Was this a prank? A mistake? A true zombie?
She said, “Bunny, get my kit. Mallory, call an ambulance.”
The woman sitting in the drawer was naked, and blood was smeared all over her body. She was holding her left arm at her elbow and was wincing in pain.
Claire said, “My name is Dr. Washburn. May I help you? What hurts? Okay, now. Here we go.”
Claire peeled the woman’s hand away from her shoulder and saw a gunshot wound that went from the front straight through to the back. It was called a through-and-through. Because the woman was able to move her arm, it looked as though no bones had been broken. Thank goodness.
She asked, “Can you tell me your name?”
“I should wake up now,” said the woman in the drawer. “This has to be a dream. This is a nightmare for the ages.”
“You’re in the medical examiner’s office. You’re going to be fine,” Claire said. “We’re going to get you off of that skinny little bed, right now.”
Claire was still shocked that the woman in the drawer was alive, but she was starting to get some perspective. This wasn’t the first time in history that a convincingly dead person had revived himself or herself inside a morgue—or a coffin. There were cases in the nineteenth century where people overdosed on barbiturates and were presumed dead, even though they had, instead, fallen into a deathlike state. Some of the time, they “came back to life” before burial.
Claire wondered if there was a modern drug affecting the woman in front of her, but then she remembered that there was a condition called catalepsy.
Could the bloody woman have that disorder?
Claire knew that people who suffer from catalepsy go into a dead-not-dead state, with slow breathing and a weak pulse. Their muscles go rigid, and sometimes they lose sensation in their body. Claire recalled from something she had read long ago that catalepsy could be triggered by disease, certain drugs, or traumatic shock. And if the “undead” was cooled down—for instance, by being stored inside a morgue’s cold room—the brain would remain functional until death took over or the person awoke.
In today’s high-tech medical environment, it would be hard to mistake catalepsy for death. But this woman appeared to be an exception to the rule.
The patient was clearly not dead.
Chapter 5
The woman in the drawer stretched out her good arm, and Claire and Bunny helped her to a standing position.
Claire’s spot assessment was that this poor thing was middle-aged and bone-thin. She’d been shot and was lucky to be breathing.
Claire also saw that another bullet had grazed her hip. Like the shot to her shoulder, it wasn’t life-threatening.
Would this lady’s good luck continue? Or would bad luck send her back in the drawer?
Bunny and Mallory helped the woman onto a stretcher and pulled a sheet up to her shoulders while Claire checked her vitals. The woman was breathing without assistance. Her pulse was slow, but her heart was beating regularly. Her wounds weren’t bleeding and she had spoken, which is always a good sign.
Claire put her stethoscope away, and the woman’s eyelids suddenly flew open. The woman drew back, afraid. It was as though she’d forgotten she’d been awake just moments ago.
“Who are you?” she gasped. “Where am I?”
Claire introduced herself again and ordered someone to get water. Then she asked, “What’s your name?”
“My name?”
After a few long seconds, the woman said, “I’m Joan Murphy. Did you say this is a morgue? What am I doing here?”
“I was hoping you could tell me, Miss Murphy.”
“Call me Joan. My shoulder. It hurts.”
“Actually, medically, that’s a good sign. You took a bullet, Joan, so it’s natural for your body to be reacting to the pain. Do you know who shot you?”
“What day is it?” Joan asked.
“Monday. It’s about eight thirty in the morning.”
“So yesterday was Sunday?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I woke up in my own house. I had breakfast and watched the news shows with my husband—my husband. Someone has to call Robert.”
“Of course. We will. Right away.”
Joan Murphy recited numbers and Mallory wrote them down.
Then Claire said to her patient, “Joan, an ambulance is on the way. You need emergency medical attention and I’m not equipped to do that for you here.”
“If I could just get dressed,” said Joan.
Just then, the swinging doors to the autopsy suite blew wide open.
And here was Cindy, as promised. She was breathing hard as she hurried over to Claire and the woman lying on the stretcher.
