Authors: Gay Hendricks
Tags: #ebook, #book
Bill was getting way too much pleasure out of the direction this conversation was taking.
“Yes, Ten, do tell us what happened,” he said.
I dipped the hot potato pancake in sour cream, added a little applesauce, and popped the whole thing in my mouth. The combination of earthy, sour, and sweet was superb. Maybe they’d both just go away.
“What? Nothing to add?” Bill turned to Jean. “As it so happens, Julie-the-chef is my wife, Martha’s, half sister. I have it on good authority that she is back in Chicago, happily living with her previous ex-boyfriend, the sommelier.”
“I thought she hated him,” I burst out. “I thought he was a crazy lush.”
“He got sober, apparently.”
“A sober sommelier? How’s that supposed to work?” My temples were throbbing.
Jean jumped in. “No, I’ve heard of that before, Ten-zing. They just smell everything.” Jean had once confessed to me that she hadn’t touched alcohol or drugs in years. What Scientology couldn’t fix, a recovery program apparently could.
I gathered what little dignity remained. “Give Julie my best,” I said to Bill. My voice sounded stiff, even to me. “She wasn’t a good fit for me, anyway.”
Jean patted my arm. “You know what they say about failed relationships, Ten-zing. ‘Put down the flashlight, pick up the mirror.’” With that, she sailed off to her other unsuspecting diners, no doubt to offer more brilliant, unsolicited advice.
We ate in silence for a few moments. As Bill swallowed a big forkful of bacon and eggs, he grunted with pleasure. Then he frowned.
“If Martha saw me eating this she’d kill me,” he muttered. “All she does these days is nag. She’s turning forty, and somehow it’s my fault. As if I didn’t have enough stress with this new fucking job.”
I’m always surprised how little actual joy we humans allow ourselves before we feel compelled to do something that brings us down again. Bill gave himself at most ten seconds of bacon ecstasy before starting the guilt-game, before some little part of his mind said, “Okay, that’s enough happiness for now—time to bring up a subject sure to bum me out.”
I met his eyes. Waited.
“Ah, never mind. It’s all good,” Bill said. “Don’t forget—Miceli’s tomorrow, for Martha’s fortieth. Her parents are flying in from Germany tonight. We’re defying the gods and bringing Lola and Maude, too. They’ve only been out to a restaurant once before, and it wasn’t pretty.” He signaled to Jean as he pulled some bills out of his pocket, waving my own money away as he tossed two 20s on the table. “Unh-unh. This one’s on me. I’m heading over to the autopsy next. You?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to tell Bill I would probably be spending the rest of the day polishing my already gleaming Shelby Mustang and cleaning my already immaculate Wilson Combat .38 Supergrade. I certainly wasn’t going to beg to be invited.
“Okay. Well, I’m off, then.” Bill tightened his tie and tucked his manila envelope of crime scene photos and my Marv report into his briefcase. He started for the door, then turned and came right back. “Ah, hell. I’ll just tell them you’re consulting, helping me out a little with the investigation.”
I pictured the big pile of Marv material on my desk back at home. In a way, I was.
The L.A. County Coroner’s Office was surrounded. At least six news trucks were parked in the lot, with maybe 15 reporters and cameramen milling around the front of the building, like ants waiting for the picnic to begin. When I pulled up, Bill was in their midst, trying to wade past, or through, or something. I couldn’t tell. His cheeks were looking pretty ruddy, though.
I skirted the crowd and slipped into the building on the left, 1102, where the forensic labs were located. The main coroner’s building was all brick and flounces. Decorative, and more for show, good for notifications and the release of personal property. But 1102 was where the real work happened. Here, medical examiners conducted autopsies on a continuous stream of suspicious deaths, sometimes as many as a dozen a day.
I sat down in a chair in the tiny waiting area, located to the right of the entrance. Across from me, a young man in a dark suit and yarmulke was camped out in another chair, rocking slightly back and forth. His eyes were closed and he was chanting continuously under his breath. I don’t know much about the Jewish faith, but I’d once questioned another such young man on another case, this one a hit-and-run involving a Rabbi and a van. He’d told me keeping the body company, guarding it from harm, and soothing it with prayers until it could be put into the ground, was central to the Jewish burial process. He’d said the human soul can feel somewhat lost and confused between the time of death and burial, and so they offer companionship and comfort. I’d told him this practice was not unlike my own Tibetan tradition of chanting to help guide the dead through the confusion of the
bardo
and beyond.
