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“Shoot,” I said, sitting down.
I looked at the morgue photos of the dead woman, and she was as Claire had described. White. Forty. Caramel-colored hair, well-nourished. Lacerations and abrasions on her legs from having been clipped by a car. And she had a round bruise, the size of a half-dollar, on her left buttock.
Claire said, “What I learned from Spokane PD is that Ms. Sprague was single, in private practice as a family lawyer. Her sister told the police that Lois was a workaholic, had social anxiety and a few cats. That’s the worst that could be said of her.”
“No enemies?”
“According to the sister, Lois was a peacemaker. No one threatened or stalked her. She was on vacation and had no friends here. It was a solo trip, a week-long change-of-scene type vacation.”
“So what killed her?”
Claire went on. “Like I told you, I put a rush on the tox screen,” she said, “and no drugs were found in her body. But you know, Lindsay, there are drugs that leave the system quickly. If you’re not on it fast, and not looking specifically for that drug, you may not find a trace of it. I can’t put on the death certificate that I’m 100 percent certain that Lois Sprague was murdered, but in my opinion, it’s the only possible cause of death.
“Remember I told you I’d seen something like this two months ago? Presumed heart attack? I chased down the death certificate and morgue photos of Anthony George, cabdriver, white, fifty-five years old, probable cause of death cardiac arrest. Dr. G. did the post,
and the heart was healthy, but no one insisted on further investigation, and the puncture mark just seemed irrelevant. Look at the death certificate. Here. Manner of death: ‘Undetermined.’”
Claire opened a second folder, took out a photo of the hind section of Mr. George, the dead cabdriver, and placed it beside a matching image of Ms. Sprague’s derriere.
The puncture wounds and bruises looked the same, and both were located in an awkward place for a person to inject themselves.
“So that’s two dead people, possibly killed the same way and with no known relationship to each other,” said Claire. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that someone is on a random-victim killing spree. And that victim number three is coming to a morgue near us real soon.”
My phone vibrated and buzzed.
It was Conklin.
He said, “Clapper just called. The divers pulled something out of the bay not far from the piers. It’s a large fire extinguisher with the ends blown off. Clapper says it may be what’s left of the bomb.”
CHAPTER 27
CLAIRE WALKED ME out to the front door of her offices and asked me, “Okay if I come with you to see Joe this evening?”
“Sure. Yes. Of course.”
“Yuki and Cindy want to see him, too.”
“Claire, he’s nonresponsive.”
“We’re coming. Okay?”
We all met up in the lobby after work, and I drove us to the hospital, my car filled with my girlfriends and a whole lot of flowers.
The light was dimmed in Joe’s private room and he was asleep, looking like he’d played chicken with a locomotive and lost. As my friends spoke encouraging words to my husband, I scrutinized his face. He showed no sign of hearing them. He just breathed in and out, while the vital-signs monitor registered the rhythmic beating of his heart.
The girls each patted his good arm, and I put my hand on his, and after a while we said good-bye and headed down to the cafeteria. We made hasty selections from the assorted hot trays and salad bars, and Cindy grabbed a booth for four.
Normally, it’s kind of a party when the four of us meet for a meal. But not today. The bombing disaster had nearly crushed San Francisco and it also hit home.
I asked Claire for her professional opinion of Joe’s condition.
She reached across the table and took my hands.
She said, “The shunts are out. He’s not in a coma anymore, he’s in a stupor. He’s healing. He has spoken since the accident. His memory may be jumbled, but that he spoke makes me think he’s doing a little better than could be expected.”
The cafeteria was loud at dinnertime. The PA system crackled and squealed. Trays clashed in bins, and loud conversation burst from folks gathered at the small tables.
Cindy asked what I’m sure everyone was thinking.
