7:55 a.m., Tuesday
Manhattan
It was a glorious morning as Laurie Montgomery walked north on First Avenue, nearing Thirtieth Street. Even New York City looked good in the cool crisp air scrubbed clean from a day of rain. It was definitely colder than the previous days and in that sense a disturbing reminder of the coming winter. But the sun was out and there was enough breeze to disperse the exhaust of the vehicles jostling their way in Laurie’s direction.
Laurie’s step had a definite spring to it as she approached the medical examiner’s office. She smiled to herself as she thought how differently she felt this morning as compared to how she’d felt when she’d left for home the night before. Bingham’s reprimand had been unpleasant but deserved. She’d been in the wrong. If she’d been chief she would have been equally as angry.
As she approached the front steps, she wondered what the day would bring. One aspect of her work she particularly enjoyed was its unpredictability. All she knew was that she was scheduled to be “on autopsy.” She had no idea what kinds of cases and what kinds of intellectual puzzles she’d encounter that day. Just about every time she was on autopsy, she dealt with something she’d never seen, sometimes something she’d never even read about. It was a job that meant continual discovery.
This morning the reception area was relatively quiet. There were still a few media people hanging around for more word on the “preppy murder II” case. Yesterday’s Central Park murder had made the front page of the tabloids and the local morning news.
Just shy of the inner door, Laurie stopped. Over on one of the vinyl couches she spotted Bob Talbot deep in conversation with another reporter. After a moment’s hesitation Laurie strode over to the couch.
“Bob, I’d like to talk to you a moment,” she said. Then to his companion, she added, “Pardon me for interrupting.”
Bob eagerly got to his feet and stepped aside with Laurie. His attitude surprised her. She would have expected him to be more sheepish and contrite.
“Seeing you two days in a row must be some sort of record,” Bob said. “It’s a pleasure I could get used to.”
Laurie started right in. “I can’t believe you didn’t have more respect for my confidence. What I told you yesterday was meant for your ears only.”
Bob was clearly taken aback by Laurie’s rebuke. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t think what you were saying was a secret. You didn’t say so.”
“You could have thought about it,” Laurie fumed. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what such a statement would do to my standing around here.”
“I’m sorry,” Bob repeated. “It won’t happen again.”
“You’re right, it won’t happen again,” Laurie said. She turned and headed for the inner door, ignoring Bob as he called out to her. But although she ignored him, her anger had lessened. After all, she had been speaking the truth the day before. She wondered vaguely if she shouldn’t be more uncomfortable with the social and political aspects of her job that Bingham had referred to than with Bob. One of the attractions for Laurie of pathology in general and forensics in particular was that they tried to deal with the truth. The idea of compromise for whatever reason disturbed her. She hoped she would never have to choose between her scruples and the politicking.
After Marlene Wilson buzzed her through, Laurie went directly to the ID office. As per usual Vinnie Amendola was drinking coffee and perusing the sports pages. If the date on the paper hadn’t been that day’s, she might have sworn he’d never left. If he noticed Laurie, he didn’t give any indication. Riva Mehta, Laurie’s office-mate, was in the ID office. She was a slight Indian woman with a dark complexion and a soft, silky voice. On Monday they’d not crossed paths.
“Looks like today’s your lucky day,” Riva teased. She was getting herself some coffee before heading up to the office. Tuesday was to be a paper day for her.
“How so?” Laurie questioned.
Vinnie gave a short laugh without looking up from his paper.
“You got a homicide floater,” Riva said. A floater was a body that had been in water for a period of time. They generally were not desirable cases since they frequently were in advanced stages of decomposition.
Laurie looked at the schedule Calvin had made up that morning. Listed were that day’s autopsies and the people to whom they’d been assigned. After her name were two drug overdoses and a GSW homicide. The GSW stood for Gun Shot Wound.
“The body was hauled out of the East River this morning,” Riva said. “An attentive security man had apparently seen it bobbing past the South Street Sea Port.”
“Lovely,” Laurie said.
“It’s not so bad,” said Vinnie. “It hadn’t been in the water long. Only a matter of hours.”
Laurie nodded in relief. That meant she probably wouldn’t have to do the case in the decomposing room. It wasn’t the smell that bothered her on such cases as much as the isolation. The decomposing room was all by itself on the other side of the morgue. Laurie much preferred to be in the thick of things and relating to the other staff. There was a lot of give and take in the main autopsy room. Often she learned as much from other people’s cases as she did from her own.
Laurie looked at the name of the victim and his age: Frank DePasquale. “Poor fellow was only eighteen,” she said. “Such a waste. And like most of these homicides, the case will probably never be solved.”
“Probably not,” Vinnie agreed as he struggled to fold his newspaper to the next page.
Laurie said good morning to Paul Plodgett when he appeared at the door. He had dark circles under his eyes. She asked him how his famous case was progressing.
“Don’t ask,” Paul said. “It’s a nightmare.”
Laurie got herself a cup of coffee and picked up the three folders for her day’s cases. Each folder contained a case worksheet, a partially filled-out death certificate, an inventory of medico-legal case records, two sheets for autopsy notes, a telephone notice of death as received by communications, a completed identification sheet, an investigative report, a sheet for the autopsy report, and a lab slip for HIV antibody analysis.
As she was shuffling through all the material, Laurie noticed the names of the other two cases: Louis Herrera and Duncan Andrews. She remembered the name Duncan Andrews from the day before.
“That was the case you asked me about yesterday,” a voice said from over Laurie’s shoulder. She turned and looked up into Calvin Washington’s coal black eyes. He’d come up behind her and put a finger by Andrews’ name. “When I saw the name, I thought you’d want the case.”
“Fine by me,” Laurie said.
Each one of the medical examiners had his own way of approaching his autopsy day. Some grabbed the material and went directly downstairs. Laurie had a different modus operandi. She liked to take all the paperwork up to her office to plan her day as rationally as possible. With her coffee in one hand, her briefcase in the other, and the three new files under her arm, Laurie set out for the elevator. She got as far as communications when Sergeant Murphy, one of the policemen currently assigned to the medical examiner’s office, called her name. He bounded out of the police cubicle, dragging a second man behind him. Sergeant Murphy was an ebullient, red-faced Irishman.
“Dr. Montgomery, I’d like you to meet Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano,” Murphy said proudly. “He’s one of the brass in the homicide department at headquarters downtown.”
