by Leslie Glass
"How do you know that?"
"Her right calf was half an inch smaller than her left. That meant she wasn't exercising it, had been favoring her right leg for quite a while. The muscles had begun to atrophy slightly."
"So this wasn't a recent injury."
"Probably wasn't an injury at all. She might have had arthritis. She had some deformation in the bones in her feet, particularly her toes. She probably took a lot of ballet classes when she was a kid. She might have had the sciatica for a long time, years."
"Anything else?"
Rosa thought for a second. "Everything else was pretty normal. I'll get a report to you in a day or two."
"Tox results?"
"Same. Look, I have to go; you sure you don't want to see this one?"
"No thanks, I'm not fond of human barbecue."
"Very funny, Woo. You're not so bad, after all."
April didn't think that was funny. But she was pleased to be liked.
"And remember to call your DA boyfriend for me. I need all the help I can get." Rosa pulled a green surgical cap out of her pocket and put it on, tucking her pageboy carefully around her glasses and into the cap without needing a mirror. Then she tied the strings under her chin and smiled at April a last time to show what buddies they were and how enthusiastic she was about her work.
16
A hard icy rain fell steadily at seven-thirty when Jason pushed through the small stakeout of reporters still encamped in front of Rick Liberty's building. There were fewer than the night before, but they were just as persistent under their umbrellas and tents. Several called out questions to Jason, but he didn't even turn to see who was talking, just shook his head.
Upstairs in the apartment, Patrice from the restaurant was serving drinks and food to several of Rick's friends, but it was Rick who opened the door. "Thanks for coming," he said. He took Jason's coat and stepped around some recent florist shop deliveries to hang it in the closet.
"Wow, this is something," Jason murmured. The large space was crowded, filled with plants and floral arrangements, some not even opened yet. Most of those that had been set out on the floor and tables were white. Lilies, tulips, roses, baby's breath, carnations, bonsai of azalea, blossoming branches. A stack of gift and condolence cards sat on a table. It was a stunning display.
"Yes, isn't it crazy?"
Voices drifted in from another room. Jason noticed the buffet set up in the dining room and a well-stocked bar on a living-room table. He longed for a drink. "Am I interrupting?"
"No." Rick waved his hand at the doors to the library. "There are a few people here. They're eating and watching TV. I haven't the heart for it. Come in here."
Jason followed him into the living room, sat on the long white sofa, and put his briefcase down on the floor beside him.
"How about a drink?" Rick asked.
"Club soda. I can get it."
"No, no. That's my job. How about something to eat? Do me a favor and eat something."
Jason shook his head. "Not right now, thanks."
"You're too easy." Rick went to get the drink and returned in a moment with a heavy crystal glass for Jason and nothing for himself. "Jason, the police are going to release Merrill's body tomorrow. Her parents want to bury her in Massachussets on Thursday. I know it's a hassle, but will you and Emma be able to go to the funeral?"
Jason did not show his dismay at another workday lost. "Of course we'll come. I know Emma wouldn't want to miss it."
"Thanks, it means a lot to me." Rick frowned as Jason took a new spiral notebook out of his briefcase and opened it.
"What's that for?"
"I wish I could say it's my security blanket, but I'm here partly on business."
"Business?"
"Yes." Jason took a swig of club soda and wished it were a scotch. "The police have contacted me about you."
Liberty stared at him. "No kidding."
"Rick, I want to tell you right up front that I know and trust and respect you very much. I also care about you a great deal. To Emma and me you are family."
Rick gave him an ironic smile. "Thank you, Jason. I love you and Emma, too. Why did the police call you?"
"I also happen to believe that you are a victim of some kind of bizarre, kafkaesque web of terrible events."
Rick's eyes stayed on the notebook. "What's going on, Jason?"
"The police have asked me to do a psychological profile of you, Rick."
Rick barked out a surprised laugh. His discomfort gave it a hollow sound. "What for, do the police always dig around to this degree?"
