Vanish (5 page)

Department and state police for misdiagnosing death.”

“Oh Jesus. I never said that.”

“I know you didn’t. But now we’ve got a pissed-off fire chief down in Weymouth, and the

state police aren’t too happy either. Louise is already fielding calls from them.”

The traffic light turned green. As she drove through the intersection, she suddenly wished she

could turn around and go home. Wished she could avoid the ordeal to come.

“Are you at the office?” she asked.

“I got in at seven. Thought you’d be here by now.”

“I’m in my car. I needed a few extra hours this morning to prepare that statement.”

“Well, I’ve gotta warn you, when you get here, you’re going to get ambushed in the parking

lot.”

“They’re hanging around out there?”

“Reporters, TV vans. They’re parked on Albany Street. Running back and forth between our

building and the hospital.”

“How convenient for them. One-stop shopping for the press.”

“Have you heard anything more about the patient?”

“I called Dr. Cutler this morning. He said the patient’s tox screen came back positive for

barbiturates and alcohol. She must’ve been pretty loaded.”

“That probably explains why she took a tumble into the water. And with barbs on board, no

wonder they had trouble finding her vital signs.”

“Why is this turning into such a feeding frenzy?”

“Because it’s prime
National Enquirer
stuff. The dead rising from the grave. Plus, she’s a

young woman, isn’t she?”

“I’d say she’s in her twenties.”

“And attractive?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Come on.” Abe laughed. “You
know
it makes a difference.”

Maura sighed. “Yes,” she admitted. “She’s very attractive.”

“Yeah, well, there you go. Young, sexy, and almost sliced open alive.”

“She wasn’t.”

“I’m just warning you, that’s how the public’s going to see it.”

“Can’t I just call in sick today? Maybe catch the next flight to Bermuda?”

“And leave me with this mess? Don’t you dare.”

When she turned onto Albany Street twenty minutes later, she spotted two TV vans parked

near the front entrance of the ME’s building. As Abe had warned her, reporters were poised to

pounce. She stepped out of her air-conditioned Lexus, into a morning already thick with

humidity, and half a dozen reporters scurried toward her.

“Dr. Isles!” a man called out. “I’m from the
Boston Tribune.
Could I have a few words with

you about Jane Doe?”

In response, Maura reached into her briefcase and pulled out copies of what she had composed

that morning. It was a matter-of-fact summary of the night’s events, and how she had

responded. Briskly she handed out copies. “This is my statement,” she said. “I have nothing

else to add.”

It did not stop the flood of questions.

“How can anyone make a mistake like this?”

“Do we know the woman’s name yet?”

“We’re told that Weymouth Fire Department made the determination of death. Can you name

names?”

Maura said, “You’ll have to talk to their spokesperson. I can’t answer for them.”

Now a woman spoke up. “You have to admit, Dr. Isles, that this is a clear case of

incompetence on
someone’s
part.”

Maura recognized that voice. She turned and saw a blond woman who’d pushed her way to the

front of the pack. “You’re that reporter from channel six.”

“Zoe Fossey.” The woman started to smile, gratified to be recognized, but the look Maura gave

her instantly froze that smile to stone.

“You misquoted me,” said Maura. “I never said I blamed the fire department or the state

police.”

“Someone must be at fault. If not them, then who? Are you responsible, Dr. Isles?”

“Absolutely not.”

“A woman was zipped into a body bag, still alive. She was trapped in the morgue refrigerator

for eight hours. And it’s nobody’s fault?” Fossey paused. “Don’t you think someone should

lose their job over this? Say, that state police investigator?”

“You’re certainly quick to assign blame.”

“That mistake could have killed a woman.”

“But it didn’t.”

“Isn’t this a pretty basic error?” Fossey laughed. “I mean, how hard can it be to tell that

someone’s not dead?”

“Harder than you’d think,” Maura shot back.

“So you’re defending them.”

