Terminal 9 (8 page)

“Evidence-wise, it's too soon to tell; but instinctually, my antenna is up.”

“Okay, Mac. Keep me posted.”

Mac checked his voice mail while waiting on Dana. then called his neighbor to check on Lucy. She was doing fine, as usual, without him. Carl had her over at his house spoiling her with treats and a brushing. The other call was from Kristen, saying she'd already started the post. “I've ordered the medical records. Thanks for faxing over the subpoenas.” After a moment's hesitation, she added, “You standing me up, Mac? We had a date, remember.”

Not until noon.
Mac smiled as he dialed her office. Kristen was otherwise occupied and couldn't come to the phone. He left a message with the receptionist that they'd be there shortly.

Dana was in the dispatch office for about fifteen minutes before coming back to the car. She got in and closed the door. “Did you get hold of Sarge?”

“Yep, he's taking care of the politics. I think my career is safe for the time being. Checked my voice mail—looks like Kristen is getting the medical records from those subpoenas we faxed out. She's beginning the post and wants to know why we aren't there.”

“Did you tell her we haven't gotten around to cloning ourselves yet?”

“No, I said we'd be there soon. What took you so long?”

“I got a few interesting tidbits from the dispatch clerk. He confirmed the train had been cleaned and was on its way to Spokane for maintenance, although I bet it's so they can hide the engine from us. He also confirmed the bit about Mullins tattling to the terminal management about Mason doing a sloppy job. Mason had told him more than once that it made his blood boil to see Mullins out there every day, watching from his chair, counting and watching, counting and watching.”

“Interesting. We'll have to ask Mason about that this afternoon when he gets off work.”

“That's the part I think you will find really interesting.” Dana pulled on her seat belt and snapped it into place. “Mason signed off duty while I was speaking with the dispatch clerk. I heard it over the radio, and the guy I was talking to confirmed it. Looks like Mason is skipping out on us.”

EIGHT

M
AC AND DANA DROVEBACK IN TO DOWNTOWN PORTLAND, hitting a drive-thru at a fast-food restaurant along Highway 30 on the way to the medical examiner's office. Mac had taken his sunglasses on and off a half-dozen times during the forty-five-minute trip. Oregon's weather fluctuated this time of year between sun breaks and rain showers, making it difficult to predict the proper dress for the day, and making driving a royal pain.

Mac pulled into the lot and put the Crown Victoria in park. The extra pair of handcuffs that hung on the shift knob clanked as they slid down.

Dana zipped her light jacket up to her neck and brushed the hair that had escaped her chignon behind her ears. Mac envisioned Dana with her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, the way it had been during their last date—check that—the dinner they'd had together. He sighed.
You have to stop thinking about her that way,
he told himself.
She's off-limits. Period.

“I hear the medical examiner division is getting a new office down in the Clackamas area,” Dana said. “They'll be sharing it with the crime lab.”

“Where did you hear that?” Mac examined the faded red brick on the old single-story building while he popped the trunk.

“Jan told me this morning. Don't know where the funding is coming from—especially with all the budget cuts.”

“I've given up understanding the political ins and outs of all this stuff. Seems like they can find the money when they want it. I'm not complaining, though. With both their offices in Clackamas, it would be one-stop shopping for us. We could attend the autopsy and run the evidence across the hall instead of driving it all the way downtown.”

Dana nodded, accepting the digital camera bag from Mac as he hoisted it out of the trunk. “That would be nice.”

Mac grabbed his leather briefcase, slipping in a few small evidence bags and evidence forms before snapping it shut.

Dana walked just ahead of Mac as they approached the employee entrance to the morgue and punched in the digital code to the back door. The door opened, forcing them to step back to make room for a mortician.

“Coming through,” the man pushing the gurney yelled as he balanced the human cargo with one hand and pushed with the other. The man expertly slid the body and gurney into the back of the hearse and checked his clipboard before leaving the parking lot, probably double-checking the directions for the delivery.