“Happy to meet you, Doctor,” Lou said. He stuck out his hand. He was an attractive, dark-complected man of medium height, with well-defined features and bright eyes that just then were riveted to her face. His hair was cropped short in a style that seemed appropriate for his stocky, muscular body.
“Happy to meet you as well,” Laurie said. “We don’t see too many police lieutenants here at the medical examiner’s office.” Laurie felt a bit nervous under the man’s unblinking stare.
“They don’t let us out of our cages too often,” Lou said. “I’m pretty much glued to my desk. But I still like to sneak out once in a while, especially on certain cases.”
“Hope you enjoy your visit here,” Laurie said. She smiled and started to leave.
“Just a moment, Doctor!” Lou said. “I was told that you were assigned to autopsy Frank DePasquale. I wonder if you would mind if I observed the post. I’ve already cleared it with Dr. Washington.”
“Not at all,” Laurie said. “If you can tolerate it, be my guest.”
“I’ve seen a few autopsies,” Lou said. “I don’t think there will be any problem.”
“Fine,” Laurie said.
There was an awkward pause. For a moment no one spoke. Finally Laurie realized the man was waiting for some directions.
“I’m on my way to my office,” Laurie said. “I usually go over the paperwork first. Would you care to come along?”
“I’d be delighted,” he said.
In the elevator Laurie looked at Soldano more
closely. He was a square, athletic-
appearing man of obvious intelligence whose rumpled appearance
vaguely reminded her of Colombo, the TV detective made famous by
Peter Falk. The crease in his suit pants had long since
disappeared. Despite the fact that it was only a little after eight
in the morning, he had a heavy five o’clock shadow.
As if reading Laurie’s mind, Lou self-consciously ran a hand up and down the sides of his face.
“I guess I look a wreck,” Lou said. “I’ve been up since four-thirty when the DePasquale body floated to shore. Didn’t have a chance to shave. Hope it doesn’t offend you. I’m not trying for the Don Johnson Miami Vice look.”
“I didn’t notice,” Laurie lied. “But why is a detective lieutenant so interested in an eighteen-year-old homicide victim? Is there something special about this case that I should know?”
“Not really,” Lou said. “It’s more personal. Before I got promoted to lieutenant and switched to Homicide, I’d been with the organized crime unit for six years. With DePasquale the two areas overlap. DePasquale was a young hoodlum on the fringes of the Lucia crime family organization. He might have been only eighteen, but he already had a long sheet.”
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and Laurie motioned for them to get off.
“As you’ve probably already guessed,” Lou continued, following Laurie down the corridor, “DePasquale’s death was an obvious execution.”
“It was?” Laurie questioned. As of yet, nothing was obvious to her.
“Absolutely,” Lou said. “You’re going to find that he was shot from close range with a small caliber bullet into the base of the brain. It’s the usual, proven method. No mess, no fuss.”
They went into Laurie’s office. Laurie introduced Lou to Riva, who was already hard at work. Laurie got a chair for Lou and put it next to her desk. They both sat down.
“You’ve seen these gangland-style execution cases before, haven’t you?” Lou questioned.
“I’m not sure,” Laurie said evasively. From medical school training, she knew how to be vague when asked a pointed question. She didn’t want to give the impression she was inexperienced.
“They usually mean friction between rival organizations,” Lou said. “And in this case it would mean friction between the Lucia and the Vaccarro crime families. They are the major players in the Queens area and their respective interests are controlled by midlevel bosses, Vinnie Dominick and Paul Cerino. My guess would be that Paul Cerino had a hand in poor Frank DePasquale’s murder, and if he did, I’d like nothing better than to nail him with an indictment. I was after the guy for the entire six years I was assigned to Organized Crime. I could never get an indictment to stick. But if I could link him to a capital offense like whacking DePasquale, I’d be in fat city.”
“That puts the burden on us,” Laurie said as she opened DePasquale’s folder.
“If you or your lab could come up with something, I’d be eternally grateful,” Lou said. “We need some kind of break. The problem with guys like Cerino is that they keep so many layers between themselves and all the crime committed in their name, we seldom get any charges to stick.”
“Oh, damn!” Laurie said suddenly. She’d been listening to Lou as well as going through the DePasquale file.
“What’s the matter?” Lou asked.
“They didn’t take an X-ray on DePasquale,” Laurie said. She reached for her phone and dialed the morgue. “We have to have an X-ray before the autopsy. Unfortunately that’s going to hold things up. I’ll have to post one of the other cases first. I’m sorry.”
Lou shrugged.
Laurie told the mortuary tech who answered the phone to X-ray Frank DePasquale as soon as possible. The tech said he’d do his best. As she was hanging up, the doorway to her office was filled by Calvin Washington.
“Laurie,” Calvin said, “we’ve got a problem that you should know about.”
Laurie stood up when Calvin entered. “What is it?” she asked. She noticed that Calvin was eyeing Lou questioningly. “Dr. Washington, I believe you met Lieutenant Soldano.”
“Ah, yes,” Calvin said. “Don’t mind me. It’s just Alzheimer’s setting in. We met just this morning.” He shook hands with Lou, who’d stood when Laurie introduced him.
“Sit down, both of you,” Calvin boomed. “Laurie, I have to warn you that we’ve already been getting some heat from the Mayor’s office about this Duncan Andrews case. It seems that the deceased has some powerful political connections. So we’re going to have to cooperate. I want you to look hard for some natural cause of death so that you can downplay the drugs. The family would prefer it that way.”
Laurie looked up at Calvin’s face, half expecting it to break out in a broad smile, saying that he was only joking. But Calvin’s expression didn’t change.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Laurie said.
“I can’t be much clearer,” Calvin said. His infamous impatience began to show.
“What do you want me to do, lie?” Laurie asked.
“Hell, no, Dr. Montgomery!” Calvin snapped. “What do I have to do, draw you a map? I’m just asking you to lean as far as you can, okay? Find something like a coronary plaque, an aneurysm, anything, and then write it up. And don’t act so surprised or self-righteous. Politics play a role here and the sooner you learn that the better off we’ll all be. Just do it.”
Calvin turned and left as quickly as he’d come.
Lou whistled and sat down. “Tough guy,” he said.
Laurie shook her head in disbelief. She turned to Riva, who hadn’t paused in her work. “Did you hear that?” Laurie asked her.
“It happened to me once, too,” Riva said without looking up. “Only my case was a suicide.”
