Baby Girl Doe (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 5) (9 page)

Max’s headgear tipped me off as to the identity of our visitor.
He was sitting in his high chair, wearing a shiny, red fire helmet. The Montauk fire chief’s car was parked in the driveway, and I heard Richard Tate’s booming laugh before I saw him sitting at the kitchen table with Ma and Gus. I caught the tail end of a joke. Tate’s punch line mentioned something about the placement of a baked potato within a body orifice. It sounded pretty funny, and I’d make him repeat it before he left.

“Nice way to talk in front of an infant,” I said, laying on the guilt trip. Everyone turned toward Max, the innocent victim. He was smiling and rocking back and forth, looking very much like a fireman bobblehead.

Ma was still laughing and clutching her stomach. “Oh Christ, I’m gonna pee myself.”

That notorious jug of wine was more than half empty, and her wineglass was about half full. “I’m glad I left my son in the company of three so responsible adults.”

Gus stood and kissed me hello. “I’m not drinking,” he said, “and Max just ate.” Telltale traces of dried baby food on Max’s chin corroborated my husband’s testimony.

Ma waved her hand dismissively, “
Bah
.” It was her lighthearted way of saying
piss off
. “The little man is fine and you’ve got a guest—stop being such an old stick in the mud.” Translation: you’re a pain in the ass. “Getting your period?” she whispered in front of Gus and Tate.

I mean, Jesus Christ, can she possibly embarrass me anymore?

I once read that in certain cultures women are sent to menstrual huts during their time of the month, in essence segregated from the rest of the tribe. I used to think it was a barbaric custom, but now, in light of Ma’s unintentional but highly embarrassing comment, maybe it was not such a bad idea after all.
Hasta la vista
,
baby, I’ll see you in a week.

“Come here, Beautiful.” Tate engulfed me in his huge arms. He was a good hug-giver, one of the best. I mean the guy was the size of a bear and looked like Brian Dennehy when he smiled. He planted a huge exaggerated smooch on my cheek.

I chuckled. The spell was broken, and I was once again my normal nutty self. It was as if a switch had been flipped.

Gus poured me a glass of wine. “Take a load off, Detective. Set a spell.”

I narrowed my eyes at him and mouthed, “Ballbuster.” Ah, there’s no place like home . . . or a recently remodeled vacation rental. I walked around the table and scooped my son up in my arms. “They’re all jerks,” I said in a babyish voice. I put my lips on his neck and gave him a big whoopee-cushion-sounding raspberry.

Max giggled.

“Yes they are. Yes they are. Why are you hanging around with such silly people? You’ve got to be careful of the company you keep. ”

“Look at the expression on his face,” Ma cooed. “There’s nothing like a child’s love for his mother.”

Max laughed hysterically, and then his expression changed on a dime. He made the face that begs the age-old question asked by infants all over the world: “What’s going on down there in my diaper?” His lips twisted, and his eyes bulged. The air became fragrant with the scent of Max’s . . . accomplishment.

Ma wrinkled her nose and then reached out for him.

“You don’t mind?” I asked.

Ma shook her head and left the room with Max in tow.

Gus fanned the air in front of his face and crossed his eyes. He looked as if he was suffocating.

“Funny,” I said. “He’s like his daddy in so many ways.”

“Hey!” Gus shouted in a jovial manner. “I don’t crap myself.”

“No, but your butt bombs are the stuff of legends. If you were around for WWII, you would’ve sent thousands of frightened civilians scrambling for the air raid shelters.” I turned to Tate. “Some of Gus’ Crack Rattler Missiles have been banned by NATO.”

Tate roared. “You lucky bastard,” he said sarcastically and slapped Gus on the back. He slowly settled down and pulled a file from his briefcase. “Here you go, lady cop.” He slid a file across the table to me. “Coroner’s report on Bill Alden.”

My eyes lit up as I reached for the folder.

“Look how excited she is,” Gus said. “You’d think she just jumped out of an airplane.”

I scowled at Gus. “You want to go tit for tat, Bombardier Lido?”

Gus flashed his palms to signal his surrender. “I’m no martyr. I give.”

I flipped open the report and jumped down to the bottom of the page.

FINAL DIAGNOSIS
: Asphyxiation due to: A. Inhalation of smoke with presence of carbon deposits in trachea and proximal left bronchi. B. Inhalation of carbon monoxide.

Huh?
I expected more. “Smoke inhalation? That’s it?” I looked up at Tate before I continued to read and could see from his expression that I’d missed something. I went back to the top of the page and began reading the report line by line. The body’s general description: sex, approximate height and weight, blah, blah, blah. It mentioned the condition of the body at the time the autopsy was performed. A forensic odontologist, who studied the victim’s teeth and matched them to dental records, made a positive identification.
What am I looking for?
And then I saw something that made my eyes open wide. I looked up at Tate. He was grinning.

Toxicology Screen:
Positive for cyanide

Blood Drug Screen:
Positive for cyanide

Bill Alden had been murdered.

