“If you wouldn’t mind,” Jack said. He wasn’t pleased. He was reasonably acquainted with Randolph, whom he put in the same category with perfunctories like George Fontworth. Jack tapped his pencil while he waited. He wished he’d be dealing with any one of the four other Brooklyn MEs.

When Randolph came on the line Jack wasted no time getting to the point. He asked why an autopsy wasn’t done on Connie Davydov.

“I’ll have to get the folder,” Randolph said. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve gotten a request to look into the case,” Jack said. He left it vague who had asked him. If Randolph wanted to think it was Bingham or Calvin, that was fine with Jack.

“Hold on,” Randolph said.

Jack turned to Flash with his palm over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Davydov doesn’t sound like any African-American name I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not,” Flash said. “Connie’s husband is a white boy.”

Jack nodded, sensing there was more reason for possible hostility between Flash and Connie’s spouse than the purported history of domestic violence. “Did he get along with the rest of your family?”

“Ha!” Flash voiced contemptuously. “The family wouldn’t talk to either one of them. They didn’t want her to marry him, no way.”

“Okay, I have the folder,” Randolph said into the phone, capturing Jack’s attention. “And I’ve got the PA’s report in front of me.”

“What’s the scoop?” Jack asked.

“The attending doctor, Michael Cooper, gave a diagnosis of status asthmaticus leading to death,” Randolph said. “There was a long history of asthma with hospitalizations and multiple ER visits. She was also grossly obese, which I’m sure didn’t help her breathing when she got into trouble. It also says she had lots of allergies.”

“I see,” Jack said. “Tell me, did you look at the body?”

“Of course I looked at the body!” Randolph was clearly offended by the query.

“In your professional opinion, were there any signs of domestic violence?” Jack asked.

“If there’d been signs of domestic violence I would have done the goddamned autopsy,” Randolph said defensively.

“Any signs of suffocation?” Jack asked. “Like petechial hemorrhages in the sclera. Anything like that?”

“You’re insulting me with such questions,” Randolph shot back.

“How about toxicology?” Jack asked. “Were any samples taken?”

“An autopsy wasn’t done!” Randolph snapped. “We don’t do toxicology on cases we don’t post. Neither do you.”

Randolph disconnected without another word. Jack raised his eyebrows as he hung up the receiver. “Kinda sensitive guy although in his defense my lack of diplomatic skills is legendary. Anyhow, did you hear the other end of that conversation?”

Both Warren and Flash nodded.