“What about my husband?” Terese managed. “Has he been told?”
“He has,” Dr. Glanz said. “I spoke to him as soon as I’d finished the case. He’s downstairs in your room, where I’m sure you’ll be going momentarily.”
There was more conversation with Dr. Glanz, but Terese remembered little of it. The combined realization that she’d lost her child and would never be able to have another was devastating.
A quarter hour later an orderly arrived to wheel her to her room. The trip went quickly; she was oblivious to her surroundings. Her mind was in turmoil; she needed reassurance and support.
When she reached her room, Matthew was on his cellular phone. As a stockbroker, it was his constant companion.
The floor nurses expertly transferred Terese to her bed and hung her IV on a pole behind her head. After making sure all was in order and encouraging her to call if she needed anything, they left.
Terese looked over at Matthew, who had averted his gaze as he finished his call. She was concerned about his reaction to this catastrophe. They had been married for only three months.
With a definitive click Matthew flipped his phone closed and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He turned to Terese and stared at her for a moment. His tie was loosened and his shirt collar unbuttoned.
She tried to read his expression but couldn’t. He was chewing the inside of his cheek.
“How are you?” he asked finally with little emotion.
“As well as can be expected,” Terese managed. She desperately wanted him to come to her and hold her, but he kept his distance.
“This is a curious state of affairs,” he said.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Terese said.
“Simply that the main reason we got married has just evaporated,” Matthew said. “I’d say your planning has gone awry.”
Terese’s mouth slowly dropped open. Stunned, she had to struggle to find her voice. “I don’t like your implication,” she said. “I didn’t get pregnant on purpose.”
“Well, you have your reality and I have mine,” Matthew said. “The problem is: What are we going to do about it?”
Terese closed her eyes. She couldn’t respond. It had been as if Matthew had plunged a knife into her heart. She knew from that moment that she didn’t love him. In fact she hated him…
1
NEW YORK CITY
“Excuse me,” Jack Stapleton said with false civility to the darkly complected Pakistani cabdriver. “Would you care to step out of your car so we can discuss this matter fully?”
Jack was referring to the fact that the cabdriver had cut him off at the intersection of Forty-sixth Street and Second Avenue. In retaliation Jack had kicked the cab’s driver-side door when they had both stopped at a red light at Forty-fourth Street. Jack was on his Cannondale mountain bike that he used to commute to work.
This morning’s confrontation was not unusual. Jack’s daily route included a hair-raising slalom down Second Avenue from Fifty-ninth Street to Thirtieth Street at breakneck speed. There were frequent close calls with trucks and taxicabs and the inevitable arguments. Anyone else would have found the trip nerve-racking. Jack loved it. As he explained to his colleagues, it got his blood circulating.
Choosing to ignore Jack until the light turned green, the Pakistani cabdriver then cursed him soundly before speeding off.
“And to you too!” Jack yelled back. He accelerated standing up until he reached a speed equal to the traffic. Then he settled onto the seat while his legs pumped furiously.
Eventually he caught up with the offending cabdriver, but Jack ignored him. In fact, he whisked past him, squeezing between the taxi and a delivery van.
At Thirtieth Street Jack turned east, crossed First Avenue, and abruptly turned into the loading bay of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York. Jack had been working there for five months, having been offered a position as an associate medical examiner after finishing his pathology residency and a year’s fellowship in forensics.
Jack wheeled his bike past the security office and waved at the uniformed guard. Turning left, he passed the mortuary office and entered the morgue itself. Turning left again, he passed a bank of the refrigerated compartments used to store bodies prior to autopsy. In a corner where simple pine coffins were stored for unclaimed bodies heading for Hart Island, Jack parked his bike and secured it with several Kryptonite locks.
The elevator took Jack up to the first floor. It was well before eight in the morning and few of the daytime employees had arrived. Even Sergeant Murphy wasn’t in the office assigned to the police.
Passing through the communications room, Jack entered the ID area. He said hello to Vinnie Amendola, who returned the greeting without looking up from his newspaper. Vinnie was one of the mortuary techs who worked with Jack frequently.
Jack also said hello to Laurie Montgomery, one of the board-certified forensic pathologists. It was her turn in the rotation to be in charge of assigning the cases that had come in during the night. She’d been at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for four and a half years. Like Jack, she was usually one of the first to arrive in the morning.
“I see you made it into the office once again without having to come in feet first,” Laurie said teasingly. She was referring to Jack’s dangerous bike ride. “Coming in feet first” was office vernacular for arriving dead.
“Only one brush with a taxi,” Jack said. “I’m accustomed to three or four. It was like a ride in the country this morning.”
“I’m sure,” Laurie said without belief. “Personally I think you are foolhardy to ride your bike in this city. I’ve autopsied several of those daredevil bicycle messengers. Every time I see one in traffic I wonder when I’ll be seeing him in the pit.” The “pit” was office vernacular for the autopsy room.
Jack helped himself to coffee, then wandered over to the desk where Laurie was working.
“Anything particularly interesting?” Jack asked, looking over her shoulder.
“The usual gunshot wounds,” Laurie said. “Also a drug overdose.”
“Ugh,” Jack said.
“You don’t like overdoses?”
“Nah,” Jack said. “They’re all the same. I like surprises and a challenge.”
“I had a few overdoses that fit into that category during my first year,” Laurie said.
“How so?”
“It’s a long story,” Laurie said evasively. Then she pointed to one of the names on her list. “Here’s a case you might find interesting: Donald Nodelman. The diagnosis is unknown infectious disease.”
“That would certainly be better than an overdose,” Jack said.
“Not in my book,” Laurie said. “But it’s yours if you want it. Personally I don’t care for infectious disease cases, never have and never will. When I did the external exam earlier, it gave me the creeps. Whatever it was, it was an aggressive bug. He’s got extensive subcutaneous bleeding.”
“Unknowns can be a challenge,” Jack said. He picked up the folder. “I’ll be glad to do the case. Did he die at home or in an institution?”
“He was in a hospital,” Laurie said. “He was brought in from the Manhattan General. But infectious disease wasn’t his admitting diagnosis. He’d been admitted for diabetes.”
“It’s my recollection that the Manhattan General is an AmeriCare hospital,” Jack said. “Is that true?”
“I think so,” Laurie said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because it might make this case personally rewarding,” Jack said. “Maybe I’ll be lucky enough for the diagnosis to be something like Legionnaires’ disease. I couldn’t think of anything more enjoyable than giving AmeriCare heartburn. I’d love to see that corporation squirm.”