At a little after four in the afternoon of the same day, all that optimism had evaporated like a snowball on an August afternoon. Rather than feeling good, Ben was confused and anxious to the point of being fearful. Instead of being at home as he had planned, relaxing and looking forward to his 10K race in the morning, he was in his car, driving back across the George Washington Bridge, on his way to the medical examiner’s office. His mission now was to view an unidentified corpse, whom he worried was going to be Satoshi Machita. The clerk he had spoken to, Rebecca Marshall, said the body had arrived at about six-thirty Wednesday night after the victim had collapsed on a subway platform. She had also described the victim as being somewhere between late thirties and middle forties, one hundred and forty pounds, five-foot-eight, with Asian features and closely cropped hair, all of which fit Satoshi’s description.

As he drove down FDR Drive, surrounded by the Range Rover’s luxuriously appointed leather interior, Ben tried his best to think. He usually found driving an aid to contemplation, with the hum of the engine and the road rushing mesmerizingly, blocking other thoughts. He needed to think while he still had some control over events. A lot had happened in the previous few hours.

The day had deteriorated the moment he’d smelled the putrefaction and subsequently discovered the bodies at the house in Fort Lee. It had been a horrific and shocking discovery. Except for rescuing little Shigeru, he wished he’d not gone to check on Satoshi. Maybe the bodies wouldn’t have been discovered for months, and he would not be in the trouble he was in now, trouble that had started the moment the police had arrived.

By merely going into the house and contaminating the scene, Ben had vaguely worried he might be suspected of somehow being involved, but he was confident any such suspicions would be quickly put to rest. What Ben never imagined was that he’d been considered suspicious and a threat from the start.

After making the 911 call, Ben sat in his car, waiting for the authorities to arrive while letting Shigeru take little sips of water. Ben had been totally engrossed in thinking about the fallout his discovery of Satoshi’s family’s mass murder was going to cause. There was no doubt in his mind that it would become a media event and spark a massive investigation. Even though he didn’t find Satoshi’s body among the others, he thought it might be in another part of the house. To Ben, the mass murder smacked of organized crime, possibly drug-related, and he believed the authorities would approach it as such.

For Ben, the idea of being involved in any major investigation was anathema, and the fact that he would be in this one was a given. Ben’s connection to Satoshi as his employer would entangle both him and iPS USA. He had no idea what he could or should do.

Any serious investigation of iPS USA was terrifying. Today’s economic reality had forced Ben into accepting dirty money. At first it had been relatively small amounts, which he made sure to pay off quickly. But as time passed and the economy remained flat, the temptation to borrow greater amounts grew. It was all timing. Like other victims of the recession, he had run into difficulty finding capital just at the time he’d needed it the most. It was then that he’d succumbed to Michael’s constant pressure that the money was there for him and that it was completely safe to exchange the money for equity rather than taking it as a loan. Even Vinnie Dominick and Saboru Fukuda had assured him of its safety by explaining that their monies were untraceable through five or more shell companies located in all the usual less financially reputable counties in the world, where secrecy and baksheesh were king and whose governments were not signatories of the Mutual Legal Assistance Treaty.

While Ben had been sitting in his car with Shigeru, worrying about the upcoming investigation, the sound of approaching sirens had gradually penetrated his brain. At first the sounds were barely detectable, but their undulations rapidly increased in power until the flotilla of racing police cars with sirens screaming burst into view in Ben’s rearview mirror. At first he was tempted to just get out to wait for their arrival, but he hesitated. The squad cars appeared to be approaching so fast that Ben was worried about his safety. And he was right. Amazed, he watched the cars gobble up the distance between him and them without slowing and then screech to a stop with one of the three vehicles spinning out in the process. Even before they were fully stopped, doors had burst open and uniformed Fort Lee police offers had leaped out with guns drawn. It was as if they thought the mass murder was in progress rather than days old, which Ben had been very clear about on the phone.

Ben was wide-eyed with sudden terror. He’d never experienced such a thing. All the guns were pointed at him, making him worry that a sudden move or noise might unleash a salvo. He tried to scrunch down in his seat but to no avail. Range Rovers were designed for maximum visibility.

“Out of the car!” one of the officers had yelled. “Hands free and point them toward the sky.”

“Do it slowly!” another officer had shouted. “No sudden moves.”

“There’s a child in here with me,” Ben had yelled. “He needs medical attention.”

“Out of the car! Now!”

“I’m getting out,” Ben had yelled. “I’m just the nine-one-one caller, for chrissake.”

“To the ground! Spread-eagle!”

