiced to no one in particular as they walked down the hall. “We haven’t heard anything from the Brooklyn ME’s office either. Maybe I should give them a call.”

“It would save time to call Dr. Harold Bingham directly,” Jack said. “Of course, you know the Brooklyn ME’s office is under the control of the Manhattan office.”

“I didn’t know that,” Gordon said.

Jack pulled out his cellular phone, punched the number to speed-dial the chief, and handed the phone to Gordon. Gordon took the phone and pressed it to his ear. Jack could hear Cheryl Sanford answer with her usual preamble: “Dr. Harold Bingham’s office, Chief Medical Examiner. How may I help you?”

The entire group slowed to a halt outside a second set of double doors as Gordon spoke to Cheryl. Jack could hear only bits of Cheryl’s side of the conversation. Gordon was nodding and saying “I see”, “yes”, and “I understand” several times. Finally he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Sanford. I understand perfectly and there is no need for you to apologize. I’ll do what I can to help Dr. Stapleton.”

Gordon disconnected and handed the phone back to Jack. As Jack took the phone he noticed that Gordon’s lip was twitching almost continuously. The man obviously wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation, but at least he was momentarily mollified.

“In here,” Gordon said, pointing to the double doors.

The entire group entered the embalming room, which was redolent with the cloying smell of a sickly-sweet deodorant. The space was larger than Jack expected, about the size of the autopsy room where he worked most days. But in contrast to the autopsy room’s eight tables, here there were only four, two of which were occupied. The farthest table held a male who was in the process of being embalmed. The nearest held an obese woman.

“Mrs. Davydov is right here,” Gordon said, pointing to the nearest corpse.

“Right!” Jack said. He quickly put his satchel down on a nearby wheeled table and pulled it close. After snapping open the bag he looked up at his two friends. They were frozen in place near the door. Warren was transfixed by the embalming process going on in the end of the room; Flash was staring at his sister. Both their faces had gone slack. Jack could only imagine what they must be feeling.

Jack clapped his hands loudly to keep the situation from deteriorating. The sound was like a gunshot in the tiled room. Every one was jolted. Even the two people doing the embalming looked up from their gruesome task. “Okay!” Jack said eagerly, as if he relished what he was about to do. “Let’s get this show on the road so these gentlemen can get on with their business. Frank Thomas, can you identify this woman?”

Flash nodded his head. “It’s my sister. Connie Thomas Davydov.”

“Are you absolutely certain?” Jack asked while he looked down at the deceased’s face for the first time. He was immediately surprised by the obvious evidence of trauma. The left eye was purplish and swollen almost shut. The skin over the cheekbone was bruised.

“Dead sure,” said Flash. He took a step closer and pointed to the swollen eye. “And the bastard popped her just like he’d done in the past.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Jack said quickly. “Remember! The EMTs found her in the bathroom, where she’d collapsed. A bathroom is a dangerous place to collapse between the sink, tub, and toilet, not to mention the towel racks and the faucets.”

“About a month ago when I had lunch with her, her eye looked just like that,” Flash said, ignoring Jack. “She told me he’d punched her. The only reason I didn’t go flying out there to beat the shit out of him then was because she made me promise not to do it.”

“Okay, calm down!” Jack said. Now that he was about to get his samples, he didn’t want Flash to gum up the works. To that end he suggested to Flash that it might be best for him to wait outside. Flash offered no argument; he spun around, banged open both double doors, and left. With a nod from the director, the two funeral home heavies quickly followed.

“This is very difficult for him,” Jack explained. “So, it’s best we do what we have to do, and get him out of here.”

Gordon stepped up to the table while Jack snapped on his latex gloves. “I hope you’re not planning on marring the body in any visible way,” Gordon warned. “We have no idea if Mr. Davydov is planning on an open casket or not.”

“All we’re going to do is take some body fluids,” Jack said. He motioned for Warren to come closer and handed him several sample bottles. He had to make it look as if Warren really was his assistant to justify his intimidating presence. Jack wanted him there because Jack was planning on doing what Gordon had just warned him not to do, namely taking a sample of the bruised facial skin. Of course, he also would have liked samples of brain, liver, kidneys, lung, and fat, if he could have thought of some way to get away with it.

The first thing Jack did was take out his camera. Before Gordon could complain, he took a series of photographs of the body with particular attention to the facial trauma. Jack was careful to position the head for maximum exposure. In the process, he also looked for any subtle signs of strangulation or smothering. There weren’t any.

