Laurie opened up the rape-kit and spread out the contents. “Most of this is probably academic after the body has been in the river, but it’s still worth a try.” As she took the appropriate samples, she asked Lou if he thought the case was related to Frank’s or Bruno’s.
“I can’t be sure, but I have my suspicions. I have a number of people including police divers out looking for the heads and hands. I’ll tell you one thing: whoever dumped this woman didn’t want her to be identified. Given the East River’s tidal and current patterns, the fact that she was found in the same general vicinity as Frankie and Bruno suggests she was dumped from the same place. So, yeah, I think there could be a connection.”
“What do you think the chances are of finding the head or the hands?” Laurie asked.
“Not great,” Lou said. “They could have sunk where the body was dumped or they might not have been dumped in the river.”
Laurie had moved on to the internal portion of the autopsy. She noted that the victim had had two surgeries in the past: a gallbladder removal, as Laurie had surmised, and a hysterectomy.
With three of her four cases out of the way before noon, Laurie felt comfortable enough with her progress to suggest that she and Lou have a quick cup of coffee. Lou happily agreed, saying he could use the fortification after the morning’s ordeal. Besides, he would have to leave to get back to his office. Having seen the autopsies of the two “floaters,” he couldn’t rationalize any more time. He jokingly told Laurie that she’d have to do the second overdose without his assistance.
After taking off her goggles, apron, and gown, Laurie took Lou up to the coffeemaker in the ID room. It was just one floor up, so they used the stairs. Laurie sat in a desk chair while Lou sat on the corner of a desk. Just as happened the previous day, Lou’s demeanor suddenly changed when he was about to leave. He became clumsy and self-conscious. He even managed to spill some of his coffee down the front of his scrub shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he said, dabbing at the coffee spots with a napkin. “I hope it doesn’t stain.”
“Don’t be silly, Lou,” Laurie said. “These scrub clothes have had lot worse stains than coffee.”
“I guess you’re right,” he said.
“Is something on your mind?” Laurie asked.
“Yeah,” Lou said. He stared into his coffee. “I wanted to know if you’d like to grab a bite to eat tonight. I know a great place down in Little Italy on Mulberry Street.”
“I’d like to ask you a question,” Laurie said. “Yesterday you asked if I was married. You never said whether you’re married.”
“I’m not married,” he said.
“Have you ever been married?” Laurie asked.
“Yeah, I was married,” Lou said. “I’ve been divorced for a couple of years. I have two kids: a girl seven and a boy five.”
“Do you ever see them?”
“Of course I see them,” Lou said. “What do you think? I wouldn’t see my own kids? I get ’em every weekend.”
“You don’t have to be defensive,” Laurie said. “I was just curious. Yesterday I realized after you’d left that you’d asked me about my marital status without telling me yours.”
“It was an oversight,” Lou said. “Anyway, how about dinner?”
“I’m afraid I have plans tonight,” Laurie said.
“Oh, fine,” said Lou. “Give me the third degree about my marital and parental status, then turn me down. I suppose you’re seeing the fancy doctor with the roses and the limo. Guess I’m not quite in his league.” He stood up abruptly. “Well, I better be going.”
“I think you’re being overly sensitive and silly,” Laurie said. “I only said I was busy tonight.”
“Overly sensitive and silly, huh? I’ll keep that in mind. It’s been another illuminating morning. Thank you so very much. If you come up with anything interesting on any of the floaters, please give me a call.” With that, Lou tossed his Styrofoam cup into a nearby wastebasket and walked out of the room.
Laurie remained in her seat for a moment, sipping her coffee. She knew that she’d hurt Lou’s feelings, and that made her feel uncomfortable. At the same time she thought he was being immature. Some of that “blue collar” charm she’d noted the day before was wearing thin.
After finishing her coffee, Laurie returned to the autopsy room and her fourth case of the day: Marion Overstreet, aged twenty-eight, editor for a major New York publishing house.
“You want anything special for this case?” Vinnie asked. He was eager to get under way.
