HYDE
Chapter 7




Although he had spent three years in the Manhattan North Homicide Squad and had seen more than his share of gore, McKenna had never gotten used to the morgue and hated going there. Having been present at many autopsies, he was almost past the point where the sight of the scalpel slicing through dead flesh put his stomach in knots, although it still made his skin crawl. But those were just physical reactions, things he could get past. What bothered him about the morgue was that it was the place where death was treated impersonally. At the morgue a body just represented another case, a collection of bone and tissue to be cut and probed in order to find out how it arrived there. Finish one and on to the next was the attitude; at the Bellevue Morgue, the supply of bodies requiring autopsy was endless.
     That attitude troubled McKenna. Unlike most cops, he could never bring himself to regard a dead human body as something commonplace, as part of the job. When he saw a body at the morgue, he grieved, no matter who they had been.
     Naturally, he grieved for the victims, those whose lives had been ended by accidents or by an act of violence prompted by avarice on the part of others. However, they weren't all victims. He knew that many of those occupying the freezers were not innocents and the lifestyles they had led had much to do with their cold position. Violence begets violence, and criminals rarely die in bed on social security. Those who had lived as drug dealers, robbers, burglars, and murderers frequently wind up as an ME case, on the slab before their thirtieth birthday.
     McKenna grieved, even when he saw those bodies; but his grief wasn't for them. He had seen good people crying over the bodies of criminals whom, common sense dictated, no one should miss. He reasoned that they all had a mother, and rare is the person who goes through life without touching someone; character is not a prerequisite for love.
     As he left the Citibank and walked to the Bellevue Morgue, two blocks away at East 30th Street and First Avenue, McKenna's only consoling thought was that Benny Foster might have been that rare person.

*     *     *

The Chief Medical Examiner of the City of New York's secretary looked like she had just escaped from one of the freezers downstairs. Dour and pale, she was transferring entries from a logbook to a piece of paper when McKenna entered. While he stood waiting in front of her desk, trying to decide if she was forty years old or sixty and if her hair was light blonde or gray, she pointedly ignored him. According to the nameplate on her desk, she was Ms. S. Lacey.
     "Brian McKenna to see Dr. Andino," he announced after a full minute.
     She didn't look up. "Do you have an appointment?"
     "No, but he'll see me if he's in. We're old friends."
     McKenna's pronouncement earned him a small, derisive chuckle from Ms. Lacey. "Really?" she asked, still writing. "I've been here for fifteen years and I know all his old friends."
     Oh-oh, McKenna thought. Dr. Andino's placed an F-14 class fighter-interceptor in my path. He's a nice enough guy, but I guess he doesn't welcome unannounced intrusions while he's working. What to do now?
     The truth was all he could come up with. "Well, I'm really more of a good acquaintance. I used to be an assistant commissioner in the police department and we met at a few cocktail parties."
     Ms. Lacey wasn't impressed. "Take a seat while I check," she said, but continued writing for another minute before she picked up the phone.
     Dr. Andino was in and he would see McKenna. Ms. Lacey escorted him into what looked to be Dr. Frankenstein's office. There was a standing skeleton in one corner and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that ran the length of one wall. On a long table against another wall were a large microscope and an assortment of other gadgets, none of which McKenna could divine a use for. The decor was completed by an assortment of photos hanging on the walls, all of them pre-autopsy shots of bodies exhibiting the most gruesome wounds imaginable.
     John Andino was seated at his desk while reading one of the autopsy reports from the stack in front of him. He was one of the most average-looking of people; middle age, slightly balding, and average height and weight.
     But then Andino did the thing that made him special. He looked up from his report and smiled, showing the twinkle in his eye that proved his intelligence and the grin that let one know that here was the life of the party. Despite being one of the premier pathologists and medical administrators in the world, and despite the surroundings he had chosen for himself, John Andino was one of the funniest and most popular guys around.
     "Good to see you, Brian," he said, standing up and offering his hand. "Pull up a chair."
     McKenna shook Andino's hand and sat down, but Ms. Lacey remained standing in front of the desk.
