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you. You called me. Why?" I should have asked you yesterday, she thinks. I should have asked you then.
         "I thought I'd made myself clear, Kay. You're a very respected forensic pathologist, a well-known consultant." It sounds like an ingenuous endorsement for someone he secretly can't stand.
         "We don't know each other. We've never even met. I'm having a hard time believing you called me because I'm respected or well known." Her arms are folded and she is glad she wore a serious dark suit. "I don't play games, Dr. Marcus."
         "I certainly don't have time for games." Any attempt at cordiality fades from his face and pettiness begins to glint like the sharp edge of a blade.
         "Did someone suggest me? Were you told to call me?" She is certain she detects the stench of politics.
         He glances toward the door in a not so subtle reminder that he is a busy, important man with eight cases and a staff meeting to run. Or perhaps he is worrying that someone is eavesdropping. "This is not productive," he says. "I think it's best we terminate this discussion."
         "Fine." She picks up her briefcase. "The last thing I want is to be a pawn in some agenda. Or shut off in a room, drinking coffee half the day. I can't help an office that isn't open to me, and my number-one ground rule, Dr. Marcus, is that an office requesting my assistance must be open to me."
         "All right. If you want candor, indeed you shall have it." His imperiousness fails to hide his fear. He doesn't want her to leave. He sincerely doesn't. "Frankly, bringing you here wasn't my idea. Frankly, the health commissioner wanted an outside opinion and somehow came up with you," he explains as if her name were drawn from a hat.
         "He should have called me himself," she replies. "That would have been more honest."
         "I told him I would do it. Frankly, I didn't want to put you on the spot," he explains, and the more he says "frankly," the less she believes a word he says. "What happened is this. When Dr. Fielding couldn't determine a cause or manner of death, the girl's father, Gilly Paulsson's father, called the commissioner."
         The mention of Dr. Fielding's name stings her. She didn't know whether he was still here and she hasn't asked.
         "And as I said, the commissioner called me. He said he wanted a full-court press. Those were his words."
         The father must have clout, she thinks. Phone calls from upset families are not unusual, but rarely do they result in a high-ranking government official's demanding an outside expert.
         "Kay, I can understand how uncomfortable this must be for you," Dr. Marcus says. "I wouldn't relish being in your position."
         "And what is my position as you see it, Dr. Marcus?"
         "I believe Dickens wrote a story about that called A Christmas Carol. I'm sure you're familiar with the Ghost of Christmas Past?" He smiles his trifling smile, and perhaps he doesn't realize he is plagiarizing Bruce, the guard who called Marino a ghost from the past. "Going back is never easy. You have guts, I'll give you that. I don't believe I would have been so generous, not if I perceived that my former office had been somewhat uncharitable to me, and I can well understand your feeling that way."
         "This isn't about me," she replies. "It's about a dead fourteen-year-old girl. It's about your office—an office that, yes, I'm quite familiar with, but ..."
         He interrupts her, "That's very philosophical of . . ."
         "Let me state the obvious," she cuts him off. "When children die, it's federal law that their fatalities are thoroughly investigated and reviewed, not only to determine cause and manner of death, but whether the tragedy might be part of a pattern. If it turns out that Gilly Paulsson was murdered, then every molecule of your office is going to be scrutinized and publicly judged, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn't call me