Once the man had cleared the entry, Mac gestured for Dana to go ahead.

“Busy place,” Dana observed.

“That's for sure.” The state medical examiner produced a steady clientele for local funeral directors, who picked up the bodies after the autopsies were completed.

Mac had been in on a number of autopsies now. He remembered his first time, when he and Kevin had attended the Megan Tyson autopsy. That had been a rough one. Not only was Mac a novice detective, but he'd never witnessed an autopsy. The corpse had been about two weeks old and the stench unbearable. Kristen had kindly supplied him with smelling salts. Her teasing and focusing on collecting evidence had saved him a lot of embarrassment.

Only suspicious or unnatural deaths went through the Oregon State Police Medical Examiner's Office. Everything from accidents, to murders, to deaths during surgery was brought here for examination to determine the cause and manner of death.

It still amazed him that Dr. Kristen Thorpe was Oregon's head medical examiner. She managed six other pathologists in addition to several medical assistants and support staff.

Kristen didn't look the part of a medical doctor with her knit tops, jeans, and spiked hair. Mac smiled, remembering their first encounter. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off her. She'd noticed and accused him of flirting with her. He'd gone from being skeptical to having nothing but respect for Kristen. She was one of the few state doctors, let alone a head medical examiner, to make field visits with the detectives. That job was usually left to the deputy medical examiners. Kristen liked to “stay in the game,” as she put it.

“Enter, my pretties.” A shrill voice came from the office at the end of the hall.

Mac and Dana started down the hall when Kristen poked her head out. Mac rolled his eyes and shook his head. Kristen was about Mac's age, youthful in looks but mature in wisdom and experience, and a kid when it came to goofing off. Henry, her well-past-retirement-age medical assistant, called Kristen an old soul.

“What, don't you like my wicked witch voice?” Kristen stood with her hands on her hips and tried to look insulted.

“Hardly.” Mac released a reluctant smile.

“I thought it sounded just like her,” Dana teased. “You don't look the part, though. You need some of that green makeup and a bigger nose.”

“What? More makeup? I'm calling my mother so you can tell her that. She won't believe it, after all those years of telling me to use less.” Kristen's eyes sparkled and Mac got caught in their magic. She noticed and gave him one of her infamous winks.

Embarrassed, he pulled his gaze away. “Did you get to Mullins this morning?” Mac asked.

“What, no bribery? You want to get right to the hard questions? Where's my latte?” Kristen's mouth shifted into a pout.

“You should have asked.” Dana lifted her cup. “I can share.”

“Thanks.” She waved a hand at them. “I don't need one. I was just giving you a hard time. You'll be happy to know that I completed the requested task. Please step into my parlor.”

“What's all this character acting stuff?” Mac asked as he ducked into Kristen's office.

“I'm taking acting classes down at PSU. Do you think I'll be discovered?”

“I wouldn't quit my day job if I were you.” Mac tried to regain some semblance of composure as he settled into one of the chairs by Kristen's cluttered desk. Not wanting to look at the outrageous M.E.,

Mac studied the picture of the little boy on her desk. “That your kid?”

Kristen beamed. “Sure is. Can you believe he's in preschool?

Smartest four-year-old you'll ever meet. He's already reading and listening to jazz music.”

“Takes after his mother.” Dana looked over at the picture of the dark-haired boy.

“Except his mother hates jazz. I'm more into hard rock.”

“What's his name?” Mac asked.

“Andrew.” Kristen admired the photo a moment longer, wiping a thin layer of dust off the frame before placing it back on her desk.

Kristen turned all business then and removed a file from her top left drawer, pulling several loose papers from the manila folder. “Here's the fax I received from our victim's doctor.” Kristen handed them over to Dana. “Our guy had several age-related illnesses, including diabetes. He took regular doses of insulin and had it pretty well under control. He was taking medications for high blood pressure and levostatin to lower his cholesterol, which according to the doctor was around 150. His arteries looked okay—some sclerosis, but for a guy his age, he was in pretty good shape.”