"I have the impression that the police do an in-depth check of every suspect in a crime they're investigating. It's like working up a business plan."
Rick shook his head. "But why you?"
"There's a connection between me and the investigating officer, April Woo. And also between her and Emma. You know, Emma was abducted last spring."
"Yes, . Merrill and I were out of town when it happened. But I have an idea how bad it was for both of you." He looked as if he wanted to say more, but stopped there.
"April was the detective who saved her life. I owe her."
"Jason, would you like a real drink?"
"I would, but I won't. . . . April came to my office today to ask for my professional opinion of your character. I told her I could give my personal opinion, but I could never do a' professional assessment without your approval."
Rick rubbed his chin and seemed shocked to find unshaven stubble there. "All this astonishes me. I don't know what to say."
"In spite of my bias in favor of you, I would be working as an agent for the police. The disadvantage of the bias is that eventually, the police may ask someone else to do another. The advantage of my doing one now is that the alternative will most certainly be someone who may not have the warm feelings for you that I do."
Rick flashed another ironic smile. "Well, with such a recommendation I don't see how I could refuse. How is it done?"
"You've never had psychological testing before?"
"I've had intelligence tests, ' neurological tests, X rays, even an MRI scan of my brain. I did that for Merrill."
"Oh, really, why?"
Rick hesitated. "I suppose you're going to ask about brain injuries, concussions, blackouts. My—so-called temper, all that?"
Jason nodded. "And incidents of violence in your childhood. "
"There were none."
"I'm going to ask you for your whole family history, which will include questions about any family member who heard voices, broke down, or was ever institutionalized or hospitalized. I'm going to ask about substance abuse, violence, if anybody's gone to jail." Jason sighed.
"I don't know about my father, so I can't answer all your questions about his side of the family," Rick said quietly.
"You may not think you know a lot of things, Rick, but you'd know if someone in the family went to jail for killing a man in a bar fight. You'd know about physical abuse. You'd have seen or heard it."
"I had an aunt who committed suicide," he said softly. "My grandmother was raped by a white man when she was thirteen. I'm not supposed to know it. But I do. She wasn't yet fourteen when my mother was born."
Jason wrote it down. "And I'm going to ask you about your headaches and your temper. Let's start with your grandmother/'
17
M
ike concentrated on the medical examiner preparing for the autopsy of Tor Petersen. She was like an actor, dominating the stage. He guessed all doctors were like that, even doctors of the dead. He glanced at Ducci standing beside him, all anticipation. Why was the dust and fiber expert so hot to be there today? Mike chewed on the ends of his mustache, mulling things over. This was Mike's second autopsy in as many days, and part of him felt as if he were wasting precious hours in the ugliest part of this squat blue brick building, just spinning his wheels. Autopsies took a lot of time. He watched the preparations, trying to let go of the conversation he'd had last n
ight with his mother about April Woo.
"This is the body of a well-nourished, well-developed white male measuring six feet one inch in height and weighing approximately one hundred and ninety pounds. He is wearing a gray knitted sweater— cashmere, and gray slacks with an alligator belt. Slip-on leather shoes, gray and red tweed socks." Rosa Washington switched off the recorder and moved away from the microphone and the autopsy table to let the photographer take one more picture of the dead man clothed as he had been at the time he died. Flash. "Finished?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, boys, your tum." She gestured to the techs to come in and undress the corpse and moved to where the green-suited Sanchez and Ducci stood gloveless, with their masks pulled down around their necks, each casually using the bottom of his metal throw-up pan as a writing support.
No part of the ME, however, was visible under the green surgical pajamas, green cap, rubber gloves, glasses, and mask with a respirator. Clearly the woman did not like getting splashed with body fluids and did not want to breathe in any contaminated air with the potential to fatally infect her. For a few minutes she was silent, as off came the dead man's shoes, labeled and dumped by two burly assistants into the box Ducci would take away with him to examine later. Off came his socks. Into the box. The dead man's alligator belt was already undone, his mud-and blood-splattered pants already unzipped. The two techs lifted the body at the hips and tugged off the damp, stained trousers. Underneath, the shorts were soiled with urine and feces. The odor soared above the pervasive formaldehyde stench. Off came the shorts. Mike put on his mask.
