My phone immediately chimes and he replies, Will pick up Armando’s.
I answer, Combos with xtra cheese, fresh tomato, peppers, onions. On 1 of them add spinach & artichoke hearts. Say they R for me. I tell him I look forward to seeing him.
It will feel reassuring when Benton appears, when the rest of this afternoon is behind me, and I glance at my watch. It’s twenty-eight minutes past one, and I text Luke about the Howard Roth case, letting him know we need to discuss it and not to release the body yet. I should be back in a few hours, I type, as I move on past the soiled room, the anteroom, the changing rooms and locker rooms, no sign of Luke or anyone, which is typical at this hour, unless we have an unusually heavy caseload.
Beyond anthropology the corridor bends around to the Bio4 containment lab, or what we informally refer to as decomp, reserved for suspected infectious or contaminated or badly decomposed bodies. Pushing a hands-free button that automatically opens a metal door, I walk into an air-locked vestibule and hang up my coat. Grabbing protective clothing off shelves, I push a second button that opens a second door and find Marino covered from the neck down in white Tyvek, checking his camera equipment.
The stretcher bearing the black pouch is parked next to one of three stainless-steel tables attached to wall sinks, and above them observation windows are dark. A clock mounted next to the walk-in cooler reminds me unpleasantly that it’s now one-thirty. I’m supposed to be in court in exactly half an hour, and I continue to hope, at this point rather ridiculously, that I’ll be canceled at the last minute. Or perhaps the trial is running behind schedule and the judge will understand that I am, too.
“Was afraid you got lost,” Marino says, as he covers his bald head with a designer surgical cap, this one a medicine skull that he ties in back like a biker’s do-rag.
“We’ve got a problem case maybe.”
“Not another one.”
“The man who supposedly fell down the stairs,” I explain. “It doesn’t look like a fall to me, unless he went off a ten-story building and hit a few things on the way down. Toby took that call, I believe?”
“He went to the scene and said there was nothing to it.”
I lean against a counter and pull shoe covers over my wet boots.
“Do you know the details?” I ask.
“It’s Machado’s case.”
“Did he attend the autopsy this morning?” I inquire.
“The Portuguese Man of War is always there for gore. Said he was going to. I’ll check with him when I get a minute or drop by his house later and bang on the door.”
Marino and Detective Sil Machado live on the same block in their West Cambridge neighborhood and ride motorcycles together. They’re both into boxing and go to the same gym. It seems they’ve become close friends.
“What Toby told me last night was pretty skimpy, not much known at the time,” Marino adds. “Victim’s a chronic alcoholic. Appears he opened the wrong door on his way to the bathroom and fell down the basement stairs.”
“Hopefully Luke got a STAT alcohol. Have you talked to Bryce or heard from him?” I cover my hair with a surgical cap.
“He left around eleven.” Marino is looking me up and down. “You should suit up before walking in here,” he says, as if I need him to remind me of protocols.
“What do you mean left? Left where? Here?”
“Apparently had to take his cat to the vet for what he claims is an emergency. He said he’d already let Steward know we’re just getting back from a scene. Apparently he’s cross-examining the witness who’s right before you and it’s going slow, and after that he’s going to ask for a break.” Marino picks up a six-inch plastic ruler and sticks a blank label on it. “But it’s not smart to assume you’ll be cut any slack for being late, not with that asshole’s dream team.”
He means Channing Lott’s defense attorneys.
“There’s no way around my being late,” I reply. “Dan needs to let the judge know that matters are slightly out of my control at the moment.”
“If we drove there right now you’d make it.”
I imagine myself walking into the courtroom wearing wet boots and a drysuit liner so Channing Lott’s attorneys can have fun with me.
“We got a case number?” Marino opens a drawer and finds several permanent markers.
I tell him what it is, and he writes it and the date on the ruler’s label as I unfold a disposable lab coat. It rustles as I put it on over my gray liner, which I wish I didn’t have to take off anytime soon. I’m still chilled, as if my blood is several degrees cooler than it should be.
“What’s wrong with Bryce’s cat?” I ask. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Onions from chili they had last night; that’s my story and I’m sticking to it, even though Bryce says they’re really careful when they cook with onions. Never drops nothing on the floor or leaves a dirty bowl the cat might get into, right? Ethan and him. Mr. Slob and Mr. Clean.”
“I’m curious how you know what they had for dinner last night.” I pull examination gloves out of a box.
“Bryce brought me some leftover chili this morning, and I ate it for breakfast and tasted onions. Soon as I heard about the cat I said bingo, now you know what’s wrong with it,” Marino says. “Of course, he thinks it’s some kind of flu bug it got from the groomer, vomiting and diarrhea.”
“Ethan’s with him?”
“Don’t get me started.” He bends down to open a cabinet and drags out a large plastic case. “Don’t ask me why it took the both of them to transport that fleabag what’s-its-name, Indy Anna? And they have to be together to rush it to the vet, it takes two of them?”
Clasps snap loudly as Marino opens the case and begins to remove a Xenon arc forensic light.
“That’s not a very nice way to talk about the pet of someone who was thoughtful enough to bring you homemade chili at the crack of dawn. I’m not going to use the ALC.”
There’s not time for an alternate light source, and I wouldn’t use one in this case, not on the body, at any rate.
“Well, Ethan could have just stuck it in one of those damn pet carriers and handled it himself.” Marino sets the forensic light on the counter and plugs it in anyway. “Half the time he works out of the house. What’s the big deal?”
“Am I to infer you mentioned your theory about the cat getting hold of onions?” I label a rack of blood tubes that I may not need.
“Yeah.”
“Well, that certainly explains why they’re treating it like a big deal.” I lower a respirator particulate mask over my nose and mouth. “Eating onions or garlic can be toxic for dogs and cats, and most pet owners know that.”
“Shit, it’s like talking to Darth Vader.” Marino stares at my mask. “Maybe you should wear that to court and see what happens.”
“I’m sure if Bryce wasn’t overwhelmed and beside himself before you got involved, he is now.”
“When’s he not overwhelmed and beside himself about something?” Marino continues in his same grumpy tone, but he doesn’t dislike Bryce nearly as much as he pretends.
It seems to be one of the favorite sports at the CFC for the two of them to go at each other unmercifully, and five minutes later they’re drinking coffee together or eating lunch, and at least once a month Marino is over at Bryce and Ethan’s house for dinner or a cookout.
“He probably hasn’t seen the news Ron just mentioned or is even aware of it.” I unzip the first pouch. “Which is why we didn’t know about it, either.” I unzip the second one.
fourteen
INSIDE BLACK PLASTIC SHE’S PITIFULLY WIZENED, HER long white wet hair plastered over her leathery face. Her frail body seems to disappear inside a long gray skirt, a dark blouse that’s either purple or burgundy, and a navy blue jacket with tarnished metal buttons. All of the clothing seems at least four sizes too big.