“I’m Cindy Thomas,” she said to the patient. “I hope you’re feeling better. What an ordeal, right?”
Then Cindy turned to Claire and said, “What did I miss?”
“I don’t remember anything,” said Joan Murphy. “But obviously, I was murdered. Well, it was attempted murder, I suppose. That’s all I know.”
Chapter 6
The irrepressible Cindy Thomas had just breathlessly materialized in Claire Washburn’s autopsy suite, and Claire wasn’t pleased. Not in the slightest.
Claire said, “Seriously, Cindy? Didn’t I say no?”
She was planning to spin her friend around and march her straight out when the doors to the ambulance bay banged open.
Bunny shouted to the EMTs, “Hurry. She’s in there.”
The EMTs burst into the cold room with a stretcher in tow.
“What have we got, Doctor?” asked an EMT. The name W. Watson was appliqued on his shirt.
Claire said to Watson, “This is Mrs. Murphy.”
“Hello,” Joan said. “The rumors of my demise have been wildly exaggerated.”
Watson cracked a smile.
“She was brought in just after midnight,” Claire continued. “She has a gunshot wound to the shoulder and a bullet graze on her hip. She revived on her own fifteen minutes ago and needs emergency care ASAP.”
Watson said, “You’re not kidding.”
Mallory went to Mrs. Murphy and patted her hand.
“I left a message for your husband,” she said. “I told him you were on the way to Saint Francis Memorial Hospital.”
“How ya doing, Mrs. Murphy?” EMT Watson asked. “We’re going to give you a nice smooth ride. And we’ll get there faster than a speeding bullet.” Then the EMTs helped the gunshot victim onto their gurney and wheeled her out to the ambulance.
The doors closed behind them and the wail of sirens sounded down the road as Bunny entered the autopsy suite holding a brown paper bag that was sealed with red tape. “Dr. Washburn, I opened this to see what it was. I think the handbag inside belongs to Mrs. Murphy.”
Only fifteen minutes had passed since the patient formerly assumed to be a corpse had called out to Claire’s team for help.
“Leave the bag here,” Claire said. “Right now, I’m calling the cops.”
As Bunny did as she was told, Claire saw Cindy eyeing the large paper bag on the stretcher recently vacated by Mrs. Murphy.
Without any discernible hesitation, Cindy opened it up and peered inside. Then she pulled out a handsome red leather handbag, opened it, and began laying its contents on the stretcher.
Claire said, “Cindy. What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m just taking a quick peek. It’s in my nature. I’m an investigative reporter, remember?”
Claire said, “Thanks for the news flash. Listen to me. I disavow all knowledge of what you’re doing. You know full well the contents of that bag are off-limits and off the record. By tampering with them, you could mess up a case against the shooter. Do you hear me?”
But Cindy took Claire’s disavowal as a yellow light, not a red one. She listed the contents of the bag out loud as she emptied the capacious interior and the many pockets. “Here’s her wallet, Claire. The driver’s license belongs to
our not-actually-departed Joan, and the picture matches the woman we just met. She lives on El Camino Del Mar in Seacliff. She has five credit cards in here and a buncha receipts.
“Wow. Look at her makeup kit, Claire. I’ve seen ads for this stuff. The makeup is infused with stem cells tailored to your own DNA. Well, so they say, anyway. I, on the other hand, say it’s expensive. Lots of brushes and sponges, and okay, enough with the makeup.
“She’s also got a photo in the glassine sleeve behind the driver’s license. It’s a picture of Joan and a man who could be her husband.”
Cindy let out a low whistle. “This man is handsome.”
Then she flipped the plastic sleeve over and read the inscription, “Robert and me, Cannes, second honeymoon, 2016.”
Robert appeared to be ten years younger than Joan, at least. He was very good-looking. Dark hair, tall and built, a definite ten. He looked like Tom Selleck when he was Magnum, PI.
Cindy said, “Claire, look at this picture of Joan and her husband, Robert.”
“Nope. You’re going to get us in trouble with the law.”