Laurie shook her head no. She looked at the young woman on the table. Such a waste. She wondered if this woman would have gambled with drugs if she could have anticipated such a terrible price.
The autopsy went quickly. Laurie and Vinnie worked well together as a team. Conversation was kept to a minimum. The case was remarkably similar to both Duncan Andrews’ and Robert Evans’, down to the fact that Overstreet had injected the cocaine, not snorted it. There were only a few minor surprises that Laurie would have Cheryl Myers or one of the other forensic investigators check out. By twelve forty-five Laurie walked out of the main autopsy room.
After changing to her street clothes, Laurie took it upon herself to carry the specimens from each of the day’s cases to Toxicology. She hoped to have another chat with the resident toxicologist. She found John DeVries in his office eating his lunch. An old-fashioned lunch box with a Thermos built into its vaulted cover was open on his desk.
“I finished the two overdoses,” Laurie said. “I’ve brought up their toxicology samples.”
“Leave the samples on the receiving desk in the lab,” he told her. He held an uncut sandwich in both hands.
“Any luck finding a contaminant in the Andrews case?” she asked hopefully.
“It’s only been a few hours since you were here last. I’ll call you if I find anything.”
“As soon as possible,” Laurie encouraged. “I don’t mean to be a bother. It’s just that I’m more convinced than ever that a contaminant of some sort is involved. If there is, I want to find it.”
“If it’s there, we’ll find it. Just give us a chance, for Chrissake.”
“Thanks,” Laurie said. “I’ll try to be patient. It’s just that—”
“I know, I know,” John interrupted. “I get the picture already. Please!”
“I’m out of here,” Laurie said. She put her hands in the air to signify her surrender.
Back in her office, Laurie ate some of the lunch, dictated the morning’s autopsies, and tried to tackle some of her paperwork. She found she couldn’t take her mind off the drug overdose cases.
What worried her was the specter of more cases. If there was some source of contaminated cocaine in the city, it meant there would be more deaths. At this point the ball was in John’s court. There was nothing more she could do.
Or was there? How could she prevent more deaths? The key lay in warning the public. Hadn’t Bingham just lectured her on the fact that they had social and political responsibilities?
With that thought in mind, Laurie picked up the phone and called the chief’s office. She asked Mrs. Sanford if Dr. Bingham might have a moment to see her.
“I believe I could squeeze you in,” Mrs. Sanford said, “but you have to come immediately. Dr. Bingham is due at a luncheon at City Hall.”
When she entered Bingham’s office, she could tell the chief medical examiner was not prepared to give her more than a minute of his time. When he asked her what it was she wanted, Laurie outlined the facts surrounding the three cocaine overdose cases as succinctly as possible. She emphasized the upscale demographics, the fact that none of the victims appeared to have been in the depths of addiction, and that all three had mainlined the drug.
“I get the picture,” Bingham said. “What’s your point?”
“I’m afraid that we are seeing the beginning of a series,” Laurie said. “I’m concerned about a toxic contaminant in some cocaine supply.”
“With only three cases, don’t you think that’s a rather fanciful leap?”
“The point is,” Laurie said, “I’d like to keep it at three cases.”
“An admirable goal,” Bingham said. “But are you certain about this alleged contaminant? What does John have to say?”
“He’s looking,” Laurie said.
“He hasn’t found anything?”
“Not yet,” Laurie admitted. “But he’s only used thin-layer chromatography so far.”
“So I guess we have to wait for John,” Bingham said. He stood up.
Laurie held her seat. Having come this far, she wasn’t about to give up yet. “I was thinking that maybe we should make a statement to the press,” Laurie said. “We could put out a warning.”
“Out of the question,” Bingham said. “I’m not about to gamble the integrity of this office on a supposition based on three cases. Aren’t you coming to me a little prematurely? Why don’t you wait and see what John comes up with? Besides, making that kind of statement would require names, and the Andrews organization would have the mayor at my throat in an instant.”
