“All I can say, Alex, is that you must have been doing something right. McGraw’s a real pain in the neck. He crossed me twelve years ago, when he was commanding Manhattan South. He’s never been able to work with women-quite a Neanderthal. So don’t let him get to you.”
He stood up and walked in the direction of the door, marking an end to my audience. The cigar was clenched in his teeth and he was smiling even more broadly as he saw me out: “If he gives you a hard time, send my regards. Tell him I said he should zip up his pants and get out of your way.”
I picked up the messages that were stuffed into the clip on Laura’s desk, flipping through them until I found the one I wanted. David Mitchell had called back to confirm that he had made a referral of Maureen Forester to a neurologist affiliated with Mid-Manhattan Hospital. On the basis of her complaints to Mitchell and the results of his preliminary exam, he had recommended that she be admitted to the hospital Friday morning at 10A.M. Dr. Mitchell had insisted, of course, that no invasive tests or procedures be performed until his return to New York at the beginning of next week. Just observation and lots of rest.
I called Sarah to tell her the news and ask her if she could spend Friday afternoon “visiting” with Mo. Then I phoned Bergdorf’s personal shopping department and ordered a mocha-colored vicuña robe, to be delivered to the neurological floor the next day-“You’re our devil in disguise-stay well, with love from your pals-Mike, Mercer, and Al.”
Gina Brickner waited until I hung up the phone before she came in with her legal pads and a cassette recorder. She looked miserable.
“Laura told me you’re leaving at noon, but you gotta hear this tape before you go. I got an indictment on that Columbia University frat party rape last month. The 911 tape was just delivered this morning, with the printout.
“Jessie Pointer, the victim, told me she’d only had one or two beers that night. Said she was cold sober by the time she got back to her girlfriend’s dorm room to make the call. I played the tape-Alex, she’s so damn drunk that she’s hiccuping all the way through it.”
“Unbelievable.”
“It gets worse. Every time the 911 operator asks for a response address, Jessie can’t answer the question. She can’t remember the name of the dorm. Then the dispatcher wants the telephone callback number in case the address she finally came up with was wrong. Jessie gives her six digits, and then the two of them keep arguing over whether phone numbers have six or seven figures. I can’t believe how intox’d she sounds.”
“Get her back in here tomorrow. Read her the riot act. Make her listen to the tape. Tell her she’s got one chance-and only one chance-to correct her story. And she’ll have to admit to the jury, at the trial, that she wasn’t honest with you or with the cops about her condition.
“I’ll never understand why some of these women lie about the circumstances 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 CAR around 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 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 were multiple stab wounds-seventeen, to be exact. Several hit vital organs, including the wound that was probably the fatal one, which collapsed one of her lungs completely. The other lung was punctured as well.