With a sigh, Laurie sat down in her desk chair and looked across at Lou. “I don’t know if I’m prepared to sacrifice integrity and ethics for the sake of politics.”
“I don’t think that was what Dr. Washington was asking you to do,” Lou said.
Laurie felt her face flush. “It wasn’t? I’m sorry, but I think it was.”
“I don’t mean to tell you your business,” Lou said, “but my take was that Dr. Washington wants you to emphasize any potential natural cause of death you find. The rest can be left to interpretation. For some reason it makes a difference in this case. It’s the real world versus the world of make-believe.”
“Well, you seem pretty blasé about fudging the details,” Laurie said. “In Pathology we’re supposed to be dealing with the truth.”
“Come on,” Lou said. “What is the truth? There are shades of gray in most everything in life, so why not in death? My line of work happens to be justice. It’s an ideal. I pursue it. But if you don’t think politics sometimes plays a lead role in how justice is applied, you’re kidding yourself. There’s always a gap between law and justice. Welcome to the real world.”
“Well, I don’t like it one bit,” Laurie said. All this was reminding her of the concerns about compromise she’d had when she’d arrived a half hour earlier.
“You don’t have to like it,” Lou said. “Not many do.”
Laurie flipped open the file on Duncan Andrews. She leafed through the papers until she came to the investigator’s report. After reading for a few moments, she looked up at Lou. “I’m beginning to get the big picture,” she said. “The deceased was some kind of financial whiz kid, a senior vice president of an investment banking firm at only thirty-five. And on top of that there is a note here that says his father is running for the U.S. Senate.”
“Can’t get much more political than that,” Lou said.
Laurie nodded, then read more of the investigator’s report. When she got to the section noting who had identified the deceased at the scene, she found a name, Sara Wetherbee. In the space left to describe the witness’s relationship to the deceased, the investigator had scrawled: “girlfriend.”
Laurie shook her head. Discovering a loved one dead from drugs carried an ugly resonance for her. In a flash her thoughts drifted back seventeen years to when she was fifteen, a freshman at Langley School. She could remember the bright sunny day as if it had been yesterday. It was midfall, crisp and clear, and the trees in Central Park had been a blaze of color. She’d walked past the Metropolitan with its banners snapping in the gusty wind. She’d turned left on Eighty-fourth Street and entered her parents’ massive apartment building on the west side of Park Avenue.
“I’m home!” Laurie called as she tossed her bookbag onto the foyer table. There was no answer. All she could hear was the traffic on Park peppered by the inevitable bleat of taxi horns.
“Anybody home?” Laurie called and heard her voice echo through the halls. Surprised to find the apartment empty, Laurie pushed through the door from the butler’s pantry into the kitchen. Even Holly, their maid, was nowhere to be seen. But then Laurie remembered that it was Friday, Holly’s day off.
“Shelly!” Laurie yelled. Her older brother was home from his freshman year at college for the long Columbus Day weekend. Laurie expected to find him either in the kitchen or the den. She looked in the den; no one was there, but the TV was on with the sound turned off.
For a moment Laurie looked at the silent antics of a daytime game show. She thought it odd that the TV had been left on. Thinking that someone might still be home, she resumed her tour of the apartment. For some reason the silent rooms filled her with apprehension. She began to move faster, sensing a secret urgency.
Pausing in front of Shelly’s bedroom door, Laurie hesitated. Then she knocked. When there was no answer, she knocked again. When there was still no answer, she tried the door. It was unlocked. She pushed open the door and stepped into the room.
In front of her on the floor was her brother, Shelly. His face was as white as the ivory-colored china in the dining room breakfront. Bloody froth oozed from his nose. Around his upper arm was a rubber tourniquet. On the floor, six inches from his half-opened hand, was a syringe Laurie had seen the night before. On the edge of his desk was a glassine envelope. Laurie guessed what was inside because of what Shelly had told her the night before. It had to be the “speedball” he’d boasted of, a mixture of cocaine and heroin.
Hours later the same day, Laurie endured the worst confrontation of her life. Inches from her nose was her father’s angry face with his bulging eyes and purpled skin. He was beside himself with rage. His thumbs were digging into her skin where he held her upper arms. A few feet away her mother was sobbing into a tissue.
“Did you know your brother was using drugs?” her father demanded. “Did you? Answer me.” His grip tightened.
“Yes,” Laurie blurted. “Yes, yes!”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” her father shouted. “If you’d told us, he’d be alive.”
“I couldn’t,” Laurie sobbed.
“Why?” her father shouted. “Tell me why!”
“Because . . .” Laurie cried. She paused, then said: “Because he told me not to. He made me promise.”
“Well, that promise killed him,” her father hissed. “It killed him just as much as the damn drug.”
Laurie felt a hand grip her arm and she jumped. The shock brought her back to the present. She blinked a few times as if waking from a trance.
“Are you all right?” Lou asked. He’d gotten up and was holding Laurie’s arm.
“I’m fine,” Laurie said, slightly embarrassed. She extracted herself from Lou’s grip. “Let’s see, where were we?” Her breathing had quickened. Perspiration dotted her forehead. She looked over the paperwork in front of her, trying to remember what had dredged up such old, painful memories. As if it had been yesterday, she could recall the anguish of the conflict of responsibility, sibling or filial, and the terrible guilt and burden of having chosen the former.
“What were you thinking about?” Lou asked. “You seemed a long way off.”
“The fact that the victim had been discovered by his girlfriend,” Laurie said as her eyes stumbled again onto Sara Wetherbee’s name. She wasn’t about to share her past with this lieutenant. To this day she had trouble talking about that tragic episode with friends, much less a stranger. “It must have been very hard for the poor woman.”
“Unfortunately, homicide victims are often found by those closest to them,” Lou said.
“Must have been a terrible shock,” Laurie said. Her heart went out to Sara Wetherbee. “I must say, this Duncan Andrews case is certainly not the usual overdose.”
Lou shrugged. “With cocaine, I’m not sure there is a usual case. When the drug went upscale in the seventies, deaths have been seen in all levels of society, from athletes and entertainers to executives to college kids to inner city hoodlums. It’s a pretty democratic blight. A great leveler, if you will.”
“Here at the medical examiner’s office, we mostly see the lower end of the abuser spectrum,” Laurie said. “But you’re right in general.” Laurie smiled. She was impressed by Lou. “What was your background before joining the police?”