     "That's all for now, Sunshine," Andino told her.
     Ms. Lacey spun around and left without a word, closing the door behind her.
     "Sunshine? Is that what the S stands for?" McKenna asked as soon as she was gone.
     "Ironic, isn't it? She's a hard-working girl, but as you can see, not much on personality."
     "Is she the best you can get?"
     "Absolutely, unless you know of some gorgeous, highly-efficient gal who wants to spend the next twenty years working in the morgue," Andino answered. "Do you?"
     "No."
     "Well, I'm just as happy. I don't think Sunshine likes people much, but she's good at keeping my guest list small. I don't get many interruptions."
     "Interruptions like me, I guess."
     "You're not interrupting, I've been expecting you."
     How come everyone knows where I'm going to be today before I do myself? McKenna wondered. "What made you think I'd be here today?" he asked.
     "Simple. Reporters don't operate in a vacuum, and none of them want to be scooped by Heidi Lane. All the TV stations have been calling me for the last hour, wanting the details on the demise of Mr. Foster. Seems your little chat with Heidi's put some pressure on both of us."
     "More on me than on you," McKenna said.
     "Maybe, if I can prove you wrong about the poison. If not, you still have a problem, but I've got a bigger one."
     To McKenna, Andino suddenly looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. The smile was gone and his brow was furrowed, a look McKenna had never seen on the happy-go-lucky Andino before.
     What could cause Andino to worry so? he wondered. Secure in his job and at the top of his profession, my dilemma should evoke nothing more than a good-natured chuckle from him, along with a joke or two to cheer me up. There's more to this than I'm seeing right now, because this guy is scared. Now what is it? "Could your bigger problem have anything to do with the first one?" he asked.
     McKenna knew he'd hit it because Andino looked even more unhappy. The doctor leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, shaking his head. "Yeah, Rodney Bailey, the guy I said froze to death last week. I might've been wrong."
     McKenna was surprised by Andino's reaction. He knew that self-pity and self-doubt weren't normally in Andino's repertoire. He felt better when Andino straightened up in his chair and stared at him, looking like a toreador about to take the bull by the horns. "If Foster was poisoned, I'm gonna have to take another good look at Bailey," Andino said. "If I was wrong, I'll take the lumps I deserve."
     "Did you do the autopsy on him?"
     "No, but one of my people did. Doctor O'Malley. He's good, but I was just reading the autopsy report and there's some things in it I'd like to go over with him."
     "You mean that maybe he screwed it up?" McKenna asked.
     "No. He reached the logical conclusion. You see, death resulting from hypothermia is very difficult to define in a pathological sense because there's no damage to the internal organs. A person who freezes just slows down and stops, one organ at a time."
     "So how is it determined that someone froze to death?"
     "By the process of elimination. When we get a frozen body in, we look for all the other things that might have caused death. If there's no serious wounds and if the internal organs are intact and healthy, then the logical conclusion is that hypothermia was the cause of death."
     "But what about a poison?"
     "Naturally, a routine toxicology work-up is done for alcohol and drugs, the same as in any other case."
     "Routine? What does that mean?"
     "It means tests to determine if narcotics, alcohol, barbiturates, corrosives or the drugs commonly used in suicides were in the body."
     "If Bailey had been poisoned, would it show up in a routine toxicology work-up?"
     "Some poisons would, but Bailey had a pretty good load in his system. In his case, finding anything but the common poisons would require a lot of time and work."
     "A good load?" McKenna asked. "What does that mean?"
     "It means he'd ingested most of the things that the majority of the folks in the freezers downstairs did whenever they had the chance. You want a breakdown?"
     "Sure."
     Andino picked up the autopsy report he had been reading and turned back a few pages. "Here we go. He had a blood-alcohol reading of point one two, which meant he was legally intoxicated, but not smashed. There was the usual load of THC, indicating heavy marijuana use. Rounding out the drugs, there was methadone and codeine."
     "But none of those killed him?"
     "Nope. Either alone or in combination, there wasn't enough of any of those drugs in his system to kill him, although I'm sure they slowed him down. Except for the codeine, he was on the usual high-octane diet and about as street-ready as most of our clients."
