Alex Cross, Run (Alex Cross 20)

I didn’t stop to make coffee, just spread the paper out over the kitchen counter. The shocking story had been written by my great friend Cindy Thomas, charter member of the Women’s Murder Club, engaged to marry my partner, Rich Conklin, and a bulldog of a reporter.

Unrelenting tenacity can be an annoying trait in a friend, but it had made Cindy a successful crime reporter with a huge future. Her story on Faye Farmer had shot past the second section of the paper and was on the front page above the fold.

Cindy had written, “Designer Faye Farmer, 27, known for her red carpet styling and must-have wear for the young and famous, was found dead in her car last night on Twenty-Ninth Street and Noe.

“Captain Warren Jacobi has told the Chronicle that Ms. Farmer had been the victim of a gunshot wound to the head. An autopsy has been scheduled for Tuesday.”

It was almost impossible to believe that such a bright, vivacious young woman was dead, her promising life just . . . over. Had someone taken her life? Or had she killed herself?

I kept reading.

The article went on to say that Faye Farmer lived with football great Jeffrey Kennedy, who was not a suspect and was cooperating fully with the police.

I’d watched Jeff Kennedy many times from the stands at Candlestick Park. At twenty-five, he was already the NFL’s best outside linebacker. H

is defensive skills and film-star looks had made him an immediate fan favorite, and with a guaranteed ten million dollars a year he was the league’s fifth-highest earner.

Faye Farmer had been photographed with Kennedy frequently over the last couple of years and had been quoted as saying that she was going to be married—“to someone.” The way it sounded, she wanted to get married to Kennedy, but he wasn’t at the until-death-do-us-part stage.

I was dying for more information. This was what’s termed a “suspicious death,” and my mind just cannot rest until a puzzle is solved.

Claire Washburn didn’t mind putting on a dog-and-pony show as long as nobody sneezed or puked on the body. A high-profile case like this one would be scrutinized for mistakes, and the last thing she wanted was to have to explain to the court how random DNA got on the victim.

There was a bark of laughter outside the frosted glass of her office door. Claire sighed once, forwarded her phone calls to the front desk, and then went to the conference room.

The twelve people who were waiting for her turned as one.

Claire couldn’t stop herself from laughing. To a man, and to a woman, her visitors were dressed in baby-yellow paper scrubs and Tyvek gowns. Most hilarious of all was Rich Conklin, former Mr. September in the Law Enforcement Officer Beefsteak Calendar for 2011.

Great big handsome man, outfitted like a hospital kitchen worker.

Claire said, “Good morning, Easter chicks,” and she laughed again, this time joined by the group of cops, junior techs from CSU, and the law school grads from the DA’s office who were getting on-the-job education this morning.

She caught her breath and said, “If we’ve never met, I’m Dr. Washburn, Chief Medical Examiner, and before I begin this morning’s autopsy, please introduce yourselves.”

Claire had everyone’s attention, and when the introductions were concluded she began a condensed lecture on the purpose of an autopsy: to discover the cause and manner of death.

“You’ll see that the victim will be wearing what she had on when she was recovered from the scene. She’ll have bags on her hands to preserve any DNA she may have scraped from a possible attacker. She will have a complete external exam, including total body X-rays, before we ever do an internal exam. And then, I’m going to do that.

“If Ms. Farmer’s death is determined to be a homicide—not saying it was a homicide, but if she was killed and the evidence leads to an indictment, the defense may try to prove that our evidence was contaminated. That we’re a bunch of fumble-fingered idiots. Remember O.J. Protecting the integrity of this postmortem is critical to catching and holding a bad guy. Because of lousy forensics, there are innocent people in jail for crimes they never committed and murderers walking the streets free.

“To the dead, we owe respect. To the living, we owe the truth. Nothing less, nothing more, no matter where the evidence leads us.

“House rules. Keep your prophylactic outerwear in place. Masks must be worn in the surgery and kept on. Understand? If you forgot to turn off your cell phone, do it now. Save your questions until I ask for them. When I’m done, I’ll memorialize my findings for the record. Everything you see or hear from now on is highly confidential and leaks will not be tolerated.

“Are there any questions now?

“All right then. If we’re all clear on the house rules . . .” Claire turned to her assistant, the fetching Bunny Ellis, her hair done up like mouse ears, reverent eyes turned toward her boss.

“Bunny, will you please wheel Ms. Farmer into the autopsy suite? Everyone else, follow me.”

Claire hip-butted the swinging door and entered the autopsy suite. The cops and the junior-grade assistants behind her were excited, speaking in whispers that seemed to cut loose, rise in volume, loop around her, and then die down to a hush again.

Conklin had the summer intern under his wing. Mackie Morales seemed bright and eager and maybe a little bit too much into Richie. The way she looked at him, the way he was a little puffed up, explaining things to her. Cindy would not be happy if she saw this.

And not too much escaped Cindy.

Claire laughed quietly, but she didn’t say anything to Conklin, just went to the far corner of the room and pushed the button that turned on the video camera. The light on the camera didn’t go on. She punched it a couple of times, and still the little red eye was dark.