events.'
Rick's eyes stayed on the notebook. 'What's going on, Jason?'
'The police have asked me to do a psychological profile of you, Rick.'
Rick barked out a surprised laugh. His discomfort gave it a hollow sound. 'What for, do the police always dig around to this degree?'
'I have the impression that the police do an in-depth check of every suspect in a crime they're investigating. It's like working up a business plan.'
Rick shook his head. 'But why you?'
'There's a connection between me and the investigating officer, April Woo. And also between her and Emma. You know, Emma was abducted last spring.'
'Yes, . Merrill and I were out of town when it happened. But I have an idea how bad it was for both of you.' He looked as if he wanted to say more, but stopped there.
'April was the detective who saved her life. I owe her.'
'Jason, would you like a real drink?'
'I would, but I won't. . . . April came to my office today to ask for my professional opinion of your character. I told her I could give my personal opinion, but I could never do a' professional assessment without your approval.'
Rick rubbed his chin and seemed shocked to find unshaven stubble there. 'All this astonishes me. I don't know what to say.'
'In spite of my bias in favor of you, I would be working as an agent for the police. The disadvantage of the bias is that eventually, the police may ask someone else to do another. The advantage of my doing one now is that the alternative will most certainly be someone who may not have the warm feelings for you that I do.'
Rick flashed another ironic smile. 'Well, with such a recommendation I don't see how I could refuse. How is it done?'
'You've never had psychological testing before?'
'I've had intelligence tests, ' neurological tests, X rays, even an MRI scan of my brain. I did that for Merrill.'
'Oh, really, why?'
Rick hesitated. 'I suppose you're going to ask about brain injuries, concussions, blackouts. My—so-called temper, all that?'
Jason nodded. 'And incidents of violence in your childhood. '
'There were none.'
'I'm going to ask you for your whole family history, which will include questions about any family member who heard voices, broke down, or was ever institutionalized or hospitalized. I'm going to ask about substance abuse, violence, if anybody's gone to jail.' Jason sighed.
'I don't know about my father, so I can't answer all your questions about his side of the family,' Rick said quietly.
'You may not think you know a lot of things, Rick, but you'd know if someone in the family went to jail for killing a man in a bar fight. You'd know about physical abuse. You'd have seen or heard it.'
'I had an aunt who committed suicide,' he said softly. 'My grandmother was raped by a white man when she was thirteen. I'm not supposed to know it. But I do. She wasn't yet fourteen when my mother was born.'
Jason wrote it down. 'And I'm going to ask you about your headaches and your temper. Let's start with your grandmother/'
17
M
ike concentrated on the medical examiner preparing for the autopsy of Tor Petersen. She was like an actor, dominating the stage. He guessed all doctors were like that, even doctors of the dead. He glanced at Ducci standing beside him, all anticipation. Why was the dust and fiber expert so hot to be there today? Mike chewed on the ends of his mustache, mulling things over. This was Mike's second autopsy in as many days, and part of him felt as if he were wasting precious hours in the ugliest part of this squat blue brick building, just spinning his wheels. Autopsies took a lot of time. He watched the preparations, trying to let go of the conversation he'd had last night with his mother about April Woo.
'This is the body of a well-nourished, well-developed white male measuring six feet one inch in height and weighing approximately one hundred and ninety pounds. He is wearing a gray knitted sweater— cashmere, and gray slacks with an alligator belt. Slip-on leather shoes, gray and red tweed socks.' Rosa Washington switched off the recorder and moved away from the microphone and the autopsy table to let the photographer take one more picture of the dead man clothed as he had been at the time he died. Flash. 'Finished?'
'Yeah.'
'Okay, boys, your tum.' She gestured to the techs to come in and undress the corpse and moved to where the green-suited Sanchez and Ducci stood gloveless, with their masks pulled down around their necks, each casually using the bottom of his metal throw-up pan as a writing support.
No part of the ME, however, was visible under the green surgical pajamas, green cap, rubber gloves, glasses, and mask with a respirator. Clearly the woman did not like getting splashed with body fluids and did not want to breathe in any contaminated air with the potential to fatally infect her. For a few minutes she was silent, as off came the dead man's shoes, labeled and dumped by two burly assistants into the box Ducci would take away with him to examine later. Off came his socks. Into the box. The dead man's alligator belt was already undone, his mud-and blood-splattered pants already unzipped. The two techs lifted the body at the hips and tugged off the damp, stained trousers. Underneath, the shorts were soiled with urine and feces. The odor soared above the pervasive formaldehyde stench. Off came the shorts. Mike put on his mask.
'Only the shorts, please,' Ducci said sharply, as if the techs might add a turd to the box as an extra.
The dead man's penis popped into view. The ME glanced at it, then turned away. 'Hey, Ducci. Haven't seen you since Nashville.' Through the mask her voice sounded strangely mechanical, like the voice of telephone operators.
'Yeah, don't get around too much anymore.' He watched the techs pull off the dead man's sweater. Nothing under it. The dust and fiber expert's thick gray-flecked eyebrows went up at that, and he pulled on an ear.
'Something?' Washington asked about the corpse, but kept her gaze on Ducci. 'What brings you here?' She adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose.
'Cut on his chest?' Ducci pointed to a tiny irregularity among a sparse furring of chest hairs below his sternum.
The ME moved under the light to look at it. 'Looks like a little nothing,' Rosa munnured, running a gloved finger lightly over the area Ducci indicated. 'Maybe a pimple, I don't see any blood here.'
'Mark it and measure it,' Mike said.
'We're honored to have you with us, Freddy. What brings you into the light of day?' she asked again.
The macabre autopsy room—gruesomely fitted out with electric saws, carts of cutting instruments in all sizes, aspirators, containers to save tissue and fluid samples from many sources, and the ageless metal dissecting table, ducted and plumbed for the draining and sluicing of body 'fluids—intensely flood-lit as it was for the best possible investigation of the examinant of the moment, was hardly the light of day.
'Very funny.' Ducci guffawed politely at the joke. 'Gotta make sure you guys do your job right, don't I?'
The ME laughed politely herself. 'You know I do my job right.' Even distorted, her tone held the sharp edge of defensiveness.
Ducci made an offering. 'I liked your talk in Nashville.'
'Well, it's a damned shame autopsy is becoming a dying art. No one's doing them anymore. Insurance companies won't foot the bill in hospitals. Families don't want them.' Rosa widened her audience to include Mike. 'With all the lab tests, MRI scans, X rays—everybody figures they already know what killed their loved ones. Nobody
