Robin Cook - Crisis

"I've got to drive myself. My first stop is the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home. I've got to get the signed papers over there to start the exhumation process." What he didn't say was that he hoped to get in a little basketball in the late afternoon.

"Then we'll see you in the courtroom?"

"That's my intention," Jack said, although he harbored a hope that Harold Langley could work miracles and get Patience Stanhope out of her eternal resting place that very morning. If that could happen, then Jack could do the autopsy, have the gross results by that afternoon, present them to Craig and Alexis, and be on the shuttle back to New York. That would give him Thursday to wrap things up in his office prior to the honeymoon that was to begin on Saturday morning. It would also give him the opportunity to pick up the tickets and hotel vouchers.

Jack left before Alexis and Craig. He got into his rent-a-car and headed for the Massachusetts Turnpike. He had assumed that having already visited the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home, it would be easy to find it again. Unfortunately, he was wrong. It took him almost forty minutes of highly aggravating driving to cover approximately five miles as the crow flew.

Muttering obscenities to himself over the stressful experience, Jack finally pulled into the funeral home's parking lot. It was more crowded that the previous day, forcing Jack to park at the very back. When he got around to the front of the building, there were people milling about on the porch. It was at that point that he guessed a service was about to get under way. His suspicions were confirmed when he entered the foyer. In the viewing room to the right, people were scurrying about, arranging flowers and unfolding additional chairs. On the catafalque was an open coffin with its occupant comfortably resting. The same pious soundtrack as the day before inundated the scene.

"Would you care to sign the book?" a man asked in a quiet, sympathetic voice. In many respects, he was a significantly heavier version of Harold Langley.

"I'm looking for the funeral director."

"I am the funeral director. Mr. Locke Peerson at your service."

Jack mentioned he was looking for Mr. Langley and was directed back to Harold's office. He found the man at his desk.

"The current Mr. Stanhope has signed the authorization," Jack said, wasting no time with small talk. He handed over the form. "Now it's a matter of utmost urgency to get the body back here to your embalming room."

"We have a service this morning," Harold said. "After that, I'll get on it."

"Do you see any chance of it happening today? We're really up against a strict deadline."

"Dr. Stapleton, do you not remember that the city, the vault company, a backhoe operator, and the cemetery are all involved in this endeavor? Under normal conditions, we're talking about a week at least."

"It cannot be a week," Jack said emphatically. "It's got to be today or tomorrow at the very latest." Jack shuddered at the implication of having to wait until Thursday and wondered what he could tell Laurie.

"That's an impossibility."

"Perhaps an extra five hundred dollars on top of your usual fee is in order to make up for the inconvenience." Jack watched Harold's expression. He had an almost parkinsonian lack of mobility and a pair of narrow lips that recalled Randolph 's.

"All I can say is that I will give the affair my utmost effort. There can be no promises."

"I can't ask for anything more," Jack said while giving Harold one of his business cards. "By the way, do you have any idea of what condition we can expect the body to be in?"

"Absolutely," Harold said emphatically. "The body should be in pristine condition. It was embalmed with our usual care, and the coffin is a top-of-the-line Perpetual Repose mated with a premier cement vault."

"What about the grave site: much water?"

"None. It's on the crest of the hill. The original Mr. Stanhope had picked it out himself for the family."

"Call me as soon as you know something."

"I most certainly will."

As Jack left the funeral home, the people on the porch had begun somberly filing in. Jack got into his car and consulted his map, which had been significantly upgraded by Alexis, who had laughed when she'd heard he'd been trying to navigate around the city with the rent-a-car map. Jack's next destination was back to the medical examiner's office. Thanks to significantly less traffic, Jack was able to make the journey in comparatively short time.

The receptionist remembered him. She told him that Dr. Wylie was definitely in the autopsy room on this occasion, and she took it upon herself without being asked to call down and talk with her. The result was that a mortuary tech came up to reception and escorted Jack down to the autopsy anteroom. Two men in mufti were milling about; one was African-American, the other Caucasian. The Caucasian was a big, red-faced Irishman. Everyone else was in Tyvek protective gear. Jack was to learn a few minutes later that the men were detectives interested in the case Latasha Wylie was doing.

Jack was given gear, and after suiting up he pushed into the room. Like the rest of the facility, the autopsy room was state-of-the-art and made the New York room look like an anachronism in comparison. There were five tables, three of which were in operation. Latasha's was the farthest away, and she waved for him to come over.

"I'm almost finished," Latasha said behind her plastic face mask. "I thought you might like to take a look."

"What do you have?" Jack asked. He was always interested.

"It's a fifty-nine-year-old female found dead in her bedroom after having been visited by a man she met on the Internet. The bedroom was in disarray suggesting a struggle, with the bedside table upended and the bedside lamp broken. The two detectives waiting out in the dressing area are thinking homicide. The woman had a gash on her forehead at her hairline."

Latasha pulled the woman's scalp down from where it had been reflected over the face to gain access to the brain.

Jack bent down to look at the laceration. It was round and punched in, as if delivered by a hammer.

Latasha went on to describe how she had been able to reconstruct what turned out to be an accident and not a homicide. The woman had slipped on a small throw rug on the polished wood flooring and had collided with the bedside table, hitting her forehead on the lamp's finial with the full force of her body weight. The case turned out to be an example of how important knowledge of the scene was. It seemed that the lamp's finial was a rather tall spire ending in a flat disc that resembled a hammerhead.

Jack was impressed and told Latasha so.

"All in a day's work," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to take you up on your offer of autopsy supplies. It appears that it is a go, provided they can be expeditious getting the body out of the ground. I'm going to do it at the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home."

"If you end up doing it after hours, I'd be willing to help, and I could bring a bone saw."

"Really?" Jack questioned. He'd not expected such generosity. "I'd be happy to have your help."

"Sounds like a challenging case. Let me introduce you to our chief, Dr. Kevin Carson."

The chief, who was doing a case on table number one, turned out to be a tall, lanky, pleasant individual with a southern accent who mentioned he was on a first-name basis with Jack's chief, Dr. Harold Bingham. He said Latasha had told him about what Jack was trying to do, and he supported her offer to process specimens and help with toxicology if needed. He said they did not yet do their own toxicology but had access to a superb twenty-four-seven facility at the university.

"You tell Harold hello from Boston," Kevin said before going back to his case.