After putting the camera away he completed his rapid but thorough external exam. While he worked, he kept up a verbal description for Warren’s benefit. He mentioned that there were no signs of injections other than iatrogenic ones, no trauma other than to the eye and cheek, and no signs of infectious disease.

Next, Jack got out his collection of syringes and began taking body fluid samples. He got blood from the heart, urine from the bladder, vitreous from the eyeballs, and cerebrospinal fluid from the central nervous system. Then he got out the nasogastric tube and got some stomach contents. He worked quickly for fear of being interrupted before he was finished. Warren tried to keep his eyes closed through it all.

The funeral director had moved back against the wall. He stood vigilantly with his arms folded across his chest. It was obvious by his expression and the fact that his lip continued to twitch that he was not enthralled about Jack’s efforts, but he stayed silent. At least until Jack’s scalpel flashed in the bright fluorescent light.

“Wait!” Gordon cried when he caught a fleeting view of the knife. Pushing off the wall he quickly came forward. “What are you going to do now?”

“It’s done,” Jack said. He straightened up and plopped a wedge of facial tissue and eyelid into a sample bottle. He’d taken the sample with blinding speed.

“But you promised,” Gordon sputtered. With dismay he looked down at the gap in the skin of Connie’s face.

“True,” Jack said. “But I realized we’re obligated to make sure this swollen eye isn’t the result of an infectious process. And with my usual surgical precision I took only the tiniest sample. I’ve full confidence that you can all but make it disappear with your cosmetic wizardry.”

“This is outrageous!” Gordon complained. He bent over to study the defect and was dismayed. In his estimation, it was hardly tiny. Connie’s face looked horribly and irrevocably altered.

As rapidly as possible Jack threw all the sample containers, his used supplies, and even his inside-out rubber gloves into the satchel and snapped it closed. At this point he felt like a bank robber who’d just been given the cash and had to make his getaway. Grabbing Warren by the sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt, he pulled him toward the door.

“Let’s make this fast but orderly,” Jack whispered.

They went through the first set of double doors still hearing Gordon swearing in the background. After clearing the second set of doors, they began looking for Flash. He was nowhere to be seen. Exiting the building, they found him pacing on the front walk.

“Let’s go!” Jack ordered.

The three men walked quickly to the car. Jack wasn’t worried they’d be pursued, yet he wanted to get away as soon as possible. He knew he’d pushed Gordon over the edge with the skin sample maneuver. To a funeral director, disfiguring the face was the worst possible sin.

They piled into the car. Warren got it going, and they headed back toward Prospect Park, driving in silence. It was Flash who finally spoke: “Well, aren’t you guys going to say anything? What did you find?”

“I found out that I’m never going back into a funeral home until I’m carried in,” Warren said. “What in God’s name were they doing to that guy on the other table, vacuuming out his insides? I almost lost it, I gotta tell you. Man, this has been the worst experience of my life.”

“In other words,” Flash said angrily, “you didn’t learn crap about what happened to Connie.”

“We got the samples we needed,” Jack said. “Now you’re going to have to be patient. Like I said earlier, we won’t know anything definitive until these samples get processed.”

“I could see that he smacked her in the face,” Flash said. “That’s enough for me.”

Warren glanced up at Jack in the rearview mirror. “See what I’m up against with this guy? It’s like talking to a wall, you know what I’m saying?”

“Listen, Flash,” Jack said heatedly. “I’ve put myself out on a limb here for you. Do you understand?”

“I suppose,” Flash admitted reluctantly.

“I could be in deep trouble if Strickland or the Brooklyn office makes a stink about this, especially if the samples turn out to be negative. Now the least I can expect from you in return is to promise you won’t go out there to your brother-in-law’s house.”

“What about that black eye?” Flash demanded.

“For the last time, we don’t know how she got it,” Jack said. “I took a skin sample and we’ll see what it shows. It might have been from a punch, but then again, it might not have been. I’m telling you, I’ve seen bathroom falls much worse. In fact, I’ve seen it where it was the fall itself that killed the victim, not whatever went on before.”

“Promise the man,” Warren said. “Or I’m going to be royally pissed myself. I mean, there’s a lot of things I’d rather be doing today than standing in that funeral home getting grossed out, you know what I’m saying?”

“All right, I promise,” Flash said. “Are you guys happy now?”

“Relieved is a better word,” Jack said. He looked out the window at the rush-hour traffic and wondered what kind of price he would have to pay for his shenanigans.