"Indeed, we did. I remember it well. We also handled the services for Mr. Stanhope, a very prominent gentleman in the community. Also for the only Stanhope child, I'm afraid."
"Oh!" Jack grunted in response to information he'd not been seeking. He quickly stored it away and returned to the issue at hand. "Some questions have arisen surrounding Mrs. Stanhope's death, and an exhumation and autopsy are being considered. Has the Langley-Peerson Home had experience doing such a thing?"
"We have, but on an infrequent basis," Harold said, relaxing back to his originally restrained, ceremonious self. Jack was apparently no longer viewed as a possible threat. "Are you in possession of the required paperwork?"
"No. What I'm hoping is that you could help in that regard."
"Certainly. What's needed is an exhumation permit, a transportation permit, and a reinterment permit, and, most importantly, the permit must have the signature of the current Mr. Stanhope as the next of kin. It is the next of kin who must give authorization."
"So I understand. Would you have the necessary forms here?"
"Yes, I believe so. If you'll follow me, I can give them to you."
Harold led Jack through an archway in the direction of the main stairs but immediately turned left into a darkened, deep pile-carpeted hallway. It was now apparent to Jack how Harold had managed to silently appear.
"You mentioned that the first Mr. Stanhope was prominent in the community. How so?"
"He was founder of the Stanhope Insurance Agency of Boston, which was very successful in its heyday. Mr. Stanhope was a wealthy man and quite a philanthropist, which is rare in Brighton. Brighton is a working-class community."
"Meaning the current Mr. Stanhope must be a wealthy man."
"Undoubtedly," Harold said as he led Jack into an office as austere as he was. "The current Mr. Stanhope's history is a marvelous Horatio Alger story. He was born Stanislaw Jordan Jaruzelski, a local boy from a working-class immigrant family who started working at the agency right out of Brighton High School. He was a whiz kid, even though he didn't go to college, who worked himself up by his bootstraps to management. When the old man passed on, he married the widow, sparking some lurid speculation. He even took the family name."
Although it was a bright, sunshine-filled June day outside, inside Harold's office it was dark enough to necessitate the desk lamp and a floor lamp to be on. The windows were covered by heavy, dark green velvet drapes. After finishing the current Mr. Stanhope saga, Harold went to an upright, four-drawer file cabinet covered with mahogany veneer. From the top drawer, he pulled out a folder. From within the folder, he took three papers, one of which he handed to Jack. The other two he placed on his desk. He motioned toward one of the velvet-upholstered chairs facing the desk for Jack before sitting himself down in his high-backed desk chair.
"That's the exhumation permit I gave you," Harold said. "There's a place for Mr. Stanhope to sign, giving authorization."
Jack glanced at the paper as he sat down. Getting the signature was obviously going to be the deal-breaker, but for the moment, he wasn't going to worry about it. "Who will fill in the rest after Mr. Stanhope signs?"
"I will do that. What is the time frame you are looking at?"
"If it's to be done, it has to be done immediately."
"Then you'd better let me know quickly. I'd have to arrange for the vault company's truck and a backhoe."
"Could the autopsy be done here at the home?"
"Yes, in the embalming room, working around our schedule. The only problem is we might not have all the tools you would like. For instance, we don't have a cranial saw."
"I can get the tools." Jack was impressed. Harold looked rather weird, but he was informed and efficient.
"I should mention this will be an expensive undertaking."
"What are we talking about?"
"There'll be the vault company and backhoe charge, as well as cemetery fees. On top of that will be our charges for obtaining the permits, supervision, and use of the embalming room."
"Can you give me a ballpark idea?"
"At least several thousand dollars."
Jack whistled softly as if he thought the figure high, whereas in actuality he thought it was cheap with all that was involved. He stood up. "Do you have an off-hours phone number?"
"I'll give you my cell phone number."
"Terrific," Jack said. "One other thing. Do you know the address of the Stanhope home?"
"Of course. Everybody knows the Stanhope house. It's a landmark in Brighton."
A few minutes later, Jack was back in the rent-a-car again, drumming the steering wheel while he thought of what he should do next. It was now after two p.m. Returning to the courtroom didn't thrill him. He'd always been more of a performer than a spectator. Instead of going back into Boston, he reached for the Hertz map. It took him a few minutes, but he located the Newton Memorial Hospital and oriented himself, and eventually arrived at his destination.
Newton Memorial Hospital resembled almost every suburban hospital Jack had been in. It was built in a confusing hodgepodge of various wings added over the years. The oldest section had period details like decoration on a cake, mostly Greek Revival, but the new structures were progressively plainer. The most recent addition was just brick and bronze-tinted glass with no embellishments whatsoever.
Jack parked in the visitors' area, in a lot that backed onto a wetland with a small pond. A flock of Canada geese were floating motionless on the surface like a bunch of wooden decoys. Consulting the fat case file, Jack memorized the names of the people he wanted to speak with: the emergency-room doctor, Matt Gilbert; the emergency-room nurse, Georgina O'Keefe; and the staff cardiologist, Noelle Everette. All three were on the plaintiff's witness list, and all three had been deposed by the defense. What was troubling Jack was the cyanosis issue.
Instead of going to the front entrance of the hospital, Jack went to the emergency area. The ambulance bay was empty. To the side was an automatic sliding glass door. Jack walked in and headed directly to the admitting desk.
It seemed like a good time to visit. There were only three people in the waiting area; none of them appeared sick or injured. The nurse at the desk looked up as Jack approached. She was dressed in scrubs and had the usual stethoscope slung around her neck. She was reading The Boston Globe.
"Calm before the storm," Jack joked.
"Something like that. What can we do for you?"
Jack went through his usual spiel, including the ME badge flash. He asked for Matt and Georgina, purposefully using their first names to suggest familiarity.
"They're not here yet," the duty nurse said. "They work the evening shift."
"When does that start?"
"At three."
Jack looked at his watch. It was going on three. "So they will be here shortly."