At six-forty-five, Jack got up, tossed aside the reading, and hefted his Cannondale mountain bike from where it leaned against the living-room wall. With it balanced on his shoulder, he started down the four flights of his tenement. Early in the morning was the only time of the day that loud quarreling wasn’t heard in apartment 2B. On the ground floor, Jack had to navigate around some trash that had been dropped down the stairwell during the night.
Emerging on West 106th Street, Jack took in a lungful of October air. For the first time that day he felt revived. Climbing onto his purple bike he headed for Central Park, passing the empty neighborhood basketball court on his left.
A few years ago, on the same day that he had been punched hard enough to chip his front tooth, Jack’s first mountain bike had been stolen. Listening to warnings from his colleagues, particularly Laurie, about the dangers of bike riding in the city, Jack had resisted buying another. But after being mugged on the subway, Jack had gone ahead with the purchase.
Initially, Jack had been a relatively careful cyclist when riding his new bike. But over time that had changed. Now Jack was back to his old tricks. While commuting to and from the office, Jack indulged his self-destructive streak by taking a twice-daily, hair-raising walk on the wild side. Jack believed he had nothing more to lose. His reckless cycling, a habitual temptation of fate, was a way of saying that if his family had had to die, he should have been with them and maybe he’d join them sooner rather than later.
By the time Jack arrived at the medical examiner’s office on the corner of First Avenue and Thirtieth Street, he’d had two protracted arguments with taxi drivers and a minor run-in with a city bus. Undaunted and not at all out of breath, Jack parked his bike on the ground floor next to the Hart Island coffins and made his way up to the ID room. Most people would have felt on edge after such a harrowing trip. But not Jack. The confrontations and physical exertion calmed him, preparing him for the day’s invariable bureaucratic hurdles.
Jack flicked the edge of Vinnie Amendola’s newspaper as he walked by the mortuary tech, who was sitting at his preferred location at the desk just inside the door. Jack also said hello, but Vinnie ignored him. As usual, Vinnie was committing to memory the previous day’s sports stats.
Vinnie had been employed at the ME’s office longer than Jack had. He was a good worker, although he’d come close to being fired a couple of years back for leaking information that had embarrassed the office and had put both Jack and Laurie in harm’s way. The reason Vinnie was censured and put on probation rather than terminated was the extenuating circumstances of his behavior. An investigation had determined he’d been the victim of extortion by some unsavory underworld figures. Vinnie’s father had had a loose association with the mob.
Jack said hello to Dr. George Fontworth, a corpulent medical examiner colleague who was Jack’s senior in the office hierarchy by seven years. George was just starting his weekly stint as the person who reviewed the previous night’s reported deaths, deciding which would be autopsied and by whom. That was why he was at the office early. Normally, he was the last to arrive.
“A fine welcome,” Jack mumbled when George ignored him as Vinnie had. Jack filled his mug with some of the coffee that Vinnie had made on his arrival. Vinnie came in before the other techs to assist the duty doctor if need arose. One of his jobs was to brew the coffee in the communal pot.
With his coffee in hand Jack wandered over to George and looked over his shoulder.
“Do you mind?” George said petulantly. He shielded the papers in front of him. One of his pet peeves was people reading over his shoulder.
Jack and George had never gotten along. Jack had little tolerance for mediocrity and refused on principle to hide his feelings. George might possess stellar credentials—he had trained with one of the giants in the field of forensic pathol-ogy—but to Jack, his efforts on the job were merely perfunctory. Jack had no respect for the man.
Jack smiled at George’s reaction. He got perverse pleasure out of goading him. “Anything particularly interesting?” Jack asked. He walked around to the front of the desk. With his index finger he began to shuffle through the folders so he could read the presumed diagnoses.
“I have these in order!” George snapped. He pushed Jack’s hand away and restored the physical integrity of his stacks. He was sorting them according to the cause and manner of death.
