by Radclyffe
For the first and only time, she surveyed Dejon Barnes. After this, he would be case 17A285-1.
Hello, Dejon. I’m Dr. Price. It’s my job to find out why you’re here.
Determining manner and cause of death was not only a legal necessity but a moral one, in her mind. If he had family, they would want to know how he died, even if she could never tell them why. So would the courts, if this turned out to be a homicide. She never made assumptions—she only dealt in facts. Facts never lied. She owed him the truth.
Before doing anything else, she photographed him as he lay there, even though he would’ve been photographed at the scene. This was her scene now.
His clothes had been removed, already bagged and tagged by the night diener, and according to the on-scene report she scanned on her monitor, the crime scene techs had collected physical evidence at the scene. After she completed the photographs, she pulled on gloves and combed through his medium-length jet-black hair with a wide-toothed stainless steel comb, searching for any foreign objects that might’ve been caught there. More than once she’d found bullets or other fragments that ended up being critical evidence. Not today.
Once finished, she pulled the overhead spray handle into place and methodically washed the remains. She drew no conclusions as she worked, despite noting the two-centimeter circular wound just medial to his left nipple in direct line with his heart. The cause of death might appear obvious to a novice, but she knew better than to make assumptions. An external wound that appeared to be from a projectile might prove to be the cause of death, but she would not know that until she had examined the entire body, dissected the major cavities, and reviewed the toxicology report. While it did not appear that the wound had been inflicted postmortem, she had to be sure some other agent hadn’t been the cause of death before the wound was suffered. Once she’d completed the wash down, she was ready for the first part of the autopsy, and everything she did and thought would be part of the official report.
She removed her gloves, engaged the recorder, and re-gloved.
“This is Dr. Olivia Price performing the external examination on case 17A285-1.”
After waiting until her awareness of her surroundings, thoughts of her workday to come, of her very sense of self, receded and her entire focus was on the body, she began her observations, noting the overall appearance of the body, his apparent state of health and nutrition, the presence or absence of tattoos, scars, deformities—congenital or accidental—and the wound. When finished with the visual inspection, she measured his height, limb length, and the dimensions of the entry and exit wounds, turning the body as needed to perform the same thorough examination of the back. Once he was lying faceup again, she drew intraocular fluid for DNA, injected the material into a sterile test tube, and affixed a preprinted label with his identifiers. She removed her gloves and diagrammed the wounds electronically on the tablet attached to her computer.
The external examination took her forty-five minutes, a routine she had performed hundreds of times before and that never varied. Ritual in science ensured that vital information was not overlooked or forgotten. Once that portion of the autopsy was completed, she opened her instrument tray and lined up what she would need in the precise order in which she would use it, comfortable and secure in the knowledge her findings would be complete when she finished.
Just as she reached for a new pair of gloves, the door behind her opened. She stiffened, a rush of annoyance breaking the clean white canvas of her concentration. She hadn’t expected anyone to be in this early. The other MEs didn’t start their workdays until after the eight a.m. review.
“I thought I saw your car out back,” a gravelly male voice announced.
“Morning, Dr. Greenly,” she said without turning. Her boss’s voice was unmistakable, as was the faint aroma of cherry smoke, the pipe tobacco he routinely used.
“Getting an early start, I see.” His tone held the slightest hint of censure that might just as easily be her imagination, but she didn’t think so.
“We have a busy day ahead,” Olivia replied neutrally, aware that her associates found her work habits curious, probably found her curious as well. She was used to it, had always been the odd one out, the too studious, too humorless, sometimes too weird one in any gathering. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever minded the persistent sense of being slightly out of step with everyone else, but she was so used to it now she ignored the sidelong looks and semi-snide comments about setting a bad example for everyone else that were sometimes directed at her. “I don’t want anyone to get overloaded.”
“I expect your staff can handle things without you burdening yourself too much,” he said, and she wondered if he was subtly trying to suggest that, like him, she needn’t spend too much time in hands-on work. Setting a bad example.
But then, she wasn’t like him, content to be only an administrator, to shuffle papers and study budgets and deal with the politics of running a city-funded department with close ties to one of the largest and most affluent medical centers in the nation. She would have to deal with that balancing act someday, when he retired and she took over his position. Which she would, she was certain. She had the training and the will. Running a big-city ME’s office was her destiny. But not now, and even when, she would never give up the practice of her craft. She was a medical examiner, and that was what she would be for the rest of her life. This was the one place where she fit.
“The best way for me to train residents is to spend time with them,” she said, although she knew that wasn’t what he was talking about. Teaching was not a requirement for bureaucrats. What she didn’t say was she needed to see the staff at work too, to be accountable for the department’s results.
“Yes, well, I won’t argue that point.” Greenly tipped his chin toward her table. “You’ll have to put this one on hold for a little while, I’m afraid. I’ve scheduled an interview for you at eight.”
