“Did I rain on your parade?” Bart asked, looking a smidgen guilty at the change in Jack’s expression.
“I suppose, to a degree,” Jack said, trying to reorganize his thinking. “Well, we’ll have to wait and see what Toxicology will tell us. And what we learn from Virology. I just left lung and bronchial samples over at the Public Health Laboratory. We should have some preliminary results in a few hours. Meanwhile, have you had any luck getting any more information on the patient? It’s going to be important to have a social history if there’s a need for any quarantining and prophylactic antivirals. Did the Bellevue ER come up with a purse or a phone or anything?”
“Nada,” Bart said. “I even called them to check. And there haven’t been any calls coming in through Communications looking for a young,well-dressed, attractive female. But that is not unusual. It’s only been hours. I’m confident somebody is going to be missing this woman as the day drags on.”
“It’s probably going to be someone named Helen,” Jack said. He went on to describe the tattoo on the woman’s forearm and what he had learned from Vinnie. He told Bart that photos of the tattoos were available in the digital record.
“I’ll let Communications know,” Bart said. “Every bit helps.”
“If another case similar to this comes in, I want to be notified immediately,” Jack said. “Day or night.”
“I’ll let the entire MLI team know,” Bart promised.
“I’m going to go up and talk with Hank Monroe in ID and Sergeant Murphy and see if they’ve had any luck,” Jack said.
“Personally, I wouldn’t bother,” Bart advised. “I’m sure they haven’t done anything. It’s too soon. No one gets concerned until at least eight hours go by, or even twenty-four.”
“Maybe you’re right.” As frustrating as it was to acknowledge, there was little else for Jack to do at the moment.
“I know I am,” Bart said. “I’ve been working this side of the OCME for more years than I care to admit. But let me help you in other ways. What’s clanking around in your shoulder bag, samples from the autopsy you just did? If so, I can see that they get to the right people.”
“Good guess.” Jack pushed the shoulder bag across the desk to Bart. “There’s a bunch of tissue samples for histology, but, more important, there’s also samples for the DNA and serology people to do their thing. Since it was a heart transplant, I want them to run the same DNA analysis on the heart, so we’ll know how good a match it was. That would be important if rejection played any role whatsoever. I mean, there was no sign of any inflammation in the heart, so the woman’s body couldn’t have been rejecting it unless the inflammation is microscopic, which we’ll see on the histology sections. But maybe the heart was somehow rejecting the body.”
“Graft-versus-host disease? We had several cases of that in the past,” Bart said.
“It’s a long shot in this case,” Jack admitted. “Graft-versus-host disease is more apt to be seen with bone-marrow transplants, not solid organ transplants. But there’s something about this case that’s bothering me. My intuition is trying to sound an alarm, although I have no idea what it might be. But over the years I’ve learned not to ignore it.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can,” Bart said. “We don’t want to ignore your intuition. I’ll see to it that all the right people get these samples and they get right on it.”
“Thanks, Bart.” Jack stood and stretched. Then he headed back to the elevators.
5
MONDAY, 4:23 P.M.
It was now deep into rush hour, and the traffic heading north on First Avenue was bumper-to-bumper and moving slowly. With the sun soon to set and evening approaching, red taillights appearing like rubies extended off into the far distance. Although Jack usually entered 520 via the 30th Street freight dock into the basement morgue level, on this occasion he mounted the front steps and went in through the front door. His goal was the front office. Once again, he was going to try to speak with Laurie.
As he entered the outer waiting area presided over by Marlene stationed behind her high-topped desk, Jack caught sight of Rebecca Marshall sitting with a youthful couple on one of the aged couches. Changing direction, Jack approached her.
Sensing Jack’s presence, Rebecca looked up. When she caught sight of Jack she excused herself from the couple she was talking with and stood.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Jack said sotto voce. “Has anything been learned about the subway victim?”
“Nothing at all,” Rebecca said. “I’ve spoken with Communicationsand told them to call me directly if there is any word. I’ve not heard anything. If I do, I’ll let you know first thing.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. “I’ll be leaving soon, but I’ll have my mobile with me, and I’d like to be informed if any information becomes available, even after hours.”
“Okay. I’ll let my evening replacement know,” Rebecca said. “And I’ll do the same with Communications. We expect something to happen at any time now. Surely the woman will be missed at the end of the day.”
“I appreciate your help.” Jack turned and traversed the waiting room. As he passed Marlene he smiled at her. Smiling back, she buzzed him into the main part of the building.
On this occasion Cheryl had a different response as Jack entered the outer office. “She’s finally off the phone,” she said. “It was a marathon.”
Laurie’s office door was still closed. For a second, Jack debated whether to knock or just walk in. He decided to err on the conservative side. He knocked. A moment later he heard Laurie call out for him to come in.
Laurie was sitting behind her massive mahogany desk, the same desk that Bingham had used, but now in a slightly different location. These days it faced the high windows that offered light but no real view, as there was an NYU Hospital building only a few feet away. The room itself had a totally different feel from its appearance in the Bingham era. It had been painted a light color and the heavy, dark bookcases and ponderous library table had been removed, along with several dark paintings of brooding old men. In their place were white bookshelves and a blond library table. There were also some brightly colored draperies, a matching couch against the wall under the windows, and a coordinated rug. Jack had helped Laurie paint the room and pick out the furniture at IKEA. Anticipating how long approval from the city would have taken, they had used their own funds.
But the biggest difference was the room’s new occupant. Instead of a rheumy, balding, overweight septuagenarian male in a dark rumpledsuit, the chief was now an attractive middle-aged but youthful-looking woman in a stylish blue dress. Befitting the new bright, cheerful decor, Laurie’s sculpted features and shoulder-length brunette hair with auburn highlights were a conspicuously welcome change.
