But she wasn’t. She was on a gurney parked in front of the stainless-steel refrigerator door, an ID tech arranging a blue sheet around the neck, up to the chin.
“What are we doing?” Scarpetta said.
“We’ve had a little excitement upstairs. She’s going to be viewed.”
“By whom and why?”
“Mother’s in the lobby and won’t leave until she sees her. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” The tech’s name was Rene, mid-thirties with curly black hair and ebony eyes, and unusually gifted at handling families. If she was having a problem with one, it wasn’t trivial. Rene could defuse just about anything.
“I thought the father had made the ID,” Scarpetta said.
“He filled out the paperwork, and then I showed him the picture you uploaded to me-this was right before you left for the cafeteria. A few minutes later, the mother walks in and the two of them start arguing in the lobby, and I mean going at it, and finally he storms out.”
“They’re divorced?”
“And obviously hate each other. She’s insisting on seeing the body, won’t take no for an answer.” Rene’s purple nitrile-gloved hands moved a strand of damp hair off the dead woman’s brow, rearranging several more strands behind the ears, making sure no sutures from the autopsy showed. “I know you’ve got a staff meeting in a few minutes. I’ll take care of this.” She looked at the cardboard box Scarpetta was holding. “You didn’t even eat yet. What have you had today? Probably nothing, as usual. How much weight have you lost? You’re going to end up in the anthro lab, mistaken for a skeleton.”
“What were they arguing about in the lobby?” Scarpetta asked.
“Funeral homes. Mother wants one on Long Island. Father wants one in New Jersey. Mother wants a burial, but the father wants cremation. Both of them fighting over her.” Touching the dead body again, as if it were part of the conversation. “Then they started blaming each other for everything you can think of. At one point Dr. Edison came out, they were causing such a ruckus.”
He was the chief medical examiner and Scarpetta’s boss when she worked in the city. It was still a little hard getting used to being supervised, having been either a chief herself or the owner of a private practice for most of her career. But she wouldn’t want to be in charge of the New York OCME, not that she’d been asked or likely ever would be. Running an office of this magnitude was like being the mayor of a major metropolis.
“Well, you know how it works,” Scarpetta said. “A dispute, and the body doesn’t go anywhere. We’ll put a hold on her release until Legal instructs us otherwise. You showed the mother the picture, and then what?”
“I tried, but she wouldn’t look at it. She says she wants to see her daughter and isn’t leaving until she does.”
“She’s in the family room?”
“That’s where I left her. I put the folder on your desk, copies of the paperwork.”
“Thanks. I’ll look at it when I go upstairs. You get her on the lift, and I’ll take care of things on the other end,” Scarpetta said. “Maybe you can let Dr. Edison know I’m going to miss the three-o’clock. In fact, it’s already started. Hopefully I’ll catch up with him before he heads home. He and I need to talk about this case.”
“I’ll tell him.” Rene placed her hands on the steel gurney’s push handle. “Good luck on TV tonight.”
“Tell him the scene photos have been uploaded to him, but I won’t be able to dictate the autopsy protocol or get those photos to him until tomorrow.”
“I saw the commercials for the show. They’re cool.” Rene was still talking about TV. “Except I can’t stand Carley Crispin and what’s the name of that profiler who’s on there all the time? Dr. Agee. I’m sick and tired of them talking about Hannah Starr. I’m betting Carley’s going to ask you about it.”
“CNN knows I won’t discuss active cases.”
“You think she’s dead? Because I sure do.” Rene’s voice followed Scarpetta into the elevator. “Like what’s-her-name in Aruba? Natalee? People vanish for a reason-because somebody wanted them to.”
Scarpetta had been promised. Carley Crispin wouldn’t do that to her, wouldn’t dare. It wasn’t as if Scarpetta was simply another expert, an outsider, an infrequent guest, a talking head, she reasoned, as the elevator made its ascent. She was CNN’s senior forensic analyst and had been adamant with executive producer Alex Bachta that she could not discuss or even allude to Hannah Starr, the beautiful financial titan who seemingly had vanished in thin air the day before Thanksgiving, reportedly last seen leaving a restaurant in Greenwich Village and getting into a yellow cab. If the worst had happened, if she was dead and her body turned up in New York City, it would be this office’s jurisdiction, and Scarpetta could end up with the case.
She got off on the first floor and followed a long hallway past the Division of Special Operations, and through another locked door was the lobby, arranged with burgundy and blue upholstered couches and chairs, coffee tables and racks of magazines, and a Christmas tree and menorah in a window overlooking First Avenue. Carved in marble above the reception desk was Taceant colloquia. Effugiat risus. Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. Let conversations cease. Let laughter depart. This is the place where death delights to help the living. Music sounded from a radio on the floor behind the desk, the Eagles playing “Hotel California.” Filene, one of the security guards, had decided that an empty lobby was hers to fill with what she called her tunes.
“… You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave,” Filene softly sang along, oblivious to the irony.
“There should be someone in the family room?” Scarpetta stopped at the desk.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Filene reached down, turning off the radio. “I didn’t think she could hear from in there. But that’s all right. I can go without my tunes. It’s just I get so bored, you know? Sitting and sitting when nothing’s going on.”
What Filene routinely witnessed in this place was never happy, and that rather than boredom was likely the reason she listened to her upbeat soft rock whenever she could, whether she was working the reception desk or downstairs in the mortuary office. Scarpetta didn’t care, as long as there were no grieving families to overhear music or lyrics that might be provocative or construed as disrespectful.
“Tell Mrs. Darien I’m on my way,” Scarpetta said. “I need about fifteen minutes to check a few things and look at the paperwork. Let’s hold the tunes until she’s gone, okay?”
Off the lobby to the left was the administrative wing she shared with Dr. Edison, two executive assistants, and the chief of staff, who was on her honeymoon until after the New Year. In a building half a century old with no space to spare, there was no place to put Scarpetta on the third floor, where the full-time forensic pathologists had their offices. When she was in the city, she parked herself in what was formerly the chief’s conference room on the ground level, with a view of the OCME’s turquoise-blue brick entrance on First Avenue. She unlocked her door and stepped inside. She hung her coat, set her boxed lunch on her desk, and sat in front of her computer.
Opening a Web browser, she typed BioGraph into a search field. At the top of the screen was the query Did you mean: BioGraphy. No, she didn’t. Biograph Records. Not what she was looking for. American Mutoscope and Biograph Company, the oldest movie company in America, founded in 1895 by an inventor who worked for Thomas Edison, a distant ancestor of the chief medical examiner, not sure how many times removed. An interesting coincidence. Nothing for BioGraph with a capital B and a capital G, the way it was stamped on the back of the unusual watch Toni Darien was wearing on her left wrist when her body arrived at the morgue this morning.