“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, that’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? Should
n’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.
Stepping into room 336, she’d been startled to find the bed surrounded by tearful family members who’d gathered to say good-bye. Maura had an audience. This was not the calm communion with the deceased that she had expected. She was painfully aware of all the eyes watching her as she apologized for the intrusion, as she moved to the bedside. The patient lay on her back, her face at peace. Maura took out her stethoscope, slipped the diaphragm under the hospital gown, and laid it against the frail chest. As she’d bent over the body, she felt the family pressing in around her, felt the pressure of their smothering attention. She did not listen as long as she should have. The nurses had already determined the woman was dead; calling in the doctor to make a pronouncement was merely protocol. A note in a chart, an MD’s signature, was all they really needed before a transfer to the morgue. Bent over the chest, listening to silence, Maura could not wait to escape the room. She’d straightened, her face appropriately sympathetic, and had focused her attention on the man she assumed to be the patient’s husband. She’d been about to murmur: I’m sorry but she’s passed away.
The whisper of a breath had stopped her.
Startled, she’d looked down, to see the patient’s chest move. Had watched the woman take another breath, and then fall still. It was an agonal breathing pattern—not a miracle, just the brain’s last electrical impulses, the final twitching of the diaphragm. Every family member in the room gave a gasp.
“Oh my god,” the husband said. “She’s not gone yet.”
“It . . . will be very soon,” was all Maura managed to say. She had walked out of the room, shaken by how close she’d come to making a mistake. Never again had she been so cavalier about a pronouncement of death.
She looked at the journalist. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she said. “Even something as basic as declaring death isn’t as easy as you’d think.”
“So you’re defending the fire crew? And the state police?”
“I’m saying that mistakes happen. That’s all.” And God knows, I’ve made a few of my own. “I can see how it might happen. The woman was found in cold water. She had barbiturates in her bloodstream. These factors could give the appearance of death. Under the circumstances, a mistake isn’t so far-fetched. The personnel involved were simply trying to do their jobs, and I hope you’ll be fair to them when you write your story.” She stood up, a signal that the interview was over.
“I always try to be fair,” he said.
“Not every journalist can make that claim.”
He, too, rose to his feet and stood gazing at her across the desk. “Let me know if I’ve failed. After you read my column.”
She escorted him to the door. Watched as he walked past Louise’s desk and out of the office.
Louise looked up from her keyboard. “How did it go?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have talked to him.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Louise, her eyes back on the computer screen. “When his column comes out in the Tribune on Friday.”
FIVE
Jane could not tell if the news was good or bad.
Dr. Stephanie Tam bent forward, listening through the Doppler stethoscope, and her sleek black hair fell over her face so that Jane could not read her expression. Lying flat on her back, Jane watched as the Doppler head slid across her bulging belly. Dr. Tam had elegant hands, a surgeon’s hands, and she guided the instrument with the same delicacy one might use to pluck a harp. Suddenly that hand paused, and Tam dipped her head lower, in concentration. Jane glanced at her husband, Gabriel, who was sitting right beside her, and she read the same anxiety in his eyes.
Is our baby all right?
At last Dr. Tam straightened and looked at Jane with a calm smile. “Take a listen,” she said, and turned up the volume on the Doppler.
A rhythmic whoosh pulsed from the speaker, steady and vigorous.
“Those are strong fetal heart tones,” said Tam.
“Then my baby’s okay?”
“Baby’s doing fine so far.”
“So far? What does that mean?”
“Well, it can’t stay in there much longer.” Tam bundled up the stethoscope and slipped it into its carrying case. “Once you’ve ruptured your amniotic sac, labor usually starts on its own.”
“But nothing’s happening. I’m not feeling any contractions.”
“Exactly. Your baby’s refusing to cooperate. You’ve got a very stubborn kid in there, Jane.”
Gabriel sighed. “Just like mom here. Wrestling down perps to the very last minute. Can you please tell my wife
she’s now officially on maternity leave?”
“You’re definitely off the job now,” said Tam. “I’m going to get you down to Ultrasound, so we can take a peek in there. Then I think it’s time to induce labor.”
“It won’t start on its own?” said Jane.
“Your water’s broken. You’ve got an open channel for infection. It’s been two hours, and still no contractions. Time to hurry junior along.” Tam moved briskly toward the door. “They’re going to get an IV in you. I’ll check with Diagnostic Imaging, see if we can slip you in for a scan right now. Then we need to get that baby out of there, so you can finally be a mommy.”
“This is all happening so fast.”
Tam laughed. “You’ve had nine months to think about it. It shouldn’t be a complete surprise,” she said, and walked out of the room.
Jane stared up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
Gabriel squeezed her hand. “I’ve been ready for this a long time. It seems like forever.” He lifted her hospital gown and pressed his ear to her naked belly. “Hello in there, kid!” he called out. “Daddy’s getting impatient, so stop fooling around.”
“Ouch. You did a bad job shaving this morning.”
“I’ll do it again, just for you.” He straightened and his gaze met hers. “I mean it, Jane,” he said. “I’ve wanted this for a long time. My own little family.”
“But what if it’s not everything you expected?”
“What do you think I expect?”
“You know. The perfect kid, the perfect wife.”
“Now, why would I want the perfect wife when I can have you?” he said and dodged away, laughing as she took a swing at him.
But I did manage to land the perfect husband, she thought, looking into his smiling eyes. I still don’t know how I got so lucky. I don’t know how a girl who grew up with the nickname Frog Face married a man who could turn every woman’s head just by walking into the room.
He leaned toward her and said, softly: “You still don’t believe me, do you? I can say it a thousand times, and you’ll never believe me. You’re exactly what I want, Jane. You and the baby.” He gave her a kiss on the nose. “Now. What am I supposed to bring back for you, Mom?”