“And the state of her pregnancy has what, exactly, to do with this?”
“A three-months-pregnant woman would have a difficult time—”
“She’s a police officer, Ms. Quinlan. Arresting people is her job.”
Way to go, Judge! You tell her.
Victoria Quinlan flushed at the setback. “All right, your honor. I withdraw the question.” She turned, again, to Jane. Regarded her for a moment as she considered her next move. “You said that you and your partner, Detective Frost, were both at the scene. That you and he made a joint decision to enter apartment two-B?”
“It wasn’t apartment two-B, ma’am. It was apartment two-E.”
“Oh yes, of course. My mistake.”
Yeah, right. As if you aren’t trying to trip me up.
“You say you knocked at the door and announced that you were police officers,” said Quinlan.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And this interaction had nothing to do with why you were originally in that building.”
“No, ma’am. It was just a coincidence that we happened to be there. But when we determine that a citizen is in danger, it’s our duty to intervene.”
“And that’s why you knocked at apartment two-B.”
“Two-E.”
“And when no one answered, you burst through the door.”
“We felt a woman’s life was in jeopardy, based on the screams we heard.”
“How did you know they were screams of distress? Couldn’t they have been the sounds of, say, passionate lovemaking?”
Jane wanted to laugh at the question, but didn’t. “That was not what we heard.”
“And you know that for a fact? You can tell the difference?”
“A woman with a bloody lip is pretty good evidence.”
“The point is, you didn’t know it at the time. You didn’t give my client a chance to answer the door. You made a rush to judgment and just broke in.”
“We stopped a beating.”
“You’re aware that the so-called victim has refused to press charges against Mr. Rollo? That they are still together as a loving couple?”
Jane’s jaw squared. “That’s her decision.” Dumb though it is. “What I saw that day, in apartment two-E, was clearly abuse. There was blood.”
“Like my blood doesn’t count?” said Rollo. “You pushed me down the stairs, lady! I still got the scar here, on my chin!”
“Silence, Mr. Rollo,” the judge ordered.
“Look! See where I hit the bottom step? I needed stitches!”
“Mr. Rollo!”
“Did you push my client down the stairs, Detective?” asked Quinlan.
“Objection,” said Spurlock.
“No, I did not,” said Jane. “He was plenty drunk enough to fall down the stairs all by himself.”
“She’s lying!” said the defendant.
The gavel banged down. “Quiet, Mr. Rollo!”
But Billy Wayne Rollo was just building up a head of outraged steam. “She and her partner, they dragged me into the stairwell so no one would see what they were doing. You think she could arrest me all by herself? That little pregnant girl? What a crock of shit she’s telling you!”
“Sergeant Givens, remove the defendant.”
“It’s a case of police brutality!” Rollo yelled as the bailiff hauled him to his feet. “Hey, you people in the jury, are you stupid? Can’t you see this is all made-up shit? These two cops kicked me down the fucking stairwell!”
The gavel slammed down. “Let’s take a recess. Please escort the jurors out.”
“Oh yeah! Let’s take a recess!” Rollo laughed and shoved away the bailiff. “Just when they’re finally hearing the truth!”
“Get him out of here, Sergeant Givens.”
Givens grabbed Rollo’s arm. Enraged, Rollo twisted around and charged, his head thudding into the bailiff’s belly. They both slammed to the floor and began to grapple. Victoria Quinlan stared, openmouthed, as her client and the bailiff flopped around just inches from her high-heeled Manolo Blahniks.
Ah, Jesus. Someone’s gotta take control of this mess.
Jane heaved herself out of the chair. Shoving aside the stunned Quinlan, Jane snatched up the bailiff’s handcuffs, which he’d dropped on the floor in the confusion.
“Assistance!” yelled the judge, banging on his gavel. “We need another bailiff in here!”
Sergeant Givens was lying on his back now, pinned beneath Rollo, who was just raising his right fist to deliver a blow. Jane grabbed Rollo’s raised wrist and snapped on one of the cuffs.
