by Archer Mayor
So rather than show himself, he merely groaned loudly from where he was.
He heard the man’s heavy tread stop.
“Help,” Ellis moaned.
“Who’s there?” His voice was clearly frightened.
“I’m hurt . . . can’t move.”
Ellis could feel the older man’s fear like a cold fog filling the air. “They really hurt me,” he added for good measure, hoping to appeal to what he thought was a fireman’s natural credo.
It worked. He peeked around the lower edge of his hiding place to see not only his prey yielding to temptation but Mel’s shadow detaching itself from the bush behind him and approaching like a spirit.
Without word or warning, Mel smacked the old man across the nape of the neck with a weighted sap. His victim had barely crumpled to the ground before Mel quickly pulled a slipknotted pillowcase over his head to blind him.
Ellis was momentarily stunned. The man lay facedown on the sidewalk like a dropped walrus. Never before had Mel hit one of their targets like that. That was the whole point of the pillowcase—to render all violence unnecessary and lessen the penalty if they were ever caught. Admittedly, they’d never attempted a haul like this before, having just mugged people for wallets or stashes of dope—and then only lowlifes who wouldn’t go to the cops. But the trick with the bag was key. It made the theft almost comical, leaving their victims twirling around like errant adult partygoers, trying to snatch their blindfolds away. This brought back his earlier apprehension about Mel’s handling of the armory guard.
Ellis bolted from cover and checked for a pulse as Mel collected the money bag.
“He alive?” Mel didn’t sound particularly concerned.
Ellis nodded. Both men quickly checked for any movement up and down the block, then ran across the street to the sound of the darkened truck starting up.
Ellis hadn’t quite closed the passenger door before Nancy began rolling just slowly enough not to burn rubber.
“You didn’t kill him, did you?” she asked, echoing Ellis’s alarm. “You hit him awful hard.”
Mel was laughing, already working on the money bag’s flimsy lock with a pair of pliers. “Nah. Piece of cake. The old fuck’s had hangovers worse than that—I guarantee.”
Ellis’s eyes were on Mel’s progress with the lock, his curiosity about their haul tempering his anxiety—they hadn’t killed the guy, after all. And much as he hated to admit it, he did love these moments, brief though they were, when all was harmony in the flush of success.
Not so Nancy. She drove on, obeying the speed limit, her hands tight on the wheel, all but convinced that blue lights would appear suddenly in the rearview mirror. She was as apprehensive now as she’d been adrenalized by similar events a careless year or two earlier.
She had no idea how much longer she could keep denying the change in herself.
Chapter 7
In isolation, the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Burlington was a relative jewel—clean, modern, well laid out—especially considering that when Joe Gunther first visited it years ago, he’d used a dentist’s parking lot off Colchester Avenue and climbed an exterior staircase to what had once been an apartment. Needless to say, no autopsies were conducted on site in those days.
In fact, the only drawback for the denizens of these new digs was that they were no longer housed in isolation, but in the middle of the totally revamped Fletcher Allen Medical Center—just like Jonah’s erstwhile home inside the whale. This construction project was taking years to build, costing a bundle over original estimates, and had already resulted in the jailing of some of the honchos involved. An example of thrifty, practical, hard-bargaining Vermont this new hospital was not.
Every time Joe came to visit, he resigned himself to negotiating a whole new labyrinth of garages, hallways, and elevator banks that appeared to be in perpetual redesign, aided in his journey only by an ever-shifting Scotch-taped trail of paper signs discreetly labeled OCME. Stepping inside the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner had become like surviving a miniature odyssey.
Suzanne Webb, the unit’s medical records specialist, rose from her desk as Joe closed the door behind him, and crossed over to give him a hug. She had been there for years and knew the workings of the office inside and out. She was always the first person Joe contacted when checking the psychological temperature of the waters.
He kissed her cheek as she said, “A miracle of timing. Five more minutes and the place would’ve been empty. To what do we owe the pleasure, Joe? Haven’t seen you in forever.”
“You probably know more than I do about why I’m here, Suzanne,” he said, stepping back. “I’m hoping to see the chief—I figured this would be saner than earlier in the day. My last phone conversation with her was downright weird.”
She looked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone in what functioned as a catchall central office. When she turned back, her expression was glum. “It’s Freeman, our boss of bosses. It’s like he’s found religion or something. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, he’s been hassling us for every last thing, from procedures and tox panels to how many paper clips we order.”
Joe knew of Floyd Freeman, who oversaw Hillstrom in the arcane bureaucratic structure that supposedly sheltered her office. The man was a political appointee of the governor’s but, more tellingly, had been a candidate a few years back for that office himself. He and Hillstrom had never been friendly, but there seemed to have been at least some unwritten agreement between them to stay clear of each other. The OCME, after all, was the smallest of his responsibilities and by its nature not an entity that attracted much attention.
“Where is she?” Joe asked Suzanne.
She gestured with her thumb through the nearest wall. “In her home away from home.”
He knew what that meant, since it marked another trait he and Hillstrom both shared. When they were under the gun, they didn’t reach for the bottle or take vacation time. They went to work.
