Bitter Business

poison herself in a fit of remorse?”
    “It seems far-fetched.”
    “Believe me, stuff like that happens all the time. Homicide is definitely on the rise in the workplace.”
    “I don’t doubt it, but if you’d met Dagny Cavanaugh, you’d realize what a preposterous scenario that is. Dagny wasn’t some dope-crazed lowlife psychotic living on the fringe. She was a successful executive. She was also one of the most sensible, down-to-earth people I’d ever met. The worst she would have done to Cecilia Dobson was fire her—and even then I think she would have regretted it. I’m telling you, I was with her the night before she died; we sat up until almost midnight talking. There was nothing she said or did that would indicate to me that she was capable of the kind of emotionally driven crime you’ve just described.”
    “I’ll give you the fact that poisoning isn’t usually a crime of passion—not like the guy who comes home, finds his wife playing hide the salami with the Maytag repairman, pulls out his trusty Colt forty-five, and blows them both away. Most people kill when they’re angry or afraid or feel that they themselves will be killed. In addition, most homicides involve alcohol or drugs. Poisoning is the exception because it’s almost always either an accident or a crime of premeditation.”
    “So which one was this?”
    “At this point, Kate, I’ve got to tell you, your guess is as good as mine.”
     
    The office of the Cook County medical examiner occupies a dismal bunker on a barren stretch of West Harrison.
    Minicam vans for each of the three major Chicago stations were parked at the curb in front of the entrance.
    “What are they doing here?” I demanded, suddenly panicked at the thought that someone acquainted with Superior Plating and the Cavanaughs had contacted the press—Lydia, perhaps, in her thirst for ink. I could imagine the headlines: SERIAL POISONER TERRORIZES SOUTH-SIDE WOMEN…
    “They’re waiting for Violet Kramer.”
    “Who’s Violet Kramer?”
    “She was a fifteen-year-old girl who disappeared from the Old Orchard Mall two days before Christmas. Up until this morning she’s been officially listed as missing. It’s been all over the media. Don’t you read the papers?”
    “Only the Wall Street Journal .” Joe Blades shot me a look of disbelief before he continued.
    “They found her body this morning in the woods near Ravinia. Somebody must have tipped the press that they were bringing her in. They’re waiting to get shots of the morgue wagon for the six o’clock.”
    The security guard who occupied the grimy booth at the entrance to the parking lot waved us in without question, recognizing either Detective Blades, his official white Chevy Cavalier, or both. We parked behind the building across from the loading dock, where two men in orange coveralls lounged in front of the overhead doors, lifted and gaping, no doubt awaiting the mortal remains of Violet Kramer. I fell into step beside the homicide detective, who greeted them both by name as we passed.
    Inside, the building was a maze of hallways and stairwells that seemed to have been connected at random in a clear case of municipal architecture gone wrong. The walls were painted the exact same depressing shade of mossy green I’d noticed at police headquarters; the city must buy the paint in quantity, probably from some alderman’s brother-in-law in the paint business. The sickly smell of formaldehyde hung in the air. Beneath it lingered the suggestion of unbelievable stench.
    Blades, obviously at home, led the way up a flight of stairs and down a long corridor punctuated by bulletin boards and office doors. From behind a few of them I heard voices, but no ringing of phones, which struck me as odd until I remembered that it was Sunday. The homicide detective stopped and knocked on one of the doors at the far end of the hall. Beside it on the wall was a brown nameplate that read DR. J. GORDON, ASSISTANT MEDICAL EXAMINER.
    As we entered, the doctor looked up from a file on the desk in front of her and smiled.
    Dr. Julia Gordon was a small woman, tiny in fact, with a short cap of blond curls and translucent skin that made her look, despite the authority of her lab coat, more like a novice in a convent than a person who made her living taking dead bodies apart with a surgical saw. She reached over the top of her desk to shake my hand and pronounced herself grateful that I’d come to see her.
    Her office