Chapter Seven: Medical Examiner Hawes
Disclaimer: IMLTHO, you know everything I would say here already.
Stephen Hawes absently twiddles his wedding band. Or tries to. Lately his fingers are too swollen for his ring to turn easily. Not swollen, exactly, but thick. Heavy. Fat.
There it is, the word. "You're getting fat," Sandi said last night, giving him a dismissive peck on the cheek before she turned over in the bed and pulled the covers up over her shoulder. "Why do you bother to pay a monthly fee to the gym if you never go?"
He'd been too startled to say anything.
Lately he's often at a loss of words with her. "I'm going to meet up with the girls for dinner anyway," she'll say when he calls to let her know he's working late. As if his absence doesn't bother her at all, as if she's going on with her life without him.
It might have been different if they'd had children. He knows couples who exist solely for their children. Not ideal, but it's a connection, a thread that keeps them tied together through the rough patches.
Or at least that's how it often appears to him. He does have friends who broke up because the stress of having children was unsurmountable.
At any rate, it's too late now. Not physically—not biologically—but now that Sandi has left her job on disability and the medical examiner's office is short-handed, he can't picture the kind of disruption having a child would create.
If there isn't more disruption going on that he doesn't know about. The recurring unknown phone number on Sandi's phone bill. The times he tries to text or call her but she says her phone must have been off.
He absently rubs his ring again. Focus. Back to the problem at hand.
The problem is a he, an unidentified Asian male, age unknown, though Hawes guesses mid-70s. The wear on his teeth suggests a life lived hard. The fact that he died in a homeless shelter supports that idea.
Hawes adjusts the earpiece of his recorder. "Advanced atherosclerosis. Cause of death ischemic stroke, cerebral venous sinus thrombosis. Trace amounts of olanzapine."
The antipsychotic meds suggest schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. Impossible to know for certain—the limits of forensic pathology. Not for the first time, Hawes is aware that the living are more revealing than the dead. An hour with this man when he was alive would probably have been enough to gauge his mental condition. One day, researchers will map definite brain markers for mental illnesses, but until that time, an autopsy is like a child's coloring book—an outline or a sketch only partially scribbled in.
Finishing his report, Hawes starts to roll the unidentified man back to the cold chamber when he hears Joan Watson's voice behind him.
"Sorry I'm late."
He pauses and turns to watch her descending the ramp.
"No Holmes today?"
"He's working," Joan says. She meets Hawes' gaze and adds, "And I wanted to come alone. You know, in case—"
She hesitates and Hawes raises his eyebrows in understanding. A year ago she'd confided that her father was homeless, a schizophrenic often off his meds.
"I try to keep tabs on him," she had said then, her voice cracking, "but I don't always know where he is. The last time I saw him I'm pretty sure he didn't have a wallet or any ID with him."
She had started to say something else and then faltered.
"I'll keep an eye out," Hawes offered, and she nodded, grateful.
Yesterday when this John Doe had been brought in by the guys at the 31st, Hawes debated whether or not to call. While the odds were against this being her father, the odds were good that having to come to the morgue to find out would upset her.
On the other hand, if this were her father, she deserved to know. Otherwise she'd keep looking for him. At least she might find some peace of mind.
Joan crosses the distance and looks down at the man on the gurney. As he always does, Hawes appreciates how controlled Joan is—her movements deliberate and purposeful. No nonsense, like most surgeons he knows. But graceful too, as if she studied to be a dancer.
Realizing he is staring at her, Hawes looks away.
"It's not him," Joan says at last. "But he does look familiar somehow, like I've seen him."
"The social worker at the shelter said he's a regular. He came in whenever it rained, and this past winter he was there most nights. Maybe you saw him when you were visiting your dad."
Joan steps closer to the gurney. "No, that's not it. I'll figure it out eventually."
Hawes motions to the counter where the man's clothes and personal effects are labeled and ready for storage. "Have a look," he says. "There might be something useful there."
He doesn't tell her that he's already gone through everything twice. A worn pair of jeans, an off-brand flannel shirt, a pair of undershorts more holes than fabric, and black canvas slip-ons are stacked together. To the side he has put the contents of the man's jean's pocket—a folded newspaper article and a book of matches.
Joan unfolds the scrap of newspaper. "This looks like it could be from the World Journal," she says. "It's the largest Chinese language newspaper in this country. My mother reads it occasionally."
"Any idea why John Doe would carry a piece of it around? Can you read it?"
Joan peers at the paper. "Don't tell my mother, but I'm a little rusty. It looks like an op-ed about the mayor's decision to charge rent to charter schools. Wish the byline hadn't been cut off. We could tell which paper this is."
"So our man stayed on top of current events," Hawes says.
