Cause Of Death

Chapter 9

WHEN HE ARRIVED, LUCY WAS STILL IN BED AND I was making coffee. I let him in, dismayed again when I looked out at my street. Overnight, Richmond had turned to glass, and I had heard on the news that falling branches and trees had knocked down power lines in several sections of the city.

"Did you have any trouble?" I asked, shuttinmeone shot us in our sleep. Nine-millimeter to the back of the head. They made it look like a robbery."

"Oh really?" Marino asked, pulling on rabbit fur-lined gloves. "And where was yours truly?. "Cause that ain't going to happen if I'm in the house."

"You weren't here."

He gave her an odd look as he realized she was serious.

"What the hell'd you eat last night?"

"It was like a movie. It must have gone on for hours."

She looked at me, and her eyes were puffy and exhausted.

"Would you like to come to the office with me?" I asked.

"No, no. I'll be fine. The last thing I feel like being around right now is a bunch of dead bodies."

"You're going to get together with some of the agents you know in town?" I uneasily said.

"I don't know. We were going to work with closed-cycle oxygen respiration, but I just don't think I feel up to putting on a wet suit and getting in some indoor pool that stinks like chlorine. I think I'll just wait around for my car, then leave."

Marino and I didn't talk much as we drove downtown, his mighty tires gouging glazed streets with clanking teeth.

I knew he was worried about Lucy. As much as he abused her, if anyone else tried to do the same Marino would destroy that person with his big bare hands. He had known her since she was ten. It was Marino who had taught her to drive a five-speed pickup truck and shoot a gun.

"Doc, I got to ask you something," he finally spoke as the rhythm of chains slowed at the toll booth. "Do you think Lucy's doing okay?"

"Everyone has nightmares," I said.

"Hey, Bonita," he called to the toll taker as he handed his pass card out the window, "when you going to do something about this weather?"

"Don't you be blaming this on me, Cap'n." She returned his card, and the gate lifted. "You told me you're in charge."

Her mirthful voice followed us as we drove on, and I thought how sad it was that we lived in a day when even toll booth attendants had to wear plastic gloves for fear they may come in contact with someone else's flesh. I wondered if we would reach a point when all of us lived in bubbles so we did not die of diseases like the Ebola virus and AIDS.

"I just think she's acting a little weird," Marino went on as his window rolled up. After a pause, he asked, "Where's Janet?"

"With her family in Aspen, I think."

He stared straight ahead and drove.

"After what happened at Dr. Mant's house, I don't blame Lucy for being a little rattled," I added.

"Hell, she's usually the one who looks for trouble," he said. "She doesn't get rattled. That's why the Bureau lets her hang out with HRT. You ain't allowed to get rattled when you're dealing with white supremacists and terrorists.

You don't call in sick because you've had a friggin' bad dream."

Off the expressway, he took the Seventh Street exit into the old cobblestone lanes of Shockoe Slip, then turned north onto Fourteenth, where I went to work every day when I was in town. Virginia's Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, or OCME, was a squat stucco building with tiny dark windows that reminded me of unattractive, suspicious eyes. They overlooked slums to the east and the banking district to the west, and suspended overhead were highways and railroad tracks cutting through the sky.

Marino pulled into the back parking lot, where there was an impressive number of cars, considering the condition of the roads. I got out in front of the shut bay door and used a key to enter another door to one side. Following the ramp intended for stretchers, I entered the morgue, and could hear the noise of people working down the hall. The autopsy suite was past the walk-in refrigerator, and doors were open wide. I walked in while Fielding, my deputy chief, removed various tubes and a catheter from the body of a young woman on the second table.

"You ice-skate in?" he asked and he did not seem surprised to see me.

"Close to it. I may have to borrow the wagon today. At the moment I'm without a car."

He leaned closer to his patient, frowning a bit as he studied the tattoo of a rattlesnake coiled around the dead woman's sagging left breast, its gaping mouth disturbingly aimed at her nipple.

"You tell me why the hell somebody gets something like this," Fielding said.

"I'd say the tattoo artist got the best end of that deal," I said. "Check the inside of her lower lip. She's probably got a tattoo there."

He pulled down her lower lip, and inside it in big crooked letters was Fuck You.

Fielding looked at me in astonishment. "How'd you know that?"

"The tattoos are homemade, she looks like a biker-type and my guess is she's no stranger to jail."

