Robin Cook: Crisis

"Sorry to have to call you, Dr. Stapleton," Allen said, his voice whiny and grating.

"What's the problem?"

"It's a suicide, sir."

"Okay, so what's the question? Can't you guys handle it?" Jack didn't know Allen very well, but he knew Steve Marriott, the evening forensic investigator, who was experienced.

"It's a high-profile case, sir. The deceased is the wife or girlfriend of an Iranian diplomat. He's been screaming at everyone and threatening to call the Iranian Ambassador. Mr. Marriott called me for backup, but I feel like I'm in over my head."

Jack didn't respond. It was inevitable: He would have to visit the scene. Such high-profile cases invariably took on political implications, which was the part of Jack's job that he detested. He had no idea if he'd be able to make the site visit and still get to the restaurant by eight, which only added to his anxiety.

"Are you still there, Dr. Stapleton?"

"Last time I looked," Jack retorted.

"I thought maybe we'd been cut off," Allen said. "Anyway, the location is apartment fifty-four-J in the United Nations Towers on Forty-seventh Street."

"Has the body been moved or touched?" Jack pulled on his brown corduroy jacket, unconsciously patting the square object in its right pocket.

"Not by me or the forensics investigator."

"What about by the police?" Jack started down the hallway toward the elevators. The hall was deserted.

"I don't believe so, but I didn't ask yet."

"What about by the husband or boyfriend?"

"You should ask the police. The detective in charge is standing next to me, and he wants to talk with you."

"Put him on!"

"Hey, buddy!" a loud voice said, forcing Jack to pull the phone away from his ear. "Get your ass over here!"

Jack recognized the gravelly voice as that of his friend of ten years, Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano of the homicide division of the New York City Police Department. Jack had known Lou almost as long as he had known Laurie. It had been Laurie who had introduced them.

"I might have known you'd be behind this!" Jack lamented. "I hope you remember that we're supposed to be at Elio's at eight."

"Hey, I don't schedule this crap. It happens when it happens."

"What are you doing at a suicide? You guys think it might not be?"

"Hell, no! It's a suicide, all right, with a contact gunshot wound to the right temple. My presence is a special request from my beloved captain in appreciation of the parties involved and how much flak they are potentially capable of producing. Are you coming or what?"

"I'm on my way. Has the body been moved or touched?"

"Not by us."

"Who is that yelling in the background?"

"That's the diplomat husband or boyfriend. We have yet to figure that out. He's a little squirt, but he's feisty and makes me appreciate the silent, grieving type. He's been yelling at us since we got here, trying to boss us around like he's Napoleon."

"What's his problem?" Jack asked.

"He wants us to cover his naked wife or girlfriend, and he's madder than hell because we insist on not disturbing the scene until you guys finish checking it out."

"Hold on!" Jack said. "Are you telling me the woman's naked?"

"Naked as a jaybird. And to top it off, she doesn't even have any pubic hair. She's shaved like a cue ball, which -"

"Lou!" Jack interrupted. "It wasn't a suicide!"

"Excuse me?" Lou questioned with disbelief. "Are you trying to tell me you can tell this was a homicide without even seeing the scene?"

"I'll look at the scene, but yes, I'm telling you it wasn't a suicide. Was there a note?"

"Supposedly, but it's in Farsi. So I don't know what it says. The diplomat says it's a suicide note."

"It wasn't a suicide, Lou," Jack repeated. The elevator arrived. He boarded but kept the door from closing. He didn't want to lose the connection with Lou. "I'll even put a fiver on it. I've never heard of a case of a woman committing suicide in the nude. It just doesn't happen."

"You're joking!"

"No, I'm not. The thought is that's not the way women suicide victims want to be found.You'd better act accordingly and get your crime-scene people there. And you know the feisty diplomat husband or whatever he is has got to be your number-one suspect. Don't let him disappear into the Iranian mission. You might not see him again."

The elevator door closed as Jack flipped his phone shut. He hoped there wasn't a deeper meaning behind the interruption of the evening's plans. Jack's true bete noire was the fear that death stalked the people he loved, making him complicit when they died. He looked at his watch. It was now twenty after seven. "Damn!" he said out loud and slapped the elevator door a few times with the palms of his hands in frustration. Maybe he should rethink the whole idea.

With rapidity born of repetition, Jack got his mountain bike from the area of the morgue where the Potter's Field coffins were stored, unlocked it, put on his helmet, and wheeled it out onto the 30th Street loading dock. Between the mortuary vans, he climbed on and cycled out into the street. At the corner, he turned right onto First Avenue.

Once he was on the bike, Jack's anxieties melted away. Standing up, he put muscle into his pumping and the bike shot forward, rapidly picking up speed. Rush-hour traffic had abated to a degree, and the cars, taxis, buses, and trucks were moving at a good clip. Jack was not able to keep up, but it was close. Once he had achieved his cruising speed, he settled back onto the seat and shifted into a higher gear. From his daily bike riding and basketball playing, he was in tip-top shape.

The evening was glorious, with a golden glow suffusing the cityscape. Individual skyscrapers stood out sharply against the blue sky, the hue of which was deepening with every passing minute. Jack streaked past the New York University Medical Center on his right and, a little further north, the UN General Assembly complex. When he could, Jack moved to his left so that he was able to turn onto 47th Street, which was one-way, conveniently heading east.

The UN Towers was a few doors up from First Avenue. Sheathed in glass and marble, the structure soared up an impressive sixty-some-odd stories into the evening sky. Directly in front of the awning that stretched from its entrance to the street were several New York City squad cars with their lights flashing. Hardened New Yorkers walked by without a glance. There was also a battered Chevy Malibu double-parked next to one of the squad cars. Jack recognized it as Lou's. In front of the Malibu was a Health and Human Services mortuary van.

As Jack locked his bike to a no-parking signpost, his anxieties returned. The ride had been too short to have any lasting effect. It was now seven thirty. He flashed his medical examiner's badge to the uniformed doorman and was directed to the fifty-fourth floor.

Up in apartment 54J, things had quieted considerably. When Jack walked in, Lou Soldano, Allen Eisenberg, Steve Marriott, and a number of uniformed officers were sitting around the living room as if it were a doctor's waiting room.

"What gives?" Jack asked. Silence reigned. There wasn't even any conversation.

"We're waiting on you and the crime-scene people," Lou said as he got to his feet. The others followed suit. Instead of Lou's signature rumpled and slightly disheveled attire, he was wearing a neatly pressed shirt buttoned to the neck, a subdued new tie, and a tasteful although not terribly well-fitted glen plaid sport jacket that was too small for his stocky frame. Lou was a seasoned detective, having been in the organized-crime unit for six years before moving over to homicide, where he'd been for more than a decade, and he looked the part.

"I have to say you look pretty spiffy," Jack commented. Even Lou's closely cropped hair looked recently brushed, and his famous five o'clock shadow was nowhere to be seen.