“Shorts, socks, a T-shirt, his meds. The police have any other personal effects, his wallet, his house keys, not sure what all.” Luke’s in the middle of an autopsy and doesn’t want to be interrupted, but that’s too bad.
“Thanks. I’ll take a look.”
“I mean, they didn’t even have to think about it. Not guilty,” Lucy says, when we’re in the corridor, and she shuts her door, making sure it’s locked.
“Is what you suspect about Toby why you were looking around my office yesterday morning? Is he why you were acting as if someone might be spying on me?” I ask.
“Let’s take the stairs.” She heads us to a lighted exit sign. “Someone is spying but not by using surveillance devices. I’ve been checking.” She opens the metal door. “Toby’s not sophisticated enough to plant covert devices, certainly not ones that I’d have a hard time finding, but I’ve been looking. And he’s been spying.”
“Why?”
“How do you think Channing Lott’s helicopter ended up filming you while you were getting the body out of the water yesterday?” she asks.
“Toby was the only person who knew what Marino and I were headed out to do,” I remember. “Except for Bryce. Possibly Luke, if Marino said something when they ran into each other in the parking lot.”
We go down the stairs, and our voices seem loud, bouncing off concrete.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t give details to Luke.” I’m trying to recall exactly what I said.
I was about to walk into the bay and was startled by him suddenly standing so close we were almost touching, and he asked me where I was going. I told him I was on my way to recover a body from the harbor, and he said he’d be happy to help, reminding me he’s a certified diver. I didn’t say the body was a woman’s. I’m pretty sure I didn’t, but I was distracted by him, the way I’ve been distracted for a while, a way I don’t intend to be distracted by him again.
“Toby was aware hours in advance that you were heading to the Coast Guard base,” Lucy states. “He knew he was going to meet you with the van so he could transport the body. A woman’s body entangled with a turtle.”
“And he somehow contacted Channing Lott’s pilots?” That I don’t believe.
“He contacted Jill Donoghue, who contacted the pilots.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Are you aware he’s applied for a job at her ritzy law firm and that he’s driven company vehicles to her building, to the Prudential Center?” Lucy asks. “Guess he’s forgotten I can look at GPS maps of where everyone goes, and I can look at everybody’s e-mail if they’re dumb enough to use their CFC account for personal communications. I don’t even have to hack.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly.” She unlocks the door to the lower level.
thirty-one
TOBY IS IN THE CORRIDOR, CARRYING BRIGHT RED BAGS of biohazard trash destined for the autoclave, and I tell Lucy I’ll meet her in ID. He offers right away that he just left the evidence bay, and I know a guilty conscience when I see one.
“I guess you’re aware of what just happened in court,” I say to him, and no one is around to hear us, Ron the security guard behind glass some distance away.
“In court?” Toby is in scrubs and nitrile gloves, and his tattoos and shaved head might make him sinister, were it not for what’s in his eyes.
“Yes, an acquittal that is cause for concern about breaches of security here,” I say, and his reply is to play dumb. “I’m sure you realize that communications on the CFC server aren’t private, and if deleted still exist.”
“Like what?” He looks around, looks everywhere but in my eyes. “What communications?”
“In other words, CFC e-mails neither vanish nor are considered purely personal. Therefore they aren’t an employee’s private business, not if these e-mails could be evidence in a disciplinary investigation that involves the misuse of government resources or the violation of confidentiality and CFC policy.” I look directly at him, and he won’t look at me. “In such instances, personal communications are subject to disclosure under the Public Records Law.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he does, and his face is red.
“Why?” I ask him, and he knows what I’m really asking.
“Why that rich guy got off?” He frowns and is frightened and pretends he doesn’t understand.
“I would have given you a good recommendation, Toby. I’m not the sort to hold someone back. All you needed to do was tell me if you weren’t happy here or felt you weren’t appreciated or wanted to pursue what you viewed as a better opportunity.”
It’s not lost on him that I’m speaking of his job in the past tense. He shifts the red bags to a different hand, his eyes darting.
“But at least Ms. Donoghue knows exactly what she’s getting,” I add. “Although I’ll point out the rather obvious fact that if you’ll do this to me, you’ll do it to her. Or at least the thought will cross her mind, and my guess is it already has.”
“It’s not like I’ve been sleeping on the job because I can’t drive home.” He takes a shot at Marino, and it’s the last shot he’ll take.
“No, you’ve been sleeping with the enemy, and that’s worse,” I reply. “I wish you well in your next venture, whatever it is. It’s best you pack up your things immediately.”
“Sure.” He’s not going to argue.
He might even be relieved.
“I need your key card.” I hold out my hand, and he removes the lanyard around his neck.
“While this matter is being investigated, obviously you can’t be here.” I make sure he’s clear on that.
“I was going to quit, anyway.”
I walk him to the receiving area and ask Ron for his assistance.
“Yes, ma’am, Chief.” He gets up from his desk and steps out into the corridor, and I can tell from the look on his face he knows what’s happened, and maybe he’s been aware of the same behavior that Lucy has discovered.
“Toby’s no longer with the CFC,” I let Ron know. “If you could make sure he turns in any equipment and meets with Bryce for an exit interview. He’ll take care of the usual details. You know the routine.”
I give him the key card and ask him to accompany Toby into the waste disposal room so he can leave biohazard bags at the autoclave, and I walk away, texting Bryce, letting him know what just occurred, as I wonder the same thing I always do when someone behaves this way: What might I have done to inspire such massive disloyalty, such disrespect?
Toby was a physician’s assistant with no training in medicolegal death investigation, which was his dream, as he described it to me when I interviewed him for the job several years ago. I took a chance on him. I sent him to basic and advanced forensic training academies in New York and Baltimore, and I personally instructed him at death scenes and spent time explaining autopsies and teaching him to assist.
“Money and myopia,” Lucy says, when I walk into the anteroom, where she’s swathed in white and senses my mood. “People are assholes.”
“It always seems like it’s more than just being assholes.” I collect clothing from shelves. “It feels like it’s something I didn’t do right.”
“It’s not personal, Aunt Kay.”
“Then why does it feel like it?”
“To you, everything that happens with everyone here feels personal.” Lucy isn’t gifted at cushioning her convictions. “But what you feel is never reciprocated, never has been.”
“Well, that’s damn depressing if what you’re suggesting is everybody who works for me now or in the past doesn’t care about anything other than their own ambitions, their own selves.”