“Doc, I got to ask you something,” he finally spoke as the rhythm of chains slowed at the toll booth. “Do you think Lucy’s doing okay?”
“Everyone has nightmares,” I said.
“Hey, Bonita,” he called to the toll taker as he handed his pass card out the window, “when you going to do something about this weather?”
“Don’t you be blaming this on me, Cap’n.” She returned his card, and the gate lifted. “You told me you’re in charge.”
Her mirthful voice followed us as we drove on, and I thought how sad it was that we lived in a day when even toll booth attendants had to wear plastic gloves for fear they may come in contact with someone else’s flesh. I wondered if we would reach a point when all of us lived in bubbles so we did not die of diseases like the Ebola virus and AIDS.
“I just think she’s acting a little weird,” Marino went on as his window rolled up. After a pause, he asked, “Where’s Janet?”
“With her family in Aspen, I think.”
He stared straight ahead and drove.
“After what happened at Dr. Mant’s house, I don’t blame Lucy for being a little rattled,” I added.
“Hell, she’s usually the one who looks for trouble,” he said. “She doesn’t get rattled. That’s why the Bureau lets her hang out with HRT. You ain’t allowed to get rattled when you’re dealing with white supremacists and terrorists.
You don’t call in sick because you’ve had a friggin’ bad dream.”
Off the expressway, he took the Seventh Street exit into the old cobblestone lanes of Shockoe Slip, then turned north onto Fourteenth, where I went to work every day when I was in town. Virginia’s Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, or OCME, was a squat stucco building with tiny dark windows that reminded me of unattractive, suspicious eyes. They overlooked slums to the east and the banking district to the west, and suspended overhead were highways and railroad tracks cutting through the sky.
Marino pulled into the back parking lot, where there was an impressive number of cars, considering the condition of the roads. I got out in front of the shut bay door and used a key to enter another door to one side. Following the ramp intended for stretchers, I entered the morgue, and could hear the noise of people working down the hall. The autopsy suite was past the walk-in refrigerator, and doors were open wide. I walked in while Fielding, my deputy chief, removed various tubes and a catheter from the body of a young woman on the second table.
“You ice-skate in?” he asked and he did not seem surprised to see me.
“Close to it. I may have to borrow the wagon today. At the moment I’m without a car.”
He leaned closer to his patient, frowning a bit as he studied the tattoo of a rattlesnake coiled around the dead woman’s sagging left breast, its gaping mouth disturbingly aimed at her nipple.
“You tell me why the hell somebody gets something like this,” Fielding said.
“I’d say the tattoo artist got the best end of that deal,” I said. “Check the inside of her lower lip. She’s probably got a tattoo there.”
He pulled down her lower lip, and inside it in big crooked letters was Fuck You.
Fielding looked at me in astonishment. “How’d you know that?”
“The tattoos are homemade, she looks like a biker-type and my guess is she’s no stranger to jail.”
“Right on all counts.” He crabbed a clean towel and wiped his face.
My body-building associate always looked as if he were about to split his scrubs, and he perspired while the rest of us were never quite warm. But he was a competent forensic pathologist. He was pleasant and caring, and I believed he was loyal.
“Possible overdose,” he explained as he sketched the tattoo on a chart. “I guess her New Year was a little too happy-”
“Jack,” I said to him, “how many dealings have you had with the Chesapeake police?”
He continued to draw. “Very little.”
“None recently?” I asked.
“I really don’t think so. Why?” He glanced up at me.