Tess Gerritsen: Peggy Sue Got Murdered

"It might be better to wait for Lieutenant Beamis," she said. "He can explain the situation."

"Why don't you explain it to me?"

"I'm just the medical examiner, Mr. Quantrell. I can't give out information."

The look he shot her was withering. All at once she wished she stood a little straighter, a little taller. That she didn't feel so threatened by that gaze of his. "This Lieutenant Beamis," he said. "He's from Homicide, right?"

"Yes."

"So there's a question of murder."

"I don't want to speculate."

"Who is she?"

"We don't have an ID yet."

"Then you don't know."

"No."

He paused. "Let me see the body." It wasn't a request but a command, and a desperate one at that.

M. J. glanced at the door and wondered when the hell Beamis would arrive. She looked back at the man and realized that he was barely holding it together. He's terrified. Terrified that the body lying in my refrigerated drawer is someone he knows and loves .

"That's why you called me, isn't it?" he said. "To find out if I can identify her?"

She nodded. "The morgue is downstairs, Mr. Quantrell. Come with me."

He strode beside her in silence, his tanned face looking pale under the fluorescent lights. He was silent as well on the elevator ride down to the basement. She glanced up once, and saw that he was staring straight ahead, as though afraid to look anywhere else, as though afraid he'd lose what control he still had.

When they stepped off the elevator, he paused, glancing around at the scuffed walls, the tired linoleum floor. Overhead was another bank of flickering fluorescent lights. The building was old, and down here in the basement, one could see the decay in the chipped paint, the cracked walls, could smell it in the very air. When the whole city was in the process of decay, when every agency from Social Services to trash pickup was clamoring for a dwindling share of tax dollars, the ME's office was always the last to be funded. Dead citizens, after all, do not vote.

But if Adam Quantrell took note of his surroundings, he did not comment.

"It's down this hall," said M.J.

Wordlessly he followed her to the cold storage room.

She paused at the door. "The body's in here," she said. "Are you… feeling up to it?"

He nodded.

She led him inside. The room was brightly lit, almost painfully so. Refrigerated drawers lined the far wall, some of them labeled with names and numbers. This time of year, the occupancy rate was running on the high side. The spring thaw, warmer weather, brought the guns and knives out onto the street again, and these were the latest crop of victims. There were three Jane Does. M. J. reached for the drawer labelled 373-4-3-A. Pausing, she glanced at Adam. "It's not going to be pleasant."

He swallowed. "Go ahead."

She pulled open the drawer. It slid out noiselessly, releasing a waft of cold vapor. The body was almost formless under the shroud. M. J. looked up at Adam, to see how he was holding up. It was the men who usually fainted, and the bigger they were, the harder they were to pull up off the linoleum. So far, this guy was doing okay. Grim and silent, but okay. Slowly she lifted off the shroud. Jane Doe's alabaster white face lay exposed.

Again, M. J. looked at Adam.

He had paled slightly, but he hadn't moved. Neither did his gaze waver from the corpse. For a solid ten seconds he stared at Jane Doe, as though trying to reconstruct her frozen features into something alive, something familiar.

At last he let out a deep breath. Only then did M. J. realize the man had been holding it. He looked across at her. In an utterly calm voice, he said, "I've never seen this woman before in my life."

Then he turned and walked out of the room.

M. J. shut the drawer and followed Adam into the hall. "Wait. Mr. Quantrell."

"I can't help you. I don't know who she is."

"But you thought you knew. Didn't you?"

"I don't know what I thought." He was striding toward the elevator, his long legs carrying him at a brisk pace.

"Why did she have your phone number?"

"I don't know."

"Is it a business number? One the public might know?"

"No, it's my home phone."

"Then how did she get it?"

"I told you, I don't know." He reached the elevator and stabbed the Up button. "She's a total stranger."

"But you were afraid you knew her. That's why you came down here."

"I was doing my civic duty." He shot her a look that said, No more questions .

M.J. asked anyway. "Who did you think she was, Mr. Quantrell?"

He didn't answer. He just regarded her with that impenetrable gaze.

"I want you to sign anstatement," she said. "And I need to know how to reach you. In case the police have more questions."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. "My home address," he said, handing it to her.

She glanced at it. 11 Fair Wind Lane, Surry Heights. Beamis had been correct about that phone prefix.

"You'll have to talk to the police." she said.

"Why?"

"Routine questions."

"Is it a homicide or isn't it?"

"I don't know yet."

The doors slid open. "When you make up your mind, call me."

She slipped into the elevator after him, and the doors shut behind her. "Look," she said. "I have a dead body with no name. Now, I could just call her Jane Doe and leave it at that. But somewhere, there's someone who's missing a sister or a daughter or a wife. I'd like to help them out, I really would"

"Fingerprints."

"I've done that."

"Dental X rays."

"I've done that, too."

"You sound capable. You don't need my help." The doors slid open and he stepped out. "It's not as if I don't care," he said, leading her on a brisk chase down the hall, toward the reception area. "But I don't see why I should get dragged into this, just because my number happens to be written in some-some restaurant matchbook. She could've gotten it anywhere. Stolen it-"

"I never told you it was from a restaurant."

He halted and turned to her. "Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't. I know I didn't."

He fell silent. Their gazes locked, neither one of them refusing to yeild ground. Even a guy as smooth as you are can slip up , she thought with a dart of satisfaction.

"And I'm sure you're wrong," he said evenly. He turned and went into the reception area.

Beamis said, "We got your message, M.J…" His gaze shifted to the man with her, and he reacted with surprise. "Mr. Quantrell. What brings you down to…" Suddenly he glanced back at M.J.

"It was his phone number, Lou," said M.H. "But Mr. Quantrell says he doesn't know the woman."

"Talk to her Lieutenant," said Adam. "Maybe you can convince Dr. Novak I'm not some ax murderer."

Beamis laughed. "Novak giving you a hard time?"

"Since I can see you two already know each other," said M.J. in irritation, "I'll just take Mr. Quantrell at his word."

"I'm so relieved," said Adam. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" He gave M.J. a brief nod. "Dr. Novak, it has been…interesting." He turned to leave.

"Excuse me, Mr. Q…?" called Beamis. "A word, please."

As the two men moved to a far corner of the room, M. J. caught Adam's glance. It said, This has nothing to do with you .

"We'll see you downstairs, Lou," Shradick said. Then he gave M. J. a nudge. "C'mon. You got anymore of that god-awful coffee?"

She could take a hint. As she and Shradick walked to the elevators, she looked over her shoulder. The two men were still in the corner, talking in low voices. Adam was facing her, and over the head of the shorter Beamis, he caught sight of her backward glance and he returned it with a look of cool acknowledgment. The tension in his face was now gone; he was back in full control.