Crisis (29 page)
"The busy traveler at last," Laurie said brightly. "I was hoping it would be you."
Jack launched into an immediate apology for calling late but explained that he wanted to wait until a decision had been made. "What kind of decision?"
Jack took a breath. "A decision to do an autopsy on the patient whose death is the basis of Craig's lawsuit."
"An autopsy?" Laurie questioned with consternation. "Jack, this is Tuesday night. The wedding is one thirty on Friday. I don't have to tell you that's right around the corner."
"I know there's a time crunch here. I'm keeping it in mind. Don't worry!"
"Are you doing the autopsy in the morning?"
"I don't think so, but there's a chance, I suppose. The problem is that the body is still in the ground."
"Jack!" Laurie whined, pulling out his name like taffy. "Why are you doing this to me?"
Jack gave Laurie the details of the case, everything he'd learned from the file, and then everything that had happened that day sans the episode with Franco. Laurie listened without interrupting until Jack was finished. Then she completely surprised Jack. She said, "Would you like me to fly up and assist you with the case?"
Wishing he could reach across the miles and give her a hug of appreciation, Jack said, "Thank you for your offer, but there's no need. It will not be a difficult case unless there's been a lot of water intrusion."
"Let me know. I'm certain as a team we could do it quickly."
After a bit of loving small talk and a promise to call as soon as he knew more, Jack flipped his phone closed. He was about to pull the case file into his lap when his eyes again spotted the doctor's bag. Jack got up and went over to the shelf. As he had implied to Alexis, he didn't think house calls were an appropriate use of a doctor's time, since they were limited to what could be done without the diagnostic tools available in a well-equipped doctor's office. But remembering the reference in the case file about a bedside assay kit for biomarkers to confirm heart attack, the thought passed through his mind that he might be outdated. In truth, Jack had not even heard about such a kit and was curious to see one. He pulled the bag from the shelf and placed it on Craig's desk. He turned on the goosenecked lamp and opened the bag. It opened like a fishing tackle box, with a number of small, chock-full compartments in trays on the top that opened to the sides. Below was the main space, with a collection of instruments including blood-pressure cuff, ophthalmoscope, and otoscope. Jack pulled out the ophthalmoscope. Just holding the instrument brought back a flood of memories.
Replacing the ophthalmoscope, Jack looked through the plethora of other material, including IV fluid, IV lines, thermometer, emergency medication, hemostats, culture media, and bandages. In the bottom, far corner of the bag he found the biomarker kit. He pulled it out and read the exterior. Hoping for an insert that might be more informative, he opened the box. The insert was directly on top.
After reading the insert, Jack realized he'd have to reassess his evaluation of house calls. With such products, including new and accurate ways of determining diabetic status, a physician could be quite effective in a home environment, especially with the portable ECG machine Jack had seen next to the doctor's bag.
Jack replaced the insert and then the biomarker assay kit. When he did so, he noticed some debris, including an empty atropine vial and an empty epinephrine vial. He wondered if they could have been from the time Craig had been treating Patience Stanhope. From the record, both medications had been used. Then Jack found something that made him sure they were. He found a small sample bottle of the antidepressant Zoloft with Patience Stanhope's name and the notation #6: one pill at hour of sleep. Jack opened the bottle and glanced in at the five pale blue tablets. Replacing the lid, Jack put the bottle back. Next, he lifted out the atropine and epinephrine vials. Both were empty.
Hearing what he thought were footsteps coming down the front steps caused Jack a pang of guilt about snooping into private property, even if just in a doctor's bag. It was a clear violation of the trust extended to him as a guest. With a bit of panic, he quickly replaced the vials, closed the bag, and jammed it back onto the shelf. He dashed across the room, leaped back into the club chair, and pulled the case-file material onto his lap.
It was none too soon. Craig shuffled into the study a few moments later. He was dressed in a bathrobe with open-backed slippers on his feet. He went over and sat in the other reading chair.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said.
"Don't be silly," Jack answered. He couldn't help notice that Craig's voice had a monotone that hadn't been there when he'd gone upstairs and that when he'd walked in, his arms had hung limply at his sides as though they were paralyzed. It was abundantly clear the man had already taken his sleep medication and hadn't skimped on the dose.
"I just wanted to say thank you for coming up here to Boston. I know I wasn't much of a host last night and this morning."
"No problem. I have a good sense of what you're going through."
"I also wanted to say that I'm behind the autopsy idea after giving it additional thought."
"That makes it unanimous. Now, after convincing everybody, I can only hope I can pull it off."
"Well, I appreciate your efforts." He struggled back to a standing position and wobbled before gaining his balance.
"I glanced in your doctor's bag," Jack said to clear his conscience. "I hope you don't mind."
"Of course not. Do you need something? Back when I was making a lot of house calls, I amassed a small pharmacy."
"No! I was curious about the biomarker kit for heart attacks. I never knew they existed."
"It's hard to keep up with technology. Good night."
"Good night," Jack said. From where he was sitting, he could see down the lengthy hall as Craig plodded toward the stairs. He was moving like a zombie. For the first time, Jack started to feel sorry for the man.
10
NEWTON, MASSACHUSETTS WEDNESDAY, JUNE 7, 2006 6:15 A.M.
The morning routine was as chaotic as it had been the previous morning, including another disagreement between Meghan and Christina over an article of apparel. Jack never knew what it was, but the tables had been turned. Now it was Meghan denying Christina, resulting in Christina rushing back upstairs in tears.
Alexis was the only one acting normally. It was as if she were the glue holding the family together. Craig was somnolent and spoke little, apparently still feeling the effects of his sleeping medication on top of his scotch.