Cindy said, “I’m wearing gloves. Look.” She wiggled her fingers.
“No harm done, Claire. Okay, I’ve been through everything, every pocket and every secret zippered section. A woman with a four-thousand-dollar handbag would have jewelry, but Joan wasn’t wearing any jewelry and there wasn’t a single piece in her bag, either. But look at what she’s wearing in the photo. Diamonds on her fingers, encircling both wrists, and draped around her throat. That pendant alone has to be eight carats. Maybe even bigger.”
“Hey, Girl Reporter,” Claire said, “put it all back like you found it. Seal the paper bag. I’m going to wash my hands. Be back in two minutes.”
“Got it.”
Claire went into the kitchenette and picked up the notes from last night’s intake that Dr. H. had left her. She ran her finger down the list of deceased. There were the three car-crash victims. Two on the list were checked off with appended death certificates. Dr. H. had also listed the two who came in after them.
Female, Joan Murphy. Male, John Doe.
Two people had been brought in by the van at the same time. John Doe was in the drawer next to Joan Murphy.
Dr. H. had done a cursory external exam and had written notes:
White female, 45, Joan Murphy, non-fatal gunshot to right shoulder. Flesh wound on hip. COD, pending. John Doe, white male, approx. age 35-40, two shots to the back and one to the left arm. COD, gunshot to the heart. MOD, homicide.
Claire closed the folder and dropped it off in her office. Then she returned to the autopsy suite where Cindy was replacing the tape on the bag of Joan Murphy’s possessions.
Claire said, “Cin, as much as I love you, you really have to go. I’ve got work to do, and honestly, you can’t know any of this until next of kin is notified and we’ve got a green light for speaking to the press.”
“I understand. I’m outta here,” Cindy said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Claire was about to open John Doe’s drawer when Greg, the receptionist, called out to her from the front desk.
“Dr. Washburn. Inspector Richard Conklin called. He said to tell you that he wants to see the John Doe.”
“Call him back and tell him that now is fine.”
Chapter 7
When Rich Conklin woke up earlier that morning, he reached for Cindy—but her side of the bed was empty. And it wasn’t even warm anymore.
It took him a few minutes to remember that she was dog-sitting for Lindsay. He smiled. It had been sweet of her not to wake him up.
Rich got moving. He showered, dressed, ate buttered toast over the sink, and washed it down with a Yoo-hoo. He started up his old Bronco on the first try and then made the drive to the Hall of Justice, where he worked in the Southern Station, Homicide Division. He was parking his car a block away from the Hall on Harriet Street when he got a call from Claire. She filled him in on the bizarre happenings in her office.
“I’ll punch in at work and get back to you,” he said.
It was eight thirty when Conklin entered the squad room. Lieutenant Jackson Brady was inside his office, which was located at the back corner of the bullpen. Conklin crossed the room and knocked on the glass office door. Brady waved him in.
Brady was a veteran of Miami vice and homicide, and had taken over the command of this squad when Warren Jacobi moved up to chief. Conklin thought that in some ways, it was a waste of talent to keep Brady behind the desk, but he was an excellent CO. He was direct, smart, and unafraid. Brady was also Rich’s friend, but during work hours, he was all business.
Conklin took a chair opposite Brady and said, “Lieu, I got a call from the ME. Two bodies came in last night. Both had gunshot wounds. One of them is a John Doe. The other is a female who resumed breathing and started talking while she was inside the body bag.”
“Christ. What did you just say? The female victim wasn’t really dead? Did I hear that correctly?”
“Yup. Her name is Joan Murphy and she’s on the way to Saint Francis. I’d like to be on the case.”
Brady said, “Let me see who caught it last night.”
Conklin looked out the window, watching the traffic on the freeway as Brady’s fingers tapped on the keyboard.
“Okay. Okay,” Brady said. “Summing it up here, it seems like it was a madhouse in the morgue last night. There was a car crash with three fatalities. Then, this case came in. It started with a 911 call from the Warwick Hotel. A housekeeper went into room 321 to turn down the bed and found two dead bodies in it.”
