I climbed the platform for the Red Line going south. The Red Line. In some moment of hallucination a few years back, the city had color–coded the trains. You used to know what train to take by where you wanted to go. Suddenly the Howard L, which I’d ridden all my life, became red and the O’Hare Line turned blue. It made Chicago look like Mister Rogers’s neighborhood instead of one of the great cities of the world. And what if you’re color–blind? Then how do you know whether you’re even on the Brown or the Orange Line? And then, to make it worse, they’d installed these ticket machines. You have to buy a round–trip ticket even if you’re only going one–way, the machines don’t give change, and there aren’t any human beings to assist you if you climb onto the wrong platform by mistake.
And the final insult: when a train finally arrived, the air–conditioning wasn’t working. I melted into my seat, too hot to bother with makeup. I folded my jacket on my lap and tried to sit absolutely still for the fifteen–minute trip. I was riding the escalator up at Randolph Street when Cynthia Dowling called back from Max’s office. “Vic, I’m afraid it’s bad news about your Jane Doe. She died in the operating room.”
5 Diving into the Wreck
A Dr. Szymczyk had been the surgeon on call. With the broken arm and severe contusions on both legs, they couldn’t be sure what the main locus of her problem was, but when Szymczyk saw the X rays he’d decided her abdominal injuries were the most critical.
Cynthia read to me from the surgeon’s dictation: “She had advanced peritonitis: the entire abdominal cavity was filled with fecal matter. I saw already it was late, very late for helping her, and as it turned out, too late. The duodenum had ruptured, probably sometime previous to the broken arm, which looked very fresh. Forensic pathology will have to answer questions of time and manner of inflicting wounds. Is that what you wanted, Vic?”
Not what I wanted, that death, those wounds. Poor little creature, to meet her end in such a way. “I take it they didn’t find anything on her to identify her? Do you know what time she was sent to the medical examiner?”
“Umm, hang on . . . yes, here it is. Dr. Szymczyk pronounced death at seven fifty–two. The operating–room administrator called the police; your Jane Doe was picked up and taken to the morgue at ten–thirty.”
So she was my Jane Doe now, was she? I came to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. I’d made a vow a few years back to stop diving into other people’s wrecks: I only got battered on the spars without getting thanks—or payment. I didn’t feel like jumping overboard one more time.
A woman hurrying toward State Street banged into me, jarring the phone and breaking the connection. “Do you think a cell phone gives you ownership of the streets?” she yelled over her shoulder.
Sidewalk rage, the new hip form of urban rudeness. I tucked the phone into my briefcase and went into Continental United’s building. On the outside, the curved glass walls reflected the city back to itself; inside, it cooled the inhabitants with arctic efficiency. The sweat on my neck and armpits froze. I shivered as I rode the elevator skyward.
During a meeting to discuss the background of a candidate to head the paper division, and the unrelated problems dogging delivery trucks from the Eustace, Georgia, plant, I wondered what special insight fasting brought people. The apple I’d snatched on my way out the door was all I’d eaten since the snacks at last night’s party. Far from feeling a heightened consciousness, all I could think of was food. I tried to keep a look of bright attention on my face and hoped the general chatter would cover my growling stomach. Fortunately I’ve sat through enough similar sessions that I could interject a cogent–sounding question or two, laugh at the human–resources vice president’s dull jokes, and agree to turn around the investigation in three days, unless I had to go to Georgia.
When we finally broke, at four, I encountered Darraugh Graham himself in the hall. Civility—need—required me to chat with him, about his son, about the political situation in Italy where he had a major plant, about the assignment I’d just been handed. I was lucky that Darraugh continued to come to me, instead of turning all his business over to one of the big outfits like Carnifice. Of course Carnifice supplies the armed guards Continental United needs for transporting payroll. I think they handled Darraugh’s security when he visited Argentina last winter. But he still gives me a significant chunk of work requiring more analysis than muscle; it behooves me to pay attention to his private chitchat.
He clasped my shoulder briefly and gave a wintry smile of farewell. I hurried to the elevator and fell into the frozen yogurt stand in the lobby. Extra–large chocolate and vanilla with nuts, fruit, and little waffle chips. Breakfast and lunch in one giant cup. I sat in one of the spindly chairs in the lobby to pry dress pumps off my swollen feet and slip back into my running shoes. Happiness lies in simple things, after all—a little food, a little comfort.
When I’d eaten enough to raise my blood sugar to the functioning point, I called Luke to get the word on my car. My better mood deflated rapidly: he estimated repairs at twenty–nine hundred.