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“Uh-huh. Claire’s with him now.”
Yuki had to know for sure. Was Paul’s death a homicide, a suicide, an accident, or undetermined? She said to Bunny, “He was a witness in my case. How long before we have a determination in manner and cause of death?”
“I’ll have Claire call you, okay?”
“Wait. Bunny, do you have the name of the officer or officers who called it in?”
Once Yuki had the names of the first officers, she called Lindsay and asked her to look up the report.
“Okay. I’ve got the file,” said Lindsay. “What it says is that Paul Yates was found dead in his apartment this morning by his girlfriend, who was worried when he didn’t answer his phone. He used a clothesline tied to his bedroom doorknob, strung over the top of the door, knotted around his neck. It’s written up as an apparent suicide.”
Yuki texted Parisi and then called Arthur again. After she briefed him, he asked, “What do we do now?”
“I want to speak with Marc Christopher.”
“How can I help?”
“Go to the ME’s office and wait for Yates’s death certificate. I’ll leave word that you’re there.”
CHAPTER 92
SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING to me that I didn’t understand.
I was swimming in darkness, surrounded by garbled voices. I was both numb and cold, and my head hurt.
Is this a really bad dream?
Hands plucked at me. Someone slapped my cheek. I wanted to sink back into the swirl of underwater, but consciousness intruded. Whatever was happening was too real to be a dream.
I opened my eyes.
A patch of the floor came into focus and I recognized the pattern of the ceramic tiles. A row of half doors filled my peripheral view. And then there were the shoes. Pale-colored shoes with sponge soles. Red ballet flats. I knew then that I was in the ladies’ room at the end of the hall from the squad room. I was lying half under a sink, but I didn’t remember coming here.
Brenda, our PA, yelled into my face. Her expression scared me.
“Lindsay, can you hear me?” she shouted. “What the heck happened?”
She was terrified. Had I been shot?
I said, “I don’t know.” That was the whole truth and nothing but.
I wasn’t ready to move, but I lifted my head and tried to make sense of the clamor. Paramedics had crammed into the small bathroom and were attempting to lift me onto a stretcher. I fought back. What had happened to me?
A man stooped down. His name was stitched above his pocket: A. MURPHY.
“I’m Andy,” he told me. “Can you remember what happened to you?” He had other questions, and I tried to answer them.
“In the ladies’ room … Lindsay Boxer … Two fingers … Wednesday … George Washington … I’m fine.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Lindsay. Now tell me the last thing you remember.”
This was the second time I said this and it was still the truth. “I don’t know what happened.”
Another paramedic pricked my finger. Someone put a stethoscope to my chest. Andy shined a light into one eye, then the other.
“That’s good, Lindsay,” he said.
Fingers pressed across my wrist as Andy asked me more questions about my health—history of heart disease, previous episodes of blacking out, name of GP, last time I’d had a checkup. I struggled to sit up. I had pain in my shoulder and my forehead.