"Right on all counts." He crabbed a clean towel and wiped his face.

My body-building associate always looked as if he were about to split his scrubs, and he perspired while the rest of us were never quite warm. But he was a competent forensic pathologist. He was pleasant and caring, and I believed he was loyal.

"Possible overdose," he explained as he sketched the tattoo on a chart. "I guess her New Year was a little too happy-"

"Jack," I said to him, "how many dealings have you had with the Chesapeake police?"

He continued to draw. "Very little."

"None recently?" I asked.

"I really don't think so. Why?" He glanced up at me.

"I had a rather odd encounter with one of their detectives."

"in connection with Eddings?" He began to rinse the body, and long dark hair flowed over bright steel.

"Right."

"You know, it's weird but Eddings had just called me.

It couldn't have been more than a day before he died," Fielding said as he moved the hose.

"What did he want?" I asked.

"I was down here doing a case, so I never talked to him.

Now I wish I had." He climbed up a stepladder and began taking photographs with a Polaroid camera. "You in town long?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Well, if you need me to help out in Tidewater some, I will." The flash went off and he waited for the print. "I don't know if I told you, but Ginny's pregnant again and would probably love to get out of the house. And she likes the ocean. Tell me the name of the detective you're worried about, and I'll take care of him."

"I wish somebody would," I said.

The camera flashed again, and I thought about Mant's cottage and could not imagine putting Fielding and his wife in there or even nearby.

"it makes sense for you to stay here anyway," he added.

"And hopefully Dr. Mant isn't going to stay in England forever."

"Thank you," I said to him with feeling. "Maybe if you could just commute several times a week."

"No problem. Could you hand me the Nikon?"

"Which one?"

"Uh, the N-50 with the single-reflex lens. I think it's in the cabinet over there." He pointed.

"We'll work out a schedule," I said as I got the camera for him. "But you and Ginny don't need to be in Dr. Mant's house, and you're going to have to trust me on that."

"You have a problem?" He ripped out another print and handed it down.

"Marino, Lucy and I started our New Year with slashed tires."

He lowered the camera and looked at me, shocked.

"Shit. You think it was random?"

"No, I do not," I said.

I took the elevator up to the next floor and unlocked my office and the sight of Eddings' Christmas pepper surprised me like a blow. I could not leave it on the credenza, so I picked it up and then did not know where to move it. For a moment, I walked around, confused and upset, until I finally put it back where it had been, because I could not throw it out or subject some other member of my staff to its memories.

Looking through Rose's adjoining doorway, I was not surprised that she wasn't here. My secretary was advancing in years and did not like to drive downtown even on the nicest days. Hanging up my coat, I carefully looked around, satisfied that all seemed in order except for the cleaning job done by the custodial crew that came in after hours. But then, none of the sanitation engineers, as they were called by the state, wanted to work in this building. Few lasted long and none would go downstairs.

I had inherited my quarters from the previous chief, but beyond the paneling, nothing was as it had been back in those cigar-smoky days when forensic pathologists like Cagney nipped bourbon with cops and funeral home directors, and touched bodies with bare hands. My predecessor had not worried much about alternate light sources and DNA.

I remembered the first time I had been shown his space after he had died and I was being interviewed for his position. I had surveyed macho mementos he had proudly displayed, and when one of them turned out to be a silicone breast implant from a woman who had been raped and murdered, I had been tempted to stay in Miami.

I did not think the former chief would like his office now, for it was nonsmoking, and disrespect and sophomoric behavior were left outside the door. The oak furniture was not the state's but my own, and I had hidden the tile floor with a Sarouk prayer rug that was machine-made but bright.

There were corn plants and a ficus tree, but I did not bother with art, because like a psychiatrist, I wanted nothing provocative on my walls, and frankly, I needed all the space I could find for filing cabinets and books. As for trophies, Cagney would not have been impressed with the toy cars, trucks and trains I used to help investigators reconstruct accidents.

I took several minutes to look through my in-basket, which was full of red-bordered death certificates for medical examiner cases and green-bordered ones for those that were not. Other reports also awaited my initialing, and a message on my computer screen told me I needed to check my electronic mail. All that could wait, I thought, and I walked back out into the hall to see who else was here.

Only Cleta was, I discovered, when I reached the front office, but she was just who I needed to see.

"Dr. Scarpetta," she said, startled. "I didn't know you were here."