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you mean, not necessarily?” I asked in bewilderment. Tate and I were shoulder to shoulder, striding down the corridor toward the office of Dr. Perry Hodgkin, the physician who had signed Bill Alden’s autopsy report.

Tate rolled his eyes. “The presence of cyanide does not mean that Bill Alden was poisoned. Smoldering materials give off hydrogen cyanide during a fire and afterward. The recliner Alden was found in was upholstered with acrylic fabric—there’s your culprit. Nitrogen from the burning fabric combined with hydrogen and carbon to produce hydrogen cyanide. You said yourself that the chair smelled like roasted nuts.”

Something clicked in my head, and I remembered a fact from a college level forensics class I had taken. Cyanide can smell like bitter almonds. The big issue, forensically speaking, is that half the population is unable to detect the odor. I guess I‘m lucky enough to have gotten the nut-smelling gene. “Did I ever tell you about my sixth sense?”

“No but Gus did. He said you’re some kind of crime-investigating witch. He says you can feel it in your bones. Funny, you don’t look like a witch.”

“You don’t have to look like a witch to be one. Now put more stock in my theories or I’ll turn you into a newt.”

“Oh geez, a newt. That’s disgusting. They’re slimy and green. Can’t you turn me into a stallion?”

“Well, that would hardly be humiliating or witchy. A stallion is a noble animal.”

“Well, I’m just thinking, I’m past the age where I’d have to race. I mean, I’m not interested in running twelve furlongs while getting whipped by some child-sized jockey. I’d be more of a stud horse.”

Christ, has a man been born who doesn’t think with his wiener?
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“You know it. I’d be down in Kentucky munching on blue grass, getting groomed, and banging mares left and right.”

“Guess again, Romeo. Do you know how long horse coitus lasts?”

“Nah.”

“About twenty seconds.”

“Really? That’s it?”

“That’s it, stud. Foreplay and seduction are reserved for humans exclusively. Is that a problem for you?”

“Hell, yes. I’ve never gone that long before.”

I laughed so hard that I snorted. Someone passing us in the hallway gave me one of those stink-eye, what’s-your-problem looks. “You’re nuts, Tate.”

“What do you expect? You just burst my bubble.” His eyes brightened after a moment. It looked as if he had come up with a revelation. “Hey, how about oral? Do horses—”

“Only if they batter-coat their johnsons with oats. Where is this conversation going anyway?”

“You were about to turn me into a newt.”

