"Maybe you caught it from me."
"Caught what?"
"Insanity."
He smiled. "Insanity isn't like the common cold. You can't spread it with a cough--or a kiss."
"Haven't you heard of a 'shared psychosis'?"
Braking for a traffic light, he said, "Shared psychosis? Isn't that a social welfare program for underprivileged lunatics who can't afford psychoses of their own?"
"Jokes at a time like this?"
"Especially at a time like this."
"What about mass hysteria?"
"It's not one of my favorite pastimes."
"I mean, maybe that's what's happening here."
"No. Impossible," he said. "There's only two of us. That's not enough to make a mass."
She smiled. "God, I'm glad you're here. I'd hate to be fighting this thing alone."
"You'll never be alone again."
She put one hand on his shoulder.
They reached the morgue at quarter past eleven.
***
At the coroner's office, Hilary and Tony learned from the secretary that the chief medical examiner had not performed the autopsy on the body of Bruno Frye. Last Thursday and Friday, he had been in San Francisco on a speaking engagement. The autopsy had been left to an assistant, another doctor on the M.E.'s staff.
That bit of news gave Hilary hope that there would be a simple solution to the mystery of Frye's return from the grave. Perhaps the assistant assigned to the job had been a slacker, a lazy man who, free of his boss's constant supervision, had skipped the autopsy and filed a false report.
That hope was dashed when she met Ira Goldfield, the young doctor in question. He was in his early thirties, a handsome man with piercing blue eyes and a lot of tight blond curls. He was friendly, energetic, bright, and obviously too interested in his work and too dedicated to it to do less than a perfect job.
Goldfield escorted them to a small conference room that smelled of pine-scented disinfectant and cigarette smoke. They sat at a rectangular table that was covered with half a dozen medical reference books, pages of lab reports, and computer print-outs.
"Sure." Goldfield said. "I remember that one. Bruno Graham ... no ... Gunther. Bruno Gunther Frye. Two stab wounds, one of them just a little worse than superficial, the other very deep and fatal. Some of the best developed abdominal muscles I've ever seen." He blinked at Hilary and said, "Oh yes.... You're the woman who ... stabbed him."
"Self-defense," Tony said.
"I don't doubt that for a second," Goldfield assured him. "In my professional opinion, it's highly unlikely that Miss Thomas could have initiated a successful assault against that man. He was huge. He'd have brushed her away as easily as one of us might turn aside a small child." Goldfield looked at Hilary again. "According to the crime report and the newspaper accounts that I read, Frye attacked you without realizing you were carrying a knife."
"That's right. He thought I was unarmed."
Goldfield nodded. "It had to be that way. Considering the disparity in body sizes, that's the only way you could have taken him without being seriously injured yourself. I mean, the biceps and triceps and forearms on that man were truly astounding. Ten or fifteen years ago, he could have entered body building competitions with considerable success. You were damned lucky, Miss Thomas. If you hadn't surprised him, he could have broken you in half. Almost literally in half. And easily, too." He shook his head, still impressed with Frye's body. "What was it you wanted to ask me about him?"
Tony looked at her, and she shrugged. "It seems rather pointless now that we're here."
Goldfield looked from one of them to the other, a vague, encouraging smile of curiosity on his handsome face.
Tony cleared his throat. "I agree with Hilary. It seems pointless ... now that we've met you."
"You came in looking so somber and mysterious," Goldfield said pleasantly. "You pricked my interest. You can't keep me hanging like this."
"Well," Tony said, "we came here to find out if there actually had been an autopsy."
Goldfield didn't understand. "But you knew that before you asked to see me. Agnes, the M.E.'s secretary, must have told you...."
"We wanted to hear it from you," Hilary said.
"I still don't get it."
"We knew that an autopsy report had been filed," Tony said. "But we didn't know for certain that the work had been done."
"But now that we've met you," Hilary said quickly, "we have no doubt about it."
Goldfield cocked his head. "You mean to say ... you thought I filed a fake report without bothering to cut him open?" He didn't seem to be offended, just amazed.
"We thought there might be an outside chance of it," Tony admitted. "A long shot."
"Not in this M.E.'s jurisdiction," Goldfield said. "He's a tough old SOB. He keeps us in line. If one of us didn't do his job, the old man would crucify him." It was obvious from Goldfield's affectionate tone that he greatly admired the chief medical examiner.
Hilary said, "Then there's no doubt in your mind that Bruno Frye was ... dead?"
Goldfield gaped at her as if she had just asked him to stand on his head and recite a poem. "Dead? Why, of course he was dead!"
"You did a complete autopsy?" Tony asked.
"Yes. I cut him--" Goldfield stopped abruptly, thought for a second or two, then said, "No. It wasn't a complete autopsy in the sense you probably mean. Not a medical school dissection of every part of the body. It was an extremely busy day here. A lot of incoming. And we were short-handed. Anyway, there wasn't any need to open Frye all the way up. The stab wound in the lower abdomen was decisive. No reason to open his chest and have a look at his heart. Nothing to be gained by weighing a lot of organs and poking around in his cranium. I did a very thorough exterior examination, and then I opened the two wounds further, to establish the extent of the damage and to be certain that at least one of them had been the cause of death. If he hadn't been stabbed in your house, while attacking you ... if the circumstances of his death had been less clear, I might have done more with him. But it was clear there wasn't going to be any criminal charges brought in the case. Besides, I am absolutely positive that the abdominal wound killed him."
"Is it possible he was only in a very deep coma when you examined him?" Hilary asked.
"Coma? My God, no! Jesus, no!" Goldfield stood up and paced the length of the long narrow room. "Frye was checked for pulse, respiration, pupil activity, and even brainwaves. The man was indisputably dead, Miss Thomas." He returned to the table and looked down at them. "Dead as stone. When I saw him, there wasn't enough blood in his body to sustain even the barest threshold of life. There was advanced lividity, which means that the blood still in his tissues had settled to the lowest point of the body--the lowest corresponding, in this case, to the position in which he'd been when he'd died. At those places, the flesh was somewhat distended and purple. There's no mistaking that and no overlooking it."
Tony pushed his chair back and stood. "My apologies for wasting your time, Dr. Goldfield."
"And I'm sorry for suggesting you might not have done your job well enough," Hilary said as she got to her feet.
"Hold on now," Goldfield said. "You can't just leave me standing here in the dark. What's this all about?"
She looked at Tony. He seemed as reluctant as she was to discuss walking dead men with the doctor.
"Come on," Goldfield said. "Neither of you strikes me as stupid. You had your reasons for coming here."
Tony said, "Last night, another man broke into Hilary's house and attempted to kill her. He bore a striking resemblance to Bruno Frye."
"Are you serious?" Goldfield asked.
"Oh, yes," Hilary said. "Very serious."
"And you thought--"
"Yes."
"God, it must have been a shock to see him and think he'd come back!" Goldfield said. "But all I can tell you is that the resemblance must be coincidental. Because Frye is dead. I've never seen a man any deader than he was."