Joan fishes her phone from her pocket and takes a picture of the piece of paper. "I'll get my mother to take a look. Maybe there's a clue here." She fingers the book of matches. "These are from an upscale restaurant in Tribeca. Anyone at the 31st looking into why he might have been there recently?"
"I doubt it," Hawes says as he opens the drawer to the cold chamber and wheels the man in. "No ID. Homeless. No crime. They have other things to run down instead of looking for who this guy might be."
"I can poke around a little bit," Joan says. "See if I can turn anything up."
Hawes shifts from one foot to the other, debating whether to ask what he's considered for several weeks now. If Holmes were here he'd never do it, but since Joan is alone—
"I wonder if you'd do me another favor," he says. His face is hot from embarrassment, but he's determined to press on. "Uh, maybe a cup of coffee first? In my office?"
X X X
As soon as she opens the front door she hears Sherlock bellowing for her. The sharp tattoo of his shoes follows immediately and by the time she hangs up her jacket, Sherlock stands three feet away like a soldier on parade.
"I expected you much earlier." An accusation of sorts—she hears the peevishness in his voice.
"I told you I had to run an errand," she says, picking up the mail he's set on the side table. "And then a friend asked me to have coffee with him."
"You've been to the morgue." A statement, flat and also slightly accusatory. He's miffed that she went without him. "Your clothes smell faintly of formalin."
Putting down the mail, she sighs. "Okay, I went there because Dr. Hawes wanted my help identifying someone."
"Explain."
"A man died of a stroke in a homeless shelter. An Asian man. Dr. Hawes thought he might be my father."
From the corner of her eye she sees Sherlock react. If she hadn't been looking for it, she would have missed it—a flare of his nostrils, his eyes narrowing.
"And?"
"Well, he wasn't my father, but you already knew that. He did have a couple of things in his pocket I thought I'd check out."
She shows him the pictures of the newspaper and the matchbook.
"I applaud your industry," Sherlock says. "A good detective stays busy honing her skills even when the criminal element is unusually quiescent. And boredom can be the most insidious villain of all."
"Actually," Joan says, "that's what I want to talk to you about—helping me with a little investigation while we're between cases."
"The Asian man's identity."
"No, this is something else."
Sherlock purses his lips. "Watson, you know my feelings about domestic surveillance. The moral travails of those foolish enough to link their shared fortunes in legal marriage concern me not at all. If Dr. Hawes suspects his wife is unfaithful—"
Joan lets out a raspberry of exasperation. "How did you know that!"
"Isn't it obvious? You've been to the morgue. Dr. Hawes works the first shift during the week, so he's there today. You said you had coffee with a friend afterwards, but you smell too strongly of chemicals not to have come directly from the morgue itself. Ergo, you had coffee there with Dr. Hawes. In the year and a half that we have worked with the good doctor, he has never once offered us coffee—or any beverage for that matter, so his doing so now suggests he wanted to ask a favor. What favor might that be? Why, your services as a detective, naturally. At least twice when you and I were in his company lately, he's been preoccupied with text messages, none that left him in a noticeably happier mood. He fiddles with his wedding ring when he's agitated, a common tell of dissatisfaction in a marriage. Although marriages break down for numerous reasons, few of those require the services of a detective. Suspected affairs do, however, so the conclusion is a simple matter. Dr. Hawes wants you to find out if his wife is unfaithful."
Sherlock pauses to take a breath, something close to a triumphant gleam in his eye. Joan crosses in front of him and sits on the sofa.
"Okay, I get that you think such investigations are beneath you—"
"Not beneath me," Sherlock snaps. "Beneath us. I care not one iota about the marital status of Dr. Hawes. If he, on the other hand, had been the victim of a horrific crime, I would work tirelessly to bring the guilty party to justice. Marital infidelity, however, is not a horrific crime."
"A judgment you are unqualified to make," Joan says, smarting at his smugness. Her step-father's affair damaged her family in ways that still ripple.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at her again. She can see him coming to the same conclusion. "I concede your point, Watson," he says at last. "Your experience in this matter far outweighs mine."
"Don't worry," she says, still miffed. "I take back my request for your help. I can do this by myself. I'm sure you have plenty of other more interesting things to do."
She deliberately averts her gaze. One, two, three, four. Any time now—
"If you require my help," Sherlock says, "I am unoccupied at the moment."
Joan turns to look at him. "And boredom is the most insidious villain of all?"
"Just so. For an addict more than most."
She sighs. "It's not like I really want to spend my time following someone's possibly unfaithful spouse either, but Dr. Hawes is a friend. He asked for help and I want to give it."
"Define friend."
"Seriously?"
"You know me, Watson. When am I not serious?"
Joan rubs the back of her neck, feeling a muscle strain there. "We work with Dr. Hawes. He welcomes our help, and not every M. E. does."
"And that makes him your friend."
