I spot her as soon as I get off the elevator on the fourth floor. She’s waiting
on one of the metal folding chairs in the corridor just outside the office. Her
bright russet hair sliding out of a barrette, her skin mottled, her face
carefully neutral.
I stop short. Listen to the elevator doors slide shut behind me.
Victims exist in another dimension, as far as I’m concerned—they’re theoretical. The
police meet the victims; we work in an office. I wouldn’t have become a print
examiner if I wanted to meet victims.
I sidle past her, trying not to make eye contact, as I enter the office. Alyce,
the division leader, is trying to signal me with her eyes. “Hey—Lena—”
But the woman’s fast; she walks right into the office, between the cubicles, tall
and pale and intimidating with this kind of intensity that I realize must be
grief. A scary kind of grief. I don’t even make it to my desk, she’s saying,
“You’re Lena? Are you Lena Dawson?” I flinch.
Alyce is on her feet now as well; she’s maybe two-thirds this woman’s size, but
concentrated, wiry with combative energy. “Miss, please. Now. I don’t know how
you got up here—our office is totally closed to the public. I already tried to
tell you once—”
The woman is way too close to me—her white face and flashing voice—so at first I
barely take in what she’s saying. I retreat behind my desk. But the woman
actually follows me around my desk. “My name is Erin Cogan, my baby is—he died
five weeks ago. The police haven’t done a single thing about it. Nothing.”
She’s talking fast—ready to be ushered out; she seizes my hand, her voice
throbbing in my head like an electrical echo. “Please Lena—Ms.
Dawson—I’ve heard that you can—that you—”
My bossy colleague, Margo, bustles into the office with Ed Welmore, who was
probably just about to go home after the night shift. The top button on his PD
uniform is undone and there are dark crescents under each arm. “All right over
there,” he says as he enters the room. “Time to go home, Mrs. Cogan.”
Erin Cogan releases my hand but continues to stare at me. “Please, please, Ms.
Dawson, please…”
Ed stops right behind her. He’s not much taller than I am, but he’s solid. He puts
his hands on his hips and glances at me over the woman’s head, then says,
“You’re going to have to come on out now.”
She swivels her head at Ed then back at me with an expression of such anguished
panic that I can’t help myself. I don’t know her, but I do know that feeling. A
scraped down devastation that frightens me almost as much as it makes me feel
for her. Her hands curled up tight and sharp and white. “Okay, okay, okay.” I
touch the clean top of my desk with the flat of my hand, trying to catch my
breath. “Miss—Ms. Cogan? Come on. Yeah, let me just walk you outside here.”
In the elevator, Ed looks off toward the corner — I’m sure he would’ve been much
happier if I hadn’t come out with them. Alyce comes along too, arms crossed and
locked on her bowed-in chest; glasses propped on her head, she glares at the
woman. I’ll get an earful later, I know, on how she’d prefer if I’d try not to
encourage lunatics; I have to work harder not to be a sap; and so forth and so
on.
Erin Cogan twists her hands together, a dry wringing, she looks only at me. “I’ve
been waiting outside that office since six a.m.
The janitor let me in—I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do anymore. Please,
please, no one will talk to me about Matthew’s case. I think I might be going
out of my mind. My baby—my Matthew—he died and no one will talk to me…”
A bold, mesmerizing novel about the woman known as "Typhoid Mary," the first known healthy carrier of typhoid fever in the burgeoning metropolis of early twentieth century New York.
Z, the novel about the life of Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald is at points charming and; like another reviewer, I kept thinking of the movie, "Midnight...
read more
Although heavy on the scientific details, which slowed down the story for me (OK, I admit, I was one of those liberal arts majors who skipped out on...
read more
Loved this book. Magical, quirky, enchanting I could go on. All books do not have to be literary fiction, sometimes it is just so comforting to read...
read more
British Parliament asks Amazon to clarify why it pays $9 million in income tax on $23 billion of UK sales.(May 20 2013) Amazon will be called back to give further evidence to members of the British Parliament "to clarify how its activities in the U.K. justify its low corporate...
Full Story