“What do you mean?” Lou asked.
“Did you go to college?” Laurie asked.
“Of course I went to college!” Lou snapped. “What kind of question is that?”
“Sorry,” Laurie said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“And I don’t mean to be testy,” Lou said. “Sometimes I’m a bit self-conscious about where I went to school. I only got to go to a community college on the Island, not some Ivy League ivory tower. Where’d you go?”
“Wesleyan University, up in Connecticut,” Laurie said. “Ever heard of it?”
“Of course I’ve heard of it,” Lou said. “What do you think, all police officers are ignoramuses? Wesleyan University. I might have known. As Billy Joel says, you uptown girls live in an uptown world.”
“How did you know I was from New York?”
“Your accent, Doctor,” Lou said. “It’s as indelible as my Long Island Rego Park accent.”
“I see,” Laurie said. She didn’t like to think she was such an open book. She wondered what else this man could tell about her from his years as an investigator.
Laurie changed the subject. “Where you go to school matters less than what you do while you’re there,” she said. “You shouldn’t be sensitive about your college. Obviously you got a good education.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Lou. “But thanks for the compliment.”
Laurie looked down at the papers on her desk. Suddenly she felt a little guilty about her privileged background of a private secondary school, Wesleyan University, Columbia Medical School. She hoped she hadn’t sounded patronizing.
“Let me take a quick look at the third case,” Laurie said. She opened the third folder. “Louis Herrera, age twenty-eight, unemployed, found in a dumpster behind a grocery store.” Laurie looked up at Lou. “Probably died in a crack house and was literally dumped. That’s the usual overdose we see. Another sad, wasted life.”
“In some respects maybe more tragic than the rich guy,” Lou said. “I’d guess he had a lot fewer choices in life.”
Laurie nodded. Lou’s perspective was refreshing. She reached for the phone and dialed Cheryl Myers down in the medical investigator’s department. She asked Cheryl to get all the medical records she could on Duncan Andrews. She told her that she hoped to find some medical problem that she might be able to relate to his pathology.
Hanging up the phone, Laurie glanced over at Lou. “I can’t help it, but I feel like I’m cheating.” She stood up and gathered all the paperwork.
“You’re not cheating,” Lou assured her. “Besides, why not wait until you have all the information, including the autopsy? Then you can worry about it. Who knows, maybe everything will work out.”
“Good advice,” Laurie said. “Let’s get downstairs and get to work.”
Normally Laurie changed into her scrub clothes in her office, but with Lou there, she opted to use the locker room. When they got off the elevator on the basement level, Laurie directed Lou into the men’s side while she went into the women’s. Five minutes later they met up in the hall. Laurie had on a layer of normal scrub clothes, then another impermeable layer, then a large apron. On her head she wore a hood. A face mask dangled from around her neck. Lou had on a single layer of scrubs, a hood, and he carried his face mask.
“You look like one of the doctors,” Laurie said, eyeing Lou to make sure he’d put on the right clothing.
“I feel like I’m going into surgery instead of to see an autopsy,” Lou said. “I didn’t wear all this the last time. You sure I have to wear this mask?”
“Everyone in the autopsy room wears a mask,” Laurie said. “Because of AIDS and other infectious problems, rules have become much stricter. If you don’t wear it, Calvin will bodily throw you out.”
They walked down the main corridor of the morgue, passing the stainless steel door to the walk-in cooler and past the long bank of individual refrigerated compartments. The refrigerator compartments formed a large U in the middle of the morgue.
“This place is certainly grisly,” Lou commented.
“I suppose,” Laurie said. “It’s less so when you’re used to it.”
“It looks like a Hollywood set for a horror movie,” Lou said. “Whoever picked out these blue tiles for the walls? And what about the cement floor? Why isn’t there any covering? Look at all the stains.”
Laurie stopped and gazed at the floor. Although the surface was swept clean, the stains were unspeakable. “It was supposed to be tiled long ago,” she said. “Somehow it got fouled up in New York City bureaucratic red tape. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
“And what are all those coffins doing here?” Lou asked. “That’s a nice touch.” He pointed to a stack of simple pine boxes piled almost to the ceiling. Others were standing on end.
“Those are Potter’s Field coffins,” Laurie said. “There are a lot of unidentified bodies in New York City. After their autopsies we keep them in the cooler for a number of weeks. If they go unclaimed, they are eventually buried at city’s expense.”
“Isn’t there someplace else they could store the coffins?” Lou asked. “It looks like a garage sale.”
“Not that I know of,” Laurie said. “I guess I’ve never thought about it. I’m so used to seeing them there.”
Laurie pushed into the autopsy room first, then held the door for Lou. In contrast to the previous morning, all eight tables were now occupied by corpses, each with a tag tied around its big toe. At five of the tables the posts were already under way.
“Well, well, Dr. Montgomery is starting before noon,” one of the gowned and hooded doctors quipped.
“Some of us are smart enough to test the water before we jump in the pool,” Laurie shot back.
“You’re on table six,” one of the mortuary techs called out from a sink where he was washing out a length of intestine.
Laurie looked back at Lou, who had paused just inside the door. She saw him swallow hard. Although he’d said he’d seen autopsies before, she had the feeling that he found this “assembly line” operation a bit overwhelming. With the gut being washed out, the smell wasn’t too good either.
“You can go outside anytime,” Laurie said to him.
Lou held up a hand. “I’m all right,” he said. “If you can take this, I can too.”
Laurie walked down to table six. Lou followed her. A gowned and hooded Vinnie Amendola appeared.
“It’s you and me today, Dr. Montgomery,” Vinnie said.
“Fine,” Laurie said. “Why don’t you get everything we’ll need and we’ll get started.”
Vinnie nodded, then went over to the supply cabinets.
Laurie put out her note papers where she could get to them, then looked at Duncan Andrews. “Handsome-looking man,” she said.
“I didn’t think doctors thought that way,” Lou said. “I thought you guys all switched into neutral or something.”
“Hardly,” Laurie said. Duncan’s pale body lay in apparent repose on the steel table. His eyelids were closed. The only thing that marred his appearance aside from his pasty white color were the excoriations on his forearms. Laurie pointed to them. “Those deep scratches are probably the result of what’s called formication. That’s a tactile hallucination of bugs under or on the skin. It’s seen in both cocaine and amphetamine intoxication.”