"Yes!" Joan says too emphatically. She lowers her voice and adds, "Not a good friend, but a friend. Someone we're friendly with." She sees Sherlock doing his version of an eye roll. "We're work friends, okay? We value him."
"His favorite book?"
"What?"
"His favorite book? What is it?"
"I don't—"
"Or a food he enjoys? The type of coffee he drinks? His hobbies? Friends know these things."
"You're just saying that to argue that we shouldn't help him because he isn't a friend. But your definition is ridiculous. I have no idea what your favorite book is—"
"Fifty Years Among the Bees by C. C. Miller."
"—or what you like to eat—"
"Bangers and mash. Cold cereal. Som tam, the spicier the better."
"—or your favorite coffee brand. Actually, I do know that one."
"You also know my hobbies and interests, Watson, or most of them. Indeed, you know me better than anyone, which is why you should know that I'm offering to help you—and by extension, Dr. Hawes."
Joan tries to relieve the strain in her neck by twisting her head from side to side. Sherlock should have been a debate coach, or an ancient philosopher antagonizing disbelievers in the agora. "You know you aren't making this easier, don't you?" she asks.
"He gave you his wife's schedule?" Now that he's on board, Sherlock sounds bossy and imperious. Already Joan regrets asking for his help.
"I have everything we need," she says. She pulls out a small moleskin notebook from her pocket and opens it. "Dr. Hawes' wife is named Sandi. Until a couple of months ago she was the office manager for a cardiology practice in Queens."
"Until a couple of months ago?"
"Had to quit," Joan says. "Dr. Hawes says she was in a car wreck three years ago. Hurt her back and never really recovered. She went on disability when she started missing more days than she was working. Now her schedule consists of physical therapy and doing charity work at a church soup kitchen."
"Should make her easy enough to surveille. You have a plan?"
"I'm meeting my mother to do some shopping this afternoon," Joan says. She tries to hide the concern in her voice. Her cousin Lou Ann is having a baby and her mother insisted they go together to purchase the shower gift.
"It's been so long since I had a baby in the house," her mother had said last night on the phone, "that I don't know what young parents need these days. You need to help me pick out something practical. Nice, but something they can use."
"You've had more experience with babies than I have," Joan protested. "I don't know how much help I can be."
But as they talked Joan realized that her mother might feel overwhelmed with the task for reasons having more to do with her faltering memory. Shopping might be too complex for her to navigate easily without some help. Joan had hung up the phone with a heavy heart and sense of foreboding that this sort of interference was going to become routine.
Sherlock watches her with the sort of intensity that sometimes makes her feel like a bug under a glass. "My mother seems to do better these days with a little help when she goes out," she says. Sherlock's head bobs once and Joan says, "And I thought I'd swing past Dr. Hawes' apartment on my way back. Get the lay of the land. See what's going on."
"Then bon voyage," Sherlock says. "Let me know when I can be of help."
X X X
"What are you doing up here? It's your turn to follow Sandi Hawes."
Watson's voice is equal parts surprise and annoyance. Sherlock angles his face away from her, as if he is studying the beehive intently. A breeze from the East River wafts over the rooftop, bringing the telltale scent of brine and diesel apparent during low tides. Watson, of course, will not be fooled by his attention to the bees, but this gives him an extra moment or two to prepare. He takes a breath and motions to the empty plastic chair beside him.
"I have done," he says. "Dr. Hawes does not need to fear a rival for his wife's affections. At least, not a human rival."
Watson scoots the chair close to his and sits. "What do you mean?"
"In the four days that we've observed her, she's hardly stirred beyond the boundaries outlined by Dr. Hawes. When she's not at home, she's at physical therapy around the corner from her apartment or at a soup kitchen in Brooklyn Heights, presumably to help serve meals to the homeless."
"What do you mean presumably?"
"Last night after Dr. Hawes sent you a text that his wife was having dinner with friends, where did she go?"
"To dinner with friends," Watson says. "I told you that. I saw her meet with two women at the café near the church where she volunteers in the soup kitchen. They checked out—old friends from her office. Why?"
"Dinner at Siggy's, a popular but nondescript vegetarian venue near First Presbyterian Church in Brooklyn Heights."
"What's your point?"
"Sandi Hawes lives in Queens. Why not meet her friends for dinner somewhere closer to home?"
"Maybe her friends live in Brooklyn Heights. Maybe they're committed vegans who really like Siggy's."
It's this as much as anything that Sherlock values—Watson's swiftness of thought, her willingness to play the part of devil's advocate. The way they function as interactive sounding boards for each other, their ideas bouncing and rebounding until a solution leaps up.
"Or," he says, lifting one finger in the air, "she is a regular attendee of Narcotics Anonymous meetings at First Presbyterian Church. You said that after leaving Siggy's she went there."
Joan leans forward in her chair. "They have an evening soup kitchen on Thursdays. I assumed she was going there to volunteer."