“What do you have for me?” Jack asked. One of the things that Jack loved about being a medical examiner was that he never knew what each day would bring. Every day there was something new. That had not been the case when he was an ophthalmologist. Back then Jack knew what each day was going to be like three months in advance.
“I do have an infectious case,” George said. “Although I don’t think it’s particularly interesting. It’s yours if you want it.”
“Why was it sent in?” Jack asked. “No diagnosis?”
“Only a presumed diagnosis,” George said. “They listed it as possible influenza with secondary pneumonia. But the patient died before any of the cultures came back. Complicating the issue is that nothing was seen on gram stain. And on top of that the man’s doctor was away for the weekend.”
Jack took the folder. The name was Jason Papparis. Jack slipped out the information sheet filled out by Janice Jaeger, the night-shift forensic investigator or physician’s assistant, called a PA for short. As Jack skimmed the sheet, he nodded with admiration. Janice had proved herself a thorough researcher. Ever since Jack had made the suggestion for her to inquire about travel and contact with animals in infectious cases, she never failed to do so.
“Mighty potent case of flu!” Jack commented. He noted that the deceased had been in the hospital for less than twenty-four hours. But he also noticed that the man had been a heavy smoker and had a history of respiratory problems. That raised the issue of whether the infectious agent was potent or the patient unusually susceptible.
“Do you want it or not?” George asked. “We’ve got a lot of cases this morning. I’ve already got you down for several others, including a prisoner who died in custody.”
“Groan,” Jack mumbled. He knew that such cases frequently had complicated political and social fallout. “Are you sure Calvin, our fearless deputy chief, won’t want to do that one himself?”
“He called earlier and told me to assign it to you,” George said. “He’d already heard from someone high up in the police hierarchy and thought you’d be the best one to handle the job.”
“Now that’s ironic,” Jack said. It didn’t make sense. The deputy chief as well as the chief himself were always complaining about Jack’s lack of diplomacy and appreciation of the political and social aspects of being a medical examiner.
“If you don’t want the infectious case, I’ve got an overdose you can do,” George said.
“I’ll take the infectious case,” Jack said. He did not like overdoses. They were repetitious and the office was inundated with them. There was no intellectual challenge.
“Fine,” George said. He made a notation on his master list.
Eager to get a jump on the day, Jack stepped over to Vinnie and bent the edge of his paper down. Vinnie regarded him morosely with his coal-black eyes. Vinnie was not pleased. He knew what was coming. It happened almost every day.
“Don’t tell me you want to start already?” Vinnie whined.
“The early bird gets the worm,” Jack said. The trite expression was Jack’s stock response to Vinnie’s invariable lack of early-morning enthusiasm. The comment never ceased to further provoke the mortuary tech even though he knew it was coming.
“I wish I knew why you couldn’t come in when everyone else does,” Vinnie grumbled.
Despite appearances Jack and Vinnie got along famously. Because of Jack’s penchant for coming in early, they invariably worked together, and over the years they’d developed a well-oiled protocol. Jack preferred Vinnie over all the other techs, and Vinnie preferred Jack. In Vinnie’s words, Jac
k did not “dick around.”
“Have you seen Dr. Montgomery yet?” Jack asked as they headed for the elevator.
“She’s too intelligent to come in here this early,” Vinnie said. “She’s normal, which you’re not.”
As they passed through communications Jack caught sight of a light on in Sergeant Murphy’s cubbyhole office. The sergeant was a member of the NYPD Bureau of Missing Persons. He’d been assigned to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for years. He rarely arrived much before nine.
Curious whether the ebullient Irishman was already there, Jack detoured and glanced inside. Not only was Murphy there, he wasn’t alone. Sitting across from him was Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano of homicide, a frequent visitor to the morgue. Jack knew him reasonably well, particularly since he was a good friend of Laurie’s. Next to him was another plain-clothes gentleman whom Jack did not recognize.
“Jack!” Lou called out when he caught sight of him. “Come in here a minute. I want you to meet someone.”