“It’s late for that, isn’t it? Don’t you guys usually do procedures in the morning?”
Suzanne merely smiled and rolled her eyes.
It was enough. He’d been right. He squeezed her hand. “Thanks. Wish me luck.”
He left the office, turned the corner, and walked down a short, wide hallway, skirting a large floor-embedded scale of the kind he’d seen in fancy veterinary clinics, used here to weigh bodies as they arrived at the facility. The door at the end of the corridor was unmarked but by its very width and location had an air of importance.
He paused at its threshold, prepared himself mentally, and pushed it open.
The autopsy room was spacious and well lit, with two bays and room for two more, as well as an array of storage units, body coolers, a vault for saved samples, and even a skylight, which had been Hillstrom’s pride and joy when the design of the place had been finalized. Floyd Freeman hadn’t been on board in those days, but his predecessor had clearly been confused by the need for natural light in such an area, believing, like most everyone else, that medical examiners and their activities were best kept in basements, under sixty-watt bulbs. He, at least, had been persuaded to amend his prejudice.
Beverly Hillstrom was standing before a naked male of about fifty years, flat on his back with his torso opened wide as if it had been unzippered from throat to groin. As Joe entered, she extracted the man’s small intestine and ran it through her gloved fingers, studying it as she went.
“Doctor,” he said quietly, approaching the table slowly.
She glanced up just enough to recognize him. “Agent Gunther. You happen to be in the neighborhood?”
“Hardly.”
She didn’t respond at first, and he didn’t add anything.
“I was wondering if you might drop by,” she said at last.
“I was concerned.”
She kept to her study. “I apologize for my tone. It was very unprofessional.”
He laughed gently. “If anything, it was
a little too professional.”
She looked up again, and he could see the hint of a smile in her eyes. “Right. Point taken.”
He let her continue, watching her deftly disassemble her patient, organ by organ, cataloguing in her mind the map of his demise.
“Heart?” Joe ventured after a while.
“Very good,” she said. “That and pulmonary disease. A lifelong smoker.”
Joe nodded without comment. He’d attended many autopsies, especially before the state police had assigned a full-time liaison to report back to interested departments. But he still found them fascinating, not the least repellent, and continued to fit them in whenever he had the opportunity.
Hillstrom finally straightened and gazed down at her work. “An unattended from Ludlow. Hardly a mystery, but he hadn’t seen a physician in years, and the family was anxious to know.”
Joe had already guessed at the scenario, if not the specifics. He was curious, however, at her having detailed them the way she had. He took a stab at the reason.
“Meaning that as a case, he straddles a very fine line, at least in Freeman’s eyes.”
She stepped back from the table and removed her gloves. An assistant had appeared, ghostlike, from another quarter and now moved into her place to finish things up.
“Lately,” Hillstrom said, addressing his comment, “I’d say Freeman would be calling this one a total waste of money. The line is no longer so fine.”
She stripped off her outer gown and shoved it into a hamper, replacing it with a lab coat that she wore over her scrubs as a semipermanent uniform.
She headed for the main door. “Let me park you in my office while I change. I’d just as soon not have this conversation here.”
He followed her quietly down the corridor, past Suzanne’s now empty enclave and to the back, where she kept a small corner office. He’d been here before, too, and was always struck by how it invoked the work of a very good if self-effacing interior decorator. Even the papers on the desk looked positioned for a photo shoot. During less charitable moments, he’d entertained the notion that the photographs on the shelf behind her chair weren’t actually her kids but some family cut out of the pages of a magazine.
Hillstrom motioned him to one of her visitor chairs. “Have a seat, Joe. I’ll be right back.”
He froze for a split second, as startled as if she had screamed at him. In all the years they’d known each other, she had never—not once—referred to him by his first name.
“Take your time,” he muttered, nonplussed, and settled down to wait, surveying the room as he did. The art was tasteful, muted, and neutrally appealing, the framed awards and degrees plentiful and impressive, the plants in perfect health. The pictures of the kids he recognized from years ago—two striking blue-eyed blondes like their mother, but both probably in college by now. He’d always wondered what their father looked like. He had heard he was a high-priced Burlington corporate lawyer. There was no picture of him.
He turned at the sound of the door opening quietly and did his best to hide his surprise once more. Hillstrom had changed from her green scrubs into a light, flowered spring dress, buttoned down the front, nipped in at the waist, and free-flowing below. It had short sleeves and a V-neck that revealed a beaded necklace and an attractive cleavage. Her legs were bare, she wore low-heeled sandals, and she’d loosened her long hair so that it hung about her shoulders. She was stunning.
She laughed at his expression. “Like seeing your teacher out of school?”
He rose, smiling broadly. No teacher I ever had, he thought to himself. She looked beautiful.
She blushed slightly at his obvious if silent appreciation and turned back toward the hallway. “Let’s get out of here. Where are you parked?”
“I wish I knew,” he said, following her lead, still adjusting to the view before him. “I think it was level three.”