"I thought it was a good idea for me to return to Richmond right now," I said, pulling a chair close to her desk.

"Dr. Fielding and I are going to try to cover Tidewater from here."

Cleta was from Florence, South Carolina, and wore a lot of makeup and her skirts too short because she believed that happiness was being pretty, which was something she would never be. In the midst of sorting grim photographs by case number, she sat straight in her chair, a magnifying glass in hand, bifocals on. Nearby was a sausage biscuit on a napkin that she probably had gotten from the cafeteria next door, and she was drinking Tab.

"Well, I think the roads are starting to melt," she let me know.

"Good." I smiled. "I'm glad you're here."

She seemed very pleased as she plucked more photographs out of the shallow box.

"Cleta," I said, "you remember Ted Eddings, don't you?"

"Oh yes, ma'am." She suddenly looked as if she might cry. "He was always so nice when he would come in here. I still can't believe it." She bit her lower lip.

"Dr. Fielding says Eddings called down here the end of last week," I said. "I'm wondering if you might remember that."

She nodded. "Yes, ma'am, I sure do. In fact, I can't stop thinking about it."

"Did he talk to you?"

"Yes."

"Can you remember what he said?"

"Well, he wanted to speak to Dr. Fielding, but his line was busy. So I asked if I could take a message, and we kidded around some. You know how he was." Her eyes got bright and her voice wavered. "He asked me if I was still eating so much maple syrup because I had to be eating plenty of it to talk like this. And he asked me out."

I listened as her cheeks turned red.

"Of course, he didn't mean it. He was always saying, you know. "When are we going out on that date? He didn't mean it," she said again.

"It's all right if he did," I kindly told her.

"Well, he already had a girlfriend."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"He said he was going to bring her by sometime, and I got the impression he was pretty serious about her. I believe her name is Loren, but I don't know anything else about her."

I thought of Eddings engaging in personal conversations like this with my staff, and was even less surprised that he had seemed to gain access to me more easily than most reporters who called. I could not help but wonder if this same talent had led to his death, and I suspected it had.

"Did he ever mention to you what he wanted to talk to Dr. Fielding about?" I said as I got up.

She thought hard for a moment, absently rummaging through pictures the world should never see. "Wait a minute. Oh, I know. It was something about radiation. About hat the findings would be if someone died from that."

"What kind of radiations" I said.

"Well, I was thinking he was doing some sort of story on X-ray machines. You know, there's been a lot in the news lately because of all the people afraid of things like letter bombs."

I did not recall seeing anything in Eddings' house that might indicate he was researching such a story. I returned to my office and started on paperwork and began returning telephone calls. Hours later, I was eating a late lunch at my desk when Marino walked in.

"What's it doing out there?" I said, surprised to see him.

"Would you like half a tuna fish sandwich?"

Shutting both doors, he sat with his coat still on, and the look on his face frightened me. "Have you talked to Lucy?" he said.

"Not since I left the house." I put the sandwich down. "Why?"

"She called me-he glanced at his watch-"roughly an hour ago. Wanted to know how to get in touch with Danny so she could call him about her car. And she sounded drunk."

I was silent for a moment, my eyes on his. I looked away.

I did not ask him if he were certain because Marino knew about such matters, and Lucy's past was quite familiar to him.

"Should I go home?" I quietly asked.

"Naw. I think she's in some kind of mood and is blowing things off. At least she's got no car to drive."

I took a deep breath.

"Point is, I think she's safe at the moment. But I thought you should know, Doc."

"Thank you," I grimly said.

I had hoped my niece's proclivity to abuse alcohol was a problem she had left behind, for I had seen no worrisome signs since those early self-destructive days when she had driven drunk and almost died. If nothing else, her odd behavior at the house this morning in addition to what Marino had just revealed made me know that something was very wrong. I wasn't certain what to do.

"One other thing," he added as he got up. "You don't want her going back to the Academy like this."

"No," I said. "Of course not."

He left, and for a while I stayed behind shut doors, depressed, my thoughts like the sluggish river behind my house. I did not know if I was angry or frightened, but as I thought of the times I had offered wine to Lucy or gotten her a beer, I felt betrayed. Then I was almost desperate as I considered the magnitude of what she had accomplished, and what she had to lose, and suddenly other images came to me, too. I envisioned terrible scenes penned by a man who wanted to be a deity, and I knew that my niece with all her brilliance did not understand the darkness of that power. She did not understand malignancy the way I did.