Jack stepped into the tiny room. Lou got to his feet. As usual, the detective appeared as if he’d been up all night. He hadn’t shaved—the sides of his face looked as if they had been smeared with soot—and there were dark circles under his eyes. On top of that, his clothes were disheveled, the top button of his once white shirt was open, and his tie was loosened.
“This is Special Agent Gordon Tyrrell,” Lou said, gesturing toward the man sitting next to him. The man got to his feet and stuck out his hand.
“Does that mean FBI?” Jack questioned as he shook the man’s hand.
“It does indeed,” Gordon said.
Jack had never shaken the hand of a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It was not quite the experience he envisioned. Gordon’s hand was slight, almost effeminate, and his grip loose and tentative. The agent was a small man with delicate features, certainly not the masculine stereotype Jack had grown up with. The agent’s clothes were conservative but neat. All three buttons of his jacket were buttoned. In most respects he was the visual antithesis of Lou.
“What’s going on here?” Jack questioned. “I can’t remember the last time I saw the sergeant here this early.”
Murphy laughed and started to protest, but Lou interrupted.
“There was a homicide last night that the FBI is particularly concerned about,” Lou explained. “We’re hoping the autopsy may shed some light.”
“What kind of case?” Jack asked. “Gunshot or stabbing?”
“A little of everything,” Lou said. “The body’s a mess. Enough to turn even your stomach.”
“Has there been an ID?” Jack asked. Sometimes with heavily damaged corpses identification was the most difficult part.
With raised eyebrows Lou glanced at Gordon. Lou didn’t know how much was confidential about the case.
“It’s okay,” Gordon said.
“Yeah, there’s been an ID,” Lou said. “The name is Brad Cassidy. He’s a twenty-two-year-old Caucasian skinhead.”
“You mean one of those racist screwballs with Nazi tattoos, a black leather jacket, and black boots?” Jack asked. He’d seen such riffraff on occasion hanging around the city parks. He’d seen even more of them back home in the Midwest when he visited his mother.
“You got it,” Lou said.
“Skinheads don’t all have Nazi regalia,” Gordon said.
“Now that’s certainly true,” Lou agreed. “In fact, some of them don’t even have shaved heads anymore. The style has gone through some changes.”
“The music hasn’t,” Gordon corrected. “That’s probably been the most consistent part of the whole movement and certainly part of the style.”
“That’s something I don’t know anything about,” Lou said. “I’ve never been much into music.”
“Well, it’s important in regard to American skinheads,” Gordon said. “The music has provided the movement with its ideology of hatred and violence.”
“No kidding?” Lou said. “Just because of the music?”
“I’m not exaggerating,” Gordon said. “Here in the U.S., in contrast to England, the skinhead movement started as just style, sorta like punks, posturing to be shockingly offensive in appearance and behavior. But the music of groups like Skrewdriver and Brutal Attack and a bunch of others created a change. The lyrics promoted a screwed-up philosophy of survival and rebellion. That’s where the hatred and violence have come from.”
“So you’re kinda a skinhead expert?” Jack asked. He was impressed.
“Only by necessity,” Gordon said. “My real area of interest is ultra-right-wing extremist militias. But I’ve had to expand my focus. Unfortunately, the White Aryan Resistance started a fad of recruiting skinheads as shock troops of sorts, tapping into that well of hatred and violence the music has engendered. Now a lot of the neo-fascist militia groups have followed suit, getting the kids to do a lot of their dirty work as well as getting the kids interested in neo-Nazi propaganda.”
“Don’t these kids usually beat up minorities?” Jack asked. “What happened in this guy’s case? Did someone fight back?”
“Skinheads have a tendency to fight with each other as much as they attack others,” Gordon said. “And this is a case of the former.”
“Why so much interest in Brad Cassidy?” Jack asked. “I’d have thought that one less of these guys would just make your law enforcement lives that much easier.”
