“What time does Bart usually get here?”
“Early. He’s always the first day person to arrive. He’s usually here between six forty-five and seven o’clock. Should I ask him to give you a call?”
“It’s not necessary unless there’s an ID,” Jack said. “I’ll be back over here to talk with Sergeant Murphy and Hank Monroe at some point. We’ve got a body in the cooler who is certainly not a homeless person. It’s their job to figure out who the hell it is. I’ll stop in to see Bart at that point.”
—
Jack left 421 and rode his bike up to 520. By the time he had it stored in its usual location it was going on seven. Since he knew there was one person who made it a point to come in early every morning to avoid traffic, Jack headed up to the sixth floor. The person he wanted to see was John DeVries, toxicologist extraordinaire. There had been a time when Jack had first joined the staff that John DeVries, the Toxicology head, had been a major problem for him. The man was a bear to get along with, and he took forever to produce the data that was sorely needed in so many of Jack’s cases. The explanation for both problems was simple. Toxicology was crammed into a space that was far too small—the director’s private office literally had been a broom closet—and the department’s budget was totally inadequate for the key role it was expected to play.
But then the tragedy of 9/11 occurred. Because of the enormous increase in workload that the OCME shouldered, its overall budget was increased proportionately and the new high-rise building was funded. The result was that John DeVries ended up with two complete floors of the old OCME building and a spacious private office that got sunlight, and his budget was quadrupled. The effect on his personality had been nothing short of miraculous. Overnight he changed from an unpleasant curmudgeon to one of the nicest, most agreeable members of the OCME staff. It was now a pleasure to deal with him. The previous day, when Jack had gone up to his lab with the serum samples from the subway death to ask for a screen on immunosuppressant drugs, John had cheerfully told him without being asked that he’d run the screen overnight and that Jack could stop by in the morning.
“My, my! Aren’t we the early bird,” John joked with raised eyebrows when Jack walked into his office. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here this early.”
“For good reason,” Jack said. “I’ve never seen myself here this early.”
John chuckled. “Are you looking for the results of the screen for the sample you brought up yesterday?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Well, it was negative,” John said. “I just looked at it a few minutes ago.”
Jack’s mouth slowly dropped open. “You’re kidding? Please tell me you are kidding.”
“Why would I kid about such a thing?” John asked.
“How accurate is this screen?”
“It’s very accurate, with high sensitivity,” John said. “Does this surprise you? Was the patient supposedly on immunosuppression?”
“She’d had a cardiac transplant a few months ago,” Jack said with exasperation, as if John was trying to prank him. “Every heart transplant patient is given high doses of immunosuppression.”
“Not this one,” John said. “Sorry!”
“It’s not your fault,” Jack said. “I apologize for overreacting. It’s just that I’m finding this case really frustrating. It’s like it’s mocking me.”
“One thing did come up positive on the screen,” John said. “Are you interested?”
“Of course.”
“Cannabis. Most likely recreational cannabis. It was just a screen, but if you’d like a level, I could use gas chromatography.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Jack said. “A bit of marijuana certainly didn’t contribute to her dying on the R train.”
“I’m sure not. But if you change your mind, let me know.”
With yet another surprise about the subway death needling him, Jack left Toxicology and took the elevator down to the first floor. He thought it was possible that Vinnie and Jennifer might have arrived. He was right on both counts. Unfortunately, things didn’t go as he expected with Jennifer Hernandez. Despite Janice’s quiet night, a rash of cases that didn’t need her services had come in overnight, and two of the MEs had already called in sick. As inexperienced as Jennifer was in how to handle such a situation, Jack could tell she felt overwhelmed.
To help out, Jack immediately volunteered to take two fentanyl/heroin overdose cases. As a general rule, overdoses were the least popular autopsies to do, since there had been so many. But Jack knew they wouldn’t take long, as he and the other MEs had them down to a science. He sent Vinnie down to the pit along with his sidekick, Carlos, to get ready while Jack had a coffee and made suggestions to Jennifer on how to divide up the rest of the autopsies. So much for the paper day he had planned on, but he didn’t mind. Without an ID on the subway case, his hands were tied.
9
TUESDAY, 9:10 A.M.
With Vinnie’s help, Jack finished both the routine overdose cases in just a smidgen over an hour and a half. Carlos didn’t help, but he didn’t seriously hinder the process, either. As far as Jack was concerned, whether the new guy was going to work out was still up in the air. Jack still felt he had an attitude problem besides a foul mouth.
The only difference between the autopsies was that the second had some signs of head trauma, which Jack interpreted as most likely caused by terminal seizure activity. Both patients were male and in their early twenties. From a forensic point of view, both showed the usual and characteristic pulmonary edema. From his experience with some fifty similar autopsies, Jack guessed the culprit was most likely a combination of fentanyl and heroin, with the fentanyl coming from China. Whatever it was, John DeVries and his miraculous toxicology machines would have the last word. Jack felt a certain detachment from the tragedy the cases represented, even though the young men were otherwise perfectly healthy and in the prime of their lives. For all the MEs, including Jack, repetition bred a kind of stoic acceptance.
After finishing the second case, Jack checked his phone for messages. He’d half expected there would be a text or a voicemail from Bart. But it wasn’t to be. Jack changed back into his street clothes, as he had no intention of doing any more autopsies, no matter what came in through the door. He was now committed to making some sense of the subway death and somehow getting enough facts to get himself really involved. He had no idea what to make of the newest surprise that the patient had no immunosuppressant drugs in her system. In one sense it favored a rejection phenomenon, but that did not compute with there being absolutely no sign of inflammation in the heart. Consequently, Jack was back to favoring the infectious idea. With that in mind, he put in a call to Aretha Jefferson as he climbed the stairs to his office.