I respected the fervency with which this young man was praying. This was a building filled to the brim with discarded lives, and most of the deceased had only homicide detectives and the County Coroner’s Office to advocate for them. I closed my eyes as well:
May all beings, as many as exist in ten directions, be always well and happy. May all beings live in harmony with the dharma, and may their every dharma wish be fulfilled.
“Vultures. I thought I’d never get away,” Bill said, touching my arm. He’d survived the onslaught of media. I stood and followed him to the security window. He showed his ID to a woman behind the glass, and then leaned toward the slotted opening, gesturing to me. “You remember Detective Tenzing Norbu — he’s with me,” and that was that, we were buzzed right in.
We walked toward the autopsy room, pulling on our standard-issue latex gloves, paper aprons, and face-shields. “Just to let you know, there’s gonna be a crowd in here—a case this high profile.” He stopped at a door. “Okay, here goes nothing.”
We stepped inside the refrigerated room. Bill was right again—this was a standing room only event. I looked around at the gloved, masked, and aproned attendants. The chief medical examiner, Dr. Padman Bhatnager, was there, as were Sully and Mack, plus a second autopsy technician, a stenographer, and a staff photographer whose job was to carefully chronicle every cut and swab for the Prosecutor’s office, should this case ever go to court. They were all familiar to me from past autopsies, though I’d never seen them in one examination room at the same time like this. A tall, willowy blonde hovered by Bhatnager’s elbow. Her I’d never seen before, with or without a mask. She must have felt my glance. Clear blue eyes behind delicate wire-rimmed glasses locked in on mine and then looked away. I checked out her hands. Her long, latex-gloved fingers were gripped tightly together. No rings. Hmmm.
We exchanged brief hellos all around. I barely caught her name—Heather something. She and Bill nodded like they already knew each other. I shot Bill a look: he’d been holding out. He ignored me.
“Let’s keep going,” Bhatnager said. He glanced at Bill. “We’ve already reviewed the medical records from his physician,” he read from a clipboard, “a Dr. Davitz. He confirms Mr. Rudolph was on a number of medications typical for a male in his late sixties. He had slight heart issues, high cholesterol, moderate plaque, the usual. Nothing to indicate an acute myocardial infarction might be imminent.”
I’d thought Marv looked like a heart attack waiting to happen, but nobody was asking me.
Bill and I moved to one corner as the ME began a meticulous visual scan of the body, reciting his findings into a tape recorder. The assistant marked a body diagram on his own clipboard, and the stenographer took notes. They were being triply careful with this. The external autopsy started to give up its first round of data. It was just as puzzling as the crime scene photos. The absence of major bleeding around the skin wound indicated it was inflicted post-mortem. Marv got skinned shortly after he died.
But how did he die?
There was no other visible trauma, no needle sites, no gun shot wounds, no lacerations, no blunt force trauma, no hematomas, no evidence of strangulation. Nothing.
“No visible external cause of death,” Bhatnager concluded. “I’m going to have to open him up, at least do a partial on his sternum. We still can’t rule out a cardiac event.”
He opened Marv’s chest with a V-shaped incision, from shoulder joints to mid-chest. Using surgical shears, he cut along both sides of the chest cavity and lifted up the entire ribcage and breastbone as if it were a single chest-plate of armor.
I looked over at Heather. Her eyes connected with mine for one brief moment before returning to Marv’s remains. I did the same. I was pretty sure this was my first flirtation initiated over an opened cadaver.
After the usual visual recitation of organs, and some careful cutting away of muscle and cartilage, Bhatnager placed both hands in the chest cavity and lifted out a heart. Contrary to the opinion of some in the entertainment world, Marv Rudolph actually had one.
Bhatnager gently deposited the organ on a metal tray to be weighed and measured, sliced and scrutinized. I was both fascinated and slightly repelled by the fleshy pump before me. How could this lump of muscle and tissue be the seat of so much joy, and so much trouble? I glanced at Heather again as terms like “subscapular fat thickness” and “mild myocardial hypertrophy” swirled around us. She was studying the removed heart. Her eyes blinked several times.