I put my coat and gloves on, because I knew where I should go. I was about to let the front office know I was leaving, when my phone rang, and I picked it up in the ent it might be Lucy. But it was the Chesapeake police

chief, who told me his name was Steels and that he had just moved here from Chicago.

"I'm sorry this is the way we have to meet," he said, and he sounded sincere. "But I need to talk to you about a detective of mine named Roche."

"I need to talk to you about him, too," I said. "Maybe you can explain to me exactly what his problem is."

"According to him, the problem's you," he said.

"That's ridiculous," I said, unable to restrain my anger.

"To cut to the chase, Chief Steels, your detective is inappropriate, unprofessional and an obstruction in this investigation. He is banned from my morgue."

"You realize Internal Affairs is going to have to thoroughly investigate this," he said, "and I'm probably going to need you to come in at some point so we can talk to you., I

"Exactly what is the accusation?"

"Sexual harassment."

"That's certainly popular these days," I ironically said.

"However, I wasn't aware I had power over him, since he works for you, not me, and by definition, sexual harassment is about the abuse of power. But it's all moot since the roles are reversed in this case. Your detective is the one who made sexual advances toward me, and when they were not reciprocated, he's the one who became abusive."

Steels said after a pause, "Then it sounds to me like it's your word against his."

"No, what it sounds like is a lot of bullshit. And if he touches me one more time, I will get a warrant and have him arrested."

He was silent.

"Chief Steels," I went on, "I think what should be of glaring importance right now is a very frightening situation that is going on in your jurisdiction. Might we talk about Ted Eddings for a moment?"

He cleared his throat. "Certainly."

"You're familiar with the case?"

"Absolutely. I've been thoroughly briefed and am very familiar with it."

"Good. Then I'm sure you'll agree that we should investigate it to our fullest capacity."

"Well, I think we should look hard at everybody who dies, but in the Eddings case the answer's pretty plain to me."

I listened as I got only more furious.

"You may or may not know that he was into Civil War stuff-had a collection, and all. Apparently, there were some battles not so far from where he went diving, and it may be he was looking for artifacts like cannonballs."

I realized that Roche must have talked to Mrs. Eddings, or perhaps the chief had seen some of the newspaper articles Eddings supposedly had written about his underwater treasure hunts. I was no historian, but I knew enough to see the obvious problem with what was becoming a ridiculous theory.

I said to Steels, "The biggest battle on or near water in your area was between the Merrimac and the Monitor. And that was miles away in Hampton Roads. I have never heard of any battles in or near the part of the Elizabeth River where the shipyard is located."

"But Dr. Scarpetta, we really just don't know, do we?"

he thoughtfully said. "Could be anything that was fired, any garbage dumped and anybody killed at any place back then. It's not like there were television cameras or millions of reporters all over. Just Mathew Brady, and by the way, I'm a big fan of history and have read a lot about the Civil War. I'm personally of the belief that this guy, Eddings.

went down in that shipyard so he could comb the river bottom for relics. He inhaled noxious gases from his machine and died, and whatever he had in his hands-like a metal detector-got lost in the silt."

"I am working this case as a possible homicide," I firmly said.

"And I don't agree with you, based on what I've been told.

"I expect the prosecutor will agree with me when I speak to her."

The chief said nothing to that.

"I should assume you don't intend to invite the Bureau's Criminal Investigative Analysis people into this," I added.

"Since you have decided we're dealing with an accident."

"At this point, I see no reason in the world to bother the FBI. And I've told them that."

"Well, I see every reason," I answered, and it was all I COuld do not to hang up on him.

"Damn, damn, damn!" I muttered as I angrily grabbed my belongings and marched out the door.

Downstairs in the morgue office, I removed a set of keys from the wall, and I went outside to the parking lot and unlocked the driver's door of the dark-blue station wagon we sometimes used to transport bodies. It was not as obvious as a hearse, but it wasn't what one might expect to see in a neighbor's driveway, either. Oversized, it had tinted windows obscured with blinds similar to those used by funeral homes, and in lieu of seats in back, the floor was covered with plywood fitted with fasteners to keep stretchers from sliding during transport. My morgue supervisor had hung several air fresheners from the rearview mirror, and the scent of cedar was cloying.

