‘His tox came back as zip,’ I said to Rose as I put another slide on the stage. ‘Except for acetone,’ I added. ‘The byproduct of inadequate metabolism of glucose. And kidneys show hyperosmolar vacuolization of the proximal convoluted tubular lining cells. Meaning, instead of cuboidal and pink, they’re clear, bulging and enlarged.’
‘Sonny Quinn again,’ Rose said dismally.
‘Plus we’ve got a clinical history of fruity-smelling breath, weight loss, thirst, frequent urination. Nothing that insulin wouldn’t have cured. Not that I don’t believe in prayer, contrary to what the family has told reporters.’
Sonny Quinn was the eleven-year-old son of Christian Science parents. He had died eight weeks ago, and although there had never been any question as to his cause of death, at least not in my mind, I had finalized nothing until further studies and tests had been completed. In short, the boy had died because he had not received proper medical treatment. His parents had violently protested the autopsy. They had gone on television and accused me of religious persecution and of mutilating their child’s body.
Rose had endured my feelings about this many times by now, and she asked, ‘Do you want to call them?’
‘Want has nothing to do with it. So, yes.’
She shuffled through Sonny Quinn’s thick case file and jotted down a phone number for me.
‘Good luck,’ she said as she passed through the adjoining doorway.
I dialed, with dread in my heart.
‘Mrs Quinn?’ I said when a woman answered.
‘Yes.’
‘This is Dr Kay Scarpetta. I have the results from Sonny’s . . .’
‘Haven’t you hurt us enough?’
‘I thought you might like to know why your son died . . .’
‘I don’t need you to tell me anything about my son,’ she snapped.
I could hear someone taking the phone from her as my heart hammered.
‘This is Mr Quinn,’ said the man whose shield was religious freedom and whose son, as a result, was dead.
‘Sonny’s cause of death was acute pneumonia due to acute diabetic ketoacidosis due to acute onset of diabetes mellitis. I’m sorry for your pain, Mr Quinn.’
‘This is all a mistake. An error.’
‘There’s no mistake, Mr Quinn. No error,’ I said, and it was all I could do to keep the anger out of my voice. ‘I can only suggest that if your other young children show Sonny’s same symptoms that you get them medical treatment immediately. So you don’t have to suffer this way again . . .’
‘I don’t need some medical examiner telling me how to raise my children,’ he said coldly. ‘Lady, I’ll see you in court.’
That you will, I thought, for I knew the Commonwealth would charge him and his wife with felony child abuse and neglect.
‘Don’t you call us anymore,’ said Mr Quinn, and he hung up on me.
I returned the receiver to its cradle with a heavy heart and looked up to see Teun McGovern standing in the hallway, just outside my door. I could tell by the look on her face that she had heard every word.
‘Teun, come in,’ I said.
‘And I thought my job was hard.’ Her eyes were on mine as she took a chair and moved it directly across from me. ‘I know you have to do this all the time, but I guess I’ve never really heard it. It’s not that I don’t talk to families all the time, but thankfully it’s not my job to tell them exactly what inhaling smoke did to their loved one’s trachea or lungs.’
‘It’s the hardest part,’ I said simply, and the weight inside me would not go away.
‘I guess you’re the messenger they want to kill.’
‘Not always,’ I said, and I knew that in the solitude of my raw inner self, I would hear the Quinns’ accusing, harsh words replay for the rest of my days.
There were so many voices now, screams and prayers of rage and pain and sometimes blame, because I had dared to touch the wounds, and because I would listen. I did not want to talk about this with McGovern. I did not want her to get any closer to me.