Laurie studied Bingham’s face. His steel blue eyes appeared cold. She could just make out the web of fine capillaries spread across the tip of his nose.
“You do know that we have a public relations office?” Dr. Bingham began. His tone was sarcastic, angry.
“Yes, of course,” Laurie replied when Bingham paused.
“Then you must also know that Mrs. Donnatello is responsible for any information being given to the media and the public.”
Laurie nodded.
“And you must also be aware that except for myself, all personnel of this office should keep their personal opinions concerning medical examiner business to themselves.”
Laurie didn’t respond. She still didn’t know where this conversation was headed.
Suddenly, Bingham bounded out of his chair and began pacing the area behind his desk. “What I’m not sure you appreciate,” he continued, “is the fact that being a medical examiner carries significant social and political responsibilities.” He stopped pacing and looked across at Laurie. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I believe so,” Laurie said, but there was still some significant part of the conversation that eluded her. She had no idea what had precipitated this diatribe.
“‘Believing so’ is not adequate,” Bingham snorted. He stopped his pacing and leaned over his desk, glaring at Laurie.
More than anything, Laurie wanted to remain composed. She didn’t want to appear emotional. She despised situations like this. Confrontation was not one of her strong points.
“Furthermore,” Bingham snapped, “breaches in the rules pertaining to privileged information will not be tolerated. Is that clear!”
“Yes,” Laurie said, fighting back unwanted tears. She wasn’t sad or mad, just upset. With the amount of work that she’d been doing of late, she hardly thought she deserved such a tirade. “Can I ask what this is all about?”
“Most certainly,” Bingham said. “Toward the end of my news conference about the Central Park murder, one of the reporters got up and began asking a question with the comment that you had specifically stated that the case was being mishandled by this department. Did you or did you not say that to a reporter?”
Laurie cowered in her seat. She tried to return Bingham’s glare, but she had to look away. She felt a rush of embarrassment, guilt, anger, and resentment. She was shocked that Bob would have had such little sense much less respect for her confidentiality. Finding her voice she said: “I mentioned something to that effect.”
“I thought so,” Bingham said smugly. “I knew the reporter wouldn’t have had the nerve to make something like that up. Well, consider yourself warned, Dr. Montgomery. That will be all.”
Laurie stumbled out of the chief’s office. Humiliated, she didn’t even dare exchange glances with Mrs. Sanford lest she lose control of the tears she’d been suppressing. Hoping she wouldn’t run into anyone, Laurie sprinted up the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator.
She was particularly thankful that her office-mate was still apparently in the autopsy room. Locking her door behind her, Laurie sat down at her desk. She felt crushed, as if all her months of hard work had been for naught because of one foolish indiscretion.
With sudden resolve, Laurie picked up the phone. She wanted to call Bob Talbot and tell him what she thought of him. But she hesitated, then let go of the receiver. At the moment she didn’t have the strength for another confrontation. Instead she took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
She tried to go back to work, but she couldn’t concentrate. Instead she opened her briefcase and threw in some of the uncompleted files. After collecting her other belongings, Laurie took the elevator to the basement level and exited through the morgue loading dock onto Thirtieth Street. She didn’t want to take the risk of running into anyone in the reception area.
Befitting her mood, it was still raining as she walked south on First Avenue. If anything, the city looked worse than it had that morning, with a pall of acrid exhaust fumes suspended between the buildings lining the street. Laurie kept her head down to avoid the oily puddles, the litter, and the stares of the homeless.
Even her apartment building seemed dirtier than usual, and as she waited for the elevator, she was aware of the smell of a century of fried onions and fatty meat. Getting off on the fifth floor, she glared at Debra Engler’s bloodshot eye, daring her to say anything. Once inside her apartment, she slammed the door with enough force to tilt a framed Klimt print she’d gotten from the Metropolitan.