Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

At four-thirty in the morning, Sara was still wide awake. First she tried a cup of hot tea with some warm milk. Then she tried listening to classical music. Then she wondered if there was something else she was missing. In her experience, she knew that if she couldn’t fall asleep, it was either because she was still reliving the previous day, or because she was afraid of facing the coming one. In this case, Sara realized that both statements were true. And as she instinctively curled up to the pillows on Jared’s side of the bed, she knew it wasn’t going to be an easy night.

“What’d he die of?” Walter Fawcett asked bluntly the following morning. A heavy, rough-spoken man with a thick mustache and even thicker glasses, Fawcett was one of the ten medical examiners assigned to perform autopsies in Manhattan. Standing outside the autopsy room, in the basement of the office of the chief medical examiner, Fawcett and Sara went over the details of Arnold Doniger’s death.

“According to his wife and his death certificate, he went into a coma brought on by his diabetes,” Sara explained, rubbing her bloodshot eyes. “Apparently, his blood sugar was too low.”

“Earlier, you said the paramedics brought him in. Was there anything significant in their report?”

Handing Fawcett a copy of the report, she explained, “According to this, Arnold was acting a bit cranky throughout the night of his death. His wife said he regularly had fits of anger caused by his diabetes, so she just assumed his blood sugar was low and gave him some apple juice and a granola bar. A few hours later, right before he went to bed, she saw him give himself a shot. When she wakes up the next morning, he’s lying dead next to her. She freaks out and calls an ambulance. End of story.”

“That’s never the end,” Fawcett said. “We’ll find more.” When he was done looking at the report, he handed it back to Sara. “You staying for the autopsy?” Lost in her own world, Sara didn’t reply. Fawcett snapped his fingers in front of her face. “You with us here?” he asked.

“Huh?” Sara asked, jolted back to reality. “I’m sorry. What’d you say?”

“One, I asked if you’re staying for the autopsy. Two, I’m asking what’s got you so preoccupied?”

“Nothing really – just another part of the case,” Sara explained. “And as far as the autopsy goes, I have to be in court by noon, but I was hoping I’d be able to watch. Everyone in the office said it’d be helpful to see how one’s done.”

“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” Fawcett said as he headed toward the autopsy room. “But if you think it’s critical, go put on some scrubs.”

“They’re doing an autopsy?” Rafferty asked as he took a seat in front of Jared’s desk.

“According to the one file I did see, they dug the body up last night, and they’re dissecting him this morning,” Jared said.

“And that’s when she caught you?” Kozlow asked from his usual chair in the back of the office. “Oh, man, you must’ve-”

“That’s enough,” Jared interrupted. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Lame move, buddy.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Jared said. “I only took about three days’ worth of clothes with me, so I still have an excuse to go back there. Besides, it’s not like she changed the locks.”

“Not yet,” Kozlow said.

“Is there anything we can do to stop the autopsy?” Rafferty demanded.

“We can try to block it, but personally, I think that’ll do more harm than good. The last thing we want is to appear more suspicious.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We schedule our own autopsy, which’ll hopefully contradict the findings of their pathologist. Conflicting reports always confuse a jury. Besides that, the best thing we can do is wait. I know that makes you crazy, but there’s no reason to get excited until we know what they find.”

“What if they find something suspicious?” Kozlow asked.

“That depends,” Jared said. “If it’s a debatable issue, the pathologist we hire might be able to downplay it. But if they can link it directly to you, they may charge you with mur-”

“I told you, I don’t want this turning into a murder trial,” Rafferty interrupted.

“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but that’s out of my control at this point.”

When Sara and Fawcett were done scrubbing up, Fawcett handed her a piece of spearmint gum. “Chew this,” he said.

“Huh?” Sara said, taking the gum.

“You’re not supposed to bring in food or drink, but it’ll keep you from getting nauseous. The smell can turn stomachs.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sara said as she pocketed the gum and pulled her surgical mask in place. “I’ve been inside a mortuary before.”

Shrugging, Fawcett walked toward the autopsy room. The enormous, immaculately clean room was sectioned into eight individual working areas and contained eight autopsy tables. The metal tables had hundreds of small holes to drain internal fluids away from the body. At the moment, three other autopsies were taking place. When Fawcett opened the door to the room, the stench of decomposing bodies hit Sara like a freight train. As she frantically reached for the gum, she caught sight of Arnold Doniger’s unearthed remains. She saw the greenish hue that now colored his complexion. And the decomposition that had just started to eat away at his shoulders and the outside of his thighs. And the slippage of skin that made his face seem almost liquefied. Before she could even get the gum out of her pocket, Sara lurched forward and vomited into her surgical mask, causing a stream of discharge to run down the front of her hospital gown.

Fawcett immediately pulled Sara out of the room to avoid contaminating the area. Watching her clean up in a metal sink next to the autopsy room, he asked, “Would you like that piece of gum now?”

“I think so,” Sara said as she spit out the remainder of her breakfast. After rinsing her mouth and splashing some water on her face, she looked up at Fawcett.

“Ready to try again?” he asked, handing her a new surgical gown.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Fawcett took a quick scan of Doniger’s body, then stepped on the foot pedal that started his hands-free recorder. His voice became careful and meticulously measured. “There are embalming incisions in the left and right femoral triangle, as well as the left side of the neck. The embalmed body is a well-developed, well-nourished sixty-six-year-old white male measuring sixty-eight inches, and weighing one hundred and seventy-four pounds. He has brown hair and no discernible exterior injuries.” Opening Doniger’s eyes, Fawcett pulled out two plastic disks that looked like opaque contact lenses.

“What’re those?” Sara asked.

“Eye caps,” Fawcett said. “Mortician’s favorite trick. They’re lenses with ridged teeth on them – that’s what keeps your eyes closed. Permanently.”

“Nasty,” Sara said.

“But they work,” Fawcett replied. “I just hate having them in there. Personal taste.” He put the eye caps aside and picked up a scalpel. With a quick flourish, he sliced a large Y into Doniger’s chest. The incisions ran down from each shoulder, met at the center of his chest, then went down to the pelvis. “Chew,” Fawcett said when he noticed that Sara’s mouth wasn’t moving. “This is the worst of it.”

Following his directions, Sara frantically chomped on her gum. It still didn’t prepare her. Fawcett reached into the center of the Y and peeled Doniger’s skin away from his body, revealing darkened ribs and most of his internal organs. That’s when the sweet, alcoholic smell of the embalming fluid hit.

“You still there?” Fawcett asked.