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leading up to the attack but then expect us to believe that everything else
they testify to is true. This isn t a goddamn game it s people s lives at
stake. We re here to help them, and they think we re stupid enough not to know
how to find out what really went on. If she wants us to salvage the rape case,
every other detail she tells you has to be confirmed.
Nothing infuriated me more than the real victims who compromised their own
cases by trying to shade the events. The few who did it made everyone more
skeptical of the scores of legitimate victims who followed in their footsteps.
By the time I had finished returning the calls and reassigning interviews,
Mercer had arrived to pick me up.
 Beep if you need me, Laura. We ll be at the morgue.
9
MERCER WORKED HIS DEPARTMENT CARaround the yellow bobcats and backhoes at the
construction site on First Avenue, a block south of the entrance to the blue
and gray building that housed the office of the medical examiner. He parked at
a meter after letting me out to climb over a curbside mound of frozen ice to
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get onto the sidewalk.
 Look at that fool, Mercer said, pointing across the street at Chapman.
 Man s never owned a winter coat.
Mike was coming from the deli across the street, seemingly oblivious to the
bitter cold in his blazer and open-collared denim shirt.
I waved in his direction and he hoisted a large shopping bag, pointing to it
as he called out to us,  Lunch. Mercer looked at me and shook his head.
Neither one of us was as at home in the morgue as Chapman. It was commonplace
for members of his squad to be present for the autopsy procedure, while those
of us who worked on sexual assault cases were fortunate enough to deal with
survivors wounded but living and breathing.
 Forget the front door, Chapman shouted, as I started up the stairs to the
building s entrance.  C mon. Kirschner s still in the basement.
I had never entered on the Thirtieth Street side so I followed Mike and
Mercer around the corner and down the block to the parking bay where ambulance
and emergency service trucks disgorged their bodies. A police officer checked
our identification as he admitted us through the wide doors and we started
down the sloping ramp toward the autopsy rooms.
Mike saw my eyes fix on the painted green walls as we walked; they were
pockmarked at about waist level where large chips were missing. It was
especially noticeable when we reached the bend at the bottom of the incline
and turned to the right to go down another twenty feet.
 I know, I know. You re ready to give the place a paint job and redecorate.
Forget it. That s the way it s always gonna be, Blondie. They unload the body
onto a gurney at the top, then somebody gives it a shove down the ramp. It
bounces off the side a few times, hits the corner, and caroms around and down
to the bottom. Believe me, the patient doesn t feel a thing. You don t need a
candy striper to walk the stretcher down the hall.
 Sensitive motherfucker, isn t he? Wallace murmured.
Mike led us into a small conference room at the far end of the corridor. It
held an eight-foot-long table, a dozen chairs, a chalkboard, and wall-mounted
clips all around the circumference to display X rays and photographs.
Before Mercer and I could take off our coats and sit down, Dr. Chet Kirschner
joined us in the room.
We had worked together on a number of occasions throughout the five years
since he had been appointed to the post of Chief Medical Examiner by the Mayor
and I always welcomed his calm and dignified mien as much as I valued his
professional judgment. Chet was tall and razor thin, with dark hair, a quiet
voice, and an engaging smile that was rarely exercised during the discussions
of his daily procedures.
We exchanged greetings and placed ourselves around the table while Mike went
on unpacking his bag full of sandwiches and sodas.
 What I m going to tell you is very preliminary, Alexandra. It will take some
time to get lab results on the toxicology and the serological samples, so
let s just start off the record with the general picture.
 Of course.
 I got all four turkeys on rye, Russian dressing, okay?
 Not right now, Mike, I answered. The sterile surroundings, the faint aroma
of formaldehyde, and the grim task ahead of us combined to suppress all
thoughts of food or hunger.
Mercer and Chet also passed. Mike unwrapped his overstuffed sandwich and
popped the top on his root beer while Dr. Kirschner took out a set of Polaroid
photos of Gemma Dogen s blood-soaked body and spread them on the table.
He looked up at Mike, who was crunching potato chips between bites of the
sandwich, and grinned wryly as he said,  bon appétit.
 There is no mystery abouthow the doctor died. As you re all aware, there [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]