Lincoln Child - Cemetery Dance

"Documents in the tray," came the laconic voice.

They put their shields in a sliding tray. A moment later, they came back with two passes. The steel doors sprang ajar with a metallic snap. "Down the hall, second corridor, left at the T. Check in with the secretary."

The secretary was busy, and it took another twenty minutes to see the doctor. By the time the door finally opened and they were ushered into the elegant office, D'Agosta was spoiling for a fight. And as soon as he saw the arrogant, annoyed face of the assistant medical examiner, he knew he was going to get his wish.

The M.E. rose from his desk and pointedly did not offer them seats. He was a handsome older man, lean and spare, dressed in a cardigan with a bow tie and starched white shirt. A tweed jacket hung on the back of his chair. His thinning silver hair was combed back from a high forehead. The Mr. Rogers look stopped at the eyes, which were as blue and cold as ice behind horn — rimmed spectacles. There were hunting prints on the wood — paneled walls, along with a collection of yacht racing pennants in a large glass case. A frigging country gentleman, D'Agosta thought sourly.

"What can I do for you?" the M.E. asked, unsmiling, hands on the desk.

D'Agosta pointedly took a chair, moving it this way and that before sitting down, taking his time about it. Pendergast slipped smoothly into a seat nearby. D'Agosta peeled a document out of his briefcase and slid it over the half — an — acre of desk.

The man didn't even look at it. "Lieutenant — ah, D'Agosta — fill me in on the details. I don't have time to read reports right now."

"It's about the autopsy of Colin Fearing. You were in charge. Remember?"

"Of course. The body found in the Harlem River. Suicide."

"Yeah," said D'Agosta. "Well, I got five good witnesses swearing he was the killer on that West End Avenue murder last night."

"That's quite impossible."

"Who identified the body?"

"The sister." Heffler shuffled impatiently through a file open on his desk. "Carmela Fearing."

"No other family?"

More impatient shuffling. "Just a mother. Non compos mentis, in a nursing home upstate."

D'Agosta shot a glance toward Pendergast, but the special agent was studying the sporting prints with evident distaste, seemingly oblivious to the line of questioning.

"Identifying marks?" he continued.

"Fearing had a very unusual tattoo of a hobbit on his left deltoid, and a birthmark on his right ankle. We verified the former with the tattoo parlor — it was very recent. The latter was verified by his birth certificate."

"Dental records?"

"We couldn't locate dental records."

"Why not?"

"Colin Fearing grew up in England. Then, before moving to New York City, he lived in San Antonio, Texas. His sister stated he had all his dental work done in Mexico."

"So you didn't call the clinics in Mexico or London? How long does it take to scan and e — mail a set of X — rays?"

The M.E. expelled a long, irritated sigh. "Birthmark, tattoo, sworn and notarized eyewitness identification from reliable next — of — kin — we've more than satisfied the law, Lieutenant. I'd never get my work done if we went after international dental records every time a foreigner killed himself in New York City." "Did you keep any samples of Fearing's tissue or blood?"

"We only take X — rays and keep tissue and blood if there's a question surrounding the death. This was a open — and — shut case of suicide."

"How do you know?"

"Fearing jumped off the rotating bridge opposite Spuyten Duyvel into the Harlem River. His body was found in the Spuyten Duyvel by a police boat. The jump ruptured his lungs and fractured his skull. And there was a suicide note left on the tracks. But you know all this, Lieutenant."

"I read it in the file. Not the same as knowing it."

The doctor had remained standing, and now he pointedly closed the file on his desk. "Thank you, gentlemen, will that be all?" He looked at his watch.

At this, Pendergast at last roused himself. "To whom did you release the body?" His voice was slow, almost sleepy.

"The sister, of course."

"What kind of ID did you check on the sister? A passport?"

"I seem to recall it was a New York State driver's license."

"Did you keep a copy of it?"

"No."

A small sigh rose from Pendergast. "Any witnesses to this suicide?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Was a forensic examination done to the note, to ascertain it was indeed in Colin Fearing's handwriting?"

A hesitation. The file opened again. The M.E. scanned it. "It seems not."

D'Agosta picked up the line of questioning. "Who found the note?"

"The police who recovered the body."

"And the sister — did you interview her?"

"No." Heffler turned away from D'Agosta, no doubt in hopes of shutting him up. "Mr. Pendergast, may I ask what the FBI's interest is in the case?"

"You may not, Dr. Heffler."

D'Agosta continued. "Look, Doctor. We've got Bill Smithback's body in your morgue, and if we're to continue our investigation we need it autopsied, fast. We also need DNA tests on the blood and hair samples, equally fast. And a test of Fearing's mother's DNA for comparison, since you neglected to keep any samples from the autopsy."

"How fast would that be?"

"Four days, tops."

A small smile of contemptuous triumph twitched across the doctor's lips. "So sorry, Lieutenant, that is impossible. We're quite backed up here, and even if we weren't, four days is out of the question. It'll be at least ten days, perhaps even three weeks, for the autopsy. As for DNA results, that's not even my jurisdiction. You'll have to get a court order to take blood from the mother, which could take months. And with the backups at the DNA lab, you'll be lucky to get final results in less than half a year."

Pendergast spoke again. "How very inconvenient." He turned to D'Agosta. "I suppose we'll just have to wait. Unless Dr. Heffler can manage — how do you term it? — a rush job on that autopsy."

"If I did a rush job for every FBI agent or homicide detective who asked for it — and they all do — I'd never get anything else done." He slid the document back across the desk. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. Now if you'll excuse me?"

"Of course," said Pendergast. "So sorry to have taken up your valuable time."

D'Agosta looked over with incredulity as the agent rose to leave. They were just going to accept this bullshit brush — off and walk out?

Pendergast turned and strode to the door, then hesitated. "Odd that you managed to work so efficiently with Fearing's corpse. How many days did that take?"

"Four. But that was a straightforward suicide. We have a storage problem here."

"Well, then! Given your storage problem, we would like the autopsy on Smithback completed in four days."

A short laugh. "Mr. Pendergast, you haven't been listening. I'll let you know when we can schedule it. Now if you don't mind—"

"Make it three days, then, Dr. Heffler."

The doctor stared at him. "Excuse me?"

Pendergast turned to face him. "I said, three days. "

Heffler narrowed his eyes. "You are insolent, sir."

"And you suffer from an egregious lack of ethics."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"It would be a shame if it became widely known that your office has been selling the brains of the indigent dead."

There was a long silence. When the M.E. spoke again, his voice was as cold as ice. "Mr. Pendergast, are you threatening me?"

Pendergast smiled. "How clever of you, Doctor."

"What I presume you're referring to is a fully sanctioned and legitimate practice. It is for a worthy cause — medical research. We harvest the unclaimed cadavers for all their organs, not just the brain. Their bodies save lives and are crucial for medical research."