“Well, it was just a suggestion,” Laurie said.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Bingham said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late as it is.”
Laurie was chagrined Bingham didn’t give her suggestion more credence, but without more conclusive proof she could hardly force the issue. She only wished there was something she could do before more of the same kind of overdoses showed up on her schedule.
It was then she had a thought. Her training in forensics in Miami had involved direct on-the-scene investigation. Maybe if she toured any future scenes, some critical clue might present itself.
Laurie went to the forensic medical investigative department, where she found Bart Arnold, chief of the investigators, sitting at his desk. Between two of his innumerable telephone conversations, she told him that she wanted to be notified if any more overdoses were called in that were similar to the three that she had had. She was very explicit. Bart assured her that he’d let the others know, including the tour doctors who took calls at night.
Laurie was about to return to her office when she remembered that she should also request that the autopsies of any similar overdoses be assigned to her. That meant seeing Calvin.
“It always worries me when one of the troops wants to see me,” Calvin said when Laurie poked her head in his office. “What is it, Dr. Montgomery? It better not be about scheduling your vacation. With the current case load, we’ve decided to cancel all this year’s vacations.”
“Vacation! I wish!” Laurie said with a smile. Despite his gruff manner, she had a genuine fondness and respect for Calvin. “I wanted to thank you for assigning me those two overdose cases this morning.”
Calvin raised an eyebrow. “Well, this is a first. No one ever thanked me for assigning him a case. Why do I have the feeling there’s more to this visit?”
“Because you are naturally suspicious,” Laurie teased. “I truly have found the cases interesting. More than interesting. In fact I’d like to request that any other similar case that comes in be assigned to me.”
“A grunt looking for work!” Calvin said. “It’s enough to make a poor administrator’s heart glow. Sure. You can have all you want. Just so I don’t make any mistakes, what do you mean by similar? If you took all our overdoses you’d be here ’round the clock.”
“Upscale overdose or toxicity cases,” Laurie said. “Just like the two you gave me this morning. People in their twenties or thirties, well educated, and in good physical condition.”
“I’ll personally see that you get them all,” Calvin said cheerfully. “But I have to warn you now. If you put in for overtime, I’m not paying.”
“I’m hoping there will be no overtime,” Laurie said.
After saying goodbye to Calvin, Laurie returned to her office and sat down to work. The positive meeting with Calvin had compensated for the meeting with Bingham, and with a modicum of peace of mind, Laurie was able to concentrate. She was able to accomplish more work than she’d expected and signed out a number of cases including most of the weekend’s autopsies. She even had time to counsel a devastated family about the “crib death” of their infant. Laurie was able to assure them they were not at fault.
The only problem that intruded during the early afternoon was a call from Cheryl Myers. She told Laurie that she’d been unable to find any medical conditions in Duncan Andrews’ past. His only brush with a hospital had occurred nearly fifteen years ago when he broke his arm during a high school football game. “You want me to keep looking?” Cheryl asked after a pause.
“Yes,” Laurie said. “It can’t hurt. Try to go back to his childhood.” Laurie knew that she was hoping for nothing less than a miracle, yet she wanted to be complete. Then she could turn the whole problem over to Calvin Washington. She decided Lou had been right: if the powers-that-be wanted to distort the record for political expediency, they should do it themselves.
By late afternoon Laurie’s thoughts drifted back to the drug cases. On a whim she decided to check out where Evans and Overstreet lived. She caught a cab on First Avenue and asked to go to Central Park South. Evans’ address was near Columbus Circle.
When the cab arrived at the destination, Laurie asked him to wait. She hopped out of the cab to get a good look at the building. She tried to remember who else lived around there. It was some movie star, she was sure. Probably dozens of stars lived nearby. With a view of the park and its proximity to Fifth Avenue, Central Park South was prime real estate. In Manhattan it didn’t get much better than that.
Standing there, Laurie tried to picture Robert Evans striding confidently down the street and turning into his building, briefcase in hand, excited about the prospects of a social evening in New York. It was hard to jibe such an image with so untimely and profligate a demise.
