“I’m still here at the hospital, waiting on the results from Mari Baroja’s autopsy and making a little list…” I became aware of someone standing behind me, so I pushed off the counter and turned to face Bill McDermott. He was a medium-sized young man with sloped shoulders and a haircut like a blond Beatle, from their Liverpool days. He was probably in his thirties, with a childlike face that carried an innocence that was only partly diminished by one of the bloody gloves still on his hand. Bill was evidently a part of the new order of coroners who were qualified medical examiners. I had a suspicion, however, that Mr. McDermott had not been elected. “I’ve got to go.” I hung up the phone and looked at the altar boy. “Mr. McDermott, I presume?”
He nodded a bashful smile, looked at my gun belt, and then my star. “Hello, Sheriff?”
I moved around the desk. I was thinking that a little distance between us might help put him at ease. “Bill, why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee?”
He didn’t respond but watched as I poured us a couple of Styrofoam cups full. “Is there any cream?”
I offered him one of the powdered packets from the tray and was relieved that he peeled off the glove and dropped it into a waste can marked with a red biohazard sticker. He took the packet, tore it open, and dumped it into the cup. I took a sip of my coffee. “Yellowstone County has dropped the coroner system?”
“Yes.”
“The king is dead, long live the king.”
“Both puns intended?” He looked at my blank face and continued. “He’s dead. I did the autopsy on Eddie Cole. It’s how I got the job.”
“How’d he die?”
He took a sip of his coffee. “Suicide. He had an old Cadillac in his garage. Just climbed in, started her up, and took a nap. He left a note.”
“What’d it say?” I had to ask.
“ ‘When you perform the intermastoid incision, make sure the front quadrant is large enough for the frontal craniotomy. Most beginners make a hash of the thing.’ ”
“Professional to the last.” I nodded toward the operating room. “What’ve we got in there?”
He lowered his cup. “Caucasian, female, approximately mid- to late seventies, lifelong smoker, and the scars. I’ve just finished the thoracic-abdominal incision, exposed the pericardial sac, and took a blood sample.”
“Excuse me, but did you say scars?”
“The ones on her back.” He looked at me as if it were something I should have known. “A mass of scar tissue. It looks as though they were administered over a period of time.”
I unconsciously stiffened. “Administered?”
Bill nodded again. “Someone routinely beat the woman at some point in her life.” He looked at his coffee and swirled the tan liquid in the cup. “Probably with a belt, whip, or riding crop, something of that sort.”
I was a little shaken with that revelation. “What else?”
“Slight discoloration of the tissues and blood, but the type is what’s interesting. Was she Basque?”
I nodded. “We have a pretty large population from the turn of the last century; sheepherders mostly.”
“I thought so. The blood type, O with an RH-negative factor. Extremely rare, but 27 percent of Basques have it.”
“Cause of death?”
“I haven’t really gotten that far, but I’m betting that it’s a standard myocardial infarction or cerebral vascular situation.”
“That simple?”
“The numbers don’t lie. Out of five hundred thousand cases of sudden death each year, three hundred thousand are cardiac arrests following heart attacks. Considering her age, use of tobacco, genetic predisposition…” He thought for a moment. “Well, I’m far from being finished, and who knows what else we might find before the day is done? I like to do a thorough job.” He finished his coffee and dropped the cup into the biohazard container with the gloves. I agreed with his diagnosis and tossed mine in, too.
When I got out to the truck, there was another inch of snow, but there were a few streaks of sunshine. I gave the sky my darkest warning look to try and help out the little patches of blue but was only rewarded with a big fat flake in the eye. I climbed in and radioed Ruby. “What number Fetterman is Isaac Bloomfield’s office?” I waited as she looked up the number.
Static. “431.”
“Thanks.” Ruby hated using the radio, but I had told all of them I would only get a cell phone if they let me have a computer; so far, we were at a stalemate. The plows were out, and I watched the blinking yellow lights as I passed. The route up to the mountains looked clear, and I hoped that nobody would take it as an invitation.
The day hadn’t been as bad as I had thought it would be, so far. I started thinking about Cady, the fact that she was going to be here this weekend, and that, so far, I hadn’t gotten her anything for Christmas. She had been difficult to buy for as a child, and the situation hadn’t gotten any better as she had blossomed into womanhood. I would have to enlist Ruby’s help as a covert operator. Ruby enjoyed being a mole, but we were sadly lacking in haute couture. I wondered if I had any catalogs waiting for me at home. I wondered when I might get home. I wondered if the plastic was holding or if there was snow in the living room.
I thought about Mari Baroja as I navigated to the doctor’s office. I thought about who would do that to the woman, who was responsible. The most obvious culprit would be the husband. I didn’t even know his name or if he was alive or dead. Her personal physician was a good place to start, though. I had seen Doc Bloomfield at the hospital a couple of weeks ago when he had given me the final checkup after my adventures on the mountain, but I hadn’t been at his office in a long time.
It was on the corner with a convenient parking lot you could approach from both sides. There was a 1971 silver Mercedes 300 SEL parked next to the steps that I knew belonged to the doctor, but there were no other vehicles, so he was probably free to speak to me.
It was warm in his waiting room, and I watched the clown fish in the saltwater tank as Isaac brewed us two cups of green tea. I had said no, but he insisted. There was music softly playing, Handel, Suite No. 1 in F, and I believed we were at the Andante. It was one of Dorothy’s favorites. Visiting Doc Bloomfield was like visiting your grandfather about ten years after your grandmother had died or the cleaning lady had quit.
“How is the knee?”
I watched as his glasses revealed the multiple folds that did their best to hide the glint in his hazel eyes. I took my mug and glanced down at the pale, ghostly green numbers tattooed on the inside of his right arm where he had rolled up his sleeves. “Good.”
“How is the shoulder?”
I took a sip, and it tasted like kelp. “Good.”
He continued to examine me. “Hands look good; how is the ear?” I turned slightly and took off my hat so that he could see for himself. “Looks good.” He continued to study me. “You’ve grown a beard?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Nobody does.”
I broached the subject of Mari Baroja. He seemed genuinely moved by her death and stared at the faded print of the carpet. I studied the side of his face; his eyes were sharp with a little too much to contain. A thumb and forefinger came up, pushed the glasses onto his forehead and pressed into the sockets, rubbing emotion away. His features were strong, and it was like watching a roman emperor at the fall; I should be so lucky at that age. I waited a respectful amount of time. “Did you know her well, Isaac?” He didn’t respond, so I asked again.
He didn’t move, the fingers still in his eyes. “She was not a happy woman. I think she had many disappointments in her life.” He took the hand away, readjusted his glasses, and turned to look at me through the imperfect world of the lenses.
“Can you give me some idea as to the cause of death?”
I waited as his eyes went back to the floor, then to me. “Walter, do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“No.”
“Why are you so interested in this woman’s death?”
That set me back. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
He actually reached out and patted my knee. “Even with the beard, you are a very young man.”
I was flattered, I think, but still didn’t know what to make of his response. “What’s that supposed to