“Yup, newt it is—green with black spots . . . or maybe orange with brown spots. I can’t make up my mind. Right after we talk to the coroner, though . . . I left my cauldron and potions in the car.”

~~~

Dr. Perry Hodgkin looked up from his computer screen when we entered the morgue. I was immediately struck by the minute size of his bald cranium. I guess you don’t have to have a big head to have big brains.

Tate extended his hand. “Dr. Hodgkin, I’m Richard Tate, the Montauk fire chief.”

Hodgkin had a warm and engaging smile. “Right. We spoke on the phone.”

“This is Detective Stephanie Chalice with the New York City Police Department,” Tate continued. “She’s here in an unofficial capacity. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Hodgkin said. “I’ve been staring at pale flesh and fried gray matter all morning. I have no complaints about a visit from a beautiful young woman.” Hodgkin had that doe-eyed innocent look about him.

We shook hands, and I felt as if I blushed a little bit. I guess a woman never grows tired of receiving compliments. Since Max’s arrival, my life had consisted almost exclusively of mommy duty and work. I’m exhausted most of the time and haven’t exactly felt pretty. “Thanks, Dr. Hodgkin. Nice of you to let me tag along for the ride. So what’s this about fried gray matter?”

“Oh, would you like to see?” Hodgkin said with delight. He took me by the arm and led me toward one of the autopsy tables. Tate followed reluctantly. “I’m so glad that you’re interested. This is one of the most unusual fatalities I’ve ever come across.”

I’ve spent plenty of time in the morgue and don’t usually get weak in the knees, but the cadaver in front of me was a whole other story. A woman’s body was lying on the table and the top half of her skull had been removed. She was brainless, and I’m talking literally here. The brain cavity was completely empty, and her sectioned brain was lying on a tray next to her. The image was truly abhorrent, and I really didn’t want to see or hear anymore about it, but Hodgkin was so excited . . . I just didn’t know how to cut him off.

“I said fried gray matter, but it’s really the white matter that got fried. This woman was found on the beach after a storm.” He touched the very top of his bald head. “She was struck by lightning dead center on the top of her head. The corpus callosum was fried, and the left and right hemispheres of her brain were unable to communicate with each other.”

“What’s the corpus callosum?” Tate asked.

“It’s the bundle of neural fibers that connects the two hemispheres of the brain.”

“Sounds like a godawful way for someone to die,” I said. “The poor woman.”

“Oh, that’s not what killed her,” Hodgkin said. His eyes were gleaming as he prepared to enlighten us. I guess he doesn’t get a chance to talk much what with all his patients being dead and all. It looked like he had just gotten a new lease on life. “You can live with the two hemispheres separated. In fact, corpus callosotomies have been successfully performed for decades as a way of controlling brain seizures.”

“Like in epilepsy?” I asked.

Hodgkin’s eyes gleamed at least twice as brightly as they did before. “Very good,” he said.

“So what killed her?” Tate asked making little effort to conceal the fact that he was bored to tears.

Hodgkin seemed disappointed about having to cut to the chase. It appeared as if he was prepared and happy to drone on about severed brains, half-wits, and what have you for as long as we could stand it. “This did,” he said as he pointed to a ruptured blood vessel. “Cerebral aneurism.”

“The lightning caused the aneurism?” I asked.

“Oh no. It was probably already there, but the lightning strike most likely caused her blood pressure to spike, and this aneurism on her anterior communicating artery blew.” He snapped his fingers. “Burst like a balloon.”

“Burst like a balloon,” I repeated. I had to find a segue from the woman with the blown brain to Bill Alden’s autopsy before our pedantic friend talked us into a coma. I took hold of his arm and looked into his eyes attentively. “That’s brilliant. I’ll bet you’ve made some incredible discoveries about Bill Alden’s death as well.”

Tate rolled his eyes and mouthed,
Thank you
.

The doe-eyed doctor had a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression on his face. It took a moment for him to switch gears. “Oh yes, that’s what you’re here about, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Tate said. Translation:
can we please get on with this already?

Hodgkin walked over to the computer. “Let’s see if he’s still here.” I watched him poke the keys on the keyboard. “Still waiting for pickup.” He walked over to the morgue refrigerator and opened one of the compartments. I was surprised to see that the soles of Alden’s feet were unburned. The requisite toe tag, known in the trade as a U.F. 95, hung from the big toe on the right foot. Hodgkin checked the tag. “This is him,” he said as he slid the cadaver out of the refrigerator. Alden looked like the first pot roast I had ever attempted. That’s not true—he looked far, far worse. I almost wanted to go back and look at the woman who took a lightning bolt to the head.

“Not much to talk about,” Hodgkin said.

I was disappointed.

Tate looked relieved—it was pretty obvious that he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. “The detective read the autopsy report and was concerned by the presence of cyanide in the blood and tissue of the victim,” Tate said. “I told her that cyanide is a pretty common finding in a burn victim’s autopsy.”

“Yes, common,” Hodgkin said, “but not conclusive.”

“So could he have been murdered prior to the fire?” I asked.

“No way, José.” Hodgkin seemed pleased by his ham-fisted attempt at being hip. “He died in the fire. He was breathing when he expired as evidenced by the presence of carbon in his bronchial tubes. Elevated levels of carboxyhemoglobin in the blood are consistent with hypoxia from carbon monoxide inhalation.

“Couldn’t he have ingested the cyanide?”

“No.” Hodgkin said flatly. “The victim was not poisoned, Detective. I found no evidence of cyanide in the stomach contents, and the stomach lining was undamaged despite the high content of corned beef and cabbage.” He peaked his eyebrows in anticipation of a laugh. None was forthcoming. Okay, I chuckled a little but just so his feelings wouldn’t be hurt. He continued, “If the stomach lining had been damaged from cyanide ingestion, it would have presented with a blackened, eroded surface and there would’ve been altered bloodstaining of the striped mucosa because of the strongly alkaline nature of the hydrolyzed sodium or potassium salts found in cyanide. There was only evidence of cyanide poisoning in the lungs. The hydrocyanic acid levels in the lungs were off the charts. The only surprise I encountered in the autopsy was that the liver was implicated as well.”

“Meaning?”

Hodgkin shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?” It seemed inconsistent to me that a man like Hodgkin would be unsure of anything as it related to forensic medicine.

“That’s right, I’m not sure. There was no evidence of cyanide in the digestive tract so the level of cyanide in the liver should have been minimal, but it wasn’t.”

“Kind of leaves the door open, doesn’t it, Doctor? I usually have a pretty good sixth sense about these things and—”

“A premonition, Detective?” Hodgkin interrupted. “You’ve got a feeling in your gut?”

Talking down your nose, are we?
“I’ve got a strong premonition, Doctor. Sometimes a gut feeling is all a detective has to go on. Mine are usually pretty good.”

“I’m not doubting your sleuthing skills, Detective, but I’m a man of science,” Hodgkin said. “I don’t believe in hunches—the evidence speaks, and I listen. Facts, findings, data . . . that’s all there is.”

“Chalice, you’re looking for something that’s not there,” Tate said. “Alden burned with the house, and that’s that.”

I admit that the coroner’s argument seemed pretty strong, but I was still not convinced. My sixth sense told me there was more to this than met Dr. Hodgkin’s learned eye, and I was a long way from giving up.