After the kids had left for school, Alexis turned to Jack. "What do you want to do about transportation? Do you want to come with us or drive yourself?"
"I've got to drive myself. My first stop is the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home. I've got to get the signed papers over there to start the exhumation process." What he didn't say was that he hoped to get in a little basketball in the late afternoon.
"Then we'll see you in the courtroom?"
"That's my intention," Jack said, although he harbored a hope that Harold Langley could work miracles and get Patience Stanhope out of her eternal resting place that very morning. If that could happen, then Jack could do the autopsy, have the gross results by that afternoon, present them to Craig and Alexis, and be on the shuttle back to New York. That would give him Thursday to wrap things up in his office prior to the honeymoon that was to begin on Saturday morning. It would also give him the opportunity to pick up the tickets and hotel vouchers.
Jack left before Alexis and Craig. He got into his rent-a-car and headed for the Massachusetts Turnpike. He had assumed that having already visited the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home, it would be easy to find it again. Unfortunately, he was wrong. It took him almost forty minutes of highly aggravating driving to cover approximately five miles as the crow flew.
Muttering obscenities to himself over the stressful experience, Jack finally pulled into the funeral home's parking lot. It was more crowded that the previous day, forcing Jack to park at the very back. When he got around to the front of the building, there were people milling about on the porch. It was at that point that he guessed a service was about to get under way. His suspicions were confirmed when he entered the foyer. In the viewing room to the right, people were scurrying about, arranging flowers and unfolding additional chairs. On the catafalque was an open coffin with its occupant comfortably resting. The same pious soundtrack as the day before inundated the scene.
"Would you care to sign the book?" a man asked in a quiet, sympathetic voice. In many respects, he was a significantly heavier version of Harold Langley.
"I'm looking for the funeral director."
"I am the funeral director. Mr. Locke Peerson at your service."
Jack mentioned he was looking for Mr. Langley and was directed back to Harold's office. He found the man at his desk.
"The current Mr. Stanhope has signed the authorization," Jack said, wasting no time with small talk. He handed over the form. "Now it's a matter of utmost urgency to get the body back here to your embalming room."
"We have a service this morning," Harold said. "After that, I'll get on it."
"Do you see any chance of it happening today? We're really up against a strict deadline."
"Dr. Stapleton, do you not remember that the city, the vault company, a backhoe operator, and the cemetery are all involved in this endeavor? Under normal conditions, we're talking about a week at least."
"It cannot be a week," Jack said emphatically. "It's got to be today or tomorrow at the very latest." Jack shuddered at the implication of having to wait until Thursday and wondered what he could tell Laurie.
"That's an impossibility."
"Perhaps an extra five hundred dollars on top of your usual fee is in order to make up for the inconvenience." Jack watched Harold's expression. He had an almost parkinsonian lack of mobility and a pair of narrow lips that recalled Randolph's.
"All I can say is that I will give the affair my utmost effort. There can be no promises."
"I can't ask for anything more," Jack said while giving Harold one of his business cards. "By the way, do you have any idea of what condition we can expect the body to be in?"
"Absolutely," Harold said emphatically. "The body should be in pristine condition. It was embalmed with our usual care, and the coffin is a top-of-the-line Perpetual Repose mated with a premier cement vault."
"What about the grave site: much water?"
"None. It's on the crest of the hill. The original Mr. Stanhope had picked it out himself for the family."
"Call me as soon as you know something."
"I most certainly will."
As Jack left the funeral home, the people on the porch had begun somberly filing in. Jack got into his car and consulted his map, which had been significantly upgraded by Alexis, who had laughed when she'd heard he'd been trying to navigate around the city with the rent-a-car map. Jack's next destination was back to the medical examiner's office. Thanks to significantly less traffic, Jack was able to make the journey in comparatively short time.
The receptionist remembered him. She told him that Dr. Wylie was definitely in the autopsy room on this occasion, and she took it upon herself without being asked to call down and talk with her. The result was that a mortuary tech came up to reception and escorted Jack down to the autopsy anteroom. Two men in mufti were milling about; one was African-American, the other Caucasian. The Caucasian was a big, red-faced Irishman. Everyone else was in Tyvek protective gear. Jack was to learn a few minutes later that the men were detectives interested in the case Latasha Wylie was doing.
Jack was given gear, and after suiting up he pushed into the room. Like the rest of the facility, the autopsy room was state-of-the-art and made the New York room look like an anachronism in comparison. There were five tables, three of which were in operation. Latasha's was the farthest away, and she waved for him to come over.
"I'm almost finished," Latasha said behind her plastic face mask. "I thought you might like to take a look."
"What do you have?" Jack asked. He was always interested.
"It's a fifty-nine-year-old female found dead in her bedroom after having been visited by a man she met on the Internet. The bedroom was in disarray suggesting a struggle, with the bedside table upended and the bedside lamp broken. The two detectives waiting out in the dressing area are thinking homicide. The woman had a gash on her forehead at her hairline."
Latasha pulled the woman's scalp down from where it had been reflected over the face to gain access to the brain.
Jack bent down to look at the laceration. It was round and punched in, as if delivered by a hammer.
Latasha went on to describe how she had been able to reconstruct what turned out to be an accident and not a homicide. The woman had slipped on a small throw rug on the polished wood flooring and had collided with the bedside table, hitting her forehead on the lamp's finial with the full force of her body weight. The case turned out to be an example of how important knowledge of the scene was. It seemed that the lamp's finial was a rather tall spire ending in a flat disc that resembled a hammerhead.