“What the fuck?” Rollo said.
Jane rammed her foot into his back, twisted his arm behind him, and shoved him down against the bailiff. Another click, and the second cuff closed around Rollo’s left wrist.
“Get off me, you fucking cow!” Rollo screamed. “You’re breaking my back!”
Sergeant Givens, trapped at the bottom of the pileup, looked like he was about to suffocate beneath the weight.
Jane took her foot off Rollo’s back. Suddenly a gush of hot liquid flooded from between her legs, splashing down onto Rollo, onto Givens. She stumbled backward and looked down in shock at her soaked maternity dress. At the fluid dripping from her thighs onto the courtroom floor.
Rollo twisted onto his side and stared up at her. Suddenly he laughed. He couldn’t stop laughing as he rolled onto his back. “Hey,” he said. “Look at that! The bitch just peed in her dress!”
FOUR
Maura was stopped at a traffic light in Brookline Village when Abe Bristol rang her on her cell phone. “Did you watch TV this morning?” he asked.
“Don’t tell me the story’s already made the news.”
“Channel six. Reporter’s name is Zoe Fossey. Did you speak to her?”
“Only briefly last night. What did she say?”
“In a nutshell? ‘Woman found alive in body bag. Medical examiner blames the Weymouth Fire Department and state police for misdiagnosing death.”
“Oh Jesus. I never said that.”
“I know you didn’t. But now we’ve got a pissed-off fire chief down in Weymouth, and the state police aren’t too happy either. Louise is already fielding calls from them.”
The traffic light turned green. As she drove through the intersection, she suddenly wished she could turn around and go home. Wished she could avoid the ordeal to come.
“Are you at the office?” she asked.
“I got in at seven. Thought you’d be here by now.”
“I’m in my car. I needed a few extra hours this morning to prepare that statement.”
“Well, I’ve gotta warn you, when you get here, you’re going to get ambushed in the parking lot.”
“They’re hanging around out there?”
“Reporters, TV vans. They’re parked on Albany Street. Running back and forth between our building and the hospital.”
“How convenient for them. One-stop shopping for the press.”
“Have you heard anything more about the patient?”
“I called Dr. Cutler this morning. He said the patient’s tox screen came back positive for barbiturates and alcohol. She must’ve been pretty loaded.”
“That probably explains why she took a tumble into the water. And with barbs on board, no wonder they had trouble finding her vital signs.”
“Why is this turning into such a feeding frenzy?”
“Because it’s prime National Enquirer stuff. The dead rising from the grave. Plus, she’s a young woman, isn’t she?”
“I’d say she’s in her twenties.”
“And attractive?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Come on.” Abe laughed. “You know it makes a difference.”
Maura sighed. “Yes,” she admitted. “She’s very attractive.”
“Yeah, well, there you go. Young, sexy, and almost sliced open alive.”
“She wasn’t.”
“I’m just warning you, t
hat’s how the public’s going to see it.”
“Can’t I just call in sick today? Maybe catch the next flight to Bermuda?”
“And leave me with this mess? Don’t you dare.”
When she turned onto Albany Street twenty minutes later, she spotted two TV vans parked near the front entrance of the ME’s building. As Abe had warned her, reporters were poised to pounce. She stepped out of her air-conditioned Lexus, into a morning already thick with humidity, and half a dozen reporters scurried toward her.
“Dr. Isles!” a man called out. “I’m from the Boston Tribune. Could I have a few words with you about Jane Doe?”
In response, Maura reached into her briefcase and pulled out copies of what she had composed that morning. It was a matter-of-fact summary of the night’s events, and how she had responded. Briskly she handed out copies. “This is my statement,” she said. “I have nothing else to add.”
It did not stop the flood of questions.
“How can anyone make a mistake like this?”
“Do we know the woman’s name yet?”
“We’re told that Weymouth Fire Department made the determination of death. Can you name names?”
Maura said, “You’ll have to talk to their spokesperson. I can’t answer for them.”
