Vanish

“What difference does it make?”

“Come on.” Abe laughed. “You know it makes a difference.”

Maura sighed. “Yes,” she admitted. “She’s very attractive.”

“Yeah, well, there you go. Young, sexy, and almost sliced open alive.”

“She wasn’t.”

“I’m just warning you, that’s how the public’s going to see it.”

“Can’t I just call in sick today? Maybe catch the next flight to Bermuda?”

“And leave me with this mess? Don’t you dare.”

When she turned onto Albany Street twenty minutes later, she spotted two TV vans parked near the front entrance of the ME’s building. As Abe had warned her, reporters were poised to pounce. She stepped out of her air-conditioned Lexus, into a morning already thick with humidity, and half a dozen reporters scurried toward her.

“Dr. Isles!” a man called out. “I’m from the BostonTribune. Could I have a few words with you about Jane Doe?”

In response, Maura reached into her briefcase and pulled out copies of what she had composed that morning. It was a matter-of-fact summary of the night’s events, and how she had responded. Briskly she handed out copies. “This is my statement,” she said. “I have nothing else to add.”

It did not stop the flood of questions.

“How can anyone make a mistake like this?”

“Do we know the woman’s name yet?”

“We’re told that Weymouth Fire Department made the determination of death. Can you name names?”

Maura said, “You’ll have to talk to their spokesperson. I can’t answer for them.”

Now a woman spoke up. “You have to admit, Dr. Isles, that this is a clear case of incompetence on someone’s part.”

Maura recognized that voice. She turned and saw a blond woman who’d pushed her way to the front of the pack. “You’re that reporter from channel six.”

“Zoe Fossey.” The woman started to smile, gratified to be recognized, but the look Maura gave her instantly froze that smile to stone.

“You misquoted me,” said Maura. “I never said I blamed the fire department or the state police.”

“Someone must be at fault. If not them, then who? Are you responsible, Dr. Isles?”

“Absolutely not.”

“A woman was zipped into a body bag, still alive. She was trapped in the morgue refrigerator for eight hours. And it’s nobody’s fault?” Fossey paused. “Don’t you think someone should lose their job over this? Say, that state police investigator?”

“You’re certainly quick to assign blame.”

“That mistake could have killed a woman.”

“But it didn’t.”

“Isn’t this a pretty basic error?” Fossey laughed. “I mean, how hard can it be to tell that someone’s not dead?”

“Harder than you’d think,” Maura shot back.

“So you’re defending them.”

“I gave you my statement. I can’t comment on the actions of anyone else.”

“Dr. Isles?” It was the man from the Boston Tribune again. “You said that determining death isn’t necessarily easy. I know there’ve been similar mistakes made in other morgues around the country. Could you educate us as to why it’s sometimes difficult?” He spoke with quiet respect. Not a challenge, but a thoughtful question that deserved an answer.

She regarded the man for a moment. Saw intelligent eyes and windblown hair and a trim beard that made her think of a youthful college professor. Those dark good looks would surely inspire countless coed crushes. “What’s your name?” she said.

“Peter Lukas. I write a weekly column for the Tribune.”

“I’ll talk to you, Mr. Lukas. And only you. Come inside.”

“Wait,” Fossey protested. “Some of us have been waiting around out here a lot longer.”

Maura shot her a withering look. “In this case, Ms. Fossey, it’s not the early bird that gets the worm. It’s the polite one.” She turned and walked into the building, the Tribune reporter right behind her.

Her secretary, Louise, was on the phone. Clapping her hand over the receiver, she whispered to Maura, a little desperately: “It doesn’t stop ringing. What do I tell them?”

Maura laid a copy of her statement on Louise’s desk. “Fax them this.”

“That’s all you want me to do?”

“Head off any calls from the press. I’ve agreed to talk to Mr. Lukas here, but no one else. No more interviews.”

Louise’s expression, as she regarded the reporter, was only too easy to read. I see you chose a good-looking one.

“We won’t be long,” said Maura. She ushered Lukas into her office and closed the door. Pointed him to the chair.

“Thank you for talking to me,” he said.

“You were the only one out there who didn’t irritate me.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not irritating.”

That got a small smile out of her. “This is purely a self-defense strategy,” she said. “Maybe if I talk to you, you’ll become everyone else’s go-to guy. They’ll leave me alone and harass you.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. They’ll still be chasing you.”

“There are so many bigger stories you could be writing about, Mr. Lukas. More important stories. Why this one?”

“Because this one strikes us on a visceral level. It addresses our worst fears. How many of us are terrified of being given up for dead when we aren’t? Of being accidentally buried alive? Which, incidentally, has happened a few times in the past.”

She nodded. “There have been some historically documented cases. But those were prior to the days of embalming.”

“And waking up in morgues? That’s not merely historical. I found out there’ve been several cases in recent years.”

She hesitated. “It’s happened.”

“More often than the public realizes.” He pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. “In 1984, there was a case in New York. A man’s lying on the autopsy table. The pathologist picks up the scalpel and is about to make the first incision when the corpse wakes up and grabs the doctor by the throat. The doctor keels over, dead of a heart attack.” Lukas glanced up. “You’ve heard of that case?”

“You’re focusing on the most sensationalistic example.”

“But it’s true. Isn’t it?”

She sighed. “Yes. I know of that particular case.”

He flipped to another page in his notebook. “ Springfield, Ohio, 1989. A woman in a nursing home is declared dead and transferred to a funeral home. She’s lying on the table, and the mortician is about to embalm her. Then the corpse starts talking.”