in case there’s somebody somewhere who would claim the body. Can I use your office a few minutes?” Max asked.
Manriquez nodded and continued directing the assistant, who was sewing up the incision with heavy black thread while keeping her head turned from the corpse as far as possible and trying not to breathe.
Max gestured to me to follow him and we went down a short hallway into an office that, besides the simple furniture—a desk with an office chair behind it and two other chairs before it, thin upholstery with wooden arms—had only a donkey piñata hanging from the ceiling in the corner that looked like it had been there since the last guy. A short bookshelf contained pathology texts and atlases that didn’t look just for show. On the desk sat an old computer, and the usual clutter you’d expect in a medical examiner’s office: pads, a couple of pens, a box of microscope slides, and other biological paraphernalia. Otherwise, there were no personal effects, no medical school diplomas or pictures of family on the walls or on the desk. If there was a Mrs. Manriquez, little Manriquezes, a life, it looked like the ME didn’t want it to touch his life at the office. I’m not the only one who feels that way.
Max pulled out one of the chairs in front of the desk and motioned me to the chair next to it so we were angled toward each other.
I was getting all the various scenarios so tangled I wasn’t sure what I could ask Max without incriminating myself, but had to take a chance. “How well do you know Agent Laura Coleman?” I began.
“Not well.” He was obviously thinking of other things.
“When did you talk to her last?”
“The day we were here.” He didn’t ask why so I could make up a plausible story about my concerns, but changed the subject. “Close-quarter fight in the van,” Max said, echoing Manriquez’s conjecture.
“He said maybe it was that.”
Max leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers. “You knew the vehicle was a van before I said so. You knew it was there and you lied about it. I’m offering you the courtesy of not immediately calling this murder and taking you to headquarters for an official interview. You’re going to tell me what the fuck happened and no lies.”
I wasn’t caught off guard. On my ride back from the airport I had got a better grip on the Max issue and figured that I had jumped to a much greater conclusion than he would. Sure, he knew I knew the vehicle was a van, which meant I had lied about seeing it in the wash. But it would be a quantum leap from there to a former FBI agent murdering an innocent victim and then hiding the fact. Max had no reason at all to make that leap. That’s why he said interview and not interrogation.
So feeling a little more confident, “I’m here to make my full confession, Max,” I said.
He pushed his nose to one side with his knuckles and blew out, probably clearing some remaining stench from the autopsy room, and wiped a little mentholatum from the back of his finger onto his pants. But he adjusted quickly; the backseats of cop cars smell just as bad no matter how often they’re hosed out. “Stop bullshitting and get on with it,” he said.
I had heard enough lies in my career and gotten enough practice of my own. Now if I could weave enough of a story to win his trust without tying a noose …
I set it up carefully, connecting the truth with the lies in a story that I hoped was believable. I confided my relationship with Carlo and explained how he didn’t know anything about my past. That was why I didn’t want to talk in front of Carlo. “But yes, I had seen the van. I saw it the day before it was found and even looked inside. I saw the body. You were right, I knew the body was there.
“I pulled out my phone to call you, Max, but just went into a temporary slump, immobilized by seeing this kind of thing when I thought I never would again. Plus, I hated to have Carlo find out that I’d been even this close to violence.”
I leaned toward him, mimicking his body language to show I was in sync with him, my hands resting lightly on the arms of the