{"product_id":"remains-silent-isbn-9781400095612","title":"Remains Silent","description":"When\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003ea body is\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003efound beneath a construction site near the Catskill Mountains, New York City deputy chief medical examiner Jake Rosen is called to the scene, where he meets his match: Philomena “Manny” Manfreda, a beautiful crusading attorney. Together they stumble upon a decades-old mystery involving a long-shuttered mental institution, shocking medical experiments, and a troubled love affair.“Wonderfully done. . . .  Baden and Kenney are formidable, and \u003ci\u003eRemains Silent\u003c\/i\u003e sparkles.” –Patricia Cornwell“Chilling. . . . Will keep even the most sophisticated reader guessing until the very last page. . . . [It] makes \u003ci\u003eCSI\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eNYPD Blue\u003c\/i\u003e look like child’s play.”–Ann Rule\u003cbr\u003e“A satisfying read for fans of both medical and classic mysteries.”–\u003ci\u003eDecatur Daily\u003c\/i\u003e“Personality abounds. . . [\u003ci\u003eRemains Silent\u003c\/i\u003e] evoke[s] popular authors like Janet Evanovich and Stuart Woods.” –\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e“Baden and Kenney have given us the best wisecracking, crime-fighting couple since Nick and Nora Charles.”–Catherine Crier\u003cb\u003eMichael Baden, M.D.,\u003c\/b\u003e is one of America’s leading forensic experts.  He has overseen cases ranging from the death of John Belushi to the examination of the remains of Tsar Nicholas II and has served as an expert witness in countless criminal cases, including the trials of Claus von Bulow and O. J. Simpson. He has been a consulting forensic pathologist to the U.S. Department of Justice, the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, the FBI, and the Russian government, as well as a visiting professor at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, Albert Einstein College of Medicine, and Albany Medical College.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eLinda Kenney Baden \u003c\/b\u003ehas won dozens of civil rights lawsuits and has appeared as a guest legal commentator on Court TV, CNN, and MSNBC.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey live in New York City with their dog, Mycroft. For more information, visit www.remainssilent.com.It was Jake’s idea of a perfect rainy Friday night. The trial was over,  the truth had prevailed—too bad about Manny Manfreda; she had done a good  job but she didn’t have the right evidence—and now he was alone in his  Upper East Side brownstone kitchen, eating Chinese food, reading a  treatise on blood spatter, and listening to Duke Ellington’s soundtrack of  Anatomy of a Murder. Brilliant movie, inspiring music. Peace, it’s  wonderful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Alongside his take-out containers, piles of paperwork cluttered the top of  his chrome-and-red Formica table; he’d tackle it over the weekend. His  kitchen held a motley group of appliances:   a recently purchased commercial stainless steel refrigerator, an   avocado-green stove from the sixties, a white porcelain double sink from  the fifties. The countertops were fifties Formica in green geometrical  patterns; the metal cabinets, painted and repainted over the years, were a  drab beige. A butcher-block island, scarred by years of white rings from  wet plates and glasses, stood in faded glory in the center of the space.  French doors in the back opened into a garden, converted by neglect into  living quarters for a few happy squirrels, some pigeons, and an occasional  chair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Jake had bought the five-story brownstone in the mid-1980s, shortly after  being hired at the ME’s office. He could only afford it because it was  north of Ninety-sixth Street near Harlem, in those days not the nicest of  neighborhoods. But he didn’t see it as an investment or even a possession.  He saw New York’s history: the wealthy who had once populated the area,  the careful work of nineteenth-century stonemasons, and the varied texture  of the constantly changing community. When he finally had the money to do  some work on the place, it was so full of forensic teaching materials and  artifacts he had no idea where to start. Besides, he didn’t have the time.  This was New York. People died by the hundreds every day. He never had the  time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The music stopped, and he stopped eating and stared at his food. The sauce  on his sesame chicken, he realized, was nearly the consistency of human  blood. He picked up a knife, dipped it, and spattered the sauce across the  kitchen table and the wall behind it, as though someone had stabbed the  chicken from behind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The phone rang. Damn. He picked it up. “Rosen.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Miss me?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The two words gave him a jolt of pleasure. The only voice allowed to  intrude into his solitude was Pete Harrigan’s—any time and any place.  Pete, thirty years Jake’s senior, was one of only two people on this earth  Jake loved. The other was his brother, Sam, and Sam didn’t have intrusion  privileges.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Sure I miss you.” Jake studied the mess on the table. “In fact, I was  just thinking about you. The influence of knife length on cast-off blood  spatter patterns.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “I’m flattered,” Harrigan said. “But you should be out on a date. Weren’t  you seeing that fingerprint expert from—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Broke it off,” Jake said quickly, feeling a flash of pain. “Too soon  after my divorce.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Trouble with women, trouble in the office. I hear you’ve had a go-round  with the chief. Too much private work, not enough time serving the city.”  Harrigan had once been chief himself. Retired now, he obviously still had  tentacles inside the ME’s office. “How is my old friend Charles Pederson?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Still the same where you’re concerned,” Jake said. “Hey, you’re the one  who taught me any medical examiner worth a damn pisses off the powers that  be. Comes with the territory.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “And you were my best student. Developed pissing off into a specialty.  How’s Wally?” Harrigan was given to abrupt changes of subject.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Blossoming. The man’s a godsend. I thank you for him every day.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Dr. Walter Winnick—Wally—was a protégé whom Harrigan had recommended to  Jake. The man had a clubfoot, but his mind sprinted to invariably accurate  conclusions; Jake couldn’t have handled his workload without him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Glad to hear it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “How’s Elizabeth?” Jake asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Fine. The woman’s going to be New Jersey’s next governor. Ever since she  married that Markis fellow, though, she’s pretty much stopped visiting. If  I want to see my daughter, I have to go to New Jersey, and even then I  have to make an appointment through her press agent.