Ben had complied, pushing away a few empty beer cans and other debris.

In the next minute, several cops ran up behind him and patted him down. Satisfied he was unarmed, they cuffed him and then hoisted him to his feet. Ben watched as a number of the Fort Lee police ran up to the house with guns drawn and disappeared inside.

“Christ, what a smell!” one of the officers said, standing next to Ben and wrinkling his nose. To Ben he said, “Did you go in there?”

“I did. I didn’t want to, but I heard a noise, which turned out to be this child,” Ben said, using his head to point through the open driver’s-side door of his Range Rover at Shigeru, whose face could barely be seen within the enfolding blanket. “Why the hell did you cuff me?” Ben pleaded. “Am I a suspect? From the smell, whatever happened here was days ago.”

The officer didn’t answer. The ambulance had arrived, its siren loud enough to cause Ben’s ears to ring. Several EMTs leaped out, one going to the ambulance’s rear to open the door, another rushing to where Ben was standing with his two guards.

“Where’s the child?” the driver demanded. Ben had requested the ambulance when he’d made the 911 call.

“He’s here in the car,” Ben answered before the police could respond. “He’s fine,” Ben added quickly. “He’s dehydrated, but mostly he’s terrified. He’d been in a hidden room in the dark from whenever this disaster occurred. I’m a doctor. He needs an IV. He needs blood work. His kidney function has to be evaluated.”

Ben turned to one of his captors, a uniformed officer identified on his nametag as Sergeant Higgins. “I’d like to go with the child. As I said, I’m a doctor. I can return here for questioning after the child is stabilized.”

“Are you related to the kid somehow?” Sergeant Higgins questioned.

“No, I’m not,” Ben said, “but . . .” It was at that moment Ben remembered the documents in the office safe: the two wills, one signed, one unsigned, and the trust agreement signed, making him the trustee of the trust that was going to own the key patents for iPS cells. For Ben, remembering the existence of the legal documents was like a sudden burst of sunshine in the middle of a terrible storm. Although he was no lawyer, the idea that he might have something to say about the patents’ future couldn’t be bad for the future of iPS USA and the necessary perpetuation of the licensing agreement.

“But what?” Sergeant Higgins said when Ben had paused.

“But I’m to be the child’s guardian when the father’s will is probated.”

“Is the father in the house as one of the victims?”

“Not that I know of. I only saw the mother.”

“Is the father dead?”

“That I don’t know either,” Ben admitted, making him realize his case for leaving the scene and going with the child was cellophane-thin, even if he was to produce the one signed will he had. Accepting reality, he turned back to the EMT. “Take the child, whose name, by the way, is Shigeru Machita, start an IV, but tell the hospital authorities that I will most likely soon be the guardian, and that I give permission to treat the child as I’ve already described. Also tell them I will be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” the EMT said simply, and then took off, rounding Ben’s car to get to the front passenger door.

Ben watched the EMT lift the child, then quickly turn his head away as the smell of the child invaded his airspace. The EMT then ran Shigeru back to the ambulance’s rear and handed him off to the other EMT, who’d gone back to the vehicle to prepare for receiving the child.

For a moment Ben found himself thinking about the legal issues that were sure to arise. Shigeru, like the rest of his family, was an illegal alien, without even a record of his entrance into the country. His Japanese citizenship would impact an American court’s decision about his future. But where was Satoshi, and was he alive or dead? If he was alive, the legal issues were fewer. Could he have arrived home, seen the mayhem, and gone into hiding? It now seemed unlikely. Ben had an awful sinking feeling that Satoshi, like his family, was already dead.

As the ambulance made a three-point turn in the middle of Pleasant Lane, more police cars arrived, though without the same sense of urgency. Ben noticed these squad cars were from the Bergen County police.

A moment later an unmarked car and several white vans pulled behind the Bergen County police. On the side of the vans was stenciled: NEW JERSEY DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC SAFETY, OFFICE OF MEDICAL EXAMINER. From one of the marked police cars emerged a plainclothes detective. He was of medium height and thickset, with a shock of brown hair going gray at the temples. It was clear he was a force to contend with. He was one of those people who radiated authority, determination, and intelligence all at once in a calm, unspoken way.

He walked directly up to Ben, who was instantly wary, and said, “I’m Detective Lieutenant Tom Janow of the Bergen County police.” Without waiting for a response, he turned to Sergeant Higgins. “Is this the nine-one-one caller?”

“He is, sir!”

“Why is he in handcuffs?”

