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“I’m not blaming you,” I said, quickly.
“Sounds like you might be.”
“Not at all. Sorry if it came across that way.” I was apologizing a lot. “Am I correct that you can’t rule out foul play?”
“You are correct. I cannot.” Flores scooched her chair back. “Look, I get it. I’m frustrated, too. But sometimes, as we say in the biz, shit happens.”
“You’ve had other incidents you couldn’t explain?”
Flores paused, plate in one hand, purse strap in the other.
“A couple, three years back, off the coast of one of the TCI islands, as a matter of fact, a Piaggio P.180 nose-dived into the sea.”
“What’s that?”
“One kick-ass plane. The pilot and his passenger both died. I did the consult. Found absolutely nothing wrong with the aircraft.”
“An aviation mystery.” Light. Not wanting Flores to depart angry. “Like Malaysia Airlines Flight 370.”
“Not exactly.”
Flores stood.
“The Piaggio’s crash had to do with why, not where.”
Flores’s report left me even more discouraged. Or perhaps it was knowing she was leaving and I was not.
I agree. That sounds whiny. I was stuck where? In paradise.Chance of fun 99%.But I missed Ryan and Birdie. I’d been in Provo almost a week. I wanted to go home.
Walking back to the Honda, the morality police in my conscience went straight for the heart.
Shake it off, Brennan! Be an adult. Get on with it.
Get on with it how? Without access to the scope, I was stalled.
My subconsciousness maintained a reproachful silence.
But it had made a valid point. WhyshouldI be stalled? Did Harvey Lindstrom consider his work more important than mine? Had the asshole pathologist never heard of collegiality?
Anger elbowing the self-pity aside, I made a decision. Willing or not, Lindstrom was about to acquire a skill he should have learned in kindergarten. Sharing.
Whipping a U-turn of questionable legality, I drove to the morgue. Once inside, I arrowed to the cooler, packaged Palke’s and Bonner’s radii and ulnae, left a signed note in each Tupperware container, and hurried back to my car. Well, I guess it was mine. They still hadn’t taken it back.
The plan. I’d make a face-to-face request for time with the scope. If Lindstrom refused, or delayed, I’d tell him that I was happy to wait. In the meantime, I’d X-ray the bones.
I was at the hospital in less than five minutes. Entering the lobby, which resembled hospital lobbies everywhere, I asked the first employee I encountered for directions to the pathology department. The young man, an orderly or nurse, looked confused. After consulting a coworker, he provided guidance.
The autopsy room was also standard issue. Glass-fronted cabinets, stainless-steel countertops, floor-bolted table, hanging scale.
Unexpected was the zoom stereo microscope holding a place of honor on one counter. It was a good one, 3.5 to 225 X, with a 1.3 MP integrated digital camera. Two gooseneck LED lights flanked the scope, and a USB cable connected it to a closed laptop.
The equipment was identical to the setup I used at the LSJML.
Its quality was a pleasant surprise.
The other surprise was Harvey Lindstrom.
The pathologist was bent over the autopsy table, his back to thedoor. Before him lay a corpse from theCod Bless Us, thorax gaping like one of the Kesh caves leading to Middle Earth.