Kristen looked from one to the other. “I found evidence of needle injections on his upper thighs and on his arms. The preliminary lab work indicates that there were no intoxicants or depressants in the blood, only elevated blood sugar. The state of his blood sugar wasn't high enough to send him into a coma, but it could have disoriented him.”

“Which might explain his going out at night,” Dana mused.

“If that's the case, we could be looking at an accidental death.” Mac shifted his gaze to Kristen's, and for once she didn't seem to notice. “Maybe he was out of insulin and was trying to get some help, like we were thinking last night. How are you going to call this one?”

“I'm not making a ruling yet, Mac. I want to stew on it for a while.” Kristen nibbled on the end of her pen.

“Why is that?” Dana asked, taking the file from Mac when he offered it to her.

“Call it a hunch, but I'd like to do a more thorough workup. I can only test for the basics here at the morgue. The blood work will go to the crime lab for analysis. There was no urine sample; the bladder was shredded during the crash with the train. I dissected and weighed almost every major organ though. The brain and heart were in exceptionally good shape for a man of his age. The heart was slightly enlarged, which may indicate some heart disease, but nothing that I would classify as a cause of death. The lungs and liver dissections held nothing remarkable, so he must have stayed away from cigarettes and booze.”

“But your instincts are up?” Mac ran a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, they are. I really want to know what got this old guy out of the house that night. I want to know why he couldn't get across those tracks. Might be as simple as the blood sugar, but I need more.”

“Good. I do too. When do you expect the blood work from the lab?”

“I sent it out with Henry about an hour ago. I'd expect it back sometime tomorrow, the day after that at the latest.”

“Could you call and get a rush on it? Dana and I had a couple of odd experiences at the train terminal today.”

“Such as?”

“We had a guy skip out on us,” Dana said.

“What guy? That pudgy cop with the comb-over?”

Dana chuckled. “You saw that too?”

Mac cleared his throat. “No, it wasn't Spalding. We had an employee from the terminal who was less than excited to see our victim come rolling into the terminal every day to critique his work.”

Turning to Dana he added, “Tell her what you found out.”

“I went in to talk to this . . . what did he call it, a hop scotch guy?”

“A mud hop.” Mac laughed. “Slang for a dispatcher at the terminal,” he said to Kristen.

“I knew what you meant, Dana—hop scotch, mud hop, same thing in my book.” Kristen gave Dana her full attention.

“Thank you.” Dana told Kristen about the incident in detail then asked, “Is that bizarre behavior or what?”

“Yeah, I'd say so.” Kristen frowned. “And highly suspicious.

What are you going to do with the guy?”

“He did say he'd talk to us at three so we'll go back then. I'll get really suspicious if he's still AWOL this evening. Who knows what Mason's up to? The thing is, I'm not sure whether to be concerned at this point or not. Mason takes off. The police chief releases the scene . . .”

“What scene?”

“Not the house,” Mac assured her. “The railroad car that hit Mullins.”

“That jerk!” Kristen pounded her fist on her desk in frustration. “I hope you gave him a piece of your mind.”

Mac assured her that he had. “Chief Spalding wants us to close this thing today, but with this Mason guy lurking in the shadows and this bit about the property value, I just don't feel comfortable calling it an accident.”

“Hmm. I bet property down by the river doesn't come cheap,” Kristen said. “Have you checked out the price of condos on the river by Government Island and Jantzen Beach? Those places are going in the seven figures for thousand-square-foot condos.”

“That's nothing for a doctor's salary though,” Mac said. “Right?”

“Some doctors. I work for the state, the same as you,
Detective.
I clip my coupons with the best of them. You don't know debt until you've seen medical school tuition. That's why I have to work in this joint, because I can't afford the malpractice insurance.”

“Ha,” Mac countered. “Who do you think you're kidding? You'd do this job for free. I know you better than that.”

Hands on hips, she looked up at the ceiling. “You're probably right. But I have my reasons. This was actually my chosen field.”