She glanced back at him. “That’s where I am. Let’s go in separate cars. We can eat at a steak house I’ve tried just down the street. It’ll be virtually deserted this time of night.”
They followed her suggestion, plunging into the building’s entrails until emerging from the underground parking lot’s embrace ten minutes later like escapees from a penal colony.
She led him to a bland if well-appointed motel on the other side of the nearby interstate, where the first floor was dominated by a combination bar and restaurant. As she’d predicted, the place was nearly empty. They got a booth along the back wall.
He waited until the waiter had taken their drink order before finally asking, “What’s going on?”
Hillstrom leaned back against the fake leather cushion and passed her hand across her forehead wearily. “Before I begin,” she said, “I’d like you to know how grateful I am you’re here. I never would have asked, but after we spoke, and despite my treating you so poorly, I did hope you’d come. That you did confirms what I’ve always thought of you.” She suddenly stretched out her hand and laid it briefly on his. “I consider you one of the most decent human beings I’ve ever known.”
He thought to take up her fingers in his own, but she’d already withdrawn her hand. Instead, he watched her for a moment, astonished at how her troubles had transformed her. “Beverly, I didn’t have to think twice about it. The respect is mutual.”
She gave him a weak smile. “Thank you. That means more than you can imagine right now.”
“What exactly is Freeman up to?” he asked.
“The what is probably less telling than the why,” she said, pausing to sip from her wine as it was placed before her. “But what he’s doing,” she resumed, “is niggling my entire staff half to death about every item he can think of, including stationery supplies, no doubt hoping to push me into the one act of insubordination that will allow him to fire me. And trust me,” she added, “there are days like today when he almost succeeds.”
“I noticed,” Joe told her. “But how can he get away with it, and why now?”
“In a nutshell, because he’s come into some information he’s using to blackmail me.”
Joe stared at her, his mouth half open. “Beverly. For Christ’s sake.”
She held up her hand to stop him. “That’s what it boils down to, Joe. In truth, it’s not quite that dramatic. I’m a little at wit’s end. You’ll have to forgive me.”
“Of course, but what’s it all about?”
“God knows how many years ago, I was working in Connecticut for a man named Howard Medwed. You might have heard of him, even not being in the business.”
“I have,” Joe interjected. “He’s like Helpern or Noguchi, right? One of the legends?”
“Correct. Very good. A wonderful man and a mentor in the truest sense of the word. If I were to claim just one person as being the single biggest influence in my life, it would be Howard. He gave me my first job, straight out of school, back when women were as rare as hen’s teeth in this profession, and he set about making me the best I could possibly be, just as he did with many others. He was an inspiration.”
Joe smelled a too-good-to-be-true set-up. “Except for . . . ,” he suggested.
She gave him a sad smile. “One single mistake, not a character flaw, and one he had good reasons for making.”
He shook his head slightly.
She understood. “I know, I know. I’ll explain.” She paused to take another large sip of wine and motioned to the waiter for a second glass, even though hers was still partly full. Joe, drinking Coke, merely took note.
“Howard Medwed was near the end of his life when this happened,” Hillstrom continued. “He was seventy-three years old, his wife had died six months earlier, and he was being pressured as never before from a group of political opponents. Also, unbeknownst to everyone except me and his son, he’d just been diagnosed with terminal cancer. So, in purely practical terms, politics notwithstanding, he felt he needed to maintain his medical benefits.”
Joe frowned. “Couldn’t he have retired and
kept the coverage?”
She held up a finger. “That gets complicated, but more to the point, it misses the bigger problem—the same people who wanted him gone were also backing a candidate he knew would be a disaster. It was only Dr. Medwed staying in place that was stopping them. I won’t bore you with ancient history, but in a nutshell, if he retired too soon, this idiot was a shoo-in; if he held on for just a few months, then the idiot went away and Medwed got to name his own successor. It was thornier than that, but that’s what it came down to: timing.”
The second wine arrived. Hillstrom drained her first glass and pushed it toward the waiter, who lingered with it in his hand.
“Would you like to order?”
“I’m not hungry,” Hillstrom said shortly.
“You have any soup?” Joe asked.
The waiter recited the options, and Joe chose a bowl of split pea, causing his companion to capitulate and join him with a French onion soup and a side order of bread to share.
Joe waited for the young man to leave before asking, “What happened?”
“There was a high-level case,” Hillstrom went on. “A reported dog in the road being hit multiple times turned out to be the remains of a woman. It became front-page news when she was finally identified as the wife of a prominent local politician, who, as luck would have it, was also a major backer of Medwed’s.”
She paused again for another sip before resuming. “It was a real mess. What was she doing in the middle of the night far from home? Why had she been on a busy road, on foot, where there were no businesses or residences she might have been visiting? Had she been murdered or did she die of natural causes? It went on and on. Howard did the autopsy himself, it being a high-level case, but later I assisted him with the follow-through because of its complexity and his poor health. That much was acceptable procedure. The hitch cropped up when he discovered the woman was pregnant. That, he kept private. He told me much later that he felt it wasn’t relevant, would only hurt his friend, and that no harm would result from withholding it.”
