Michael Palmer - Fatal

"I'm glad you're here," Nikki said. "This is an interesting case."

"I thought this man had a coronary," Keller replied, with still the hint of an accent.

"Well, I think he was murdered."

"Murdered? Have you been watching reruns of that pathologist show — um, what was his name?"

"Quincy. Nope. I may be wrong, but here, look at this."

First Nikki showed him the bizarre abrasion beneath Belanger's chin.

"A ring?" Keller asked, immediately on top of things as usual.

"I think so."

"With diamond studs forming the initial."

"Exactly. There's more."

Nikki handed over the otoscope — the tool used by physicians to examine the ear canal and drum. More often than not, she had found residents and even board-certified pathologists omitting this part of the postmortem exam. Process,

Keller took his time, murmuring to himself as he examined Belanger's ears by turning the large, violet head from one side to the other and back and inserting the otoscope into the external ear canal.

"Ruptured, with flakes of dried blood," he said finally. "Both eardrums were ruptured shortly before his death."

"I haven't been to see his Jacuzzi," Nikki said, "but I would bet it isn't at least five feet deep."

Five feet — the minimum depth where the pressure on the drums, if not equalized, could cause rupture.

"You are postulating that this man did not drown in his tub?"

"I am. I think he drowned, all right, but I think someone he was swimming with — someone with the initial 'H' on his ring in diamond studs — dragged him underwater by the throat — maybe to the bottom of a pool — and then brought him home and put him in the tub."

"An argument?"

"Perhaps."

"And the water in his lungs and stomach?"

"I'm waiting for — "

"Home is the hunter, home from the kill. Oh, hi, Joe."

"It's home from the hill, Brad," Nikki said. "Did you pick up the package?"

"I did. What do you need chlorine test strips for?"

"I think your 'tubber,' as you so quaintly put it, actually drowned in a pool."

"But then how did… murdered?"

"You are exceedingly sharp," Nikki said. "No wonder they named you Brad."

She dipped one of the strips into the water from Belanger's stomach. In seconds the tiny indicator square had turned faint purple.

"I am most impressed," Keller said. "I shall call our friends at the station house and let them know. This is quite fascinating… quite fascinating indeed."

He limped back to his office.

"Good thing I insisted you do a full autopsy on this guy," Brad said.

Nikki glared at the man, but honestly couldn't tell if he was being serious. The overhead speaker kept her from finding out.

"Dr. Solari, are you still in there?"

"Yes, Ruth, I'm here."

"There's an outside call for you. I'm going to transfer it."

Seconds later the wall phone rang. Brad held his ground as she passed, forcing her to squeeze between him and Belanger's autopsy table.

"Grow up," she said.

"She digs me," Brad said.

This time Nikki ignored him.

"Pathology, this is Dr. Solari."

"Nikki?"

Nikki felt her heart stop.

"Kath, where are you, honey? Are you all right?"

Kathy Wilson's voice was that of a small child.

"Nikki, I'm so cold… They're after me and I'm so cold."

There were traffic noises in the background, now a car horn. She was calling from a pay phone.

"Kathy, stay calm. I'm going to help you. You're going to be all right."

"Why are they trying to kill me, Nik?… Why am I so cold?"

"Hey, what gives?" Brad Cummings asked.

Nikki snapped a finger against her lips then waved him out of the room.

"Get out," she mouthed.

"Okay, okay. You know, you're really very touchy today. You must be having your — "

"Out!" This time she shouted the word. Pouting theatrically, Cummings left. "Kathy, listen, just tell me where you are and I'll come right over and get you… Kath?"

"You're just like all the others, Nikki. You want my music to stop… Is that why they're after me? Because they want my music to stop?"

Her singsong voice was haunting and vague. Nikki imagined her on some street corner, huddled at a pay phone kiosk in the pouring rain. She cast about for some way to alert the police and maybe have this call traced.

"Kathy," she tried, "look around and tell me what you see."

"Nikki… Nikki… Nikki. You sent them, didn't you. You sent them to silence my music. I'll get you for this, Nikki. I'll get you if it's the last thing I do."

"I love you, Kathy. You're my friend. I would never do anything to hurt you. In your heart you know that. Honey, you're not thinking clearly right now. You've got to come home. Let me help you."

"Help… me…"

"Kathy, just tell me what to do." There was a prolonged silence.

"Kathy?"

Nikki waited for another thirty seconds before slowly setting the receiver in its cradle. Then, making no attempt to deal with the cadaver of Roger Belanger, she burst into tears and raced from the room.

It was a gray, blustery day — a day totally befitting a funeral. Matt was one of just twelve mourners at the graveside service for Darryl Teague. The other eleven were relatives of one sort or another, all of whom lived in the hills north of town. The irony was hardly lost on Matt that in clear view of the dreary, overgrown cemetery were the tall hills that housed the BC amp;C mine.

But the day held another irony.

It wasn't until he stepped off his Harley and approached the rectangular pit that he realized this was the first funeral he had been to in nearly four years. The last one was his wife's. Matt recalled that day with painful clarity — the crowd, the limousines, the flower-bedecked hearse bearing what remained of the woman he had all too happily pledged to love until death did them part. Only death hadn't ended his love for her. Not at all.

The ill-kept cemetery, bordered by an irregular row of shrubs, was at the center of a broad, rolling, treeless field. Teague's grave, on the far west side, was marked by a hastily erected, rough-cut chunk of marble with the initials "D.T." crudely chiseled into it. Nothing more.

Virginia McLaren Rutledge

Beloved Daughter, Sister, and Teacher

Beloved Wife of Matthew Rutledge

Matt stopped by his mother's house three or four times a week, but he visited Ginny's grave nearly every day, often leaving a leaf or sprig of her hawthorn tree, sometimes a flower. Sometimes he would stay only a few minutes, but others he would sit for an hour or more by her stone, reading or just staring off across the valley. Each visit seemed to strengthen the bond he felt with the only woman, save his mother, he had ever truly loved. Of his friends and family, only Mae Borden knew how often he went to the Saints and Angels Cemetery.

"Matthew," she had said several times in one way or another, "we all miss her and love her, but we love you, too. It is time for you to pick up the pieces and move on. You have room in your heart for Ginny and for someone new. I know she wouldn't have wanted you to spend your life this way."

Matt would respond with a shrug or a grunted acknowledgment, and head off. There was no sense in discussing something that simply wasn't going to happen.

The gaunt preacher performing the ceremony for Darryl Teague had little to say. To his credit, he made no attempt to lie. He called Darryl a carefree, playful child who had grown away from God and had become an angry and troubled young man at the time of his death. He read some bible passages, and issued appropriate words of consolation to Darryl's parents and sister.

"God works in mysterious ways," he said as four men grasped heavy ropes and prepared to lower the plain pine box into the gaping maw in the earth. "God works in mysterious ways."