Olivia frowned. “An interview? I wasn’t aware we had any positions open at the moment.”
“This is for the fellowship program.”
“We’ve already interviewed all the applicants. I was planning to call the candidates to offer positions this morning, in fact.”
“Yes, well, that’s why I want you to interview Dr. Reynolds before you do anything. That way, you can decide which of the others you’ll move to a wait list.”
“I’m sorry,” Olivia said. “I’m confused. Who is Dr. Reynolds? We already have three excellent candidates, all of whom are highly qualified and could go anywhere. We’re lucky to get such top choices.”
“You’ll want to take this one in place of one of those three,” he said flatly.
Olivia’s jaw tensed at the obvious order. “Oh? And why would that be, considering I don’t even know who he is?”
“She. She is,” he muttered, waving a hand. “It’s a bit of a long story, but I’ve already spoken to the appropriate people and gotten clearance for this. A bit unusual, I agree, but I think you’ll find it will all work out.”
“Sir,” Olivia said, trying hard to keep the irritation from her voice, “what is this all about? Who requested this?”
“Dr. Reynolds comes highly recommended from the chief of surgery and several other prominent university officials, and they would like to see her placed in our program right away.”
“And what is the incentive?” Olivia couldn’t miss the stench of politics, a lot like a decomp—impossible to wipe out or wash off. She’d never been able to hide her disdain for the power games, and some game was under way here. She resented being forced to play without even knowing the ground rules.
Greenly’s chest expanded, his look supremely satisfied. “I’ve just gotten approval to budget in the new DNA analysis lab and the upgrades to the chemical and mass spec units.”
Olivia tasted defeat, at least for this round. A state-of-the-art DNA sequencer would make a huge difference in many of their cases, where identifying the victim was often the first
challenge. She understood how difficult it would be to turn that down for something that seemed on the surface as simple as accepting a new fellow on the recommendation of some obviously well-positioned physicians. All the same, she resented being told she didn’t have a choice in choosing who her fellows would be for the next twelve months. She’d already spent dozens of hours reviewing applications, reading letters of reference, and interviewing potential candidates. Being forced to take someone, sight and credentials unseen, went against everything she considered important. This was not the way things should be done. In her experience, deviating from the tried and true always led to disaster.
“Is there some reason Dr. Reynolds can’t enter the next applicant pool so that we have a chance to—”
“No, I’m afraid that won’t work. She’s ready for placement now, and her circumstances…Let’s just say a number of people feel it’s important that she get started.”
“I’ll speak with her, of course, but this is highly irregular, and I have to insist that I have the final say in this. The fellowship program, after all, does fall under my—”
“Of course, of course.”
“I’d like to review her file before we meet.”
“I’ll have it sent round to you. I’m sure once you’ve had a chance to look at all the information, you’ll be perfectly happy to take her.” Greenly smiled. “I know you have only the best interests of the office at heart.”
Olivia smiled rigidly. “Of course.”
After he left, leaving a trail of smoked cherries behind, she carefully rebagged the body, noted the time on the tape, and stripped off her contaminated boots and gloves and garments by the door. She washed up and donned her lab coat before walking back to her office. Once there, she texted the diener scheduled to cover the Graveyard that morning and requested he return the body to storage until she could resume her autopsy. With her morning plans in shambles, she determined to reestablish her routine. She checked her mail, reviewed the lab reports that had come in after-hours the night before, and signed off on the completed charts awaiting her attention. Once she was done with that and somewhat back on schedule, she went outside to the last food truck in line, her favorite, for her morning coffee and returned to her desk at 7:55. Since there was still no sign of the file, she called Greenly’s office to ask his secretary to bring it over. No one answered, and she left a voice mail.
When a knock sounded on her door, Olivia straightened and noted the time. Exactly eight a.m. Pleased with that, but in no way ready to accept Dr. Reynolds just because she’d been ordered to, she straightened the file folders into an orderly pile and folded her hands on her desk. “Come in, please.”
Chapter Two
Olivia’s first thought was that Dr. Reynolds was older than she expected. Most applicants for a fellowship had had four years of college followed by medical school and almost as many years of residency, putting them in their late twenties. This woman looked to be a decade older. Maybe she was wrong about the age estimate, though, considering how haggard and not quite well she appeared. Used to avoiding assumptions, Olivia tried not to ascribe the gaunt frame that could use another twenty pounds and still be considered lean, or the hollow-eyed look in the dark-haired woman’s gray eyes, to the scar that ran down her left temple almost to her cheekbone and the limp she tried to hide. However, the cane that assisted her in moving into the room toward the single metal folding chair in front of Olivia’s desk was impossible to ignore. Logic concluded this woman had been through something seriously damaging in the not too distant past.
Olivia stood and held out her hand. “Dr. Reynolds, I am Dr. Olivia Price, the assistant chief medical examiner.”
