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.”