Laurie pocketed her memo, pushed away from the desk and returned to the fifth floor. She walked directly to Jack’s office. The door was ajar. She knocked on the jamb. Both Jack and Chet looked up from their respective labors.

“I had a thought,” Laurie said to Jack.

“Just one?” Jack quipped.

Laurie threw her pencil at him, which he easily evaded. She plopped down in the chair to his right and told him about the mob connection with the Spoletto Funeral Home.

“Good grief, Laurie,” Jack complained. “Just because there is a mob hit in a funeral home, doesn’t mean that it is mob-connected.”

“You don’t think so?” Laurie asked. Jack didn’t have to answer. She could see by his expression. And, now that she thought about her idea, she understood it was a ridiculous notion. She’d been grabbing for straws.

“Besides,” Jack said. “Why won’t you just leave this alone?”

“I told you,” Laurie said. “It’s a personal thing.”

“Maybe I can channel your efforts into a more positive direction,” Jack said. He motioned toward his microscope. “Take a look at a frozen section. Tell me what you think.”

Laurie got up from the chair and leaned over the microscope. “What is this, the shotgun entrance wound?” she asked.

“Just as sharp as usual,” Jack commented. “You’re right on the money.”

“Well, it’s not a hard call,” Laurie said. “I’d say the muzzle was within inches of the skin.”

“My opinion exactly,” Jack said. “Anything else?”

“My gosh, there’s absolutely no extravasation of blood!” Laurie said. “None at all, so this had to have been a postmortem wound.” She raised her head and looked at Jack. She was amazed. She’d assumed it had been the mortal wound.

“Ah, the power of modern science,” Jack commented. “This floater you foisted on me is turning into a bastard of a case.”

“Hey, you volunteered,” Laurie said.

“I’m teasing,” Jack said. “I’m glad I got the case. The shotgun wounds were definitely postmortem, so was the decapitation and removal of the hands. Of course the propeller injuries were, too.”

“What was the cause of death?” Laurie asked.

“Two other gunshot wounds,” Jack said. “One through the base of the neck.” He pointed to an area just above his right collarbone. “And another in the left side that shattered the tenth rib. The irony was that both slugs ended up in the mass of shotgun pellets in the right upper abdominal area and were difficult to be seen on the X ray.”

“Now that’s a first,” Laurie said. “Bullets hidden by shotgun pellets. Amazing! The beauty of this job is that you see new things every day.”

“The best is yet to come,” Jack said.

“This is a ‘beaut,’ ” Chet said. He’d been listening to the conversation. “It’ll be perfect for one of the forensic pathology dinner seminars.”

“I think the shotgun blasts were an attempt to shield the victim’s identity as much as the decapitation and removal of the hands,” Jack said.

“In what way?” Laurie asked.

“I believe this patient had had a liver transplant,” Jack said. “And not that long ago. The killer must have understood that such a procedure put the patient in a relatively small group, and hence jeopardized the chances of hiding the victim’s identity.”

“Was there much liver left?” Laurie asked.

“Very little,” Jack said. “Most of it was destroyed by the shotgun injury.”

“And the fish helped,” Chet said.

Laurie winced.

“But I was able to find some liver tissue,” Jack said. “We’ll use that to corroborate the transplant. As we speak, Ted Lynch ip in DNA is running a DQ alpha. We’ll have the results in an hour or so. But for me the clincher was the sutures in the vena cava and the hepatic artery.”

“What’s a DQ alpha?” Laurie asked.

Jack laughed. “Makes me feel better that you don’t know,” he said, “because I had to ask Ted the same question. He told me it is a convenient and rapid DNA marker for differentiating two individuals. It compares the DQ region of the histocompatibility complex on chromosome six.”

“What about the portal vein?” Laurie asked. “Were there sutures in it as well?”

“Unfortunately, the portal vein was pretty much gone,” Jack said. “Along with a lot of the intestines.”

“Well,” Laurie said. “This should all make identification rather easy.”

“My thought exactly,” Jack said. “I’ve already got Bart Arnold hot on the trail. He’s been in contact with the national organ procurement organization UNOS. He’s also in the process of calling all the centers actively doing liver transplants, especially here in the city.”

“That’s a small list,” Laurie said. “Good job, Jack.”

Jack’s face reddened slightly, and Laurie was touched. She thought he was immune to such compliments.

“What about the bullets?” Laurie asked. “Same gun?”

“We’ve packed them off to the police lab for ballistics,” Jack said. “It was hard to say if they came from the same gun or not because of their distortion. One of them made direct contact with the tenth rib and was flattened. Even the second one wasn’t in good shape. I think it grazed the vertebral column.”

“What calibre?” Laurie asked.

“Couldn’t tell from mere observation,” Jack said.

“What did Vinnie say?” Laurie asked. “He’s become pretty good at guessing.”

“Vinnie’s worthless today,” Jack said. “He’s been in the worst mood I’ve ever seen him in. I asked him what he thought, but he wouldn’t say. He told me it was my job, and that he wasn’t paid enough to be giving his opinions all the time.”

“You know, I had a case similar to this back during that awful Cerino affair,” Laurie said. She stared off and for a moment, her eyes glazed over. “The victim was a secretary of the doctor who was involved with the conspiracy. Of course, she’d not had a liver transplant, but the head and the hands were gone, and I did make the identification because of her surgical history.”

“Someday you’ll have to tell me that whole grisly story,” Jack said. “You keep dropping tantalizing bits and pieces.”

Laurie sighed. “I wish I could just forget the whole thing. It still gives me nightmares.”

Raymond glanced at his watch as he opened the Fifth Avenue door to Dr. Daniel Levitz’s office. It was two forty-five. Raymond had called the doctor three times starting just after eleven a.m., without success. On each occasion, the receptionist had promised Dr. Levitz would phone back, but he hadn’t. In his agitated state, Raymond found the discourtesy aggravating. Since Dr. Levitz’s office was just around the corner from Raymond’s apartment, Raymond thought it was better to walk over than sit by the phone.

“Dr. Raymond Lyons,” Raymond said with authority to the receptionist. “I’m here to see Dr. Levitz.”

“Yes, Dr. Lyons,” the receptionist said. She had the same cultivated, matronly look as Dr. Anderson’s receptionist. “I don’t have you down on my appointment sheet. Is the doctor expecting you?”

“Not exactly,” Raymond said.

“Well, I’ll let the doctor know you are here,” the receptionist said noncommitally.

Raymond took a seat in the crowded waiting room. He picked up one of the usual doctor waiting-room magazines and flipped the pages without focusing on the images. His agitation was becoming tinged with irritation, and he began to wonder if it had been a bad decision to come to Dr. Levitz’s office.

The job of checking on the first of the other two transplant patients had been easy. With one phone call Raymond had spoken with the recruiting doctor in Dallas, Texas. The doctor had assured Raymond that his kidney-transplant patient, a prominent local businessman, was doing superbly and was in no way a possible candidate for an autopsy. Before hanging up the doctor had promised Raymond to inform him if the situation were ever to change.

But with Dr. Levitz’s failure to return Raymond’s phone call, Raymond had not been able to check on the last case. It was frustrating and anxiety-producing.