     "Any idea why he was taking codeine?"
     "For pain. He had AIDS, and it was manifesting itself with lymphatic cancer under his arms. But that didn't kill him, either, although Dr. O'Malley estimated that, in any event, he only had between three and six months left."
     "Did he look like he was in poor health?"
     "You tell me. Here's his picture," Andino said, passing McKenna a photo from the autopsy report.
     It was a full-length shot of Rodney Bailey, taken before the autopsy. He was naked and lying on one of the tables downstairs. Black, emaciated, and unshaven, Bailey appeared to be in his forties. His body was a mass of scars, with old surgical incisions under both armpits and down the front of his chest. He looked pitiful, causing McKenna to wonder why anyone would go to the trouble to poison someone so obviously close to death anyway. It seemed illogical to him, so he concluded that no one would.
     "I wouldn't worry too much about this one," McKenna said, handing the photo back to Andino. "My bet is that he froze to death, just like you said."
     McKenna's pronouncement did nothing to alleviate Andino's concern. The doctor just sat back and smiled, more to himself than to McKenna, like he was telling himself a joke he had never heard before.
     McKenna watched Andino a moment before he asked, "What else should I know, John?"
     McKenna expected Andino to hedge, but that wasn't the doctor's style. "You should know that this place has become unusually busy in the last month, processing cases that nobody really cares about."
     "You've had an increase in homeless people dying?" McKenna guessed.
     "We've got more cases, but I don't know yet exactly who they were."
     "How big an increase?"
     "January of last year we processed two hundred and ten cases. This is the thirty-first and already we have two hundred and twelve. Roughly a one percent increase."
     "One percent? That doesn't sound like much," McKenna said. "After all, everyone knows that AIDS-related deaths have been increasing all year."
     "Yeah, but those aren't usually ME cases. They die at home or in a hospital and the body doesn't wind up here for autopsy. Ordinarily, I wouldn't be too worried about the numbers, except the homicide rate has been down eleven percent since last year. Those are my cases, and there aren't as many of them. I should have less cases this year, not more."
     "Maybe it's just a statistical anomaly."
     "I like to think of myself as a scientist," Andino said, shaking his head. "That leaves me no room to blame statistical anomalies if there's something going on here."
     "The weather this winter must have something to do with it," McKenna offered. "After all, without the two who might have frozen to death, you'd be just even with last year."
     "Even isn't good enough," Andino said. "I should be down, but I was hoping that maybe the cold could explain it until I did some checking. For once, it's been colder here than in Chicago, but not by much. I called the Chicago Medical Examiner and he told me their case load is down four percent this month over January last year."
     "And their murder rate?"
     "Down six percent."
     "They have anybody freeze to death?"
     "Not one. Worse, if Bailey and Foster did freeze to death, they're the second and third ones this year."
     "Seems strange that two out of three were in one precinct," McKenna said. "Where was the other one?"
     "In the Bronx, New Years Day. What's stranger is that we've never had three people freeze to death in one year."
     "But we've never had this many homeless on the streets, and this winter has been colder than usual."
     "That also sounded good until I did some checking," Andino said. "It doesn't wash. I called the medical examiner in Moscow."
     Moscow? Boy, you really did some checking, McKenna thought. But it makes sense. It's got three million fewer people than New York, but they're in bad shape. Their homeless population is up, everybody drinks a lot, and it's sure cold enough. "And what did they tell you?" he asked.
     "That three people freezing to death is a lot for New York, considering that they think we're living in the Sun Belt. It's been ten degrees colder there all month, and they've only had two people freeze."
     "Maybe they're just used to it. You know, thinner blood."
     "Might have a little to do with it, but consider that they don't have the social safety valves we have, like shelters, food stamps, and public assistance, and you have to come to the conclusion that we have at least two more bodies than we should. Maybe a lot more."
     Andino had just about said it, so McKenna didn't feel foolish stating the obvious conclusion. "You believe that some madman out there is poisoning our bums?" he asked.