Sergeant Higgins paused, seemingly caught off guard by the question. “Lieutenant Brigs said to pat him and cuff him.”

“For what reason?”

“Well . . . because the case was a mass murder.”

“A mass murder that had apparently gone down a day or so ago, if I’m not mistaken,” Tom said. His voice was even and matter-of-fact and without emotion or blame.

“Well, that’s true,” the sergeant admitted.

“Uncuff him!” Tom said calmly.

While Ben was being released he watched how efficiently the Bergen County police task force went to work. While the Fort Lee police continued to secure the area, the Bergen County contingent prepared to process the scene. Besides the plainclothes detective, there was a handful of uniformed officers, a number of crime scene investigators, and several medical legal investigators from the Bergen County medical examiner’s office. The MLIs were busily suiting up in bioprotective clothing with some even donning closed circuit breathing apparatus like Aqua-Lungs to be ready to go into the building as soon as the local police declared it safe. There was even a representative from the Bergen County district attorney’s office, who’d gotten out of his unmarked car and had walked over to introduce himself to Detective Lieutenant Janow and ask permission to listen in on the questioning of Ben, which the detective agreed to instantly.

“Sorry about the cuffs,” Tom said, once the shackles had been removed. There had been a brief problem with the key.

Ben acknowledged Tom’s apology. Although he had been worried about the situation when he’d first discovered the bodies, the idea that he might be considered a suspect had never dawned on him. “I’m not considered a suspect, am I?” Ben asked while rubbing his wrists. He wanted to be absolutely sure. He was already nervous enough.

“Not yet,” Tom said. “Should we have our conversation in your vehicle? It might be more agreeable.”

Not completely relieved of his concern about possibly being a suspect, Ben agreed to the use of his car. Tom got in on the front passenger side while Ben climbed in behind the wheel. The investigator from the district attorney’s office seated himself in the passenger-side backseat.

With his pad and pencil at the ready, Tom started with the usual litany of questions, associated with Ben’s identity and history, rapidly writing as Ben spoke. As they proceeded, Ben’s evaluation of the man’s professionalism went up another notch. Tom’s systematic, experienced, and smooth approach to interviewing made it clear he knew what he was doing while making it all appear effortless. Within just a few minutes they had progressed from Ben’s identity to Ben’s personal history to the facts that led up to Ben’s having stopped by the Machitas’ household on that particular day.

When Tom paused in his questioning, Ben could feel himself trembling and hoped it was not obvious. The feeling that Tom was almost too good at what he was doing made Ben progressively nervous that Tom might find out things that Ben didn’t want him to learn. Ben seriously wanted to end the interview but hesitated to say anything, lest the wily detective take Ben’s eagerness to cut things off as a sign that he had something to hide.

There was another reason Ben was nervous: He had not been totally truthful. In fact, he’d lied twice. The first deliberate lie had been when Ben said that Satoshi Machita had given him his home address, and the second had been that he had no idea how Satoshi had found the property.

At that point, one of the Bergen County police had come out of the building and rapped on Tom’s passenger-side window. Tom had gotten out of the car, allowing Ben to turn and acknowledge the thin, bespectacled man sitting in his backseat. For a moment their eyes locked but no words were spoken. The situation did not encourage small talk. Five minutes later Tom climbed back into the car. As soon as he’d slammed the door shut, he went back to his questioning.

“Now, I’ve been told you did go into the house.”

“I did,” Ben admitted. “I can assure you that I would rather not have gone in, but I felt impelled because of the child. I had heard a high-pitched noise from the door. I didn’t know at the time it was a child.” Another lie, and Ben did not even know why he had told it.

“Did you bust the window in the door?”

“I did not. The door window was broken when I got here. The door was unlocked.”

“Did you recognize any of the victims?”

“Just the wife.”

“What about Satoshi?”

“He wasn’t there, at least I didn’t think he was, but I didn’t go into the basement.”

“He isn’t there,” Tom offered. “I’ve been told the bodies are all together in the same room, lined up on the floor: six of them.”

“That’s what I saw.”

“Where is he?” Tom asked casually, as if he was inquiring about an acquaintance.

“I wish I knew,” Ben said. “I had been trying to get in touch with him for several days. He’d been eager to get some lab space. I wanted to let him know it had been arranged. As I told you, the reason I stopped by here is to see him.”

“When and where was the last time you saw him?”

“Wednesday afternoon. We’d had a small celebration in the office in the city after we’d signed a licensing agreement. He left early, saying he wanted to get home to share the good news with his wife.”

“Was this licensing agreement going to be lucrative for him?”

“Immensely so!”

