'Not in this M.E.'s jurisdiction,' Goldfield said. 'He's a tough old SOB. He keeps us in line. If one of us didn't do his job, the old man would crucify him.' It was obvious from Goldfield's affectionate tone that he greatly admired the chief medical examiner.
Hilary said, 'Then there's no doubt in your mind that Bruno Frye was ... dead?'
Goldfield gaped at her as if she had just asked him to stand on his head and recite a poem. 'Dead? Why, of course he was dead!'
'You did a complete autopsy?' Tony asked.
'Yes. I cut him--' Goldfield stopped abruptly, thought for a second or two, then said, 'No. It wasn't a complete autopsy in the sense you probably mean. Not a medical school dissection of every part of the body. It was an extremely busy day here. A lot of incoming. And we were short-handed. Anyway, there wasn't any need to open Frye all the way up. The stab wound in the lower abdomen was decisive. No reason to open his chest and have a look at his heart. Nothing to be gained by weighing a lot of organs and poking around in his cranium. I did a very thorough exterior examination, and then I opened the two wounds further, to establish the extent of the damage and to be certain that at least one of them had been the cause of death. If he hadn't been stabbed in your house, while attacking you ... if the circumstances of his death had been less clear, I might have done more with him. But it was clear there wasn't going to be any criminal charges brought in the case. Besides, I am absolutely positive that the abdominal wound killed him.'
'Is it possible he was only in a very deep coma when you examined him?' Hilary asked.
'Coma? My God, no! Jesus, no!' Goldfield stood up and paced the length of the long narrow room. 'Frye was checked for pulse, respiration, pupil activity, and even brainwaves. The man was indisputably dead, Miss Thomas.' He returned to the table and looked down at them. 'Dead as stone. When I saw him, there wasn't enough blood in his body to sustain even the barest threshold of life. There was advanced lividity, which means that the blood still in his tissues had settled to the lowest point of the body--the lowest corresponding, in this case, to the position in which he'd been when he'd died. At those places, the flesh was somewhat distended and purple. There's no mistaking that and no overlooking it.'
Tony pushed his chair back and stood. 'My apologies for wasting your time, Dr. Goldfield.'
'And I'm sorry for suggesting you might not have done your job well enough,' Hilary said as she got to her feet.
'Hold on now,' Goldfield said. 'You can't just leave me standing here in the dark. What's this all about?'
She looked at Tony. He seemed as reluctant as she was to discuss walking dead men with the doctor.
'Come on,' Goldfield said. 'Neither of you strikes me as stupid. You had your reasons for coming here.'
Tony said, 'Last night, another man broke into Hilary's house and attempted to kill her. He bore a striking resemblance to Bruno Frye.'
'Are you serious?' Goldfield asked.
'Oh, yes,' Hilary said. 'Very serious.'
'And you thought--'
'Yes.'
'God, it must have been a shock to see him and think he'd come back!' Goldfield said. 'But all I can tell you is that the resemblance must be coincidental. Because Frye is dead. I've never seen a man any deader than he was.'
They thanked Goldfield for his time and patience, and he escorted them out to the reception area.
Tony stopped at the desk and asked Agnes, the secretary, for the name of the funeral home that had claimed Frye's body. She looked through the files and said, 'It was Angels' Hill Mortuary.'
Hilary wrote down the address.
Goldfield said, 'You don't still think--'
'No,' Tony said. 'But on the other hand, we've got to pursue every lead. At least, that's what they taught me at the police academy.'
Eyes hooded, frowning, Goldfield watched them as they walked away.
***
At Angels' Hill Mortuary, Hilary waited in the Jeep while Tony went inside to talk to the mortician who had handled the body of Bruno Frye. They had agreed that he would be able to obtain the information faster if he went in alone and used his LAPD identification.
Angels' Hill was a big operation with a fleet of hearses, twelve roomy viewing chapels, and a large staff of morticians and technicians. Even in the business office, the lighting was indirect and relaxing, and the colors were somber yet rich, and the floor was covered with plush wall-to-wall carpet. The decor was meant to convey a hushed appreciation for the mystery of death; but to Tony, all it conveyed was a loud and clear statement about the profitability of the funeral business.
The receptionist was a cute blonde in a gray skirt and maroon blouse. Her voice was soft, smooth, whispery, but it did not contain even a slight hint of sexual suggestiveness or invitation. It was a voice that had been carefully trained to project consolation, heartfelt solace, respect, and low-key but genuine concern. Tony wondered if she used the same cool funeral tone when she cried encouragement to her lover in bed, and that thought chilled him.
She located the file on Bruno Frye and found the name of the technician who had worked on the body. 'Sam Hardesty. I believe Sam is in one of the preparation rooms at the moment. We've had a couple of recent admissions,' she said, as if she were working in a hospital rather than a mortuary. 'I'll see if he can spare you a few minutes. I'm not sure how far along he is in the treatment. If he can get free, he'll meet you in the employees' lounge.'
She took Tony to the lounge to wait. The room was small but pleasant. Comfortable chairs were pushed up against the walls. There were ashtrays and all kinds of magazines. A coffee machine. A soda machine. A bulletin board covered with notices about bowling leagues and garage sales and car pools.