Lou shook his head. “I can’t understand why people take drugs,” he said. “It’s beyond me.”
“They do it for pleasure,” Laurie said. “Unfortunately, drugs like cocaine tap into parts of the brain that developed during evolution as the reward center. It was to encourage behavior likely to perpetuate the species. If the war against drugs is to succeed, the fact that drugs can be pleasurable has to be admitted and not ignored.”
“Why do I have the feeling you don’t think much of the Just Say No campaign?” Lou asked.
“Because I don’t. It’s stupid,” Laurie said. “Or at least shortsighted. I don’t think the politicians who dreamed that scheme up have a clue to what growing up in today’s society is like, especially for poor urban kids. Drugs are around, and when kids try them and find out that drugs are pleasurable, they think the powers-that-be are lying about the negative or dangerous side as well.”
“You ever try any of that stuff?”
“I’ve tried pot and cocaine.”
“Really?”
“Are you surprised?” Laurie asked.
“I suppose I am, to an extent.”
“Why?”
Lou shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose you don’t look the type.”
Laurie laughed. “I guess he looks more the type than I do right now,” she said, pointing to Andrews. “But when he was alive I bet he didn’t look the type either. Yeah, I tried some drugs in college. Despite what happened to my brother, or maybe because of it.”
“What happened to your brother?” Lou asked.
Laurie looked down at the body of Duncan Andrews. She’d not meant to bring her brother into the conversation. The comment had slipped out as if she were talking with someone with whom she was close.
“Did your brother overdose?” Lou asked.
Laurie’s eyes went from Duncan’s corpse to Lou. She couldn’t lie. “Yes,” she said. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine,” Lou said. “I don’t mean to pry.”
Laurie turned back to Duncan’s body. For a second she was immobilized by the thought it was her brother’s body before her on that cold table. She was relieved to be interrupted by Vinnie returning with gloves, specimen bottles, preservatives, labels, and a series of instruments. She was eager to get started and put these reveries behind her.
“Let’s do it,” Vinnie said. He began applying the labels to the specimen jars.
Laurie opened the gloves and put them on. She put on her goggles and began a careful exterior examination of Duncan Andrews. After looking at Duncan’s head, she motioned for Lou to step around to the other side of the table. Parting Duncan’s hair with her gloved hand, she showed Lou multiple bruises.
“I’ll bet he had at least one convulsion,” Laurie said. “Let’s look at the tongue.”
Laurie opened Duncan’s mouth. The tongue was lacerated in several locations. “Just what I expected,” she said. “Now let’s see how much cocaine this fellow has been using.” With a small flashlight and a nasal speculum, she looked up Duncan’s nose. “No perforations. Looks normal. Guess he hadn’t been sniffing much.”
Laurie straightened up. She noticed Lou’s attention had been directed at a neighboring table where they were busy sawing off the top of a skull. Their eyes met.
“You okay?” Laurie questioned.
“I’m not sure,” Lou said. “You actually do this every day?”
“On average, three or four days a week,” Laurie said. “You want to go outside for a while? I can let you know when we do DePasquale.”
“No, I’ll be all right. Let’s get on with it. What’s next?”
“I usually check the eyes,” Laurie said. She studied Lou. The last thing she wanted was for him to pass out and hit his head on the concrete floor. That had happened to a visitor once before.
“Continue,” Lou urged. “I’m fine.”
Laurie shrugged. Then she put her thumb and index finger on Duncan’s eyelids and drew them up.
Lou gasped and turned away.
For a moment even Laurie was taken aback. The eyes were gone! The pulpy red sockets were filled with pink-stained wads of gauze. It gave the corpse a ghastly appearance.
“Okay!” Lou said. “You got me. You set me up and you got me. I’ll have to give you that.” He turned back to Laurie. The bit of facial skin visible between his mask and his hood was blanched. “Let me guess: this was some sort of initiation ordeal for the rookie.”
Laurie let out a short, nervous laugh. “I’m sorry, Lou,” she said. “I’d forgotten the eyes had been taken. Truly. This was the case where the family was insistent that the deceased’s wishes to be an organ donor be honored. If the eyes can be harvested within twelve hours, they often can be used if there are no other contraindications. Occasionally it can even be longer than twelve hours if the body is chilled.”
“I don’t mind being the butt of a joke,” Lou said.
“But it wasn’t a joke,” Laurie insisted. “I’m sorry. Honest. I’d been called on this case yesterday. With everything else that’s happened, I’d forgotten. I just remembered this was a case where the victim took the cocaine IV. Let’s see if we can find the injection site.”
Laurie rotated Duncan’s right arm palm up so she could examine its volar surface. Vinnie did the same with the left arm.
“Here it is,” Laurie exclaimed, pointing to a minute puncture wound over one of the veins in front of the elbow area.
“I didn’t know cocaine could be mainlined,” Lou said.
“It’s taken into the body just about every way you can imagine and some you can’t,” Laurie said. “IV is not common, but it’s done.” As she spoke, her mind took her back to the night before she found Shelly dead in his bedroom. He’d just come home from Yale, and Laurie was in his room, eager to hear about college. His open Dopp kit was on his bed.
“What’s this?” Laurie questioned. She held up a pack of condoms.
“Give me that,” Shelly shouted, clearly peeved to have his baby sister find such a thing in his shaving kit.
Laurie giggled as Shelly snatched the contraceptives from her hand. While Shelly was busy burying them in his top bureau drawer, Laurie looked into the Dopp kit to see what else she could find. But what she saw was more disturbing than interesting. Touching it ever so gingerly, Laurie lifted a 10 cc syringe from the bag. It was the needle she was to see the following day.
“What is this?” she demanded.
Shelly came over and tried to grab the needle, but Laurie evaded him.
“You got this from Daddy’s office, didn’t you?” Laurie demanded.
“Give me that or you are in serious trouble,” Shelly snapped. He trapped her against the wall.
Laurie gripped the needle in both hands behind her back. Having grown up in New York City, she knew what it meant when a fellow teenager had a needle.
“Are you shooting up?” Laurie asked.
Shelly overpowered her and got the needle. He took it over to his bureau and hid it with his condoms. Then he turned back to his sister, who hadn’t moved.
“I’ve tried it a couple of times,” Shelly said. “It’s called speedball. A lot of the guys at school do it. It’s no big deal. But I don’t want you to say anything to Mom or Dad. If you do, I’ll never talk to you again. You understand? Never.”
