Page 24 of Fatal Fame
"You know what gets me about this whole business?" McKenzie said, holding the elevator door as they descended to the basement level. "I listened to one of that Landry fellow's podcasts last night. Three hours of dramatic music and breathless narration about evidence that any first-year constable could have spotted."
The elevator hummed downward, carrying them toward the sterile world where Adelaide Chambers practiced her particular form of truth-telling. Noah took a sip of his coffee and grimaced at the bitter taste.
"These Gen-Z types," McKenzie continued, warming to his theme, "they don't want to go the path we did—police college, years of taking shit from superiors, learning the job from theground up. No, they want to skip all that tedious training and jump straight to fame by pretending to be detectives."
"Citizen detectives," Noah said, remembering the term from Pierce's promotional materials.
"Aye, that's what they call themselves now. In my day, we called them armchair detectives because they did it all from home. But oh no, that's insulting now. They have to change the terminology to make themselves feel better about playing dress-up." McKenzie's Scottish accent thickened with amusement. "Next thing you know, they'll be demanding badges and arrest powers. And because our government doesn’t want to hurt their feelings, they’ll give it to them."
The elevator opened onto a corridor that smelled of disinfectant and something else, the peculiar chemical stench that seemed to permeate all medical facilities. Their footsteps echoed off polished linoleum as they made their way toward the medical examiner's office, passing signs that directed visitors to various departments they hoped never to need personally.
Dr. Chambers operated in the basement of the medical center, in a facility that would have impressed investigators from much larger cities. The autopsy suite gleamed under fluorescent lights that hummed. Stainless steel tables reflected the harsh illumination like mirrors designed to reveal secrets rather than vanity.
"Gentlemen," Addie called from behind a computer terminal, not looking up from whatever report she was reviewing. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose knot.
"Dr. Chambers," Noah said.
"Noah, we've been through this. It's Addie." She stood up from her workstation. "And Detective McKenzie, always a pleasure."
McKenzie straightened slightly, his demeanor shifting into what Noah had learned to recognize as his James Bondimpression. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Dr. Chambers. Though I must say, these surroundings don't do justice to your beauty."
Addie rolled her eyes. "McKenzie, you're not James Bond, and I'm definitely not Moneypenny. Can we focus on the dead body instead of your fantasy life?"
"A man can dream," McKenzie said with a grin that suggested he enjoyed the verbal sparring as much as any genuine romantic interest.
The morgue occupied the far end of the basement, a climate-controlled environment that maintained the temperature necessary to preserve evidence. Stainless steel refrigeration units lined one wall, each numbered and labeled with the kind of detail that turned human tragedy into administrative process.
Addie led them to the examination table where Keith Dwyer's body lay covered by a white sheet. Even in death, he looked younger than his twenty-eight years, his face peaceful in the way that characterized carbon monoxide poisoning. The cherry-red discoloration that Ozzy had noted at the scene was more pronounced under the medical center's lights.
"What can you tell us?" Noah asked, pulling out his notebook and preparing to document findings that might become crucial if the case ever went to trial.
"Cause of death is definitely carbon monoxide poisoning," Addie said, pulling back the sheet to reveal Keith's torso. "Carboxyhemoglobin levels were consistent with prolonged exposure in an enclosed space. No defensive wounds, no signs of binding or restraint, no indication that he was incapacitated before being placed in the vehicle."
"So a genuine suicide?" McKenzie asked, though his tone suggested he was hoping for a more interesting conclusion.
"The physical evidence is consistent with suicide," Addie said carefully. "But that's not the same thing as proving it wassuicide. Absence of evidence isn't evidence of absence, as you well know."
Noah studied the body, looking for any detail that might suggest a different narrative. "What about toxicology?"
"Preliminary blood work shows elevated alcohol levels, not enough to incapacitate him, but enough to suggest he'd been drinking before he died. Full toxicology will take several weeks, but I can tell you that there's no immediate indication of drugs that would render him unconscious or compliant."
"Time of death?"
"Between midnight and 2 AM, which matches the neighbor's statement about hearing the engine running. Lividity patterns are consistent with the position he was found in, suggesting he wasn't moved after death."
McKenzie walked around the examination table, his experienced eyes cataloging details that might escape civilian observation. "Anything unusual about the scene processing?"
"Ozzy did his usual thorough job. Photographed everything, bagged all the relevant evidence, maintained proper chain of custody. If this goes to court, we'll have documentation that meets any standard of proof."
Noah made notes, but something nagged at him about the case. Not the physical evidence, which seemed straightforward enough, but the timing and circumstances that had led to Keith's death. "Addie, in your professional opinion, does this feel like a typical suicide?"
She considered the question with the kind of thoughtfulness that had made her reputation in the forensic community. "The methodology is common enough, carbon monoxide poisoning accounts for a significant percentage of suicides, especially among men. The location makes sense from a privacy standpoint. The note provides apparent motive."
"But?"
"But the timing bothers me. Keith had been struggling with depression and substance abuse for years, according to his medical records. Why kill himself now? What changed in the past week that pushed him over the edge?"
"Pierce Landry," McKenzie said. "The podcaster's interview might have triggered something."
