Free The Art of Death by Margarite St. John Page B

envy.
    Despite her years of therapy, Madeleine had no idea herself what to call that kind of insight: a hunch, coincidence, sixth sense, second sight, intuition, clairvoyance, or a message from beyond. Or even, God forbid, something as indelicate as gut instinct. Though she recoiled at the occasional snide remark from detractors about how she was preternaturally gifted, she privately acknowledged that her insight looked supernatural. In another era, she might have been burned at the stake instead of recognized for her art.
    As she always did when she gave a public speech, Madeleine checked and double-checked her computer to ensure that her PowerPoint presentation was in working order.
    She also adjusted her designer suit, a sober gray Michael Kors with a turquoise zipper enlivening the jacket from neck to waist. In 2013, zippers were strangely chic and the color happened to draw attention to her eyes. Though the audience couldn’t see the designer label, she knew it was there. It made her feel rich and professional, a cut above everyone else.
    After she checked PowerPoint and adjusted her suit, she gazed out at the audience, reminding herself not to lick her bright red lipstick away or mess with her hair.  Nervousness was no reason to disturb perfection.
    As the presenter introduced her, Madeleine briefly closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing, willing herself to stay calm. Hyperventilation had bedeviled her when she first started speaking publicly, but Anthony had taught her breathing exercises to prevent it. The words of the moderator -- “gifted artist,” “trained at Quantico,” “graduate of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago,” “winner of numerous awards” -- passed through one ear and out the other without lodging in her brain. She was so focused on appearing calmer than she felt that she almost missed her cue to walk to the podium.
    Once there, everything in place, she swept the room with her eyes to locate Anthony. He was supposed to be in the back row, but he wasn’t. His absence brought a frown to her lovely face. She wanted him where she could see him. If she faltered, if the audience didn’t respond as she anticipated, then she focused on him to regain her confidence. A friendly face in an audience of strangers was priceless. His reminder, “Just remember, you know more than the audience about your subject,” was helpful but not as reassuring as her father’s sentiment that she silently recited like a mantra: “You’re brilliant!”
    It was a rule of hers never to speak longer than twenty minutes, no matter how complex the subject or skillful the presentation. Modern audiences, raised on Cirque du Soleil, cartoons and Twitter, had short attention spans, no more than twelve minutes, some experts said. So even at twenty minutes she could lose them if she weren’t careful. When after twenty minutes she turned off the PowerPoint, asked for the lights to be brought back up, and said she was ready to take questions, she spotted Anthony in the chair where he had promised to be. She smiled his way, though he didn’t return her greeting. He seemed to be focused on something else.
    The questions came thick and fast. Most were professional, some very technical, none hostile. She had just finished explaining the difference in value between a two-dimensional and a three-dimensional postmortem reconstruction when someone she couldn’t see asked whether the crack in Nicole’s skull had occurred before death as the result of blunt force trauma or after death from the natural damage inflicted on a drowned body.
    Madeleine donned her eyeglasses and peered toward the back of the room but could not see who had asked the question. The moderator reminded the audience that they must stand and state their name before asking a question. An older woman got to her feet, apologized for her lapse, said she was Lynda Bergstrom, a medical examiner’s assistant from Ohio, and repeated the question.
    But