I opened my window part of the way and drove onto Main Street, grateful that by now roads were only wet, and rush hour traffic not too bad. Damp, cold air felt good on my face, and I knew what I must do. It had been a while since I had stopped at church on my way home, for I thought to do this only when I was in crisis, when life had pushed me as far as I could go. At Three Chopt Road and Grove Avenue, I turned into the parking lot of Saint Bridget's, which was built of brick and slate and no longer kept its doors unlocked at night, because of what the world had become. But Alcoholics Anonymous met at this hour, and I always knew when I could get in and not be bothered.

Entering through a side door, I blessed myself with holy water as I walked into the sanctuary with its statues of saints guarding the cross, and crucifixion scenes in brilliant stained glass. I chose the last row of pews, and I wished for candles to light, but that ritual had stopped here with Vatican 11. Kneeling on the bench, I prayed for Ted Eddings and his mother. I prayed for Marino and Wesley. In my private, dark space, I prayed for my niece. Then I sat in silence with my eyes shut, and I felt my tension begin to ease.

At almost six P.m., I was about to leave when I paused in the narthex and saw the lighted doorway of the library down a hall. I wasn't certain why I was guided in that direction, but it did occur to me that an evil book might be countered by one that was holy, and a few moments with the catechism might be what the priest would prescribe.

When I walked in, I found an older woman inside, returning books to shelves.

"Dr. Scarpetta?" she asked, and she seemed both surprised and pleased.

"Good evening." I was ashamed I did not remember her name.

"I'm Mrs. Edwards."

I remembered she was in charge of social services at the church, and trained converts in Catholicism, which some days I thought should include me since it was so rare I went to Mass. Small and slightly plump, she had never seen a convent but still inspired the same guilt in me that the good nuns had when I was young.

"I don't often see you here at this hour," she said.

"I just stopped by," I answered. "After work. I'm afraid I missed evening prayer."

"That was on Sunday."

"Of course."

"Well, I'm so glad I happened to see you on my way out." Her eyes lingered on my face and I knew she sensed my need.

I scanned bookcases.

"Might I help you find something?" she asked.

"A copy of the catechism," I said.

She crossed the room and pulled one off a shelf, and handed it to me. It was a large volume and I wondered if I had made a good decision, for I was very tired right now and I doubted Lucy was in a condition to read.

"Perhaps there is something I might help you with?"

Her voice was kind.

"Maybe if I could speak to the priest for a few moments, that would be good," I said.

"Father O'Connor is making hospital visits." Her eyes continued searching. "Might I help you in some way?"

"Maybe you can."

"We can sit right here," she suggested.

We pulled chairs out from a plain wooden table reminiscent of ones I had sat at in parochial school when I was a girl in Miami. I suddenly remembered the wonder of what had awaited me on the pages of those books, for learning was what I loved, and any mental escape from home had been a blessing. Mrs. Edwards and I faced each other like friends, but the words were hard to say because it was rare I talked this frankly.

"I can't go into much detail because my difficulty relates to a case I am working," I began.

"I understand." She nodded.

"But suffice it to say that I have become exposed to a satanic-type bible. Not devil worship, per se, but something evil."

She did not react but continued to look me in the eye.

"And Lucy was, as well. My twenty-three-year-old niece. She also read this manuscript."

"And you're having problems as a result?" Mrs. Edwards asked.

I took a deep breath and felt foolish. "I know this sounds rather weird."

"Of course it doesn't," she said. "We must never underestimate the power of evil, and we should avoid brushing up against it whenever we can."

"I can't always avoid that," I said. "It is evil that usually brings my patients to my door. But rarely do I have to look at documents like the one I'm talking about now. I've been having disturbing dreams, and my niece is acting erratically and has spent a lot of time with the Book. Mostly.

I'm worried about her. That's why I'm here."

"But continue thou in the things which thou hast learned and hast been assured of,' " she quoted to me. "It's really that simple." She smiled.

"I'm not certain I understand," I replied.

"Dr. Scarpetta, there is no cure for what you've just shared with me. I can't lay hands on you and push the darkness and bad dreams away. Father O'Connor can't, either. We have no ritual or ceremony that works. We can pray for you, and of course, we will. But what you and Lucy must do right now is return to your own faith. You need to do whatever it is that has given you strength in the past."

"That's why I came here today," I said again.

"Good. Tell Lucy to return to the religious community and pray. She should come to church."

