Robin Cook - Vector

Jack went on to explain about Flash’s loss, the dilemma about Connie’s body, and the discrepancy about the medical history suggesting foul play. Ultimately, Cheryl’s generous nature and sense of fairness won out. She agreed to at least hear what Jack had in mind.

Jack cleared his throat: “If you get a call from Strickland’s Funeral Home within the next half hour or so for the chief, tell them that he’s with the commissioner, which is true. But then add that Dr. Jack Stapleton has been authorized to take some body fluid samples from Connie Davydov.”

“Is that all?” Cheryl asked.

“That’s it,” Jack said. “If you want to get fancy, you can say that you’d meant to call earlier, but it had slipped your mind with the chief’s sudden need to see the commissioner.”

“You are devious,” Cheryl commented. “But it is a good cause, especially if a homicide is involved. Anyway, I’ll do it.”

“I like to think of myself as resourceful, not devious,” Jack joked. He thanked Cheryl on both his behalf and Flash’s, then said goodbye and hung up.

“Sounds like you got it arranged,” Warren said.

“We’ll see,” Jack said. He wasn’t all that confident. In his experience, funeral directors tended to be both touchy and sticklers for detail. There were a lot of potential pitfalls. If there was a big staff, Jack could even envision them physically restraining him.

Strickland’s Funeral Home was a two-story stucco building that in a previous life had been a grand home of some wealthy Brooklynite. It was painted white in an apparent attempt to make it look cheerful. Even so, it remained a ponderously bulky structure of indeterminate style. All its windows were blocked by heavy drapes. From its parking lot a wedge of Greenwood Cemetery could be seen bristling with headstones.

Warren put on his emergency brake and turned off the ignition.

“Kinda ominous-looking, isn’t it?” Jack commented.

“What do they do in there?” Warren questioned. “I’ve always wondered.”

“Don’t ask! You don’t want to know,” Jack said. “Let’s get this over with before I lose my nerve.”

“We’ll wait here,” Warren said. He glanced at Flash. Flash nodded in agreement.

“Oh, no! Not this time,” Jack said. “When I said ‘we’ earlier, I meant it. This is going to be like a mini-invasion, and I need both you guys’ powerful presence. Besides, Flash, you’re kin, which lends us some legitimacy.”

“Are you serious, man?” Warren said.

“Absolutely,” Jack said. “Come on! This isn’t up for discussion.”

Jack resolutely headed for the front door carrying his satchel. He could hear Warren’s and Flash’s footsteps behind him. He knew they were coming reluctantly. He didn’t blame them. He knew that they were emotionally unprepared for what they were going to see.

The interior of the funeral home was fairly standard. There was a lot of dark wood, velvet drapes, soft lighting, and low-volume hymns playing in the background, giving an overall impression of serenity. In the entrance hall a visitors’ book was open on a console table. Next to it stood an austere-looking woman in a black dress. In the center of the room to the right was an open casket on a waist-high bier with a few rows of folding chairs set before it. The lid’s interior was upholstered in white satin. Jack could just make out the profile of the casket’s occupant.

“May I help you?” the woman asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Jack said. “Where’s the director?”

“He’s in the office,” the woman said. “Should I get him?”

“Please,” Jack said. “And quickly if you wouldn’t mind. This is an emergency.”

Jack looked over his shoulder at Warren and Flash who were close behind him.

“Shit, man!” Warren whispered. “Are you sure you need us?”

“Without a doubt,” Jack whispered back. “Just stay cool.”

It took only a few minutes for the worried director to emerge from a side door accompanied by a pair of brawny men in suits who could have moonlighted as bouncers. The funeral director could have been from central casting, with his immaculate black suit, crisp white shirt, and pomaded, painstakingly combed hair. The only thing out of place was his complexion. He was tanned as if he’d just come back from a Florida vacation.

“My name is Gordon Strickland,” he said in a hushed tone. “I understand there is an emergency. How can we be of assistance?”

“My name is Dr. Jack Stapleton,” Jack said with all the authority he could muster. He held up his medical examiner badge in front of Gordon’s nose. “I’m a representative from the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Manhattan, Dr. Harold Bingham.”

Gordon tilted his head so he could see Jack around the medical examiner’s badge. “I’ve heard the name. How does this involve us here in Brooklyn?”

“I’ve been sent to view the body of Connie Davydov,” Jack said. “As well as to obtain some needed body fluid samples. I assume you got a call to that effect.”

“No, we didn’t get a call,” Gordon said. His upper lip began to twitch.

“Then I apologize for the surprise,” Jack said. “But we do have to see the body.” He took a step forward in the direction of a pair of double doors heading into the center of the building.

“Just a minute!” Gordon said, holding up his hand. “Who are these other gentlemen?”

“This is Warren Wilson,” Jack said while nodding toward Warren. “He is my assistant. This other gentleman is Frank Thomas, the brother of the deceased.” Jack couldn’t help wonder how all this was going to play, since both his friends were clothe in a modified hip-hop style. Warren certainly didn’t look professional by any stretch of the imagination.

“I don’t understand,” Gordon said. “The body was released to a Mr. Davydov. He’s not contacted us about this situation either.”

“We’re investigating a potential homicide,” Jack said. “New information has come available.”

“Homicide?” Gordon repeated. The frequency of the twitch increased.

“Indeed,” Jack said. He started forward again, forcing Gordon to back up. “Now if you’ll just direct us to your cooler or wherever you keep your newly arrived bodies, we’ll do our thing and be on our way.”

“The body is in the embalming room,” Gordon said. “We’ve been awaiting Mr. Davydov’s instructions. He was supposed to call once it got here.”

“Then we’ll view the body in the embalming room,” Jack said. “It’s all the same to us.”

Nonplussed, Gordon turned around and pushed through the double doors. Jack, Warren, and Flash followed. Gordon’s silent minions brought up the rear.

“This is highly irregular,” Gordon voiced to no one in particular as they walked down the hall. “We haven’t heard anything from the Brooklyn ME’s office either. Maybe I should give them a call.”

“It would save time to call Dr. Harold Bingham directly,” Jack said. “Of course, you know the Brooklyn ME’s office is under the control of the Manhattan office.”

“I didn’t know that,” Gordon said.

Jack pulled out his cellular phone, punched the number to speed-dial the chief, and handed the phone to Gordon. Gordon took the phone and pressed it to his ear. Jack could hear Cheryl Sanford answer with her usual preamble: “Dr. Harold Bingham’s office, Chief Medical Examiner. How may I help you?”

The entire group slowed to a halt outside a second set of double doors as Gordon spoke to Cheryl. Jack could hear only bits of Cheryl’s side of the conversation. Gordon was nodding and saying “I see”, “yes”, and “I understand” several times. Finally he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Sanford. I understand perfectly and there is no need for you to apologize. I’ll do what I can to help Dr. Stapleton.”