Tom paused for a moment, thinking, then took a moment to jot something down.

“Are you thinking that Satoshi might be the perpetrator, having killed his family except for the child?”

“If this had been domestic violence, he’d be my first choice,” Tom said. “But I doubt this scene represents domestic violence. It’s too smooth, too professional. This smacks of organized crime. I mean, I’ve been told the bodies are lined up like a production line. That wouldn’t happen in a scene of domestic violence. This looks like a drug hit, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want to find Mr. Satoshi as a person of interest.”

“Hmm,” Ben voiced. Although he’d come to the same conclusion about the killing not representing domestic violence, he’d decided not to offer any more insight or information unless specifically asked.

“Did you know that the killer or killers made a specific point to remove all identification? If it hadn’t been for you, we would have no idea who these people were.”

“I didn’t know,” Ben said, progressively wishing he’d never come. “I did notice that the home had been ransacked.” It was Ben’s thought that the killer or killers had searched for something above and beyond identification. He had guessed it was Satoshi’s lab books, but that idea he was unwilling to share.

“How much effort have you made looking for Satoshi?”

“I’ve called him repeatedly on his cell. Other than that and coming here today, I’ve done nothing specifically.”

“As careful about removing identification as the intruders were, if they were to have caught Satoshi before coming here and killed him, they probably would have gotten rid of his identification as well. Did you contact Missing Persons in the city on the odd chance that there is an unclaimed Japanese corpse hanging out in the morgue?”

“I certainly did not,” Ben responded.

Tom opened the door, stepped out, and yelled for one of the uniformed officers to kindly come over. When the officer did, Ben could hear Tom ordering him to go back to the car and call the Missing Persons Squad in New York City and inquire about any unidentified Japanese corpse coming in over the last several days.

Tom returned and climbed back into the car. As he did so, he caught Ben glancing at his watch.

“Are we keeping you from something important?”

“Actually, yes,” Ben said. “I’m worried about the child. Do you know where they’ve taken him?”

“The nearest hospital is in Englewood,” Tom said. “You probably know that, since you live in Englewood Cliffs. How critical was the child, in your estimation?”

“Surprisingly enough, seemingly not critical at all. He was dehydrated for sure but probably not enough to cause internal organ damage.”

“I’d guess that they probably took him to Hackensack University Medical Center. I can confirm that. Meanwhile, let me ask you a question. As far as you know, does your company, iPS USA, have anything to do with organized crime?”

Ben was stunned, and before he could help himself, he’d sucked in a tiny but audible gasp of air. The unexpected nature of the question had taken him completely off guard. Instantly recovering, he asked in the calmest voice he could muster, “Why would our biotech start-up, which is trying to cure degenerative disease for the sake of humanity, have anything at all to do with organized crime? Excuse me, even asking such a question is ridiculous.”

Tom raised his eyebrows slightly and commented, “It’s interesting your response to a question is a question, rather than a direct ‘no.’ ”

“It is not surprising that I might be shocked by a question connecting my company to organized crime when we were talking about organized crime being related to this mass murder,” Ben said, defending himself and his response. “Of course I would be taken aback. I think it is clear I came upon the scene totally unawares. I had absolutely no knowledge of this tragedy or anything possibly to do with it.”

Tom took Ben’s disclaimer in stride, and instead of responding, merely looked back at his notes. Ben felt his anxiety ratchet up another notch. He now had the feeling he was being played. He needed to get away; he needed time to think.

The officer dispatched to call Missing Persons rapped on Tom’s window. Tom lowered it and looked at him expectantly.

“They do have a body that fits the description,” the officer said. “It’s at the New York OCME.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Tom said. He looked over at Ben and elevated a single eyebrow. “I think we are making progress.” Turning back to the officer, he said, “Go back and find out where the boy from this disaster was taken.”

The officer did a kind of half-salute before returning to his squad car.

“Maybe, just maybe,” Tom commented, “we’ve solved the mystery of Satoshi, which I believe might ultimately provide key information for the death of the six people in this house.”

“Possibly,” Ben said without enthusiasm. A moment earlier he didn’t think he could possibly get more nervous. But he had been wrong. He didn’t see finding Satoshi as a positive step, at least not dead.

“I tell you what,” Tom said, as if sensitive to Ben’s mind-set. “I still have questions for you, but why don’t I let you go and see the child. I have to go inside and view a scene I don’t want to see. But you have to promise me two things. After you’ve seen the child, I want you to call and then go to the New York OCME over in the city and identify or not identify, as the case may be, the body they have in their cooler. Then I want you to come back here, or if I’m gone, drive out to the Bergen County police station, which is also in Hackensack. Is that a deal?”