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    There was a pause. Unusual, Jake thought. Pete was generally so voluble  Jake couldn’t shut him up. He could hear Harrigan’s labored breathing.  Sick, Jake wondered, or in trouble? “What’s up?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Let’s talk shop.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Sure,” Jake said, relieved. “You heard about the Carramia case?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “As a matter of fact, no. For once I’m not calling about your cases, I’m  calling about one of mine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Shoot,” Jake said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A hesitation, a cough. “I was wondering if you’d like to come up here and  help me decipher some bones.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Dr. Peter Harrigan lived in the hamlet of Turner, a little town on a big  lake two hours north of the city. Jake got there at six the next morning.  He met Harrigan at his home, a white Cape Cod cottage with yellow  shutters, which looked from the outside more like a doll’s house than the  residence of a globally respected forensic pathologist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The two men embraced. “We’ll have to take your car,” Pete said. “My  Suburban’s sick.” He piled a box of autopsy tools, a camera, and a few  body bags into the backseat of Jake’s Camaro and brought two mugs of  coffee to the front. He was wearing the same blue Polartec jacket Jake had  given him seven years ago on the eve of Pete’s departure; Jake had on the  dark green oilskin Marianna had bought him on their only trip to London.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “You do realize,” Jake said, as Pete backed the Camaro out   of the driveway, “that you live in the geographical center of nowhere.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Harrigan grinned. “It’s exciting, though. Big-time crime. Just last week  our mayor shot an elk out of season. Town’s still debating how much to  fine him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Jake swallowed hot coffee. It was bitter and strong; considering his sleep  deprivation he was going to need a lot of it. “You lived in New York for  over thirty years.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “I got over it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    After almost four decades in forensic pathology, Harrigan had retired to  the country to please his wife, Dolores, who died less than three years  later. Bored with fishing, he had taken on the post of Baxter County  medical examiner, which meant signing off on one or two death certificates  a week and doing two or three autopsies a month. At seventy-two, he was  the oldest sitting medical examiner in the state of New York.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “So explain,” Jake said. “Why did I drive up here in the middle of the  night?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “To get here before the excavation starts up again.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Excavation of what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “That field in the distance.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “And they’re digging on a Saturday morning?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Apparently,” Pete said, “the building of a shopping mall waits for no  man—or bones.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    They were traveling on a two-lane road, passing trees, not houses. “A  shopping mall? Up here?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Rumor has it the governor’s going to give the Senecas rights to build a  casino. The town fathers are half mad with the prospect of all those  tourists, so naturally they want to give them a place to spend their  winnings. And what more appropriate location than in back of the Turner  insane asylum?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Jake grunted. “Fat chance anyone will win.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Pete glanced at him, amused. “You never were much of a gambler, were you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Only at love. And look what that won me: a monthly alimony check.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Jake still felt the divorce of his parents with almost the same pain he’d  experienced with his own. He remembered hugging his father’s leg the last  time he walked out the door. His younger brother, Sam, had been a baby,  couldn’t even stand yet, and didn’t know what was going on. But Jake’s  childhood had gone downhill from that moment. After twenty years of being  a medical examiner, he was convinced that the biggest risk factors for  murder were love and marriage. He believed the marriage vow should say, I  promise to love, honor, and not kill you. He had chosen a career as an ME  both to improve society and to prove that a delinquent kid could make  something of his life. The time it took to make a marriage work wasn’t  compatible with his goals.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    They continued down the road, sunlight just starting to peek through the  trees. “They’d just broken ground on their god-  forsaken center early yesterday afternoon,” Pete said, “when the backhoe  brought up the upper part of a skull. The lower jaw, the mandible, was  missing, probably carried off with the dirt before the crew realized what  they had. In a construction site like this, the first instinct is to  ignore anything that gets in the way, but the backhoe driver called the  authorities and they called me. I found an ulna and a tibia to go along  with the skull and ordered a shutdown; I left them at the site, of  course.” Harrigan shot Jake a look. “I leave you to guess what the  developer said the delay would cost him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Jake smiled into his mug. “An arm and a leg?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Just so.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “I’m guessing those aren’t an old settler’s bones or you wouldn’t have  brought me up here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “You got it. Within an hour, the scene was crawling with people: the  developer himself—R. Seward Reynolds—his lackeys, his lawyers, the mayor,  the sheriff, half the town council, and the ever-lovely Marge Crespy,  doyenne of the Turner Historical Society.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Good God!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “All of them seemed eager for the remains to be a settler. I told them,  Impossible.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Jake got the familiar queasy feeling in his stomach that came with the  suspicion of corruption. “Sure. A settler means no fights over Indian  burial grounds, no worries about a crime scene. They can just rebury the  bones somewhere else and get on with the mall.” He looked at his friend  and mentor, feeling the anger in Pete’s bearing. “Do you think it’s a  Native American?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “I found an incisor. It isn’t shovel-shaped. The skull has rectangular eye  sockets and a triangular nasal opening. You tell me.”A Novel","brand":"Vintage Crime\/Black Lizard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302164746469,"sku":"NP9781400095612","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400095612.jpg?v=1767735615","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/remains-silent-isbn-9781400095612","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}