     "I don't jump to conclusions like that, I'm just saying it deserves a good look. Like I told you, I don't even know yet if our homeless population accounts for the increase."
     "When will you know?"
     "Soon," Andino answered, giving him a smile he found strange.
     "I've got those figures you asked for, Doctor," Ms. Lacey announced loudly from behind him. McKenna hadn't heard her come in and she startled him so that he jumped in his chair.
     "Are you okay, Brian?" Andino asked, enjoying himself. "You seem a little jumpy."
     "Just a nervous tic," McKenna answered. "I'm fine."
     "Good. Let's have it, Sunshine."
     "Twenty-nine of our clients last January were listed as homeless," Lacey said, reading from the book she had been writing in earlier.
     "And this year?" Andino asked, bracing himself.
     "Forty so far this month."
     Andino made a face like he was going to cry, but then he smiled, which surprised McKenna until he figured it out. Andino had just received bad news with career-threatening implications from Lacey; but if it bothered him, he wasn't showing it. Instead, he was pleased that he had found a problem to solve. "Thanks a lot, Sunshine. Go take a nice lunch at Pasta Presto and charge it to my account."
     McKenna expected to hear a "Thank You" from Ms. Lacey, but didn't. He waited a moment, then turned in his chair. She was gone, vanished without a sound.
     "Isn't she wonderful?" Andino asked.
     "How does she do it? She doesn't make a sound."
     "I watch her do it and I still don't know," Andino answered, still smiling. "She's just about scared the life out of me more than once. I never get used to it."
     "So what now?" McKenna asked.
     "That depends. You're the one who said Foster was poisoned. Got any ideas on his particular brand?"
     "Sorry. Not yet."
     "Well, then it's gonna cost the taxpayers a bundle. Fortunately, this place is well equipped, but running down poisons is a very tedious, time-consuming and expensive business. I'm gonna be using all my toys."
     "When?" McKenna asked, worried that Andino appeared to be getting happier by the minute.
     "Starting right now. I'm going to personally take Mr. Foster apart, and then I'm going to do the most exhaustive toxicology work-up I can on his body fluids and organs. If you're right and Foster was poisoned, I'm gonna know it."
     "And if he was?"
     "Then Rodney Bailey gets the treatment. Fortunately, no one ever claims the homeless bodies and he's still downstairs."
     "And if he was?" McKenna asked, shuddering as he anticipated the answer.
     "Then you're going to get many, many court orders to exhume a whole bunch of bodies. We'll grab some shovels and head up to Potter's Field in a very large truck."
     Just wonderful, McKenna thought. This is better than being retired in the Florida sunshine, water-skiing, fishing, and hitting golf balls all day long? Now I hope I was wrong about Foster and I don't care what they say about me. "How long do you think it will take to finish with Foster and Bailey?" he asked.
     "Depends. Maybe today, tomorrow if the poison is rare, and three or four days if the stuff is real exotic."
     Andino looked excited at the prospect and absolutely content. McKenna didn't understand it at all. "John, mind if I ask you a personal question?"
     "Shoot."
     "Aren't you going to be in some trouble if it turns out that a good number of people were poisoned and your autopsies didn't catch it till now?"
     "Sure, I'll get some heat over it. I'm responsible, even if I wasn't here. But I've been around a while and it'll be pretty difficult to knock me out of the box."
     "You weren't here?"
     "No. I was at an international conference in Italy, and then I took three weeks vacation over there. I just got back last Friday."
     "Who was in charge while you were gone?"
     Andino laughed. "Supervising Assistant Medical Examiner Doctor James Wright, that's who."
     "Then I guess he might be in some trouble," McKenna speculated. "Do you like him?"
     "You tell me," Andino said, standing up. "Do you like duplicitous, back-stabbing, pompous, overly-ambitious, lying scumbags who are always looking over your shoulder while they're after your job?"
     "No."
     "Neither do I. Isn't it wonderful?" Andino looked at McKenna like he expected an answer.
     "I guess so," McKenna said. This is sure one crazy place, he thought. I shouldn't hang around here too long.

---