"Only the shorts, please," Ducci said sharply, as if the techs might add a turd to the box as an extra.
The dead man's penis popped into view. The ME glanced at it, then turned away. "Hey, Ducci. Haven't seen you since Nashville." Through the mask her voice sounded strangely mechanical, like the voice of telephone operators.
"Yeah, don't get around too much anymore." He watched the techs pull off the dead man's sweater. Nothing under it. The dust and fiber expert's thick gray-flecked eyebrows went up at that, and he pulled on an ear.
"Something?" Washington asked about the corpse, but kept her gaze on Ducci. "What brings you here?" She adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose.
"Cut on his chest?" Ducci pointed to a tiny irregularity among a sparse furring of chest hairs below his sternum.
The ME moved under the light to look at it. "Looks like a little nothing," Rosa munnured, running a gloved finger lightly over the area Ducci indicated. "Maybe a pimple, I don't see any blood here."
"Mark it and measure it," Mike said.
Flash. The very first picture of the naked body was the chest area photographed with an arrow pointing to the spot of Ducci's query. "Very thorough." Rosa nodded her approval and turned to Ducci again.
"We're honored to have you with us, Freddy. What brings you into the light of day?" she asked again.
The macabre autopsy room—gruesomely fitted out with electric saws, carts of cutting instruments in all sizes, aspirators, containers to save tissue and fluid samples from many sources, and the ageless metal dissecting table, ducted and plumbed for the draining and sluicing of body 'fluids—intensely flood-lit as it was for the best possible investigation of the examinant of the moment, was hardly the light of day.
"Very funny." Ducci guffawed politely at the joke. "Gotta make sure you guys do your job right, don't I?"
The ME laughed politely herself. "You know I do my job right." Even distorted, her tone held the sharp edge of defensiveness.
Ducci made an offering. "I liked your talk in Nashville."
"Well, it's a damned shame autopsy is becoming a dying art. No one's doing them anymore. Insurance companies won't foot the bill in hospitals. Families don't want them." Rosa widened her audience to include Mike. "With all the lab tests, MRI scans, X rays—everybody figures they already know what killed their loved ones. Nobody wants to learn any more." Angry at the loss to science, she glared at them through her glasses.
"Lot of good work being done," Mike said soothingly of the forensic field in general.
"Maybe in some areas, but a lot of people out there who should know the difference between the bruise from a fall and the battering from a club don't know.
A lot of people out there are getting away with murder. Makes me mad."
"Well, not here in New York, Rosa. That should be a comfort to you."
"No, it isn't. Those ignorant coroners in the big field look at a female body or child's covered with bruises—scars accrued over months, years maybe— husband, father says, 'She fell off a ladder. Can I bury her now?' idiot buys it, doesn't even do X rays. People beat and kill every day and get away with it. Makes me really mad."
A thousand times Ducci had heard the complaints from MDs about coroners in the great Midwest. MDs called the Midwest "the big field" and said it was the best place in the country to commit murder. There, coroners were elected. They were untrained in medicine, certainly untrained in forensic medicine, and they had no idea how to assess the questions and answers on the death reports they filled out. Everybody had a soapbox. He glanced at Mike and changed the subject.
"I'm surprised Malcolm isn't here doing the honors himself." The chief medical examiner, Malcolm Abraham, was a well-known celebrity hound who hated to miss an important body.
Flash. The photographer started photographing the rest of Petersen's naked body.
"Believe me, he wanted this one. He's in the hospital, high fever. They're not sure what it is. Lucky for me. I got to do the girlfriend yesterday. Malcolm wanted to wait another day for this guy, but you know how it is. You can't fight City Hall. Lucky for me." Rosa snorted at her luck, then turned back to the dead man. "Well-built fellow, looks like no one abused him."