“That’s a deal,” Ben said, eager to get away.

“Now, hold on for a minute! I’ll find out for sure where the kid was taken.” Tom climbed out of the car. Simultaneously, so did the investigator from the district attorney’s office, who had been listening in the backseat.

Good grief, Ben said to himself, once alone. There had been nothing he’d liked about the conversation with Tom. Ben shivered at some of the things that he’d said and how he’d acted. From his perspective, it had been an interrogation, plain and simple, in which he did not shine. In a sudden burst of paranoia, Ben thought that the only thing positive about the interview was that he’d not been read his Miranda rights.

Ben straightened up and tried to calm himself. At least the conversation, or whatever it was, was over for now, and when it recommenced he’d have had time to think.

Ben started the car when Tom returned to the driver’s-side window. “As I suspected, the child was taken to Hackensack University Medical Center. I hope all is well with him. And here, take my card.” Tom handed over his card. “It’s got my mobile number. I want to hear immediately, yes or no, on the ID in the city.”

“Wait a second,” Ben said, just as Tom was about to walk away. “I have a suggestion. I’m worried the child might be in danger. Obviously, whoever killed the entire family would probably have wanted to kill the child as well, and if and when they hear about his existence, they might want to finish the job.”

“Good point,” Tom admitted. “Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll put a detail on him right away.”

Although Ben’s visit to the Machita residence was far more harrowing and unnerving, the hospital visit was not a whole lot better, given his mental status. But as troubling as the deaths at the residence were—if, in fact, Satoshi was dead—there was little risk involving a change in the status of the licensing agreement concerning the iPS key patents, a situation that would have been disastrous to iPS USA. Thanks to Satoshi’s insistence on a bit of estate planning, Ben had an ace in the hole, even without the wife’s signature on her will. He had Satoshi’s will and the trust document, which didn’t need the wife’s signature, both fully signed and executed, with the will creating a trust for the key patents and the trust document appointing Ben trustee. What that all meant to Ben was that after probate he would control the trust for the benefit of Shigeru, meaning there would be no challenge to the licensing agreement.

Unfortunately after the hospital visit Ben’s rosy understanding of the legal issues would be sorely undermined, and what had previously provided a modicum of comfort, the will and the trust document, he now feared might be more paper tigers than solid support for the status quo.

Ben had entered the emergency-room door and presented himself as Dr. Benjamin Corey to command more respect, as the ER was packed. Unfortunately, the ruse did not work with the harried emergency-room clerk, and Ben was forced to stand to the side and wait.

“I’m looking for a toddler who came in earlier,” Ben said authoritatively once he had the clerk’s attention. “He came in by ambulance. His name is Shigeru Machita; he’s about one and a half years old. Is he still here in the emergency room, or has he been admitted?”

The clerk, dressed in scrubs, was being unmercifully hounded by several of his coworkers, but to his credit he stayed to finish with Ben. “There’s been no Shigeru Machita since noon,” he said, looking up from the screen.

“There has to be,” Ben said. “The police told me he was coming here.”

“Could it be under another name?” Ben asked.

“If it is, you’ll have to tell me,” the clerk said.

“Of course,” Ben said, hitting his head with the heel of his palm. “How about a generic name, like Baby Jack?”

“Yes, here’s one!” the clerk said, before shouting across the registration area to a coworker that he’d be there in a second. “It’s a baby John Doe,” he said to Ben. “Could that be it?”

“Maybe,” Ben said. “What time did he come in?”

“Two-twenty-two this afternoon.”

“That’s about right,” Ben said. “Where is he?”

“He’s been taken up to pediatrics, room four-twenty-seven.”

“Gotcha,” Ben said. “How do I get there?”

The clerk gave rapid, complicated directions that concluded with the suggestion of following a blue line running on the floor. Ben forgot the directions and just followed the blue line on a labyrinthine route to a bank of elevators.

As he exited the elevator on the fourth floor and despite the chaos that reigned, one of the nurses from the nurses’ desk caught sight of him and called out, “Excuse me. Can I help you?”

Ben angled over to the desk. The woman’s nametag read SHEILA, RN.

“I’m Dr. Ben Corey. I’m here to see baby John Doe in room four-twenty-seven.”

“That’s nice,” Sheila said sincerely. She was a boxy woman with dark skin and mid-length brown hair heavily streaked with blond. “I’m the charge nurse on the floor. We were hoping someone would be coming in. The little darling hasn’t said a peep. The word is that his parents were killed in a mass murder.”