Conklin muttered, “Holy shit.”
Brady continued his summary.
“Sergeant Chi got a search warrant and met Detectives Sackowitz and Linden at the hotel. Room three twenty-one was registered to Joan Murphy, who lives locally, over in Seacliff. Murphy’s body was completely naked on the bed. She had a gunshot wound to the right shoulder and another that had grazed her hip. She was covered with blood and had no detectable vital signs. Hear that, Conklin? Not breathing. No heartbeat.”
“Unreal,” said Conklin. “Keep going.”
Brady said, “Continuing. The male victim is in the morgue and isn’t talking or breathing. He’s white, in his thirties, and was also found naked and lying on top of the female. There was no wallet, no ID to be found. He was wearing a wedding band. The male vic took three shots, two to the back, one in the left arm. The murder weapon wasn’t found.”
Brady took a slug of coffee and then went on.
“Sackowitz and Linden waited for the wagon to arrive. ME techs pronounced both victims DOA. Sac and Linden started a canvass in the hotel. They’ll look at surveillance video and do the interviews, et cetera, but I agree with you that they could use help.”
Conklin said, “Good to hear that. My desk is clean, Brady. Use me.”
Brady said, “I don’t have anyone free to partner up with you.”
“It’s just for a few days, Lieu.”
Brady said, “Should be okay, I’m thinkin’, since Joan Murphy can probably ID the doer. I’m betting the shooter was the wife of the John Doe. Stay on Murphy and get her story.”
Brady lifted his icy blue eyes from the computer and turned them on Conklin.
“We’re going to need you to use your famous charm when you interview Miss Murphy, Conklin. This is a sticky situation. We don’t want her to sue the city for taking her to the morgue before her time.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Conklin went back to his desk and downloaded the notes from Sac and Linden. Then he called Claire’s office, leaving a message with her receptionist.
He said, “Greg, tell Dr. Washburn I’m on the case. I want to see the John Doe, ASAP.”
Chapter 8
Conklin made the short walk from the back exit from the Hall of Justice lobby, along the breezeway to the ME’s office in under two minutes. He was thinking about this murky case of a dead woman who was not actually dead,
and a John Doe who was gunned down in flagrante delicto.
Conklin reviewed Sackowitz’s case notes one more time. He’d written that no weapon had been found at the scene of the crime and that the John Doe’s wallet was missing. He and Linden were still working the hotel angle, trying to get an ID on the dead man.
If they could figure out who the John Doe was, they might be able to learn why he was shot in the first place.
Was the John Doe the target? That would make Joan Murphy a victim of circumstance. And why hadn’t the shooter finished off Joan Murphy? She had witnessed the crime, after all. Had the shooter assumed that she was dead?
Could be.
According to the reports, she’d been covered with blood, both hers and the John Doe’s. Her muscles had gone rigid. Her breathing and pulse had hardly been there, and were so delicate that they’d become undetectable. Apparently, neither the cops nor the ME techs had ever seen anything like this before, and Murphy’s deathlike state had fooled them all. How scary was that?
Conklin pulled open the double glass doors to the ME’s office as another question popped into his head. Why hadn’t anyone heard the shots?
But he shook his head, clearing out his mind. There were several people waiting in the reception area to see Claire: some were cops, others legal aides and administrators who worked at the Hall. He needed to get control of this situation before it got out of hand.
The receptionist knew Conklin, so as soon as he saw him he said, “She’s waiting for you, Inspector. Go on in.”
Conklin knew his way around the ME’s office and took the main corridor, which led to the autopsy suite in the back.
Claire was gowned and masked. Her assistants were backing her up as she worked on the postmortem assessment of a young boy with a visible head injury. She saw Conklin come in and covered the child with a sheet. Then she shucked her gloves and put on a clean pair. She picked up a large brown paper bag from an empty table and said, “Let’s go into my office, Richie.”
The Medical Examiner: A Women's Murder Club Story Page 2
