Cruelest Month (Ray Elkins Thriller Series) by Aaron Stander

Author:Aaron Stander [Stander, Aaron]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Writers & Editors, LLC
Published: 2012-08-09T16:00:00+00:00

23

When Hannah emerged in fleece pants and a jacket many sizes too large for her small frame, she found Ray hunched at the kitchen table, staring at the screen of his iPad.

“I like your costume,” he said, sitting up and smiling.

“Best I could find in your closet,” she responded, pulling out a chair. As if on cue, Simone appeared from the bedroom, leapt onto Hannah’s lap, and started inspecting the contents of the tabletop.

“The women are hungry,” said Hannah.

“I can see that,” said Ray.

“What’s going on?” she asked, noting Ray’s attention returning to the screen.

“The downside of technology,” he responded. “In the old days when you requested a forensic autopsy, it would take days to get the preliminary results. It went something like this: After the body arrived in Grand Rapids, a pathologist would do the post mortem during normal weekday working hours, then dictate his or her findings. The dictation would go to someone in the secretarial pool, who also worked normal business hours. He, or most likely she, would send a typed copy back to the pathologist for revision and approval. Any changes would be made on a paper copy and returned to the typing pool. The secretary would make a final copy and return it to the pathologist again for review and signature. This alone would take days. A week after this back and forth, we might get a fax with the preliminary findings, followed in another week or so by an official signed copy with photos via snail mail. Then, a week or two later, we’d get the final toxicology.”

Ray pushed the iPad across the table. “Now, it’s all here in a couple of days: the report, photos, everything but the toxicology. All neatly typed and organized by Samantha Redding, M.D., Fellow, AAFS.”

Hannah glanced at the screen. “Rule one in medicine, never read an autopsy before cappuccino.”

“I’d be happy to do that,” said Ray, putting down the iPad, “but there’s a problem. Something isn’t right. I’m not going to complain about technology again, so I’ll say it’s mostly my technique or lack thereof. The shots I make are bitter, and all I do is warm the milk up—big bubbles, no micro foam.”

Hannah set Simone on the floor. “Come here,” she ordered. “It’s time for Barista 101. We start with the grind.”

She inspected the grinder. “The first problem is that someone messed with the settings. Or maybe it just got out of kilter in the move.” She pointed to a mark she had made with a Sharpie on the adjustment scale. “This is where you want it. It took me several weeks to find the sweet spot and get this dialed in.” She poured in some beans, then pushed the “on” button until the change in sound indicated that all the beans in the hopper had been ground. Then she worked through the rest of the process, filling the portafilter and tamping the grounds. She frothed some milk and pulled the shot. Standing at Ray’s side, she offered gentle coaching as he repeated the procedure.

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