The irrepressible Cindy Thomas had just breathlessly materialized in Claire Washburn’s autopsy suite, and Claire wasn’t pleased. Not in the slightest.
Claire said, “Seriously, Cindy? Didn’t I say no?”
She was planning to spin her friend around and march her straight out when the doors to the ambulance bay banged open.
Bunny shouted to the EMTs, “Hurry. She’s in there.”
The EMTs burst into the cold room with a stretcher in tow.
“What have we got, Doctor?” asked an EMT. The name W. Watson was appliqued on his shirt.
Claire said to Watson, “This is Mrs. Murphy.”
“Hello,” Joan said. “The rumors of my demise have been wildly exaggerated.”
Watson cracked a smile.
“She was brought in just after midnight,” Claire continued. “She has a gunshot wound to the shoulder and a bullet graze on her hip. She revived on her own fifteen minutes ago and needs emergency care ASAP.”
Watson said, “You’re not kidding.”
Mallory went to Mrs. Murphy and patted her hand.
“I left a message for your husband,” she said. “I told him you were on the way to Saint Francis Memorial Hospital.”
“How ya doing, Mrs. Murphy?” EMT Watson asked. “We’re going to give you a nice smooth ride. And we’ll get there faster than a speeding bullet.” Then the EMTs helped the gunshot victim onto their gurney and wheeled her out to the ambulance.
The doors closed behind them and the wail of sirens sounded down the road as Bunny entered the autopsy suite holding a brown paper bag that was sealed with red tape. “Dr. Washburn, I opened this to see what it was. I think the handbag inside belongs to Mrs. Murphy.”
Only fifteen minutes had passed since the patient formerly assumed to be a corpse had called out to Claire’s team for help.
“Leave the bag here,” Claire said. “Right now, I’m calling the cops.”
As Bunny did as she was told, Claire saw Cindy eyeing the large paper bag on the stretcher recently vacated by Mrs. Murphy.
Without any discernible hesitation, Cindy opened it up and peered inside. Then she pulled out a handsome red leather handbag, opened it, and began laying its contents on the stretcher.
Claire said, “Cindy. What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m just taking a quick peek. It’s in my nature. I’m an investigative reporter, remember?”
Claire said, “Thanks for the news flash. Listen to me. I disavow all knowledge of what you’re doing. You know full well the contents of that bag are off-limits and off the record. By tampering with them, you could mess up a case against the shooter. Do you hear me?”
But Cindy took Claire’s disavowal as a yellow light, not a red one. She listed the contents of the bag out loud as she emptied the capacious interior and the many pockets. “Here’s her wallet, Claire. The driver’s license belongs to our not-actually-departed Joan, and the picture matches the woman we just met. She lives on El Camino Del Mar in Seacliff. She has five credit cards in here and a buncha receipts.
“Wow. Look at her makeup kit, Claire. I’ve seen ads for this stuff. The makeup is infused with stem cells tailored to your own DNA. Well, so they say, anyway. I, on the other hand, say it’s expensive. Lots of brushes and sponges, and okay, enough with the makeup.
“She’s also got a photo in the glassine sleeve behind the driver’s license. It’s a picture of Joan and a man who could be her husband.”
Cindy let out a low whistle. “This man is handsome.”
Then she flipped the plastic sleeve over and read the inscription, “Robert and me, Cannes, second honeymoon, 2016.”
Robert appeared to be ten years younger than Joan, at least. He was very good-looking. Dark hair, tall and built, a definite ten. He looked like Tom Selleck when he was Magnum, PI.
Cindy said, “Claire, look at this picture of Joan and her husband, Robert.”
“Nope. You’re going to get us in trouble with the law.”
Cindy said, “I’m wearing gloves. Look.” She wiggled her fingers.
“No harm done, Claire. Okay, I’ve been through everything, every pocket and every secret zippered section. A woman with a four-thousand-dollar handbag would have jewelry, but Joan wasn’t wearing any jewelry and there wasn’t a single piece in her bag, either. But look at what she’s wearing in the photo. Diamonds on her fingers, encircling both wrists, and draped around her throat. That pendant alone has to be eight carats. Maybe even bigger.”
“Hey, Girl Reporter,” Claire said, “put it all back like you found it. Seal the paper bag. I’m going to wash my hands. Be back in two minutes.”
“Got it.”
Claire went into the kitchenette and picked up the notes from last night’s intake that Dr. H. had left her. She ran her finger down the list of deceased. There were the three car-crash victims. Two on the list were checked off with appended death certificates. Dr. H. had also listed the two who came in after them.
Female, Joan Murphy. Male, John Doe.
Two people had been brought in by the van at the same time. John Doe was in the drawer next to Joan Murphy.
Dr. H. had done a cursory external exam and had written notes:
White female, 45, Joan Murphy, non-fatal gunshot to right shoulder. Flesh wound on hip. COD, pending. John Doe, white male, approx. age 35-40, two shots to the back and one to the left arm. COD, gunshot to the heart. MOD, homicide.
Claire closed the folder and dropped it off in her office. Then she returned to the autopsy suite where Cindy was replacing the tape on the bag of Joan Murphy’s possessions.
Claire said, “Cin, as much as I love you, you really have to go. I’ve got work to do, and honestly, you can’t know any of this until next of kin is notified and we’ve got a green light for speaking to the press.”
“I understand. I’m outta here,” Cindy said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Claire was about to open John Doe’s drawer when Greg, the receptionist, called out to her from the front desk.
“Dr. Washburn. Inspector Richard Conklin called. He said to tell you that he wants to see the John Doe.”
“Call him back and tell him that now is fine.”