“Can’t be sure yet, but it doesn’t look like a heart attack, either,” Bhatnager muttered. “This is going to take a while. We’re going to have to open the cranium as well. Somebody let the family know, please. I mean, we’re looking at numerous tissue samples, stomach contents, toxicology screenings, maybe even bringing in my histo- and neuro-pathologists. Oh, and get me the ultra-violet light, as well.” Bhatnager rotated his shoulders. “He’s not getting out of here any time soon. Cause of death deferred, pending further results. Let’s take a little break.”
Bill and I shed our autopsy-wear and walked back through the lobby, where Marv’s young guardian was still deep in prayer, chanting words of consolation. I was glad he wasn’t privy to the events taking place inside that chilly room. As Bill and I stepped outside, Heather was right behind us. She peeled off her mask and lifted her face to the sun, breathing deeply.
She was very beautiful.
“Thank God for small favors,” Bill said. I followed his gaze. The Assistant Chief from the Operations Bureau, Ted Summer, was making a statement to the clustered media. Their cameras were fixated on his trim goatee, not us.
“What a mess,” Bill added. “If this goes the toxicology route, it could take weeks. How you holding up, Heather?”
“So-so,” she admitted. “Still trying to get used to everything . . . “ She shook her head.
I nudged Bill. Nudged him again, harder.
“Oh, Heather, this is my former partner, Tenzing Norbu. Ten, Dr. Heather Magnuson.”
She pushed her glasses to the top of her head, held out a hand, blushed, snatched it back to peel off a latex examination glove, and tried again. “Hello.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Magnuson.” We shook hands. Hers was cool to the touch. Her fingers were long and delicate, musician’s fingers. The bones felt fragile to me.
“Not used to ‘doctor’ either. Better just make it Heather.” Right away I liked the sound of her voice. It was deep and calm, a perfect “bedside manner” voice. On the other hand, I wasn’t crazy about the fact that she was an inch or two taller than me. On the other, other hand, maybe I wasn’t finished growing yet.
“Detective Bohannon!” Chief Summer had spotted Bill and was waving him over to the media mob.
“Great,” Bill said, and crossed the parking lot to toss a few bland and noncommittal fact morsels to the insatiable reporters.
Heather and I stood. The lengthening silence felt awkward. My monastic training left me very unskilled at the art of prolonging a conversation with a woman of interest, especially without being obvious.
“So you, um, you’re into forensics?” I felt my own fleshy pump of a heart speed up its tempo.
“I’d better be,” she said. “I got my medical degree this September and just started a year-long residency at the county coroner’s office.” So she was just about the same age as me. Interesting. She looked younger. “Yesterday was my second day at work, and my first ride-along, and today’s my first assist, in case you didn’t notice my hands shaking in there. Talk about jumping into the deep end.”
I was preparing to launch into a fascinating discourse on the number of high profile autopsies I, myself, Tenzing Norbu, had attended, when Heather looked at her watch and let out a little yelp.
“I can’t be late,” she said, and scurried back into the building. I stared at the door as it closed behind her. It had been seven months, seven long months since Julie drove off, her car stuffed from floor to roof with her belongings, and a good part of my heart. For the first time since then, I felt the possibility of romantic regeneration.
Bill rejoined me.
“A beautiful blonde ME named Heather Magnuson. Who’d a thunk?” he asked.
“Thunk what? That she’s a beautiful woman, or she’s interested in pathology? That’s borderline politically incorrect, my friend.”
“That she’s a
Heather.
People who choose to spend all day cutting up dead bodies are not supposed to be tall and blonde and have names like Heather or Tiffany or Amber. If you’re a tall, blonde Heather, Tiffany, or Amber you’re supposed to shop all day.”
“Dumb blonde jokes? Really, Bill?” My tone was sharper than I’d intended.
“Hey, give me a break, Mr. Single Male Cat-owner. I’m the one who’s home life is overrun by females, and don’t think eighteen-month-old twins don’t count.” Bill’s look was shrewd. “Anyway, since when did you become the staunch defender of blondes?”
Bill had a point. I’d only known Heather for a few minutes and already I was feeling protective. Warning sensations pricked. Duly noted.
“Where to next?” I said.
“I’m going over to interview the widow. I don’t know what kind of shape she’s in. Why don’t you come? I could use an extra shoulder for her to lean on. Yours seems to work particularly well in these situations.”