“So far it appears only the mother was killed,” Ben said, hoping it would remain true. “The father is missing. How is he doing?”

“Fine, considering what he’s been through. He was dehydrated when he came into the ER, but that’s been rectified. His electrolytes are now normal, and he’s eating and drinking. But he’s so quiet and hardly moves. He just stares at you with these huge, dark eyes. I’d like to have him say something, even cry.”

“I want to take a peek at him.”

“I’m afraid we can’t allow that, but you can speak with the police officer who’s here to guard him.”

Ben did just that. After the guard looked at Ben’s ID and looked at a list of doctors who had access, he was reluctant to let Ben in until Ben suggested Detective Janow be called. That was all it took, and Ben was escorted in by Sheila.

As Sheila described, Shigeru was lying motionlessly on his back in the crib with his eyes wide open. His eyes followed Ben as he came alongside the crib.

“Hey, big guy!” Ben said as he reached out and gently pinched the child’s skin on his upper arm. After releasing it, Ben could see the skin immediately pop back into its original position, something that hadn’t happened when Ben had gotten him out to the Range Rover. It was a crude but reliable test for dehydration. “Are they treating you okay here?” Ben twisted around the IV bottle to see what he was getting.

“Okasan,” Shigeru said suddenly.

Ben and Sheila looked at each other in surprise.

“What was that?” Ben questioned.

“I have no idea.”

“It must be Japanese.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sheila said. “But hallelujah, he’s said something. He must recognize you.”

“Must be just from earlier today. Prior to today I’d seen him a couple of times, and then only briefly. But it’s a good sign. If the father doesn’t appear soon, apparently I’m going to be the guardian.”

“Really?” Sheila questioned. “We had no idea.”

“I told it to the EMT,” Ben said. “I even told the EMT the kid’s name. It’s Shigeru Machita.”

“I think you’d better talk with the social worker on the case.”

“Of course,” Ben said. He glanced at his watch. He didn’t have a lot of time, since he’d committed himself to return to the city, but he thought it important to straighten out the identity and insurance issues.

While Sheila went to get the social worker, Ben stayed in Shigeru’s room and tried to get the infant to say another word or respond to gentle tickling. Although he did not utter another word, he was physically responsive to the tickling.

Five minutes later Sheila returned with a tall, attractive Hispanic woman. She wore a blue silk dress beneath her long white coat. Her name, of course, was Maria, with a family name of Sanchez.

Sheila had done the introductions, and as soon as they’d been completed, Maria suggested that they talk in the nurses’ lounge behind the nurses’ desk. She had the demeanor of a savvy business-woman who took her job seriously.

“Sheila mentioned that you had told the EMT the child’s name and the fact that you were the guardian,” Maria said as soon as they were seated and cut off from the bustle of the floor.

“I told him the name of the child and that after the father’s will was probated I would possibly be the guardian. That is, of course, if the father is also dead, as feared. I’m really surprised there was such a lack of communication.”

“The emergency room is a busy place.”

I don’t need a lecture about life in the ER, Ben thought but didn’t say. He’d spent too much time in the ER as a surgical resident. To his assessment of Maria’s demeanor he added seemingly inappropriate animosity. Ben had begun to feel that he was being treated as a questionable character, trying to waltz in and steal an orphaned child.

“We’re sorry your communication to the EMT did not get properly relayed. Be that as it may, what is your relationship to the child?”

With a somewhat hardened tone, Ben said, “I was or still am, again depending on the status of the father, his employer.”

“Is there some question as to the status of the father? We were told the child’s parents were both murdered.”

“The mother was, but not the father. The father’s whereabouts is not yet known, although there are some who believe he, too, is dead.”

“Why do you believe you will be the guardian?”

For a moment Ben paused, wondering why he was bothering to answer all these questions. Maybe he should just go to the office and bring back Satoshi’s will. But then he remembered it needed to be probated.

“Did you hear my question?”

“I did, but I’m beginning to feel this is akin to an interrogation, which I find inappropriate.”

“Why didn’t you come in with the child rather than showing up later?”

“It wasn’t my choice. I was detained by the police after I had inadvertently stumbled on the murder victims. I found the child hidden in the house.”

“Well, let me inform you what has gone on here at the hospital in your absence. With no name and no information, I contacted a social worker at DYFS, the Division of Youth and Family Services, here in New Jersey, which is under the Department of Children and Families. She went immediately to one of the DYFS lawyers, who, in turn, went to family court and got DYFS appointed temporary guardian so we would be able to treat the child beyond emergency care. So far it hasn’t been needed. But DYFS is now the guardian. That’s a fact you’ll have to live with.”

