Robin Cook: Blindsight

Standing on her toes, Laurie scanned the crowded room for Dr. Calvin Washington, the Deputy Chief Medical Examiner. As a six-foot-seven, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound black man, he was usually easy to pick out of a crowd. Laurie finally spotted him standing near the door that led from the conference room into the chief’s office.

By going out into the main reception area, then cutting through the chief’s office, Laurie was able to approach Calvin from behind. When she reached him, she hesitated. Dr. Washington had a stormy temperament. Between his physique and his moods, he intimidated most people, including Laurie.

Marshaling her courage, Laurie tapped him on the arm. Immediately he spun around. His dark eyes swept over Laurie. He was not happy, that much was apparent.

“What is it?” he asked in a forced whisper.

“Could I speak to you for a moment?” Laurie asked. “There’s a question of policy regarding a case over at Manhattan General.”

After a glance back at his perspiring boss, Calvin nodded. He stepped beyond Laurie and closed the door to the conference room. He shook his head. “This “preppy murder II’ is going sour already. God, I hate the media. They’re not after the “truth,’ whatever that is. They’re nothing but a bunch of gossip hounds, and poor Harold is trying to justify why the hands weren’t bagged at the murder site. What a circus!”

“Why weren’t the hands bagged?” Laurie asked.

“Because the tour doctor didn’t think about it,” Calvin said disgusted. “And by the time Plodgett got there the body was already in the van.”

“How come the tour doctor allowed the body to be moved before Paul got there?” Laurie asked.

“How should I know!” Calvin exploded. “The whole case is a mess. One screw-up after another.”

Laurie cringed. “I hate to bring this up, but I noticed another potential problem downstairs.”

“Oh, and what was that?” Calvin demanded.

“What I imagine were the victim’s clothes were in a plastic bag on one of the countertops.”

“Damn!” Calvin snapped. He stepped over to Bingham’s phone and punched the extension in the “pit.” As soon as the phone was answered he shouted that someone would be on the autopsy table himself if the preppy murder II victim’s clothes were in a plastic bag.

Without waiting for an answer, Calvin slammed the receiver down onto the cradle. Then he glared at Laurie as if the messenger were responsible for the bad news.

“I can’t imagine a fungus would have destroyed any evidence so quickly,” Laurie offered.

“That’s not entirely the point,” Calvin snapped. “We’re not out in the boondocks someplace. Screw-ups like this are not to be tolerated, especially not under this glare of publicity. It seems as if this whole case is jinxed. Anyway, what’s the problem at Manhattan General?”

Laurie told Calvin about Duncan Andrews as succinctly as possible and about the attending physician’s request. She emphasized that it was the family’s wishes to respect the deceased’s desire to be a donor.

“If we had a decent medical examiner law in this state this wouldn’t even come up,” Calvin growled. “I think we should honor the family’s request. Tell the doctor that in this kind of circumstances he should take the eyes but photograph them prior to doing so. Also he should take vitreous samples from inside the eyes for Toxicology.”

“I’ll let him know immediately,” Laurie said. “Thanks.”

Calvin waved absently. He was already reopening the door to the conference room.

Laurie cut back through the chief’s secretarial area and got Marlene to buzz her through the door into the main hall. She had to weave her way among the media people, stepping over cables powering the TV lights. Bingham’s news conference was still in progress. Laurie pressed the up button on the elevator.

“Ahhhh!” Laurie squealed in response to a deliberate jab in the ribs. Laurie swung around to chastise whoever had poked her. She expected to see a colleague, but it wasn’t. Before her stood a stranger in his early thirties. He had on a trench coat that was open down the front; his tie was loosened at his collar. On his face was a childlike grin.

“Laurie?” he said.

Laurie suddenly recognized him. It was Bob Talbot, a reporter for the Daily News whom Laurie had known since college. She’d not seen him for some time, and out of context it had taken a moment to recognize him. Despite her irritation, she smiled.

“Where have you been?” Bob demanded. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”

“I guess I’ve been a bit asocial of late,” Laurie admitted. “Lots of work, plus I’ve started studying for my forensic boards.”

“You know the expression about all work and no play,” Bob said.

Laurie nodded and tried to smile. The elevator arrived. Laurie stepped in and held the door open with her hand.

“What do you think of this new “preppy murder’?” Bob asked. “It sure is causing a fuss.”

“It’s bound to,” Laurie said. “It’s made-to-order tabloid material. Besides, it seems that we’ve already messed up. I suppose it’s reminiscent of what happened with the first case. A little too reminiscent for my colleagues.”

“What are you talking about?” Bob asked.

“For one thing, the victim’s hands weren’t bagged,” Laurie said. “Didn’t you hear what Dr. Bingham was saying?”

“Yeah, but he said it didn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Laurie said. “Besides that, the victim’s clothes ended up in a plastic bag. That’s a no-no. Moisture encourages the growth of microorganisms that can affect evidence. That’s another screw-up. Unfortunately the medical examiner on the case is one of us junior people. By rights it should be someone with more experience.”

“Apparently the boyfriend already confessed,” Bob said. “Isn’t this all academic?”

Laurie shrugged. “By the time the trial rolls around, he might have a change of heart. Certainly his lawyer will. Then it’s up to the evidence unless there was a witness, and in this type of case, there’s seldom a witness.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Bob said with a nod. “We’ll have to see. Meanwhile, I’d better get back to the news conference. How about dinner sometime this week?”

“Maybe,” Laurie said. “I don’t mean to be coy, but I do have to study if I want to pass those boards. Why don’t you call and we’ll talk about it?”

Bob nodded as Laurie let the elevator door close. She pressed five. Back in her office, she called Dr. Murray at Manhattan General and told him what Dr. Washington had said.

“Thank you for your trouble,” Dr. Murray said when Laurie was finished. “It’s good to have some guidelines to follow in this kind of circumstance.”

“Be sure to get good photos,” Laurie advised. “If you don’t, the policy could change.”

“No need to worry,” Dr. Murray said. “We have our own photography department. It will be done professionally.”

Hanging up the phone, Laurie went back to the hair curler. She took a half dozen photos from varying angles and with varying lighting conditions. With the curler out of the way, she turned her attention to the only Sunday case remaining, and the most disturbing for her: the twelve-year-old boy.

Getting up from her desk, Laurie returned to the first floor and visited Cheryl Myers, one of the medical investigators. She explained that she needed more eyewitnesses of the episode when the boy was hit with the softball. Without any positive finding on the autopsy, she would need personal accounts to substantiate her diagnosis of commotio cordis, or death from a blow to the chest. Cheryl promised to get right on it.