Laurie’s momentary reverie was cut short by the booming voice of Calvin Washington. “What the hell is going on here?” he yelled. “Why haven’t you even started this case? I came in here to see if you found anything we can hang our hats on and you haven’t even started. Get busy.”
Laurie sprang into action. She completed her external examination, noting only a few ecchymotic bruises on Duncan’s upper arms in addition to her other findings. Then she took a scalpel and expertly made the traditional Y-shaped incision from the points of the shoulders down to the pubis. With Vinnie helping, she worked silently and quickly removing the breastbone and exposing the internal organs.
Lou tried to stay out of the way. “I’m sorry if I’ve slowed you down,” he said when Laurie paused, allowing Vinnie to organize the specimen bottles.
“No problem,” Laurie said. “When we do DePasquale I’ll explain a bit more. I just want to get Andrews finished. If Calvin really gets mad there could be trouble.”
“I understand,” Lou said. “Would you rather I leave?”
“No, not at all,” Laurie said. “Just don’t get your feelings hurt when I ignore you for a while.”
After Laurie inspected all the internal organs in situ, she used several syringes to take various fluids for toxicologic testing. She and Vinnie went through a precise procedure to make sure the right specimen got in the correctly labeled bottle. Then she began to remove the organs, one by one. She spent the most time on the heart, until eventually it, too, was removed.
While Vinnie took the stomach and the intestines to the sink to wash them out, Laurie carefully went through the heart, taking multiple samples for later microscopic examination. She then took similar samples from some of the other organs. By then Vinnie was back. Without any encouragement, he began on the head, reflecting the scalp. After Laurie inspected the skull, she nodded to him to use the power vibrating saw to cut through the skull in a circular fashion just above the ears.
Lou kept his distance when Laurie lifted the brain out of its skull and plopped it into a pan held by Vinnie. Wielding a long-bladed knife similar to a butcher’s, she began making serial cuts as if she were dealing with a slab of processed meat. It was all an efficient, well-practiced duet requiring little conversation.
Half an hour later, Laurie led Lou out of the autopsy room. Leaving the aprons and gowns behind, they went up to the lunchroom on the second floor for coffee. They had about fifteen minutes while Vinnie took Duncan’s remains away and “put up” the next case, Frank DePasquale.
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be eating anything for a few days,” Lou said when offered something from one of the several vending machines in the lunchroom. Laurie poured herself another cup of coffee. They sat at a Formica table near the microwave oven. There were about fifteen other people in the room, all engaged in animated conversation.
Seeing other people smoking, Lou took out a box of Marlboros, a pack of matches, and lit up. When he noticed Laurie’s expression, he took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Okay if I smoke?” he asked.
“If you must,” Laurie said.
“Just one,” Lou assured her.
“Well, Duncan Andrews didn’t have any pathology on gross,” she said. “And I don’t think I’m going to find anything on histology either.”
“You can only do your best,” Lou said. “If worse comes to worst, dump it in Calvin’s lap. Let him decide what to do. As part of the brass, it’s his job.”
“Whoever does the autopsy has to sign out on the death certificate,” Laurie said. “But maybe I can give it a try.”
“I was impressed with the way you handled that knife in the autopsy room . . .” Lou said.
“Thanks for your compliment,” Laurie said. “But why do I feel like I hear a “but’ coming?”
“It’s just I’m surprised an attractive woman like yourself would choose this kind of work,” Lou said.
Laurie closed her eyes and let out a sigh of exasperation. “That’s a rather chauvinistic comment.” She stared at Lou. “Unfortunately, it undermines your compliment. Did you mean to say, ‘What is a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?’ “
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Lou said. “I didn’t mean it that way at all.”
“Talking about my appearance and my abilities and relating the two makes a negative comment about both,” Laurie said. She took a sip of her coffee. She could tell that Lou was bewildered and uncomfortable. “I don’t mean to jump on you,” she added. “But I’m sick of defending my career choice. And I’m also sick of hearing my looks and my gender have anything to do with my position.”
“Maybe I’d better just keep my trap shut,” said Lou.
Laurie glanced up at the clock on the wall. “I think we should get downstairs. I’m sure Vinnie has DePasquale on the table.” She gulped down the rest of her coffee and stood up.
Lou stubbed out his cigarette and hurried after her. Five minutes later they were back in their gowns, standing in front of the X-ray view box in the autopsy room, looking at the X-rays of Frank DePasquale. The AP and the lateral of the head showed the bright silhouette of the bullet resting in the posterior fossa.
“You were right about the location of the bullet,” Laurie said. “There it is in the base of the brain.”
“Gangland execution is very efficient,” Lou said.
“I can believe it,” Laurie added. “The reason is that a bullet into the base of the brain hits the brainstem. That’s where the vital centers are for things like breathing and heartbeat.”
“I suppose if I have to go, that’s one way I’d like it to be,” Lou said.
Laurie looked at the detective. “That’s a pleasant thought.”
Lou shrugged. “In my line of work you think about it.”
Laurie glanced back at the X-ray. “You were also right about its being small caliber. I’d guess a twenty-two or a twenty-five at most.”
“That’s what they usually use,” Lou said. “The more powerful stuff is just too messy.”
Laurie led the way to table six, where Frankie’s mortal remains were laid out. The corpse was slightly bloated. The right eye was more swollen than the left.
“He looks younger than eighteen,” Laurie said.
“More like fifteen,” Lou agreed.
Laurie asked Vinnie to roll the body over so they could look at the back of the head. With a gloved hand she parted his wet, matted hair and exposed a round entrance wound surrounded by a larger round area of abrasion. After taking some measurements and photographs, Laurie carefully shaved the surrounding hair to expose the wound completely.
“It was obviously a close-range shot,” Laurie said. She pointed to the tight ring of gunpowder stippling around the punched-out center.
“How close?” Lou asked.
Laurie pondered for a moment. “I’d say three or four inches. Something like that.”
“Typical,” Lou said.
Laurie took another series of measurements and photographs. Then, with a clean scalpel, she carefully teased bits of the gunpowder residue from the depths of some of the small stippled puncture wounds. By tapping the scalpel blade against the inside of a glass collection tube, Laurie preserved this material for laboratory analysis.
“Never know what the chemists can tell us,” she said. She gave the tubes to Vinnie to label.