“What if I produce the will and the DYFS lawyer can look at it.”

“It wouldn’t matter. The DYFS lawyer cannot change the ruling, only family court, and you couldn’t take the will to family court because it is not probated. And since you don’t know the father’s whereabouts or state of health, you can’t go to probate court. For now you are stuck with DYFS as the temporary guardian.”

Ben was mildly overwhelmed.

“Let me ask you another question,” Maria said when Ben failed to respond. “This child is obviously Japanese, or at least of Asian ancestry, and Sheila said he’d spoken when you arrived, but it wasn’t English. Is he an American citizen?”

“No, he’s Japanese,” Ben said.

“Well, that makes it even more difficult, at least in my experience. In a case like this you cannot take anything for granted. A probate judge will decide the issues, not necessarily on what any documents say but on what he believes is in the best interest of the child.”

“Oh,” Ben said simply as a new wave of concern spread over him. Up until that very moment he still thought the licensing-agreement situation was safe and shielded from change. But now, suddenly, he was learning from a woman with experience in the arena of family law and probate that the licensing agreement’s circumstance was not cast in stone but rather open to the interpretation of what was in the best interest of the child. Even Ben had to accept it would be difficult to justify his role as a trustee of the entity that owned the iPS patents when he was also CEO of iPS USA. It was a huge conflict of interest. And now Ben had to deal with the possibility of iPS USA losing its control of the Satoshi patents. Before visiting the hospital he’d been confident he was destined to be both guardian and trustee for Shigeru. Now there was the possibility he would be neither.

He parked on a side street just a short distance from the OCME building. He paused a moment before entering but not out of fear of the sights he might be forced to confront within the morgue. Unlike laypeople, he had seen enough dead people to accept it as part of life. He’d even watched several autopsies as a student. He paused because his intuition was telling him loudly that Satoshi’s death, even though he had had nothing to do with it, was going to have serious consequences.

To bolster his courage before entering, Ben reminded himself that there was a chance that the body he was about to see might not be Satoshi’s. He also reminded himself that even if it turned out to be Satoshi’s, there was no reason he couldn’t appropriately and sagely deal with the problems and dangers that might arise. Knowledge was always best. It was ignorance that invariably engendered mistakes. If Satoshi was in fact dead, it was best if he knew it before anyone else, and if it was a natural death, it might not have any consequence whatsoever.

With a bit more confidence than he had had a few moments earlier, Ben pulled open one side of a double door and entered OCME. He checked his watch. It was almost quarter to five in the afternoon. Whatever was to happen, he didn’t want it to take too long because of his commitment to stop either back at the scene or at the Bergen County police station and face Tom Janow for more questions before finally being allowed to head home.

The reception area was crowded with what seemed to be staff ready to leave after a long workday. He pushed through the people and approached the desk and asked for Rebecca Marshall, the clerk he’d spoken to earlier on the phone. He was told Rebecca would be down shortly.

Ben waited on an old vinyl couch, watching the people chatting in their dynamic little groups that formed and re-formed as people departed and new people joined. He wondered if they were aware of how unique their work was, and if they ever talked about it among themselves. They probably didn’t—a good example of the adaptability of the human organism.

“Mr. Corey,” a voice called out.

Ben looked up to his right. Somehow an African-American woman with a pleasant, kind face and tightly curled silver hair had managed to sneak right up to him. She clutched a manila case file and other papers to her chest. “I’m Rebecca Marshall. I believe we spoke earlier.”

Rebecca let Ben through a door to Ben’s right and closed it behind them. “This is called the family ID room,” she explained. It was a modest-size space with a blue couch and a large round wooden table with eight wooden chairs. There were several framed posters with images involving the destruction that occurred on 9/11. Each had the caption NEVER FORGET in bold letters across the bottom. “Please,” Rebecca said, gesturing toward one of the chairs at the table. Ben sat, and Rebecca did as well.

“As I mentioned on the phone, I am an identification clerk. As you can well imagine, identification of any body that is brought here is an extremely important part of our job. Usually we have family members who make the identification. If we have no family members, we rely on friends or coworkers. In other words, anyone who knows the victim. You understand, I assume?”

Ben nodded, and to himself thought, I don’t need a lecture; just show me the damn body, and I’m out of here!

“Good,” Rebecca said in response to Ben’s nodding. “To start, I need to see your identification. Anything official with a photo. A driver’s license is fine.” Rebecca retrieved a blank identification form from the materials she had been carrying.

