nucleus of a cell looks like the yolk of a fried egg. It contains the chromosomes, which are pods of coiled protein that hold the cell’s DNA intact. Austen did not like the way these brain-cell nuclei looked.
“The cell nuclei are abnormal,” she said. “Would you zoom again, please?”
The scene jumped. The nuclei were bigger.
“That’s the highest magnification,” Dudley said.
It was hard to know what you were looking at. Life at the cellular level is complicated. There seemed to be structure in the cell nuclei—structure that didn’t belong there. Then she saw something. It was something she had never seen before, not even in a textbook. There were
objects
sitting in the cell nucleus.
Things
. Maybe this was something normal. Maybe the stain in the cells had brought out some feature that was explainable. It was hard to tell.
“What is this, Dr. Dudley?”
He grunted. He didn’t have any answers either.
The objects in the nucleus were shiny, glittery, angular crystals. They had a mathematical shape. They were bulging with many facets, like angular soccer balls. They were far too large to be virus particles. Virus particles are invisible in a regular microscope.
The light broke apart in the crystals and seemed to shimmer.
“This is like nothing I’ve ever seen before, Dr. Dudley,” Austen said.
“It’s weird,” Dudley replied, sounding unsure of himself. “This must be some kind of chemical compound. There’s some new drug hitting the street.”
“Maybe these crystals are lumps of virus in a crystallized form,” Austen said.
“Lumps!
Lumps of virus
. Don’t be an idiot,” he snapped. And he continued to stare into the microscope in silence.
Union Square
A COOL AND GENTLE April rain was passing over New York City. Alice Austen stared out the window of her office at the O.C.M.E., watching water run down the blank wall. Then she put on the yellow disaster raincoat, shouldered her knapsack, and took a taxi to Union Square.
A television van from Fox Channel 5 was double-parked on the street in front of the Morans’ building. A young woman reporter spotted Austen’s yellow raincoat as she rang the buzzer. “You’re from the medical examiner’s office? What happened to Kate Moran? Was she poisoned? Was it a murder? Can you tell us anything?” Behind her trailed a video man.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to talk to the chief medical examiner,” Austen said. The buzzer sounded, and she slipped inside.
The girl’s parents, Jim and Eunice Moran, sat holding each other’s hands on a couch in the living room. They seemed devastated. A large black-and-white photograph in a steel frame—a portrait of Eunice Moran by Robert Mapplethorpe—leaned against the wall across from the couch. In the photograph Mrs. Moran was wearing a soft white wool turtleneck sweater, and she looked thoughtful and elegant. In real life she was haggard, her eyes red from crying.
The housekeeper, an older Irish woman, retired to the kitchen, her footsteps padding on the oak floor. Austen heard sounds of her weeping.
Austen knew that people who are in the throes of grief can have unpredictable reactions to an epidemiologist asking questions, and she very gently identified herself as a doctor with the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, working with the city medical examiner’s office. When Kate’s parents understood that Austen had been dispatched to New York to investigate the death of their daughter, they spoke freely with her. The conversation was difficult, because at times Jim and Eunice Moran lost their ability to speak. Kate had been an only child. The parents’ life stretched ahead of them into a future that was more empty than they could have imagined.
They knew there had been an autopsy—in a case of sudden unexpected death an autopsy is required by law, and they had been notified. Austen chose not to tell them that she had performed the autopsy. “Your daughter’s body was released to
“The cell nuclei are abnormal,” she said. “Would you zoom again, please?”
The scene jumped. The nuclei were bigger.
“That’s the highest magnification,” Dudley said.
It was hard to know what you were looking at. Life at the cellular level is complicated. There seemed to be structure in the cell nuclei—structure that didn’t belong there. Then she saw something. It was something she had never seen before, not even in a textbook. There were
objects
sitting in the cell nucleus.
Things
. Maybe this was something normal. Maybe the stain in the cells had brought out some feature that was explainable. It was hard to tell.
“What is this, Dr. Dudley?”
He grunted. He didn’t have any answers either.
The objects in the nucleus were shiny, glittery, angular crystals. They had a mathematical shape. They were bulging with many facets, like angular soccer balls. They were far too large to be virus particles. Virus particles are invisible in a regular microscope.
The light broke apart in the crystals and seemed to shimmer.
“This is like nothing I’ve ever seen before, Dr. Dudley,” Austen said.
“It’s weird,” Dudley replied, sounding unsure of himself. “This must be some kind of chemical compound. There’s some new drug hitting the street.”
“Maybe these crystals are lumps of virus in a crystallized form,” Austen said.
“Lumps!
Lumps of virus
. Don’t be an idiot,” he snapped. And he continued to stare into the microscope in silence.
Union Square
A COOL AND GENTLE April rain was passing over New York City. Alice Austen stared out the window of her office at the O.C.M.E., watching water run down the blank wall. Then she put on the yellow disaster raincoat, shouldered her knapsack, and took a taxi to Union Square.
A television van from Fox Channel 5 was double-parked on the street in front of the Morans’ building. A young woman reporter spotted Austen’s yellow raincoat as she rang the buzzer. “You’re from the medical examiner’s office? What happened to Kate Moran? Was she poisoned? Was it a murder? Can you tell us anything?” Behind her trailed a video man.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to talk to the chief medical examiner,” Austen said. The buzzer sounded, and she slipped inside.
The girl’s parents, Jim and Eunice Moran, sat holding each other’s hands on a couch in the living room. They seemed devastated. A large black-and-white photograph in a steel frame—a portrait of Eunice Moran by Robert Mapplethorpe—leaned against the wall across from the couch. In the photograph Mrs. Moran was wearing a soft white wool turtleneck sweater, and she looked thoughtful and elegant. In real life she was haggard, her eyes red from crying.
The housekeeper, an older Irish woman, retired to the kitchen, her footsteps padding on the oak floor. Austen heard sounds of her weeping.
Austen knew that people who are in the throes of grief can have unpredictable reactions to an epidemiologist asking questions, and she very gently identified herself as a doctor with the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, working with the city medical examiner’s office. When Kate’s parents understood that Austen had been dispatched to New York to investigate the death of their daughter, they spoke freely with her. The conversation was difficult, because at times Jim and Eunice Moran lost their ability to speak. Kate had been an only child. The parents’ life stretched ahead of them into a future that was more empty than they could have imagined.
They knew there had been an autopsy—in a case of sudden unexpected death an autopsy is required by law, and they had been notified. Austen chose not to tell them that she had performed the autopsy. “Your daughter’s body was released to
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