“We need a break,” Lou said. “I don’t care where it comes from.”
When Vinnie was finished labeling the collection tubes, Laurie had him help her turn Frank back into a supine position.
“What’s wrong with the right eye?” Lou asked.
“I don’t know,” Laurie said. “From the X-ray it didn’t look like the bullet went into the orbit, but you never know.” The lid was a purplish color. Swollen conjunctiva protruded through the palpebral fissure. Gently, Laurie pulled up the eyelid.
“Ugh,” Lou said. “That looks bad. The first case had no eyes; this one looks like the eye’s been run over with a Mack truck. Could that have happened when he was floating around in the East River?”
Laurie shook her head. “Happened before death. See the hemorrhages under the mucous membrane? That means the heart was pumping. He was alive when this occurred.”
Bending closer, Laurie studied the cornea. By looking at the reflection of the overhead lights off its surface, she could tell that the cornea was irregular. Plus, it was a milky white. Reaching over to the left eye, she lifted its lid. In contrast to the right, the left cornea was clear; the eye stared blankly at the ceiling.
“Could the bullet have done that?” Lou asked.
“I don’t think so,” Laurie said. “It looks more like a chemical burn the way it’s affected the cornea. We’ll get a sample for Toxicology. I’ll look at it closely in sections under the microscope. I have to admit, I haven’t seen anything quite like it.”
Laurie continued her external exam. When she looked at the wrists, she pointed to them. “See these abrasions and indentations?”
“Yeah,” Lou said. “What’s that mean?”
“I’d say this poor guy had been tied up. Maybe the eye lesion was some kind of torture.”
“These are nasty people,” Lou said. “What irks me is that they hide behind this supposed code of ethics when in reality it’s just a dog-eat-dog world. And what really irks me is that their screwing around tends to give all Italian-Americans a bad name.”
As Laurie examined Frank’s hands and legs, she asked Lou why the Vaccarro and Lucia crime families were feuding.
“For territory,” Lou said. “They all have to sleep in the same bed, Queens and parts of Nassau County. They are forever at each other’s throats for territory. They are in direct competition for their drugs, loan-sharking, gambling clubs, fencing, extortion rings, hot car rings, hijacking . . . You name it and they’re into it. They’re forever fighting and killing each other, but it’s a Mexican standoff so in a way they also have to get along. It’s a weird world.”
“All this illegal activity goes on even today?” Laurie questioned.
“Absolutely,” Lou said. “And what we know about is just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Why don’t the police do something?”
Lou sighed. “We’re trying, but it ain’t easy. We need evidence. As I explained before, that’s hard to get. The bosses are insulated and the killers are pros. Even when we’ve got the goods on them they still have to go through the courts, and nothing is guaranteed. We Americans have always been so worried about tyranny from the authorities, that we legally give the bad guys the edge.”
“It’s difficult to believe so little can be done,” Laurie said.
“Something can only be done if we get hard evidence. Take Frank DePasquale here. I’m ninety-nine percent sure Cerino and his crew are responsible for whacking him. But I can’t do anything without some proof, some break.”
“I thought the police had informers,” Laurie said.
“We have informers,” Lou agreed. “But nobody who really knows anything. The people that could really point a finger are more scared of each other than they are of us.”
“Well, maybe I’ll come up with something with this post,” Laurie said, redirecting her gaze to Frank DePasquale’s corpse. “The trouble is that bodies in water tend to be washed of evidence. Of course, there is the bullet. At the very least I can give you the bullet.”
“I’ll take whatever I can get,” Lou said.
Laurie and Vinnie tackled the autopsy. At each step she explained to Lou what they were doing. The only difference between Frank’s autopsy and Duncan’s was the way Laurie did the brain. With Frank she was meticulously careful to follow the bullet’s path. She noted that it never came near to the swollen eye. She was also careful not to touch the bullet with a metal instrument. Once she’d retrieved it, she put it into a plastic container to avoid scratching it. Later, after it was dry, she marked it on its base, then photographed it before sealing it in a small envelope. The envelope was then attached to a property receipt, ready to be turned over to the police, meaning Sergeant Murphy or his partner upstairs.
“It’s been quite a morning,” Lou said as they exited the autopsy room. “It’s been very instructive, but I think I’ll pass on your third case.”
“I was surprised you tolerated two,” Laurie said.
They paused outside the locker room. “I’ll go through the microscopic material on Frank DePasquale, and I’ll let you know if anything interesting turns up. The only thing that I think might be interesting is the eye. But who knows?”
“Well, it’s been fun . . .” Lou said. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Laurie looked into the lieutenant’s dark eyes. She had a feeling he wanted to ask her something else, but couldn’t seem to get it out. “I’m heading upstairs for another shot of coffee,” she said. “Would you care for another before you run off?”
“Sounds good,” Lou said without hesitation.
Up in the lunchroom they found themselves at the same table they’d occupied earlier. Laurie couldn’t understand why the confident Lou had become so fidgety and awkward. She watched while he took out his cigarettes and matches and fumbled to light up.
“You’ve been smoking for a long time?” Laurie asked, just to make conversation.
“Since I was twelve,” Lou said. “In my neighborhood it was the thing to do.” He shook out his match and took a long drag.
“Have you ever considered stopping?” Laurie asked.
“Absolutely,” Lou said. He blew smoke over his shoulder. “It’s easy to stop. I’ve been doing it weekly for a year. Seriously though, I do want to quit. But it’s hard at headquarters. Most everybody smokes.”
“I’m sorry that we didn’t come up with a breakthrough with DePasquale,” Laurie said.
“Maybe the bullet will help somehow,” Lou said. He dropped his cigarette into the ashtray while trying to balance it on the edge. “The ballistics people are pretty resourceful. Ouch!” Lou pulled his hand away from the ashtray. He’d burned his finger on his cigarette.
“Lou, are you all right?” Laurie asked.
“I’m fine,” Lou said too quickly. He tried again and this time succeeded in retrieving his cigarette.
“You seem upset about something,” Laurie said.
“Just have a lot on my mind,” Lou said. “But there is something I’d like to ask. Are you married?”
In spite of herself, Laurie smiled and shook her head. “Now there’s a question out of the blue.”
“I agree,” Lou said.
“Also, under the circumstances, it’s not very professional,” Laurie said.
“I can’t argue with that either,” Lou admitted.
Laurie paused as she had a mini-argument with herself. “No,” she said finally. “I’m not married.”
