He told us on the phone he had the results of the autopsy and he wanted to report to us in person.The look on his face tells me the news is not good.I offer to feed him some lunch. He agrees gratefully, saying he hadn’t had time to grab a bite of breakfast or lunch anywhere.“Not even a doughnut?” I say, trying to lighten things up with the old joke about how cops are famous for eating doughnuts. No response. He’s too serious.We sit at the dining room table. I bring out already-made egg salad with rye bread and a pitcher of iced tea. Morrie goes for it eagerly. Jack joins in. My throat is so choked up, I can’t swallow. I sip at my tea. I’m nervous. And it turns out rightly so. The news is bad. How can they eat?Morrie states simply, “Joyce died of a drug overdose. The slice of pie on her table was laced with Valium …”He stops and looks up at me as I gasp at the name. My body stiffens from fear.“We’ve been through the apartment again. There is no sign whatever of the container that held any Valium.