Ben took out his driver’s license and handed it to her. When she was satisfied it was him, she wrote down the information on the form. Her tone and gestures were practiced and respectful, giving Ben the sense that she would be equally competent to handle the situation, whether he threw a fit of grief-evoked rage or, as he was doing, expressing apparent indifference.

With Ben’s identification out of the way, Rebecca opened the case file, which was in the form of a large folder secured with an attached rubber band. Opening the folder, she reached in and pulled out more than a half-dozen digital photos. Very deliberately, she placed them in the proper alignment in front of Ben, who purposely kept his eyes glued to Rebecca’s. When she was finished, they locked eyes for a moment before Ben looked down and focused.

The photos were a series of shots, face-on and profile. They were taken purely for identification purposes in that they were only of the face. Any portion of the body that would have been visible was covered with a towel.

Although Ben recognized Satoshi instantly, he purposefully kept his face neutral. He did not know why, but he did. Neither of them said anything, with Rebecca willing to let Ben take his time. In the stillness, an unintelligible murmur of the voices in the reception area could just be heard.

“His name is Satoshi Machita,” Ben finally said, still glancing from one harshly lit photo to the next. He didn’t realize how disappointed he sounded, which he assumed Rebecca reasonably took for grief. Now it really starts, Ben added silently to himself. Suddenly he decided it was not a good thing or, more realistic, totally inappropriate for him to be showing any emotion. He looked up at the clerk. “I thought I was going to have to look at a body like in the movies.”

“No,” Rebecca said simply. “We’ve been using photos for years. Before the digital camera, we used Polaroids. It is much better for most people than viewing the body, especially for family members or when the faces of the victims have been traumatized. But we have a way of letting people view the bodies if they insist. Would you prefer to see the body? Would it help your decision?”

“No,” Ben said. “It is Satoshi Machita, I am sure. I don’t need to see the body.” Ben started to stand up, but Rebecca laid her hand on his forearm with the lightest touch he’d ever experienced from a person of authority.

“There’s more, I’m afraid,” she said. “But let me ask a question first. The doctor on this case is still here at OCME this evening. I told her you were coming in for a possible identification. She asked me if she might be able to meet you and ask a few questions if you’d been able to identify the body.”

Ben’s first reaction was no. The last thing he wanted to do was get hung up at OCME, since he’d already committed himself to more questions by Detective Janow. He wanted to get to Janow, get it over with, and get home around the time he had estimated when he had called his wife after leaving the hospital. But then he had a second thought. Maybe it might be a good thing to get hung up on an errand that the detective had sent him on. Maybe he could use getting caught at OCME as a way of begging off from seeing the detective again that night. He’d like to be more rested the next time he saw him. In addition, Ben was curious about Satoshi’s death, and a meeting with the medical examiner handling his case was a promising way to find out the details.

“I can just call her and see if she’s available right this minute. We can take care of the rest of our business in the time it will take her to get down here. If you are willing, I want to make the call now to make sure I catch her before she leaves.”

“All right,” Ben said. “As long as it can happen now and not delay me too much longer. I have another meeting scheduled this evening out in New Jersey.”

Worried that Ben might change his mind, Rebecca immediately called up to Laurie’s office. When Laurie heard who it was, she tried to put Rebecca off, saying, “I’m in a meeting that’s about to end. Can I get back to you in a few minutes?”

“That’s not going to work. The gentleman I mentioned needs to leave for a meeting in New Jersey, and I’ve already taken up too much of his time. He came here out of his way to help us identify the victim, which he’s done. We now know the identity of the case.”

“Terrific!” Laurie said. “Hold on!”

Rebecca could hear Laurie talking but not the words.

Laurie came back on the line. “We’ll be right down!” Then she abruptly disconnected.

Rebecca looked at the phone for a moment as if the phone would tell her who Laurie meant when she had said “we.” Hanging up, Rebecca turned back to Ben. “She’s on her way.”

“So I heard,” Ben said.

“So let’s finish up quickly. I want you to write on several of these photos ‘This is Satoshi Machita,’ and then sign your name.”

“Fine,” Ben said.

“Do you know Satoshi’s last address?”

“I do but not his phone number. I have that at the office.”

“Do you know if Mr. Machita had any particular medical problems, old injuries, or identification marks?”

“I have no idea. He seemed healthy to me.”

Rebecca was filling out the identification form as she was asking the questions. “What was your relationship with the deceased? That’s the last question.”

“Employer,” Ben said.