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dead.”
    “Yes. I don’t know what the potion was, but that scenario was not impossible.”
    “Which drugs can do it?”
    “Barbiturates, for example. They can depress your respiration and make it hard to tell that a subject is breathing.”
    “That’s what turned up in Jane Doe’s toxicology screen, isn’t it? Phenobarbital.”
    She frowned. “Where did you hear that?”
    “Sources. It’s true, isn’t it?”
    “No comment.”
    “Does she have a psychiatric history? Why would she take an overdose of phenobarb?”
    “We don’t even know the woman’s name, much less her psychiatric history.”
    He studied her for a moment, his gaze too penetrating for comfort. This interview is a mistake, she thought. Moments ago, Peter Lukas had impressed her as polite and serious, the type of journalist who would approach this story with respect. But the direction of his questioning made her uneasy. He had walked into this meeting fully prepared and well versed in the very details that she least wanted to dwell on; the very details that would rivet the public’s attention.
    “I understand the woman was pulled out of Hingham Bay yesterday morning,” he said. “Weymouth Fire and Rescue were the first to respond.”
    “That’s correct.”
    “Why wasn’t the ME’s office called to the scene?”
    “We don’t have the manpower to visit every death scene. Plus, this one was down in Weymouth, and there were no obvious indications of foul play.”
    “And that was determined by the state police?”
    “Their detective thought it was most likely accidental.”
    “Or possibly a suicide attempt? Considering the results of her tox screen?”
    She saw no point in denying what he already knew. “She may have taken an overdose, yes.”
    “A barbiturate overdose. And a body chilled by cold water. Two reasons to obscure a determination of death. Shouldn’t that have been considered?”
    “It’s—yes, it’s something one should consider.”
    “But neither the state police detective nor the Weymouth Fire Department did. Which sounds like a mistake.”
    “It can happen. That’s all I can say.”
    “Have you ever made that mistake, Dr. Isles? Declared someone dead who was still alive?”
    She paused, thinking back to her internship years before. To a night on call during internal medicine rotation, when the ringing phone had awakened her from a deep sleep. The patient in bed 336A had just expired, a nurse told her. Could the intern come pronounce the woman dead? As Maura had made her way to the patient’s room, she’d felt no anxiety, no crisis of confidence. In medical school, there was no special lesson on how to determine death; it was understood that you would recognize it when you saw it. That night, she had walked the hospital corridor thinking that she would make quick work of this task, then return to bed. The death was not unexpected; the patient had been in the terminal stages of cancer, and her chart was clearly labeled NO CODE . No resuscitation.
    Stepping into room 336, she’d been startled to find the bed surrounded by tearful family members who’d gathered to say good-bye. Maura had an audience. This was not the calm communion with the deceased that she had expected. She was painfully aware of all the eyes watching her as she apologized for the intrusion, as she moved to the bedside. The patient lay on her back, her face at peace. Maura took out her stethoscope, slipped the diaphragm under the hospital gown, and laid it against the frail chest. As she’d bent over the body, she felt the family pressing in around her, felt the pressure of their smothering attention. She did not listen as long as she should have. The nurses had already determined the woman was dead; calling in the doctor to make a pronouncement was merely protocol. A note in a chart, an MD’s signature, was all they really needed before a transfer to the morgue. Bent over the chest, listening to silence, Maura could not wait to escape the