Excerpt of The Act of Murder by Trisha Sugarek

Ruby Crutchner, Chief Medical Examiner for the borough of Manhattan had been called to an unattended death. She could have sent one of her assistants but she had recognized the name. No way was this death being given anything short of a red carpet.

She parked her van, with its NYC Medical Examiner logo plastered on its sides, in front of the Marble Theatre on West 44th. A sharp fall wind blasted down the street, the buildings creating a wind tunnel. The marquee screamed the name of the upcoming production while lights chased themselves around and around. Ruby paused, Oh! I like that play, haven’t seen it in years. Guess I still won’t be seeing it anytime soon.

Her two helpers were unloading a gurney, with a body bag strapped to the top, as she walked through the double doors of the theatre and into the ornate lobby. She only had an impression of red and gold and large antique crystal chandeliers glowing from a thirty foot ceiling.

Clustered off to the side were seven people. Ruby only recognized one of them, Marianne Marsh. She promised herself that she would absolutely not ask for an autograph. A man stepped forward.

“Are you the ME? Finally! My God, he’s been sitting in there for hours. He’s dead.”

“And you are?” Ruby asked.

“I’m Norton Buck. I’m the executive producer. Who are you?”

“Ruby Crutchner, Chief Medical Examiner. Can you show me the deceased?”

Marianne Marsh began to weep at hearing the word. Two of the men closed in around her and began to console her.

“This way,” the producer turned and opened a door into the auditorium. He nervously chattered as they walked down the aisle. “I just stopped by to see how rehearsal was going. I was early so I could have a few words with Ruben about finances, you know? He was just sitting there. I thought he was napping. Totally out of character for him but he was getting older. But he didn’t wake up, even when I touched him. My God…”

Ruben DiMaggio sat, as if asleep, in one of the theatre chairs. On the small table in front of him, the script of the play, in a three-ring binder, lay open in front of him and a pencil was near his hand. A cup of cold coffee sat to the side. His head rested on his chin and his eyes stared at the stain on his loosened tie.

“Did anyone touch him besides you?” Ruby asked the shaken man.

“No. I called 911 as soon as I realized Ruben would not wake up. When the stage manager and first actor arrived …I think it was Dirk…and they walked on stage, I told them something was wrong with Ruben. I sent them back to stand at the stage door and not let any of the women out here. Marianne and Ruben have been together for…God …decades. Everyone was directed out front and I stayed here with Ruben until the EMS got here.”

“Did Mr. DiMaggio have any health problems that you know of?”

“I have no idea. We weren’t friends. I was the money guy. But Marianne would know.”

All the while that the man had been talking, Ruby had been working. Turning on her recorder she slipped it back in her jacket pocket and put on latex gloves. She verified that the man was truly deceased. Sometimes the first responders got it wrong and it was disconcerting when a body sat up in the back of the ME’s wagon. It has happened, but, thank God, never to me. She mused. Heart attack, aneurism, or both was possible with a guy this obese. But strangely there were no physical indications of cause of death.

“October 14th, eighteen hundred hours, fourteen minutes. Ruby Crutchner, ME attending. Preliminary cause of death, natural. Time of death, unknown at this time.”

The trolley rattled down the aisle and the producer jumped back.

“Load him up, boys. He’s ours now. Mr. Buck, could you write down your name, and the names of the folks out front and phone numbers, please?” Ruby handed him a small notebook and pen.

“Sure. Ah…Ms. Crutchner, this was supposed to be our first preview night. Do you think we can go ahead with it? I mean, after we clean this area?...I mean, will you be finished?”

Ruby gave him a long look.

Buck had the grace to at least try to blush with shame. It didn’t work.

“Look, I know that sounds unfeeling, but we’re sold out tonight. ‘The show must go on!’” he blustered.

“It’s all yours, Mr. Buck.” Ruby snorted and followed the gurney up the aisle, mumbling under her breath, “Theatre people! Bat-shit crazy.”