Now a woman spoke up. “You have to admit, Dr. Isles, that this is a clear case of incompetence on someone’s part.”
Maura recognized that voice. She turned and saw a blond woman who’d pushed her way to the front of the pack. “You’re that reporter from channel six.”
“Zoe Fossey.” The woman started to smile, gratified to be recognized, but the look Maura gave her instantly froze that smile to stone.
“You misquoted me,” said Maura. “I never said I blamed the fire department or the state police.”
“Someone must be at fault. If not them, then who? Are you responsible, Dr. Isles?”
“Absolutely not.”
“A woman was zipped into a body bag, still alive. She was trapped in the morgue refrigerator for eight hours. And it’s nobody’s fault?” Fossey paused. “Don’t you think someone should lose their job over this? Say, that state police investigator?”
“You’re certainly quick to assign blame.”
“That mistake could have killed a woman.”
“But it didn’t.”
“Isn’t this a pretty basic error?” Fossey laughed. “I mean, how hard can it be to tell that someone’s not dead?”
“Harder than you’d think,” Maura shot back.
“So you’re defending them.”
“I gave you my statement. I can’t comment on the actions of anyone else.”
“Dr. Isles?” It was the man from the Boston Tribune again. “You said that determining death isn’t necessarily easy. I know there’ve been similar mistakes made in other morgues around the country. Could you educate us as to why it’s sometimes difficult?” He spoke with quiet respect. Not a challenge, but a thoughtful question that deserved an answer.
She regarded the man for a moment. Saw intelligent eyes and windblown hair and a trim beard that made her think of a youthful college professor. Those dark good looks would surely inspire countless coed crushes. “What’s your name?” she said.
“Peter Lukas. I write a weekly column for the Tribune.”
“I’ll talk to you, Mr. Lukas. And only you. Come inside.”
“Wait,” Fossey protested. “Some of us have been waiting around out here a lot longer.”
Maura shot her a withering look. “In this case, Ms. Fossey, it’s not the early bird that gets the worm. It’s the polite one.” She turned and walked into the building, the Tribune reporter right behind her.
Her secretary, Louise, was on the phone. Clapping her hand over the receiver, she whispered to Maura, a little desperately: “It doesn’t stop ringing. What do I tell them?”
Maura laid a copy of her statement on Louise’s desk. “Fax them this.”
“That’s all you want me to do?”
“Head off any calls from the press. I’ve agreed to talk to Mr. Lukas here, but no one else. No more interviews.”
Louise’s expression, as she regarded the reporter, was only too easy to read. I see you chose a good-looking one.
“We won’t be long,” said Maura. She ushered Lukas into her office and closed the door. Pointed him to the chair.
“Thank you for talking to me,” he said.
“You were the only one out there who didn’t irritate me.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not irritating.”
That got a small smile out of her. “This is purely a self-defense strategy,” she said. “Maybe if I talk to you, you’ll become everyone else’s go-to guy. They’ll leave me alone and harass you.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. They’ll still be chasing you.”
“There are so many bigger stories you could be writing about, Mr. Lukas. More important stories. Why this one?”
“Because this one strikes us on a visceral level. It addresses our worst fears. How many of us are terrified of being given up for dead when we aren’t? Of being accidentally buried alive? Which, incidentally, has happened a few times in the past.”
She nodded. “There have been some historically documented cases. But those were prior to the days of embalming.”
“And waking up in morgues? That’s not merely historical. I found out there’ve been several cases in recent years.”
She hesitated. “It’s happened.”
“More often than the public realizes.” He pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. “In 1984, there was a case in New York. A man’s lying on the autopsy table. The pathologist picks up the scalpel and is about to make the first incision when the corpse wakes up and grabs the doctor by the throat. The doctor keels over, dead of a heart attack.” Lukas glanced up. “You’ve heard of that case?”
“You’re focusing on the most sensationalistic example.”
“But it’s true. Isn’t it?”
