Angelo shot a glance in Tony’s direction. Sometimes the kid surprised him. He wasn’t dumb all the time.
13
* * *
9:15 a.m., Sunday
Manhattan
Bending over and trying to point the umbrella into the wind, Laurie slowly made her way up First Avenue. It was hard for her to believe that the weather could change as much as it had in a single day. Not only was it windy and rainy, but the temperature had plummeted during the night to just a tad above freezing. Laurie had taken her winter coat out of its mothballed storage container for the occasion.
Standing on the corner, Laurie vainly waved at the few cabs that streaked past, but all were occupied. Just when she had resigned herself to walking to the office, a vacant taxi pulled up to the curb. She had to leap away to keep from being splashed.
Having finally made significant progress on her paperwork the day before, Laurie was not planning on working that Sunday, yet she felt compelled to go to the office because of a superstitious feeling. It was her idea that if she’d made the effort to go, there wouldn’t be any additional cases in her series.
Stomping off the moisture in the reception area, Laurie unbuttoned her coat and walked through to the ID office. No one was there, and nor was there a schedule for the day’s cases. But the coffee machine was on and someone had made coffee. Laurie helped herself to a cup.
Leaving her coat and umbrella, Laurie descended a floor to the morgue and walked back to the main autopsy room. The lights were on, so she could tell it was in use.
The door creaked open to her touch. Only two of the eight tables were occupied. Laurie tried to recognize who was working. With the goggles, face masks, and hoods, it was difficult. Just when she was about to go into the locker room to change, someone noticed her and, leaving the autopsy table, came over to speak with her. It was Sal D’Ambrosio, one of the techs.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Sal asked.
“I live here,” Laurie said with a laugh. “Which doctor is on today?”
“Plodgett,” Sal said. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem,” Laurie said. “Who’s at the other table?”
“Dr. Besserman,” Sal said. “Paul called him; we got a lot of cases today. More than usual.”
Laurie nodded to Sal, then called over to Paul. “Hey, Paul. Anything interesting?”
“I’d say so,” he replied. “I was going to call you later. We got two more overdoses that can go into your series.”
Laurie felt her heart sink. So much for superstition. “I’ll be right in,” she said.
Once she had changed into her full protective gear, Laurie went to Paul’s table. He was working on the remains of a very young woman.
“How old?” Laurie asked.
“Twenty,” Paul said. “College student at Columbia.”
“How awful!” Laurie said. This would be by far the youngest in her series.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Paul said.
“How so?” Laurie asked.
“Dr. Besserman is doing the boyfriend,” Paul said. “He’s a thirty-one-year-old banker. That’s why I thought you’d be interested. Apparently they injected themselves simultaneously.”
“Oh no!” Laurie felt almost dizzy: as a double tragedy the incident was doubly poignant. She moved over to Dr. Besserman’s table. He was just lifting the internal organs out of the body. Laurie looked at the dead man’s face. There was a large discolored bruise on his forehead.
“He convulsed,” Dr. Besserman said, noticing Laurie’s curiosity. “Must have hit his face on the floor. Or it could have happened in the refrigerator.”
Laurie switched her attention to Dr. Besserman. “This man was found in a refrigerator?” she asked.
“That’s what the tour doctor told us,” Dr. Besserman said.
“That’s the third one, then,” Laurie said. “Where was the girlfriend?”
“She was in the bedroom on the floor,” Dr. Besserman said.
“Find anything special on the post so far?” Laurie asked.
“Pretty routine for an overdose,” Dr. Besserman said.
Laurie stepped back to Paul’s table and watched him slice off several samples of liver.
“What kinds of specimens have you been sending up to Toxicology on these cases?” he asked when he noticed Laurie by his side.