“It also makes it more important to keep the media from knowing about the case,” Carl said. “That’s the kind of lurid detail the tabloids thrive on. They’d hype it up big-time.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said.
“Anything else of note?” he asked. “I’m assuming it was a typical overdose.”
“Seemed reasonably typical,” Laurie said. “There was a very positive rapid screen for fentanyl, which we’re unfortunately seeing in far too many of the overdose cases. The only other somewhat surprising thing was that there wasn’t as much pulmonary edema as usual. It will be interesting to get the toxicology results and see what the blood concentration of fentanyl is. My guess is that it’s going to be sky high, meaning it depressed the patient’s breathing very rapidly instead of over time like usual. Your resident raised the possibility of a cardiac channelopathy being involved, which is an interesting idea but probably not the case. But we’ll rule it out. It’s one of the benefits that the OCME has perhaps the best forensic DNA lab in the world.”
“That answers my next question,” he said. “I was going to ask if you did the case with Dr. Nichols as you suggested earlier?”
“I did indeed,” Laurie said.
“Is it normal for the chief medical examiner to do a case with an anatomical pathology resident?”
“No, it isn’t,” she admitted. “Far from it, and thank you for noticing. When you called earlier, I was tempted to ask you about this particular resident. It had been brought to my attention by our director of education that Dr. Nichols wasn’t taking her rotation over hereseriously. There was also a question about her attitude. I wanted to see for myself, so I had already scheduled to work with her.”
“That’s a very generous way to put it,” Carl said with a short laugh. “I’ve had more than a question about her attitude. She’s been one of the most disruptive residents I’ve had to deal with. Actually, it’s been Dr. Zubin, our residency program director, who has had to deal with her, but he keeps me up to speed. She’s not a team player. In fact, she’s rather antisocial and is not popular among her fellow residents. But, on the other hand, she’s extraordinarily bright, and a few of our attendings think she is the best resident they’ve come across. I’ve been told that her skills with surgical pathology are exceptional. It’s like she has a sixth sense.”
“She certainly isn’t social,” Laurie said, remembering some of Aria’s comments, particularly to Marvin. “She freely admitted to me that she does not like men or patients. With that kind of attitude, it makes me wonder how she managed to get into medical school or get a residency here at NYU.”
“I wondered the same thing,” he said. “When I went back and read the interviews in her application, I got the impression that my predecessor thought she’d be particularly sensitive to patients’ needs from having suffered through a difficult childhood. I think she managed to turn her history to her advantage.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “She’s obviously smart and clearly manipulative.”
“Smart or not, I’m not sure I would have voted for her. Needless to say, she was accepted into the program prior to my becoming the head of the department.”
“Personality notwithstanding, I do have to give her credit where credit is due. She’s hardly likable, but she did a superb forensic autopsy today, so my reservations in her technical abilities have been lessened. It’s amazing how much basic forensics she’s apparently picked up from just observing a few cases over a little more than a week. And thefinding of the unknown pregnancy seems to have kindled at least some interest in the field. I’ve gotten the impression she’s seriously committed to following up on this particular case. It seems almost like she’s emotionally invested, which is what happened to me on my first forensic autopsy.”
“Well, that’s encouraging,” Carl said. “Maybe some good will come from this double tragedy.”
“It would be nice to believe,” Laurie said.
“I personally want to thank you for all your help in this affair,” he said. “And I assume any investigating she does will be under your close mentorship.”
“Completely,” she said. “Although I let her do the autopsy, I was there for the entire procedure and would have intervened if necessary. Legally the case is mine, and when the death certificate is filled out, it will be my signature on it. I specifically told her that she has to keep me informed of any and all progress as it happens, and she has to do it in close conjunction with one of our medical-legal investigators.”
“Perfect,” Carl said. “And can I ask you to keep me updated as well? Also, I would like as much input about this resident as I can get, particularly favorable information like you are suggesting. After all, ultimately it will be up to me whether she is certified as a board eligible pathologist.”
“I’ll be happy to keep you updated,” Laurie said. As she hung up the phone, she only hoped she’d be able to send favorable reports—with Aria, she was quickly learning, one just never knew.
CHAPTER 9
May 8th
5:55P.M.
Flashing her temporary OCME card for the guard manning the front desk, Aria pushed through the turnstile at the relatively new OCME forensic science high-rise at 421 East 26th Street. Compared with the old OCME Forensic Pathology building up the street at 520 First Avenue, it was akin to being in a different universe. To Aria it was new, modern, and cold compared with being old, dilapidated, and cold.
She had been given a tour of this impressive structure on her first day of her OCME rotation, so she knew where she was going and how to get there. The medical-legal investigator team occupied a spacious area on the fifth floor immediately adjacent to the bank of elevators.
When the elevator door opened, Aria was greeted by David Goldberg holding open the door separating the glass-enclosed elevator lobby from the MLI common office. He was short, shorter than Aria’s five-six, and appeared mildly overweight, with rounded facial features, moderately long brown hair, sleepy eyes, and a heavy five-o’clockshadow. His clothes consisted of a white shirt open at the collar, a loosened dark tie, and a brown, baggy corduroy jacket. On his head was a black-and-white yarmulke held in place with a hair clip. Aria guessed he was somewhere in his thirties and had not been captain of the football team in high school.
“Dr. Nichols?” David asked.
“No other,” Aria said.
“Welcome,” he said as he gestured for her to step out of the elevator lobby. “My desk is over yonder a bit beyond the pale.” He chuckled at his own humor as he pointed to one of the desks against the far wall, one with a lamp illuminated despite the overhead fluorescent lighting. The room was a sea of identical metal desks, each with a chair on casters. Some were neat while others were messy, reflecting their occupants. Only a few were occupied with people working. Aria guessed the evening shift had begun.
Leading the way, David took Aria to his desk, which he had seemingly partially organized as there was a clear corner on its surface. His definitely belonged in the messy category. Next to the cleared-off corner was a straight-backed metal chair, obviously for her benefit.