“I gave you my statement. I can’t comment on the actions of anyone else.”

“Dr. Isles?” It was the man from the
Boston Tribune
again. “You said that determining death

isn’t necessarily easy. I know there’ve been similar mistakes made in other morgues around the

country. Could you educate us as to why it’s sometimes difficult?” He spoke with quiet

respect. Not a challenge, but a thoughtful question that deserved an answer.

She regarded the man for a moment. Saw intelligent eyes and windblown hair and a trim beard

that made her think of a youthful college professor. Those dark good looks would surely

inspire countless coed crushes. “What’s your name?” she said.

“Peter Lukas. I write a weekly column for the
Tribune.
”

“I’ll talk to you, Mr. Lukas. And only you. Come inside.”

“Wait,” Fossey protested. “Some of us have been waiting around out here a lot longer.”

Maura shot her a withering look. “In this case, Ms. Fossey, it’s not the early bird that gets the

worm. It’s the polite one.” She turned and walked into the building, the
Tribune
reporter right

behind her.

Her secretary, Louise, was on the phone. Clapping her hand over the receiver, she whispered to

Maura, a little desperately: “It doesn’t stop ringing. What do I tell them?”

Maura laid a copy of her statement on Louise’s desk. “Fax them this.”

“That’s all you want me to do?”

“Head off any calls from the press. I’ve agreed to talk to Mr. Lukas here, but no one else. No

more interviews.”

Louise’s expression, as she regarded the reporter, was only too easy to read.
I see you chose a

good-looking one.

“We won’t be long,” said Maura. She ushered Lukas into her office and closed the door.

Pointed him to the chair.

“Thank you for talking to me,” he said.

“You were the only one out there who didn’t irritate me.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not irritating.”

That got a small smile out of her. “This is purely a self-defense strategy,” she said. “Maybe if I

talk to you, you’ll become everyone else’s go-to guy. They’ll leave me alone and harass you.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. They’ll still be chasing you.”

“There are so many bigger stories you could be writing about, Mr. Lukas. More important

stories. Why this one?”

“Because this one strikes us on a visceral level. It addresses our worst fears. How many of us

are terrified of being given up for dead when we aren’t? Of being accidentally buried alive?

Which, incidentally,
has
happened a few times in the past.”

She nodded. “There have been some historically documented cases. But those were prior to the

days of embalming.”

“And waking up in morgues? That’s not merely historical. I found out there’ve been several

cases in recent years.”

She hesitated. “It’s happened.”

“More often than the public realizes.” He pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. “In 1984,

there was a case in New York. A man’s lying on the autopsy table. The pathologist picks up

the scalpel and is about to make the first incision when the corpse wakes up and grabs the

doctor by the throat. The doctor keels over, dead of a heart attack.” Lukas glanced up. “You’ve

heard of that case?”

“You’re focusing on the most sensationalistic example.”

“But it’s true. Isn’t it?”

She sighed. “Yes. I know of that particular case.”

He flipped to another page in his notebook. “Springfield, Ohio, 1989. A woman in a nursing

home is declared dead and transferred to a funeral home. She’s lying on the table, and the

mortician is about to embalm her. Then the corpse starts talking.”

“You seem quite familiar with this subject.”

“Because it’s fascinating.” He riffled through the pages in his notebook. “Last night, I looked

up case after case. A little girl in South Dakota who woke up in her open casket. A man in Des

Moines whose chest was actually cut open. Only then does the pathologist suddenly realize the

heart is
still beating.
” Lukas looked at her. “These aren’t urban legends. These are documented

cases, and there are a number of them.”

“Look, I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, because clearly it has. Corpses have woken up in

morgues. Old graves have been dug up, and they’ve found claw marks inside the coffin lids.

People are so terrified of the possibility that some casket makers sell coffins equipped with

emergency transmitters to call for help. Just in case you’re buried alive.”

“How reassuring.”