“Well, in that case . . .” Lou said, struggling for words, “ . . . maybe we could have lunch someday.”
“I’m flattered, Lieutenant Soldano,” Laurie said uneasily. “But I usually don’t mix my private life with work.”
“Nor do I,” Lou said.
“What if I say maybe, and I’ll think about it?”
“Fine,” Lou said. Laurie could tell he regretted having put the question to her. He stood up abruptly. Laurie got up, too, but Lou motioned for her to stay where she was. “Finish your coffee. I can testify that you need a break, believe me. I’ll just run downstairs, change, and be on my way. Let me hear from you.” With a wave, Lou left. At the door, he turned and waved again.
Laurie waved back as Lou’s figure disappeared from view. He really was a bit like Colombo: intelligent yet lumbering and mildly disorganized. At the same time, he had a basic blue-collar charm and a refreshing, down-to-earth lack of pretense that appealed to her. He also seemed lonely.
Finishing her coffee, Laurie got up and stretched. As she walked out of the lunchroom, she realized that Lou also reminded her a bit of her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Sean Mackenzie. No doubt her mother would find Lou equally as inappropriate. Laurie wondered if part of the reason she found herself attracted to such a type was because she knew her parents would disapprove. If that was true, she wondered when she’d get this rebelliousness out of her system for good.
Pressing the down button on the elevator, it dawned on Laurie that after Lou had surprised her with his question, she’d failed to ask him if he were married. She decided that if he called, she’d ask. She checked her watch. She was doing fine: only one more autopsy to go and it was still before noon.
Laurie checked the address she’d jotted on a piece of paper, then looked up at the impressive Fifth Avenue apartment building. It was in the mid-Seventies, bordering on Central Park. The entrance had a blue canvas, scalloped awning that extended to the curb. A liveried doorman stood expectantly just behind the glazed, wrought-iron door.
As Laurie approached the door, the doorman pushed it open for her then politely asked if he could help her.
“I’d like to speak to the superintendent,” Laurie said. She unbuttoned her coat. While the doorman struggled with an old-fashioned intercom system, Laurie sat on a leather couch and glanced around the foyer. It was tastefully decorated in restrained, muted tones. An arrangement of fresh fall flowers stood on a credenza.
It was not difficult for Laurie to imagine Duncan Andrews striding confidently into the foyer of his apartment building, picking up his mail, and waiting for the elevator. Laurie glanced over at the bank of mailboxes discreetly shielded by a Chinese wooden screen. She wondered which one was Duncan’s and if letters awaited his arrival.
“Can I help you?”
Laurie stood and looked eye-to-eye at a mustachioed Hispanic. Stitched into his shirt above his breast pocket was the name “Juan.”
“I’m Dr. Montgomery,” Laurie said. “I’m from the medical examiner’s office.” Laurie flipped open the leather cover of her wallet to reveal her shiny medical examiner’s badge. It looked like a police badge.
“How can I help you?” Juan asked.
“I would like to visit Duncan Andrews’ apartment,” Laurie said. “I’m involved with his postmortem examination and I’d like to view the scene.”
Laurie purposefully kept her language official. In truth, she felt uncomfortable about what she was doing. Although some jurisdictions required medical examiners to visit death scenes, the New York office didn’t. Policy had evolved to delegate such duties to the forensic medical investigators. But when Laurie was training in Miami, she had had a lot of experience visiting scenes. In New York, she missed the added information such visits afforded. Yet she wasn’t visiting Duncan’s apartment for such a reason. She didn’t expect to find anything that would add to the case. She felt compelled more for personal reasons. The idea of a privileged, accomplished young man ending his life for a few moments of drug-induced pleasure made her think of her brother. This death had stirred up feelings of guilt she’d suppressed for seventeen years.
“Mr. Andrews’ girlfriend is up there,” Juan said. “At least I saw her go up half an hour ago.” Directing his attention to the doorman, he asked if Ms. Wetherbee had left. The doorman said she hadn’t.
Turning back to Laurie, Juan added, “It’s apartment 7C. I’ll take you up there.”
Laurie hesitated. She’d not expected anyone to be in the apartment. She really didn’t want to talk with any of the family members, much less Andrews’ girlfriend. But Juan was already in the elevator pressing the floor button and holding the door for her. Having presented herself in her official capacity, she felt she couldn’t leave.
Juan pounded on the door to 7C. When it didn’t open immediately, he pulled out a ring of keys the size of a baseball and began flipping through them. The door opened just as he was about to insert a key.
Standing in the doorway was a woman about Laurie’s height with blond, curly hair. She was wearing a sweatshirt over acid-washed jeans. Fresh tears stained her cheeks.
Juan introduced Laurie as being from the hospital, then excused himself.
“I don’t remember seeing you at the hospital,” Sara said.
“I’m not from the hospital,” Laurie said. “I’m from the medical examiner’s office.”
“Are you going to do an autopsy on Duncan’s body?” Sara asked.
“I already have,” Laurie said. “I just wanted to see the scene where he died.”
“Of course,” Sara said. She stepped back from the door. “Come in.”
Laurie stepped into the apartment. She felt extremely uncomfortable knowing she was intruding on this poor woman’s grief. She waited while Sara locked the door. The apartment was spacious. Even from the foyer Laurie could see out over the leafless expanse of Central Park. Unconsciously she shook her head at the senselessness of Duncan Andrews’ taking drugs. At least on the surface his life seemed perfect.
“Duncan actually collapsed right here in the doorway,” Sara said. She pointed at the floor by the door. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “Just before I knocked he pulled it open. It was as if he’d gone crazy. He was heading outside practically naked.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Laurie said. “Drugs can do that to people. Cocaine can make them feel like they’re burning up.”
“I didn’t even know he took drugs,” Sara sobbed. “Maybe if I’d gotten over here faster after he called, it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if I’d stayed Sunday evening . . .”
“Drugs are such a curse,” Laurie said. “No one is going to know the reason Duncan took them. But it was his choice. You can’t blame yourself.” Laurie paused. “I know how you feel,” she said at last. “I found my big brother after he’d overdosed.”
“Really?” Sara said through her tears.
Laurie nodded. For the second time that day Laurie had admitted a secret that she’d not shared with anyone for seventeen years. This job was getting to her, all right, but in a way she had never expected. The case of Duncan Andrews had touched her in a fashion no other case had ever done.