The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [32]
He paused at its threshold, prepared himself mentally, and pushed it open.
The autopsy room was spacious and well lit, with two bays and room for two more, as well as an array of storage units, body coolers, a vault for saved samples, and even a skylight, which had been Hillstrom’s pride and joy when the design of the place had been finalized. Floyd Freeman hadn’t been on board in those days, but his predecessor had clearly been confused by the need for natural light in such an area, believing, like most everyone else, that medical examiners and their activities were best kept in basements, under sixty-watt bulbs. He, at least, had been persuaded to amend his prejudice.
Beverly Hillstrom was standing before a naked male of about fifty years, flat on his back with his torso opened wide as if it had been unzippered from throat to groin. As Joe entered, she extracted the man’s small intestine and ran it through her gloved fingers, studying it as she went.
“Doctor,” he said quietly, approaching the table slowly.
She glanced up just enough to recognize him. “Agent Gunther. You happen to be in the neighborhood?”
“Hardly.”
She didn’t respond at first, and he didn’t add anything.
“I was wondering if you might drop by,” she said at last.
“I was concerned.”
She kept to her study. “I apologize for my tone. It was very unprofessional.”
He laughed gently. “If anything, it was a little too professional.”
She looked up again, and he could see the hint of a smile in her eyes. “Right. Point taken.”
He let her continue, watching her deftly disassemble her patient, organ by organ, cataloguing in her mind the map of his demise.
“Heart?” Joe ventured after a while.
“Very good,” she said. “That and pulmonary disease. A lifelong smoker.”
Joe nodded without comment. He’d attended many autopsies, especially before the state police had assigned a full-time liaison to report back to interested departments. But he still found them fascinating, not the least repellent, and continued to fit them in whenever he had the opportunity.
Hillstrom finally straightened and gazed down at her work. “An unattended from Ludlow. Hardly a mystery, but he hadn’t seen a physician in years, and the family was anxious to know.”
Joe had already guessed at the scenario, if not the specifics. He was curious, however, at her having detailed them the way she had. He took a stab at the reason.
“Meaning that as a case, he straddles a very fine line, at least in Freeman’s eyes.”
She stepped back from the table and removed her gloves. An assistant had appeared, ghostlike, from another quarter and now moved into her place to finish things up.
“Lately,” Hillstrom said, addressing his comment, “I’d say Freeman would be calling this one a total waste of money. The line is no longer so fine.”
She stripped off her outer gown and shoved it into a hamper, replacing it with a lab coat that she wore over her scrubs as a semipermanent uniform.
She headed for the main door. “Let me park you in my office while I change. I’d just as soon not have this conversation here.”
He followed her quietly down the corridor, past Suzanne’s now empty enclave and to the back, where she kept a small corner office. He’d been here before, too, and was always struck by how it invoked the work of a very good if self-effacing interior decorator. Even the papers on the desk looked positioned for a photo shoot. During less charitable moments, he’d entertained the notion that the photographs on the shelf behind her chair weren’t actually her kids but some family cut out of the pages of a magazine.
Hillstrom motioned him to one of her visitor chairs. “Have a seat, Joe. I’ll be right back.”
He froze for a split second, as startled as if she had screamed at him. In all the years they’d known each other, she had never—not once—referred to him by his first name.
“Take your time,” he muttered, nonplussed, and settled down to wait, surveying the room as he did. The art