She sighed. “Yes. I know of that particular case.”
He flipped to another page in his notebook. “Springfield, Ohio, 1989. A woman in a nursing home is declared dead and transferred to a funeral home. She’s lying on the table, and the mortician is about to embalm her. Then the corpse starts talking.”
“You seem quite familiar with this subject.”
“Because it’s fascinating.” He riffled through the pages in his notebook. “Last night, I looked up case after case. A little girl in South Dakota who woke up in her open casket. A man in Des Moines whose chest was actually cut open. Only then does the pathologist suddenly realize the heart is still beating.” Lukas looked at her. “These aren’t urban legends. These are documented cases, and there are a number of them.”
“Look, I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, because clearly it has. Corpses have woken up in morgues. Old graves have been dug up, and they’ve found claw marks inside the coffin lids. People are so terrified of the possibility that some casket makers sell coffins equipped with emergency transmitters to call for help. Just in case you’re buried alive.”
“How reassuring.”
“So yes, it can happen. I’m sure you’ve heard the theory about Jesus. That the resurrection of Christ wasn’t a true resurrection. It was merely a case of premature burial.”
“Why is it so hard to determine that someone is dead? Shouldn’t it be obvious?”
“Sometimes it isn’t. People who are chilled, through exposure or drowning in cold water, can look very dead. Our Jane Doe was found in cold water. And there are certain drugs that can mask vital signs and make it hard to see respirations or detect a pulse.”
“Romeo and Juliet. The potion that Juliet drank to make her look dead.”
“Yes. I don’t know what the potion was, but that scenario was not impossible.”
“Which drugs can do it?”
“Barbiturates, for example. They can depress your respiration and make it hard to
tell that a subject is breathing.”
“That’s what turned up in Jane Doe’s toxicology screen, isn’t it? Phenobarbital.”
She frowned. “Where did you hear that?”
“Sources. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“No comment.”
“Does she have a psychiatric history? Why would she take an overdose of phenobarb?”
“We don’t even know the woman’s name, much less her psychiatric history.”
He studied her for a moment, his gaze too penetrating for comfort. This interview is a mistake, she thought. Moments ago, Peter Lukas had impressed her as polite and serious, the type of journalist who would approach this story with respect. But the direction of his questioning made her uneasy. He had walked into this meeting fully prepared and well versed in the very details that she least wanted to dwell on; the very details that would rivet the public’s attention.
“I understand the woman was pulled out of Hingham Bay yesterday morning,” he said. “Weymouth Fire and Rescue were the first to respond.”
“That’s correct.”
“Why wasn’t the ME’s office called to the scene?”
“We don’t have the manpower to visit every death scene. Plus, this one was down in Weymouth, and there were no obvious indications of foul play.”
“And that was determined by the state police?”
“Their detective thought it was most likely accidental.”
“Or possibly a suicide attempt? Considering the results of her tox screen?”
She saw no point in denying what he already knew. “She may have taken an overdose, yes.”
“A barbiturate overdose. And a body chilled by cold water. Two reasons to obscure a determination of death. Shouldn’t that have been considered?”
“It’s—yes, it’s something one should consider.”
“But neither the state police detective nor the Weymouth Fire Department did. Which sounds like a mistake.”
“It can happen. That’s all I can say.”
“Have you ever made that mistake, Dr. Isles? Declared someone dead who was still alive?”
She paused, thinking back to her internship years before. To a night on call during internal medicine rotation, when the ringing phone had awakened her from a deep sleep. The patient in bed 336A had just expired, a nurse told her. Could the intern come pronounce the woman dead? As Maura had made her way to the patient’s room, she’d felt no anxiety, no crisis of confidence. In medical school, there was no special lesson on how to determine death; it was understood that you would recognize it when you saw it. That night, she had walked the hospital corridor thinking that she would make quick work of this task, then return to bed. The death was not unexpected; the patient had been in the terminal stages of cancer, and her chart was clearly labeled NO CODE. No resuscitation.
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