Michael Palmer - Fatal

Matt followed her through a dimly lit alley to the rear of the building.

"See," she said. "That's Joe's office, that light right there on the second floor. I knew he was here."

"I think you're right about him not hearing us. This is a long building — sort of like an aircraft carrier."

Nikki punched in the code and they stepped into the concrete rear stairway, eerily illuminated by a red EXIT sign. The air was imbued with the distinctive, though not overpowering, aroma of formaldehyde. With Matt following, Nikki quickly ascended to the second floor and opened the door onto a carpeted corridor with offices on either side.

"Joe, it's us," she called out.

She knocked on the door marked JOSEF KELLER, M.D. CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER, then pushed it open. The office was brightly lit by an overhead fluorescent fixture and a desk lamp. Joe Keller was at his desk, his back to them.

"Joe," Nikki said, "why didn't you — ?"

Then she saw the blood on the carpet. She raced to the chair, with Matt right behind, and cried out loudly. There was dark, clotted blood all over the desk and splattered across the face and clothes of Joe Keller. His head drooped over his chest. Nikki lifted it gently, exposing a battered face with a bullet hole just above the nose. Keller's eyes were open wide and glazed with death. His wire-rimmed spectacles dangled from one ear.

"Look," Matt said, gesturing to Keller's right hand, which rested in the dead man's lap.

The index finger had been cleanly severed off at the middle knuckle.

"Oh, Jesus!" Nikki cried, stumbling backward, her limbs suddenly in spasm. "Oh, Christ, how could someone do this to him?"

Matt put his arms around her and held her closely.

"Honey, please don't touch anything anymore," he begged.

"Who would do such a thing? Why? He was such a dear, sweet man. Why? Oh, Jesus. Oh, shit! No."

She couldn't stop moving, shifting from one foot to the other, pounding her fists against the sides of her thighs. Matt led her away from the body of her mentor, trying at once to comfort her, evaluate the scene, and stay alert in case the killer was still in the building. He thought about the gun in his saddlebag, and cursed himself for not bringing it along when Keller failed to answer the door. He had an inkling of trouble at that moment, but simply hadn't paid

enough attention to it. There wasn't the slightest doubt in his mind that the ME's torture and murder were somehow connected to Kathy Wilson. Was Grimes nearby — or his stooges?

There was a small, round conference table at one end of the office. Matt helped Nikki into the chair that was facing away from Keller.

"Nikki, I'm really sorry about this — sick and sorry."

"You think it had to do with Grimes?" she sobbed.

"I'm going to try to figure that out, but yes, yes I do."

He chose not to question her again about what she might have said to Grimes either at the memorial service or in the cabin.

"I–I want to help you," she said.

"In a little bit. Nik, can you sit here while I look around?"

"Yes."

"Good. Just keep your hands in your lap. I know there's a logical explanation for your prints being in this building, but I'd rather not have them be the only employee's fresh prints in this office."

"I understand. Matt, they tortured him."

Matt paced around the desk and scanned the rest of the office. No gun, no knife, no finger. He squatted down and examined Keller's contused, distorted face. His nose had certainly been shattered, and there was probably a fracture of the orbit bone above his left eye.

Earlier in the evening they had again discussed calling in the police and had voted unanimously against it for the time being.

"Nikki," Matt asked, "can you estimate when he was murdered?"

"I would need to examine him to be really accurate, but from what I saw I would guess a couple of hours ago."

"So we can wait to call the police."

"And maybe do it from a pay phone."

"In that case," Matt said, "come back to the bike with me."

"Don't you want to look around and try to find out why they did this?"

"Oh, I do. But there's something in my saddlebag I want to get first, on the chance they're still around."

Minutes later, with Matt cradling Larry's snub-nosed revolver, the two of them began a systematic search of the building.

"Assuming this has to do with Kathy," he asked, "what do you think they could have wanted?"

"I don't know. Let's start with our files. They're in a locked room right behind the autopsy suite." Covering her fingertip with her shirt, Nikki punched in her code on a keypad and they entered the long, narrow file room. "The charts on the shelves are arranged by case number," she said as she crossed to a narrow six-drawer cabinet. "This card file is alphabetical."

"And?"

"I can't find her card. There are seven Katherine Wilsons, but none is the right one."

"Look," Matt said, pointing to a dark smear on the corner of the long table in the center of the room.

Nikki peered at the stain. "They had Joe in here."

She flipped through the cards again, then took out all the Wilsons and set them on the table. Matt went through them, and shook his head.

"Nada."

"We have the cards backed up."

Nikki sat down at a computer terminal and after a few maneuvers wrote down a number.

Kathy Wilson's chart was missing, too, and with it, all the autopsy data.

"Do you use a transcription service for your dictations?"

Nikki was already back at the terminal.

"We have our own in-house. The record's been deleted from the database. They thought of everything except the backup chart list. Joe somehow managed not to tell them about that. Let's go down to Histology. It's right below the autopsy suite."

They carefully closed the file room and entered the large, open autopsy suite with three stainless-steel tables. The center table was occupied. A copper-skinned man, garbed in work boots and stained chino overalls, lay peacefully, thumbs hooked under his suspenders, staring unseeingly up at the drop ceiling. There was a thick smear of clotted blood and tissue where his left eye had been. Beneath the gore, they were certain, was a bullet hole.

"Oh, Christ," Nikki said, turning away.

"The maintenance man?"

She nodded. "Santiago."

"Cute touch hooking his thumbs in like that."

"The stairs to Histology are over there."

To the surprise of neither, the slides for Kathy Wilson and all un-sectioned tissue specimens were gone.

"Nothing," Nikki said after she had checked the last possible place where any of Kathy's tissue might be.

"Two men died so someone could be certain of that."

"Matt," Nikki blurted out, "let's get out of here. I want to go to my place right now."

"I'm not sure that's wise."

"I don't care. You've got a gun. If you're not comfortable using it, I promise you I just became totally ready. I want to go home. I want to sit down and have a cup of tea in my own chair and figure out what to do next."

"Okay, okay. Show me the way."

"Thanks."

"And Nikki?"

"Yes?"

"I'm really sick about Joe."

"I know you are."

In silence, through largely empty streets, they rode the few miles to South Boston and parked a block away from Nikki's apartment. Matt secured the revolver in his belt and pulled his shirt over it, keeping his hand in touch with the grip. Warily, they made their way along the colorful row of tightly packed duplexes and triplexes, keeping an eye out for movement in any of the cars parked along the street.

"How are we going to get in?" he asked.

"We keep a spare key wedged in a little magnet box behind the drainpipe. Kathy started losing hers all the time."

The key was right where she expected it to be. Cautiously, they made their way up to the second floor. Matt slipped the gun out and held it ready as Nikki slid the key in the lock, turned it silently, and eased the door open.