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.”

“You seem quite familiar with this subject.”

“Because it’s fascinating.” He riffled through the pages in his notebook. “Last night, I looked up case after case. A little girl in South Dakota who woke up in her open casket. A man in Des Moines whose chest was actually cut open. Only then does the pathologist suddenly realize the heart is still beating.” Lukas looked at her. “These aren’t urban legends. These are documented cases, and there are a number of them.”

“Look, I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, because clearly it has. Corpses have woken up in morgues. Old graves have been dug up, and they’ve found claw marks inside the coffin lids. People are so terrified of the possibility that some casket makers sell coffins equipped with emergency transmitters to call for help. Just in case you’re buried alive.”

“How reassuring.”

“So yes, it can happen. I’m sure you’ve heard the theory about Jesus. That the resurrection of Christ wasn’t a true resurrection. It was merely a case of premature burial.”

“Why is it so hard to determine that someone is dead? Shouldn’t it be obvious?”

“Sometimes it isn’t. People who are chilled, through exposure or drowning in cold water, can look very dead. Our Jane Doe was found in cold water. And there are certain drugs that can mask vital signs and make it hard to see respirations or detect a pulse.”

“Romeo and Juliet. The potion that Juliet drank to make her look dead.”

“Yes. I don’t know what the potion was, but that scenario was not impossible.”

“Which drugs can do it?”

“Barbiturates, for example. They can depress your respiration and make it hard to tell that a subject is breathing.”

“That’s what turned up in Jane Doe’s toxicology screen, isn’t it? Phenobarbital.”

She frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

“Sources. It’s true, isn’t it?”

“No comment.”

“Does she have a psychiatric history? Why would she take an overdose of phenobarb?”

“We don’t even know the woman’s name, much less her psychiatric history.”

He studied her for a moment, his gaze too penetrating for comfort. This interview is a mistake, she thought. Moments ago, Peter Lukas had impressed her as polite and serious, the type of journalist who would approach this story with respect. But the direction of his questioning made her uneasy. He had walked into this meeting fully prepared and well versed in the very details that she least wanted to dwell on; the very details that would rivet the public’s attention.

“I understand the woman was pulled out of Hingham Bay yesterday morning,” he said. “Weymouth Fire and Rescue were the first to respond.”

“That’s correct.”

“Why wasn’t the ME’s office called to the scene?”

“We don’t have the manpower to visit every death scene. Plus, this one was down in Weymouth, and there were no obvious indications of foul play.”

“And that was determined by the state police?”

“Their detective thought it was most likely accidental.”

“Or possibly a suicide attempt? Considering the results of her tox screen?”

She saw no point in denying what he already knew. “She may have taken an overdose, yes.”

“A barbiturate overdose. And a body chilled by cold water. Two reasons to obscure a determination of death. Shouldn’t that have been considered?”

“It’s-yes, it’s something one should consider.”

“But neither the state police detective nor the Weymouth Fire Department did. Which sounds like a mistake.”

“It can happen. That’s all I can say.”

“Have you ever made that mistake, Dr. Isles? Declared someone dead who was still alive?”

She paused, thinking back to her internship years before. To a night on call during internal medicine rotation, when the ringing phone had awakened her from a deep sleep. The patient in bed 336A had just expired, a nurse told her. Could the intern come pronounce the woman dead? As Maura had made her way to the patient’s room, she’d felt no anxiety, no crisis of confidence. In medical school, there was no special lesson on how to determine death; it was understood that you would recognize it when you saw it. That night, she had walked the hospital corridor thinking that she would make quick work of this task, then return to bed. The death was not unexpected; the patient had been in the terminal stages of cancer, and her chart was clearly labeled NO CODE. No resuscitation.

Stepping into room 336, she’d been startled to find the bed surrounded by tearful family members who’d gathered to say good-bye. Maura had an audience. This was not the calm communion with the deceased that she had expected. She was painfully aware of all the eyes watching her as she apologized for the intrusion, as she moved to the bedside. The patient lay on her back, her face at peace. Maura took out her stethoscope, slipped the diaphragm under the hospital gown, and laid it against the frail chest. As she’d bent over the body, she felt the family pressing in around her, felt the pressure of their smothering attention. She did not listen as long as she should have. The nurses had already determined the woman was dead; calling in the doctor to make a pronouncement was merely protocol. A note in a chart, an MD’s signature, was all they really needed before a transfer to the morgue. Bent over the chest, listening to silence, Maura could not wait to escape the room. She’d straightened, her face appropriately sympathetic, and had focused her attention on the man she assumed to be the patient’s husband. She’d been about to murmur: I’m sorry but she’s passed away.