Getting back in the cab, Laurie directed the driver to Marion Overstreet’s: a cozy brownstone on West Sixty-seventh Street a block from Central Park. This time she didn’t even get out of the car. She merely gazed at the handsome residence and again tried to imagine the young editor in life. Satisfied, she asked the confused driver to take her back to the medical examiner’s office.
After the confrontation with Bingham that morning over her visit to Duncan Andrews’ apartment, Laurie had not intended going inside either victim’s building. She’d merely wanted to see them from the outside. She didn’t know why she’d had the compulsion to do so, and when she got back to the medical examiner’s, she wondered if it had been a bad idea. The excursion had saddened her since it made the victims and their tragedies more real.
Back in her office, Laurie ran into her office-mate, Riva. Riva complimented Laurie on the beauty of her roses. Laurie thanked her and stared at the flowers. In her current state of mind, they had changed their ambience. Although they had suggested celebration that morning, now they seemed more the symbol of grief, almost funereal in their appearance.
Lou Soldano was still irritated as he drove over the Queensboro Bridge from Manhattan to Queens. He felt like such a fool having set himself up so conveniently for rejection. What had he been thinking, anyway? She was a doctor, for Chrissake, who’d grown up on the East Side of Manhattan. What would they have talked about? The Mets? The Giants? Hardly. Lou was the first to admit that he wasn’t the most educated guy in the city, and except for law enforcement and sports, he didn’t know much about most other things.
“Do you ever see your kids?” Lou said out loud, doing a mockingly crude imitation of Laurie’s much higher voice. With a short little yell, Lou pounded the steering wheel and mistakenly honked the horn of his Chevrolet Caprice. The driver in front of him turned around and threw him a finger.
“Yeah, to you too,” Lou said. He felt like reaching down and putting his emergency light on the dashboard and pulling the guy over. But he didn’t. Lou didn’t do things like that. He didn’t abuse his authority,
although he did it in his fantasy on a regular basis.
“I should have taken the Triborough Bridge,” he mumbled as the traffic bogged down on the Queensboro. From the last third of the bridge all the way to the juncture with Northern Boulevard it was stop and go, and mostly stop. It gave Lou time to think about the last time he had seen Paul Cerino.
It had been about three years previously when Lou had just made detective sergeant. He was still assigned to Organized Crime at the time and had been pursuing Cerino for a good four years. So it was a surprise when the operator at the station had said that a Mr. Paul Cerino was on the line. Confused as to why the man he was after was calling him, Lou had picked up the phone with great curiosity.
“Hey, how you doing?” Paul had said as if they were the best of friends. “I have a favor to ask of you. Would you mind stopping at the house this afternoon when you leave work?”
Having been invited to a gangster’s house had been such a weird occurrence that Lou had been reluctant to tell anybody about it. But finally he’d told his partner, Brian O’Shea, who’d thought he’d gone crazy for accepting.
“What if he’s planning on doing you in?” Brian asked.
“Please!” Lou had said. “He wouldn’t call me up here at the station if he was going to bump me off. Besides, even if he decided to do it, he wouldn’t get anywhere near it himself. It’s something else. Maybe he wants to deal. Maybe he wants to finger somebody else. Whatever it is, I’m going. This could be something big.”
So Lou went with great expectations of some major breakthrough that he thought might even have resulted in a commendation by the chief. Of course the visit was against Brian’s better judgment, and Brian insisted on going with him but waiting in the car. The deal had been that if Lou didn’t come out in a half hour, Brian was going to call in a SWAT team.
It was with a lot of anxiety that Lou had mounted the front steps of Cerino’s modest house on Clintonville Street in Whitestone. Even the house’s appearance added to Lou’s unease. There was something wrong about it. With the huge amount of money the man had to be making from all his illegal activities plus his only legal endeavor, the American Fresh Fruit Company, it was a mystery to Lou why he lived in such a small, unpretentious house.