"Neither!" Janice sighed. "It was just the way the case struck me. It was just… rather sad."

"Sad?" Jack questioned. He was taken aback. Janice had been working as a forensic investigator for more than twenty years and had seen death in all its inglorious permutations. "For you to say it's sad, it's got to be really sad. What's the scoop in a nutshell?"

"He was only in his late twenties and had no medical history- specifically, no heart trouble. The narrative I got was that he'd rung his call button, but by the time the nurses got around to him five to ten minutes later-that's according to the nurses-he was dead. So it must have been cardiac."

"There was no resuscitation attempt?"

"Oh, they definitely tried to resuscitate him, but with no success whatsoever. They never even got a blip on the EKG."

"What made it so sad? The man's age?"

"The age was one factor, but it wasn't the whole story. Actually, I don't know why it bothered me so much. Maybe it has something to do with the nurses not responding quickly enough and my thinking the poor guy knew he was in trouble but couldn't get help. We can all relate to that kind of a hospital nightmare. Or maybe it has something to do with the patient's parents, who are very sympathetic. They came in from Westchester to go to the hospital, then came over here to stay near the body. They're really broken up. I get the impression their son was their whole life. I think they're still here."

"Where? I hope they're not stuck out there in that mob of reporters?"

"Last thing I knew, they were in the ID room, insisting on another ID even though it had already been established. To be considerate, the tour doctor told Mike to go ahead and do another set of Polaroids, but that was when I was called back to the General for another case. When I got back here, Mike happened to mention the couple was still spaced out in the ID room, sort of emotionally adrift, while clutching the Polaroids. And, as if still hoping the whole affair was a mistake, they insisted on viewing the body itself."

Jack felt his pulse quicken. He knew all too well the emotional devastation of losing a child. "That case can't be what has the media people all stirred up."

"Heavens, no. The kind of case I'm talking about never reaches the public. That's part of the reason it's so sad. A life wasted."

"Is it the police case that's brought in the media?"

"It's what brought them originally. Bingham announced he would make a statement after the autopsy. The tour doctor told me the Spanish Harlem community is up in arms about the incident. Apparently, there were something like fifty shots fired by the police. Echoes of the Diallo case in the South Bronx some years back. But to tell you the truth, I think what the media is now mostly interested in is the Sara Cromwell case, which came in after they were already here."

"Sara Cromwell, the syndicated psychologist in the Daily News?"

"Yeah, the advice diva, capable of telling anyone and everyone how to get his or her life back on track. She was also a TV personality, you know. She hit most of the talk shows, including Oprah. She was pretty darn famous."

"Was it an accident? Why the fuss?"

"No accident. She was apparently brutally murdered in her Park Avenue apartment. I don't know the details, but it was on the gory side, according to Dr. Fontworth, who had to handle that case as well. I tell you, he and the tour doctor were out all night. After Cromwell, there was a double suicide in a mansion on Eighty-fourth Street, then a nightclub homicide. After that, the tour doctor had to go out for a hit-and-run on Park Avenue and two overdoses."

"What about the double suicide? Old or young?"

"Middle-aged. Carbon monoxide. They had their Escalade running with the garage door closed and a couple of vacuum hoses from the exhausts into the cab."

"Hmmm," Jack murmured. "Any suicide notes?"

"Hey, no fair," Janice complained. "You're grilling me about cases I didn't handle. But as far as I know there was only one note, from the woman."

"Interesting," Jack commented. "Well, I better get down to the ID room. Sounds like it's going to be a busy day. And you better get home to get some sleep."

Jack was pleased. The anticipation of an interesting day swept away some of the irritation that had resurfaced about the morning. If Laurie wanted to go back to her own apartment for a few days, it was fine with him! He'd just bide his time, because he wasn't going to be emotionally extorted.

Jack sped by the forensic investigators' office, cut through the clerical room with its banks of file cabinets, and entered the communications room just beyond. He smiled at the day-shift telephone operators but got no response. They were preoccupied with getting themselves organized. He waved to Sergeant Murphy when he passed the NYPD detective room, but Murphy was on the phone and didn't respond, either. Some welcome, Jack mused.

Entering the ID office, Jack got the same treatment. There were three people in the room, and all three ignored him. Two were hidden behind their morning papers while Dr. Riva Mehta, Laurie's office mate, was busy going over the sizable stack of potential cases to make up the autopsy schedule. Jack got a cup of coffee from the communal pot, then bent down the edge of Vinnie Amendola's paper. Vinnie was one of the mortuary techs and Jack's frequent partner in the autopsy room. Vinnie's regular and early presence meant Jack could start in the autopsy room well before anyone else.

"How come you're not down in the pit with Bingham and Washington?" Jack asked.

"Beats me," Vinnie said, pulling his paper free. "Apparently, they called Sal. They were already going at it when I got here."

"Jack! How ya doin'?"

A third person emerged from behind his paper, but the accent gave him away. It was Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano, from Homicide. Jack had met him years ago when he had first joined the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Convinced of the enormous contributions of forensic pathology to his line of work, Lou was a frequent visitor to the OCME. He was also a friend.

With a bit of effort, the stocky detective heaved himself out of the vinyl club chair, clutching his paper in his beefy hand. With his aged trench coat, his tie loosened and the top button of his shirt open, he appeared like a rumpled character out of an old film noir. His broad face sported what could have been a two-day growth of beard, although from experience, Jack knew it was only one.

They greeted each other with a slapping, modified high-five, which Jack had learned out on the neighborhood basketball court and had jokingly taught Lou. It made both of them feel more hip.

"What's got you up this early?" Jack asked.

"Up? I haven't been to bed yet," Lou scoffed. "It's been that kind of night. My captain is worried sick about this supposed police brutality case, since the department is going to feel real heat if the involved officers' story doesn't hold up. I'm hoping to get an early scoop, but that's not looking good with Bingham doing the case. He'll probably be in there screwing around for most of the day." "What about Sara Cromwell's case? Are you interested in that, too?"

"Yeah! Of course! As if I had any choice! Did you see all the media out in reception?"

"They would have been hard to miss," Jack responded.

"Unfortunately, they were already here on the police shooting. Guaranteed there's going to be a lot of newspaper and TV hype for that skinny psychologist, probably more than she would have gotten had they not been hanging around. And whenever a murder gets a high profile in the media, I know I'll be getting lots of pressure from above to come up with a suspect. So, with that said, do me a favor and do the case."

"Are you serious?"