“So yes, it can happen. I’m sure you’ve heard the theory about Jesus. That the resurrection of

Christ wasn’t a true resurrection. It was merely a case of premature burial.”

“Why is it so hard to determine that someone is dead? Shouldn’t it be obvious?”

“Sometimes it isn’t. People who are chilled, through exposure or drowning in cold water, can

look very dead. Our Jane Doe was found in cold water. And there are certain drugs that can

mask vital signs and make it hard to see respirations or detect a pulse.”

“Romeo and Juliet. The potion that Juliet drank to make her look dead.”

“Yes. I don’t know what the potion was, but that scenario was not impossible.”

“Which drugs can do it?”

“Barbiturates, for example. They can depress your respiration and make it hard to tell that a

subject is breathing.”

“That’s what turned up in Jane Doe’s toxicology screen, isn’t it? Phenobarbital.”

She frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

“Sources. It’s true, isn’t it?”

“No comment.”

“Does she have a psychiatric history? Why would she take an overdose of phenobarb?”

“We don’t even know the woman’s name, much less her psychiatric history.”

He studied her for a moment, his gaze too penetrating for comfort. This interview is a mistake,

she thought. Moments ago, Peter Lukas had impressed her as polite and serious, the type of

journalist who would approach this story with respect. But the direction of his questioning

made her uneasy. He had walked into this meeting fully prepared and well versed in the very

details that she least wanted to dwell on; the very details that would rivet the public’s attention.

“I understand the woman was pulled out of Hingham Bay yesterday morning,” he said.

“Weymouth Fire and Rescue were the first to respond.”

“That’s correct.”

“Why wasn’t the ME’s office called to the scene?”

“We don’t have the manpower to visit every death scene. Plus, this one was down in

Weymouth, and there were no obvious indications of foul play.”

“And that was determined by the state police?”

“Their detective thought it was most likely accidental.”

“Or possibly a suicide attempt? Considering the results of her tox screen?”

She saw no point in denying what he already knew. “She may have taken an overdose, yes.”

“A barbiturate overdose. And a body chilled by cold water. Two reasons to obscure a

determination of death. Shouldn’t that have been considered?”

“It’s—yes, it’s something one should consider.”

“But neither the state police detective nor the Weymouth Fire Department did. Which sounds

like a mistake.”

“It can happen. That’s all I can say.”

“Have you ever made that mistake, Dr. Isles? Declared someone dead who was still alive?”

She paused, thinking back to her internship years before. To a night on call during internal

medicine rotation, when the ringing phone had awakened her from a deep sleep. The patient in

bed 336A had just expired, a nurse told her. Could the intern come pronounce the woman

dead? As Maura had made her way to the patient’s room, she’d felt no anxiety, no crisis of

confidence. In medical school, there was no special lesson on how to determine death; it was

understood that you would recognize it when you saw it. That night, she had walked the

hospital corridor thinking that she would make quick work of this task, then return to bed. The

death was not unexpected; the patient had been in the terminal stages of cancer, and her chart

was clearly labeled NO CODE. No resuscitation.

Stepping into room 336, she’d been startled to find the bed surrounded by tearful family

members who’d gathered to say good-bye. Maura had an audience. This was not the calm

communion with the deceased that she had expected. She was painfully aware of all the eyes

watching her as she apologized for the intrusion, as she moved to the bedside. The patient lay

on her back, her face at peace. Maura took out her stethoscope, slipped the diaphragm under the

hospital gown, and laid it against the frail chest. As she’d bent over the body, she felt the

family pressing in around her, felt the pressure of their smothering attention. She did not listen

as long as she should have. The nurses had already determined the woman was dead; calling in

the doctor to make a pronouncement was merely protocol. A note in a chart, an MD’s

signature, was all they really needed before a transfer to the morgue. Bent over the chest,

listening to silence, Maura could not wait to escape the room. She’d straightened, her face