Mike scratched his neck as they turned the corpse over to photograph the other side. The ME was right. He didn't see any other mark on the body anywhere. No sign of struggle, no defensive wounds. Unbroken manicured nails. Mike looked away as the techs washed the body.
When they were done swabbing, Rosa moved back to the table and switched on the tape, began talking into it as she picked up a scalpel and carefully made the Y incision that cut the late Tor Petersen open from each shoulder down to the pit of the stomach and through the pelvis. For a second the whole of his lower body cavity was visible. Stomach gases and feces further sickened the air. Fluids began gushing into the area faster than they could be suctioned out. Mike breathed in and out through his mouth, pinching his nose in his mind.
Ducci remained motionless, seemingly oblivious to the stench as Rosa Washington clipped the dead man's rib cage apart from bottom to top, dividing it into two sections.' Clotted blood and other fluids reeking of iron covered her rubber-gloved hands. Clamps cracked the ribs apart, and the lungs and liver were revealed. Mike swallowed, swallowed again. Body fluids spewed out, splashing the sleeves of the ME's surgical gown and filling the channels on the table. A tech turned on the tap to wash down the table.
"How's it going?"
Mike was startled by the familiar voice behind him.
"What are you doing here?' ' He gaped at April, who hadn't made it yesterday, then swallowed again, gagging a little in spite of himself.
"I got a message from the doc here to join the party" April offered him her vomit pan. "You know the rules. You use it, you clean it."
Mike waved it away with his own. "I'm fine."
"Shush, please. The microphone picks up everything." Up to her elbows in stinking gore, Rosa Washington peeled away the lungs, lifted out the liver, weighing it in her hands and exclaiming over it.
"Just what I would have guessed. Must have been a big drinker, look at the size of this." She told her recorder the liver was enlarged, examined it carefully, took some sections for further examination under the microscope, and dropped it on the scale with a splat. Very enlarged indeed.
Then she dug into the chest cavity for the heart and dissected it free with a s
eries of swift cuts. This, too, she held up to the light in her two hands like a trophy she had just won.
"I think we'll find this to be the heart of the matter," she told them. "You noticed, of course, the amount of blood when I opened the chest area. Hello, April Woo, glad you were able to make it. I like to have the detectives on a case with me. It isn't often I get the pleasure of really conscientious ones, however. You all right?"
April had sneezed into her mask. "Yeah."
"Where was I? Oh, yes. The heart of the matter. I think we'll find a perforated infarction here." The ME put the heart and pericardium down on a separate table and began to dissect them.
"What, you ask, is a perforated infarction? Possibly a ruptured aneurism caused the blood to flow out into the pericardial sac until the pressure was elevated to a point where the heart can't beat anymore under natural circumstances. The heart dies so fast it actually perforates—tears. Yes, yes, it's perforated. Here's the hole."
She fell silent for a long time, forgetting her audience as she examined the heart, then told her recording machine in technical terms what she found. Finally she moved on, methodically, removing each organ, examining and weighing it and taking tissue samples for slides. She opened the stomach and examined the contents.
"What's your take?" Mike had been fidgeting.
"He'd just finished quite the hearty meal. Nothing's digested here. Looks like chicken, cooked apples. Rice. Beans, greens. Hmm, bananas. Looks like soul food."
"I mean, is there anything for us to stay for?"
"Oh, we've got a long way to go. Got to x-ray, got to do testes and aspirate his bladder for urine samples. We got to open his head and take a look at his brain. More than once I've missed a cause of death until I opened the head. Once there was blood all over the place, but I couldn't find a point of entry on the corpse anywhere. It turns out the guy had been shot in the mouth with a twenty-two. Bullet was lodged in his skull. "
"Oh, yeah, the jumper," April said.
Dr. Washington ignored the remark.
"But that's not the case here," Mike said quickly, shooting April a quizzical look.