Vinnie stuck his head in the room and informed Jack that if Jack was going to continue jawboning, he was going back to his New York Post. Jack waved him away.
“Brad Cassidy had been recruited by us as a potential informant,” Gordon said. “He’d plea-bargained a handful of felonies in return for cooperation. He was trying to find and penetrate an organization called the People’s Aryan Army or PAA.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Jack said.
“I hadn’t, either,” Lou admitted.
“It’s a shadowy group,” Gordon said. “All we know is what we’ve been able to intercept off the Internet, which, by the way, has become the major method of communication for these neo-fascist nuts. All we know about PAA is that it’s located somewhere in the New York metropolitan area, and it’s recruited some of the local skinheads. But the more disturbing part has been some vague references to an upcoming major event. We’re worried they might be planning something violent.”
“Something like the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah building in Oklahoma City,” Lou said. “Some major terrorist thing.”
“Good God!” Jack said.
“We have no idea what, when, or where,” Gordon said. “We’re hoping they’re just posturing and bragging, which these groups tend to do. But we’re not taking any chances. Since counterintelligence is the only true defense against terrorism, we’re doing the best we can. We’ve notified the emergency management people here in the city, but unfortunately there’s little information we can give them.”
“Right now our only positive lead is a dead skinhead,” Lou said. “That’s why we’re so interested in the autopsy. We’re hoping for a lead, any lead.”
“You want me to do the post right now?” Jack said. “I was on my way to do an infectious case, but it can wait.”
“I asked Laurie to do it,” Lou said. He blushed as much as his dark, southern Italian skin would allow. “And she said she wanted to do it.”
“When did you talk to Laurie?” Jack asked.
“This morning,” Lou said.
“Really,” Jack said. “Where did you get her? At home?”
“Actually she called me,” Lou said. “She got me on my cell phone.”
“What time was that?” Jack asked.
Lou hesitated.
“Was it around four-thirty in the morning?” Jack asked. The mystery about Laurie was deepening.
“Something like that,” Lou admitted.
Jack took Lou by the elbow. “Excuse us,” he said to Gordon and Sergeant Murphy. Jack took Lou out into the com
munications room. Marjorie Zankowski gave them a quick look before going back to her knitting. The switchboard was quiet.
“Laurie called me at four-thirty, too,” Jack said in a whisper. “She woke me up. Not that I’m complaining. Actually it was good she woke me up. I was having a nightmare. But I know it was exactly four-thirty because I looked at the clock.”
“Well, maybe it was four-forty-five when she called me,” Lou said. “I don’t remember exactly. It’s been a busy night.”
“What did she call for?” Jack asked. “That’s a rather strange time to call, wouldn’t you say?”
Lou fixed Jack with his dark eyes. It was apparent he was debating the appropriateness of revealing what Laurie had called him about.
“All right, maybe it’s not a fair question,” Jack said, raising his hands in mock defense. “Instead, why don’t I tell you why she called me. She wanted to have dinner with me tonight. She said it was important that she talk with me. Does that make any sense given what she said to you?”
Lou blew out through pursed lips. “No,” he said. “She said the same thing to me. She invited me to dinner, too.”
“You’re not pulling my leg, are you?” None of this was rational.
Lou shook his head.
“What did you say?” Jack asked.
“I said I’d go,” Lou answered.
“What did you think she wants to talk to you about?” Jack asked.
Lou hesitated. It was again apparent he was uncomfortable.
“I guess I was hoping she wanted to tell me she missed me. You know, something like that.”
Jack slapped a hand to his forehead. He was touched. It was obvious Lou was in love with Laurie. It was also a complication, because in many ways Jack felt the same way about her although he was reluctant to admit it to himself.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Lou said. “I know I’m a sap. It’s just that I get lonely once in a while and I enjoy her company. Plus she likes my kids.”
Jack took his hand away from his forehead and put it on Lou’s shoulder. “I don’t think you are a sap. Far from it. I was just hoping you could shed some light on what’s up with her.”