Postmortem(33)

That look on her face—Oh, no, not again.

She waited for me to come out into the hallway, then said, “The ME in Colonial Heights is on line one. A detective from Ashland’s on line two. And the commissioner’s secretary just called—”

“What?” I interrupted. Her last remark was the only one I really heard. “Amburgey’s secretary?”

She handed me several pink telephone slips as she replied, “The commissioner wants to see you.”

“About what, for God’s sake?” If she told me one more time I’d have to hear the details for myself, I was going to lose my temper.

“I don’t know,” Rose replied. “His secretary didn’t say.”





Chapter 6




I COULDN’T BEAR TO SIT AT MY DESK. I HAD TO MOVE about and distract myself before I lost my composure.

Someone had broken into my office computer, and Amburgey wanted to see me in an hour and forty-five minutes. It wasn’t likely that he was merely inviting me to tea.

So I was making evidence rounds. Usually this entailed my receipting evidence to the various labs upstairs. Other times I simply stopped by to see what was going on with my cases—the good doctor checking in on her patients. At the moment, my routine was a veiled and desperate peregrination.

The Forensic Science Bureau was a beehive, a honeycomb of cubicles filled with laboratory equipment and people wearing white lab coats and plastic safety glasses.

A few of the scientists nodded and smiled as I passed their open doorways. Most of them didn’t look up, too preoccupied with whatever they were doing to pay a passerby any mind. I was thinking about Abby Turnbull, about other reporters I didn’t like.

Did some ambitious journalist pay a computer hack to break into our data?

How long had the violations been going on?

I didn’t even realize I’d turned in to the serology lab until my eyes were suddenly focusing on black countertops cluttered with beakers, test tubes, and Bunsen burners. Jammed on glass-enclosed shelves were bags of evidence and jars of chemicals, and in the center of the room was a long table covered with the spread and sheets removed from Lori Petersen’s bed.

“You’re just in time,” Betty greeted me. “If you want acid indigestion, that is.”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, I’m getting it already,” she added. “Why should you be immune?”

Close to retirement, Betty had steel-gray hair, strong features and hazel eyes that could be unreadable or shyly sensitive depending on whether you took the trouble to get to know her. I liked her the first time I met her. The chief serologist was meticulous, her acumen as sharp as a scalpel. In private she was an ardent bird-watcher and an accomplished pianist who had never been married or sorry about the fact. I think she reminded me of Sister Martha, my favorite nun at St. Gertrude’s parochial school.

The sleeves of her long lab coat were rolled up to her elbows, her hands gloved. Arranged over her work area were test tubes containing cotton-tipped swabs, and a physical evidence recovery kit—or PERK— comprising the cardboard folder of slides and the envelopes of hair samples from Lori Petersen’s case. The file of slides, the envelopes and the test tubes were identified by computer-generated labels initialed by me, the fruits of yet one more of Margaret’s programs.

I vaguely recalled the gossip at a recent academy meeting. In the weeks following the mayor of Chicago’s sudden death, there were some ninety attempts at breaking into the medical examiner’s computer. The culprits were thought to be reporters after the autopsy and toxicology results.

Who? Who broke into my computer?

And why?

“He’s coming along well,” Betty was saying.

“I’m sorry . . .” I smiled apologetically. She repeated, “I talked with Dr. Glassman this morning. He’s coming along well with the samples from the first two cases and should have results for us in a couple of days.”

“You sent up the samples from the last two yet?”

“They just went out.” She was unscrewing the top of a small brown bottle. “Bo Friend will be hand-delivering them—”

“Bo Friend?” I interrupted.

“Or Officer Friendly, as he’s known by the troops. That’s his name. Bo Friend. Scout’s honor. Let’s see, New York’s about a six-hour drive. He should get them to the lab sometime this evening. I think they drew straws.”

I looked blankly at her. “Straws?”

What could Amburgey want? Maybe he was interested in how the DNA testing was going. It was on everyone’s mind these days.

“The cops,” Betty was saying. “Going to New York and all. Some of them have never been.”