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"I don't know whether I'm hoping you're right about Jerry or not, Eric," she says. "If he's making rydex, I can fire his whiny ass. But it also means I lose my lab assistant. How sure are you?"
"Ninety percent."
She swears under her breath. Then she sees me. "Ah, yes, sorry. First thing we lose out here? Basic manners." She extends a hand. "Beth Lowry. Harvard med school class of '01. Charged with malpractice in 2010. Guilty."
"Charged with...?" I say, certain I didn't hear correctly.
"I'm getting it out of the way." She flashes a humourless smile. "People come up here and meet the local doctor, the first thing they think is, 'I hope she's not fleeing a malpractice suit.' So I clear the air with an affirmative. I'd been working double shifts for a month after two surgical residents quit. Living on amphetamines. I could point out they were supplied by the chief of staff, but that would suggest I was a wimp who didn't have the guts to refuse." She purses her lips. "Not entirely untrue. Point is, a patient died in my care, due to a stupid mistake that was one hundred percent my fault. But two other patients had died that month, under mysterious circumstances, and the administration fudged the records to make it look as if I'd played a greater role in their treatment. I was willing to take the blame for the mistake I made, but not the ones I didn't. When it started looking like a criminal case on top of the malpractice, I came to Rockton."
"Okay," I murmur, because I have no idea what else to say.
"The good doctor believes in laying her cards on the table," Anders says.
"You'll find that a lot up here," Lowry says. "People who just say 'screw it' and either embrace total honesty or fabricate their lives from whole cloth."
"You done confessing?" Dalton asks.
She shoots him a look. "It's not--"
"Sure as hell is, doc. Now tell us what we've got here."
"A dead man."
Now that look comes from Dalton. Lowry smiles and turns to me. "I'm guessing you know all about the case, Detective Butler?"
"It's Casey. And I haven't been ... fully briefed yet."
"Really, boys? Here's a hint. If you hire a detective, you want her to detect. That requires talking to her about the cases."
"She's smart," Dalton said. "She'll pick it up."
"Oh, I know she's smart. IQ of 135. University GPA 4.0."
She rattles off my stats like they're tattooed on my forehead, which is a little disconcerting. And a little weird.
"I'm on the admittance committee," she explains. "Plus, I have a photographic memory. Yo
ur mom was a chief of pediatric surgery. Dad was a cardiologist, well-enough known that I recognized his name. Medical-field background and a near-genius IQ. So I have to ask, detective, what the hell are you doing in law enforcement?"
I say only, "It's what I like."
"Good answer. Bet you got used to saying it to your parents."
I don't reply and try to conceal my discomfort with the rather blunt observation.
"Want to know what my parents were?" she says. "Law enforcement. Never could understand why I'd want to go around cutting people up. Especially when my own IQ is barely above a hundred." The grin returns. "The photographic memory is what got me through med school."
Anders leans over and mock-whispers, "Don't mind Beth. She's a little odd. Everyone here is. Except me, of course."
"Are we cutting this guy up today, doc?" Dalton says. "Or is tomorrow better for you?"
"I'm making conversation. It's not often we get new bodies in town." She looked at the covered corpse. "Dead ones, though? A dime a dozen."
"She's kidding," Anders says.
"Have you told her the homicide stats?" Lowry says. "I interned in Detroit. Rockton's rate is ten times that."
"There are extenuating circumstances," Anders says.