"Did you follow her in?"
He sees a blush creep up Joan's neck and across her cheeks.
"I should have checked. I've seen her working the lunchtime crowd twice this week. I just assumed—"
"You made a reasonable assumption. However, her history made me suspicious."
Joan nods slowly. "Of course. The car wreck. She got addicted to pain killers afterwards."
"I made a visit to her former employer today. She was let go when she started helping herself to the drug rep medicine cabinet."
"But wouldn't Dr. Hawes know that? Why would she hide it from him? Even if she's embarrassed about using in the past, if she's going to meetings now, why wouldn't she tell her husband?"
"Embarrassment. Shame. An unwillingness to disappoint the person she loves most. A great reluctance to let him see her for who she really is. Or who she has become. Addiction resets the default, Watson. You are never not thinking about the gap between your sober self and who you truly are."
"But Dr. Hawes could be a support—"
"You and I know that, Watson. Not everyone does."
He's suddenly weary, as if a heavy weight has settled on his shoulders. His mind is a montage of moments when his resolve would have slipped if he hadn't had Watson in his life—a bottle of Vicodin at the home of Althea Theophilis, the packet of heroin tucked in the hollowed out book in the brownstone library—each time his hand stayed by the idea of Watson's disappointment with him.
The breeze picks up and Watson tugs her sweater closed. "If you're right—"
"I feel certain I am. Verifying it should be an easy matter."
"This raises a bigger question."
"Which is?"
"If Dr. Hawes' wife is going to NA meetings, do we tell him? He needs to know she's not being unfaithful to him. But we can't assure him of that without admitting what we know about where she's spending her time."
The recent unpleasantness when his own anonymity was compromised makes Sherlock take a deep breath. "Telling Dr. Hawes the truth could jeopardize his wife's recovery, as well, particularly if he takes the news badly." He waits a beat and adds, "Not to mention the issue of privacy. Set aside the fact that Dr. Hawes is your friend—and ask yourself whether violating his wife's privacy is in the best interest of either one."
Watson hunches forward, her arms tucked to her torso, but Sherlock is wearing no jacket to offer her. He starts to suggest that they go inside when she says, "So what should I do? What would you do? I mean, she shouldn't keep this sort of secret from her husband. What kind of relationship is that?"
"Your judgment in such matters is far superior to my own, Watson. You could not find better counsel than yourself." He sees her brows knit, a frown flickering across her expression. "I'm sorry not to be more useful to you." He tests a half smile and says, "Perhaps in the other matter?"
Watson sits up and turns her face to him. The setting sun behind her illuminates the stray filaments of her hair like a halo.
"What matter?"
"The unidentified Asian man at the morgue. The one Dr. Hawes called you about."
Watson's expression grows sly. "Oh, that," she says, deliberately looking away. "I already figured that out. I called his son yesterday and he went to the morgue and claimed his father's body."
She leans back into the chair and crosses her arms, a pose she takes when she wants to be coaxed to talk. Two can play at this. One, two, three, four—but Watson is staring in continued silence as the lights of the skyscrapers across the river start to twinkle in the dusk.
"Are you going to explain how you discovered his identity?" Sherlock says at last.
Slowly Watson turns to look at him. "Isn't it obvious? The man—whose name is Lu Han, by the way—was carrying a matchbook from Macao Trading Company, an upscale restaurant specializing in fusion Chinese-Portuguese food. Even in New York, that's not a common pairing, but it happens to be a cuisine my mother knows well since she has relatives who live in Lisbon. I asked her if she had ever been to Macao Trading Company and it turns out she knows the owner. He said lots of journalists from the World Journal eat there regularly, so I called the paper and talked to several reporters before I spoke to Ha Han. He said he had lost contact recently with his elderly father. If you look at his photograph on the paper's website, you can see the resemblance. That's why Lu Han looked familiar to me. I must have seen his son's byline picture plenty of times."
By now the sun has slipped behind one of the distant buildings and Watson's face is in shadow. Although he can't see it, he's certain there's a look of anguish there.
"I'm sure his son was glad for your help." It's a vapid comment, and one that doesn't come close to communicating what he means to say.
What he means to say is that he's proud of her, and impressed, too, and grateful that she's here now, a bulwark against the despair that always threatens to swamp him. He should tell her these things—because relationships demand this sort of honesty, because it is what friends do.
One day, perhaps.
Instead, tonight he says, "One Hundred Years of Solitude. Your favorite book. I've seen you reading it multiple times."
And seen it splayed open on her bed where it slipped out of her fingers when she fell asleep, her table lamp still on until he quietly, quietly leaned down and turned it off.
A/N: I solemnly swear to get back to having an actual case to let them solve in the next chapter! Thanks for being patient readers! And thanks for letting me know you are still out there!