Blindsight

“I’m telling you,” Arnold was saying when Laurie squeezed through to get herself some coffee, “if we had more police on the streets, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.”

“I disagree,” Kevin said. “This kind of tragedy-”

“What happened now?” Laurie asked as she stirred her coffee.

“A series of homicides in Queens,” Arnold said. “Gunshot wounds to the head from close range.”

“Small-caliber bullets?” Laurie asked.

Arnold looked at Kevin. “I don’t know about that yet.”

“The posts haven’t been done yet,” Kevin explained.

“Were they pulled out of the river?”

“No,” Arnold said. “These people were asleep in their own homes. Now, if we had more police presence-”

“Come on, Arnold!” Kevin said.

Laurie left the two to their bickering and went over to check the autopsy schedule. Sipping her coffee, she checked at who was on autopsy besides herself and what cases were assigned. After her own name were three cases, including Stuart Morgan. She was pleased. Calvin was sticking by his promise.

Noting that the other two cases were drug overdose/toxicity cases as well, Laurie flipped through the investigator’s reports. She was immediately dismayed to see that profiles of the deceased resembled the previous suspicious cases. Randall Thatcher, thirty years old, was a lawyer; Valerie Abrams, thirty-three, was a stockbroker.

The day before she’d feared there’d be more cases, but she’d hoped her fears wouldn’t materialize. Obviously that wasn’t to be the case. Already there were three more. Overnight her modest series had jumped one hundred percent.

Laurie walked through Communications on her way to the medical forensic investigative department. Spotting the police liaison office, she wondered what she should do about the suspected thievery at the Morgan apartment. For the moment she decided to let it go. If she saw Lou she might discuss the matter with him.

Laurie found Cheryl Myers in her tiny windowless office.

“No luck so far on that Duncan Andrews case,” Cheryl told her before she could say a word.

“That’s not why I stopped by,” Laurie said. “I left word last evening with Bart that I wanted to be called if any upscale drug overdose cases came in like Duncan Andrews or Marion Overstreet. I was called last night for one. But this morning I discovered there were two others that I wasn’t called on. Have you any idea why I wasn’t called?”

“No,” Cheryl said. “Ted was on last night. We’ll have to ask him this evening. Was there a problem?”

“Not really,” Laurie admitted. “I’m just curious. Actually I probably couldn’t have gone to all three scenes. And I will be handling the autopsies. By the way, did you check with the hospital about the Marion Overstreet case?”

“Sure did,” Cheryl said. “I spoke with a Dr. Murray and he said that they were just following policy orders from you.”

“That’s what I figured,” Laurie said. “But it was worth a check. Also, I have something else I’d like to ask you to do. Would you see what kind of medical records you can get, particularly surgical, on a woman by the name of Marsha Schulman. I’d love to get some X-rays. I believe she lived in Bayside, Queens. I’m not sure of her age. Let’s say around forty.” Ever since Jordan had told Laurie about his secretary’s husband’s shady dealings and arrest record, she’d had a bad feeling about the woman’s disappearance, particularly in view of the odd break-in at Jordan’s office.

Cheryl wrote the information down on a pad on her desk. “I’ll get right on it.”

Next Laurie sought out John DeVries. As she’d feared, he was less than cordial.

“I told you I’d call you,” John snapped when Laurie asked about a contaminant. “I’ve got hundreds of cases besides yours.”

“I know you’re busy,” Laurie said, “but this morning I have three more overdoses like the three I had before. That brings the body count to a total of six young, affluent, well-educated career people. Something has to be in that cocaine, and we have to find it.”

“You’re welcome to come up here and run the tests yourself,” John said. “But I want you to leave me alone. If you don’t, I’ll have to speak to Dr. Bingham.”

“Why are you acting this way?” Laurie asked. “I’ve tried to be nice about this.”

“You’re being a pain in the neck,” John said.

“Fine,” Laurie said. “It’s wonderful to know we have a nice cooperative atmosphere around here.”

Exasperated, Laurie stalked out of the lab, grumbling under her breath. She felt a hand grip her arm and she spun around, ready to slap John DeVries for having the nerve to touch her. But it wasn’t John. It was one of his young assistants, Peter Letterman.

“Could I talk to you a moment?” Peter said. He glanced warily over his shoulder.

“Of course,” Laurie said.

“Come into my cubbyhole,” Peter said. He motioned for Laurie to follow him. They entered what had originally been designed as a broom closet. There was barely enough room there for a desk, a computer terminal, a file cabinet, and two chairs. Peter closed the door behind them.