Jay shifted the cane from her right hand to her left and held out her hand, mentally ordering the tremor to diminish. It never worked, but she couldn’t seem to stop trying. Gratefully, the woman across the desk appeared not to notice as she gripped Jay’s hand firmly and held it for a second.
“Jay Reynolds,” Jay said, embarrassed that she couldn’t hide her weakness and wondering if she’d ever get used to it. Knowing that she wouldn’t.
“Please,” Price said with a cool, clipped voice, “have a seat.”
Jay lowered herself onto the hard, narrow chair and extended her bad right leg. Her knee still throbbed like a son of a bitch if she kept it flexed for too long, but at least it held her up. She scanned the room and the woman watching her as she settled. She’d been in plenty of hospital offices in her life, and she couldn’t remember a single one as ruthlessly organized as this one. Every book on the crammed floor-to-ceiling bookcase was vertical and appeared to be exactly the same distance from the edge of the shelf, as if lined up with a ruler. Not a leaning one among them. Price’s desk was clear except for one absolutely square stack of folders in the corner, a phone, and a computer. There was an ornate patterned rug covering ninety percent of the institutional tile floor, thick and expensive looking, without a trace of lint or a stray hair. The only oddity aside from the unusual lack of chaos was the tri-level game board of some kind sitting on a carved, dark wood pedestal table in the far corner behind Price’s desk. Small shiny stones lay scattered on each level. She tried to pull the name of the game from her memory and came up blank. That didn’t happen nearly as often as it had six months ago, but the hot wave of frustration never lessened.
“What is that?” she muttered.
Price followed her gaze.
“Go.”
Price’s tone and expression never changed. Impersonal, cool, not exactly unfriendly, but no flicker of warmth either. Jay was used to making quick assessments and rapid judgments in the trauma bay, and her assessment of Olivia Price was that she was direct, reserved, maybe a little cautious, and despite that icy shell, a hell of a lot more attractive then Jay had anticipated. With her willowy build, honey-blond shoulder-length hair, deep green eyes, and near-porcelain skin over perfectly proportioned facial bones, she would probably be beautiful if any part of her face smiled, but not even her eyes held a hint of warmth. They were steely and appraising and remote. Jay straightened under the scrutiny.
“I’m afraid your interview was scheduled before I had a chance to review your file.” Olivia Price sighed. “In fact, I don’t have your file, and for that I apologize.”
Jay waited. She hadn’t known about the damn interview until the night before when Ali had called her, and if Ali and Vic hadn’t ganged up on her she wouldn’t be here now. Looked like Dr. Price hadn’t been briefed either. Great. Maybe this would be short and sweet and she could get the hell out of this dungeon. Hell, there weren’t even any windows down here. Not that there were any in most ORs either, but at least everyone there was alive. Mostly.
Price broke the silence. “Tell me how you come to be here, Dr. Reynolds.”
“I’m here to interview for the forensic pathology fellowship,” Jay said, treading carefully around what she felt was a whole battlefield full of land mines waiting to blow her out of the air.
“As I understand.” Price’s thin smile undoubtedly covered annoyance. “What’s your background? Where did you do your pathology residency, for example.”
Jay swallowed a laugh. Nothing about Olivia Price suggested humor would get through to her or impress her. All business. Super serious. And none too happy, if Jay still had any ability to read people.
“I didn’t…take a pathology residency, that is.”
Olivia’s evenly arched brows flattened as she frowned. “Then why are you here applying for this fellowship?”
“Quite a few people think it’s a good idea.”
“And you don’t.” No challenge, more a statement.
She was quick, and Jay respected that. Her direct gaze never wavered. Not someone to fuck with. “All things considered, it’s the best offer I’ve had in a while.”
“What is your training, then?”
“Surgery,” Jay said. “I’m board-certified in general surgery and…and that’s it.”
&nbs
p; “No pathology training?”
“Actually, I have had more than most. My surgery training program required a year in the lab and I spent it doing gross pathology—surgical specimens, mostly.”
“Gross and histologic?” Olivia asked.
“That’s right.”
“That hardly makes you qualified for this position.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling everyone, but the pathology chair is willing to credit my surgical training and the year I spent in the lab toward the path residency. Along with this fellowship, and a concurrent six months of histo-path, also done here, and they’ll certify me to sit for the pathology boards.”
“You’re not presently qualified for a forensic fellowship here.”
“Why not?” Jay said, even though an hour ago she’d had no interest in the position. Now being told she wasn’t good enough, when she’d been telling herself for almost half a year she wasn’t good for much, only made her want to prove this woman was wrong.
“Really, Dr. Reynolds, you don’t strike me as naïve or inexperienced. You must know this is an advanced program for physicians with much more formal experience in pathology than you’ve had. We don’t have time to provide remedial training. Our fellows are expected to work at a high level of competence from the moment they arrive.”