That would be the day, I thought as I drove toward home, and my fears only intensified when I walked through my front door. It was not quite seven P.m. and Lucy was in bed.

"Are you asleep?" I sat next to her in the dark and placed my hand on her back. "Lucy?"

She did not answer and I was grateful that our cars had not arrived. I was afraid she might have tried to drive back to Charlottesville. I was so afraid she was about to repeat every terrible mistake she had ever made.

"Lucy?" I said again.

She slowly rolled over. "What?" she said.

"I'm just checking on you," I said in a hushed tone. I saw her wipe her eyes and realized she was not asleep but crying. "What is it?" I said.

"Nothing."

"I know it's something. And it's time we talk. You've not been yourself and I want to help."

She would not answer.

"Lucy, I will sit right here until you talk to me."

She was quiet some more, and I could see her eye lids move as she stared up at the ceiling. "Janet told them," she said. "She told her mom and dad. They argued with her, as if they know more about her feelings than she does.

As if somehow she is wrong about herself."

Her voice was getting angrier and she worked her way up to a half-sitting position, stuffing pillows behind her back.

"They want her to go to counseling," she added.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not sure I know what to say except that the problem lies with them and not with the two of you."

"I don't know what she's going to do. It's bad enough that we have to worry about the Bureau finding out."

"You have to be strong and true to who you are."

"Whoever that is. Some days I don't know." She got more upset. "I hate this. It's so hard. It's so unfair." She leaned her head against my shoulder. "Why couldn't I have been like you? Why couldn't it have been easy?"

"I'm not sure you want to be like me," I said. "And my life certainly isn't easy, and almost nothing that matters is easy. You and Janet can work things out if you are committed to do so. And if you truly love each other."

She took a deep breath and slowly blew out air.

"No more destructive behavior." I got up from her bed in the shadows of her room. "Where's the Book?"

"On the desk," she said.

"In my office?"

"Yes. I put it there."

We looked at each other, and her eyes shone. She sniffed loudly and blew her nose.

"Do you understand why it's not good to dwell on something like that?" I asked.

"Look what you have to dwell on all the time. It goes with the turf."

"No," I said, "what goes with the turf is knowing where to step and where not to stand. You must respect an enemy's power as much as you despise it. Otherwise, you will lose, Lucy. You had better learn this now."

"I understand," she quietly said as she reached for the catechism I had set on the foot of the bed. "What is this, and do I have to read it all tonight?"

"Something I picked up for you at church. I thought you might like to look at it."

"Forget church," she said.

"Why?"

"Because it's forgotten me. It thinks people like me are aberrant, as if I should go to hell or jail for the way I am.

That's what I'm talking about. You don't know what it's like to be isolated."

"Lucy, I've been isolated most of my life. You don't even know what discrimination is until you're one of only three women in your medical school class. Or in law school, the men won't share their notes if you're sick and miss class. That's why I don't get sick. That's why I don't get drunk and hide in bed." I sounded hard because I knew I needed to be.

"This is different," she said.

"I think you want to believe it's different so you can make excuses and feel sorry for yourself," I said. "It seems to me that the person doing all of the forgetting and rejecting here is you. It's not the church. It's not society. It's not even Janet's parents, who simply may not understand.

I thought you were stronger than this."

"I am strong."

"Well, I've had enough," I said. "Don't you come to my house and get drunk and pull the covers over your head so that I worry about you all day. And then when I try to help, you push me and everyone else away."

She was silent as she stared at me. Finally she said, "Did you really go to church because of me?"

"I went because of me," I said. "But you were the main topic of conversation."

She threw the covers off.. "A person's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy God forever,' " she said as she got up.

I paused in her doorway.

"Catechism. Using inclusive language, of course. I had a religion course at UVA. Do you want dinner?"

"What would you like?" I said.

"Whatever's easy." She came over and hugged me.

"Aunt Kay, I'm sorry," she said.

In the kitchen I opened the freezer first and was not inspired by anything I saw. Next I looked inside the refrigerator, but my appetite had gone into hiding along with my peace of mind. I ate a banana and made a pot of coffee. At half past eight, the base station on the counter startled me.

"Unit six hundred to base station one," Marino's voice came over the air.

I picked up the microphone and answered him, "Base station one."

"Can you call me at a number"

"Give it to me," I said, and I had a bad feeling.

It was possible the radio frequency used by my office could be monitored, and whenever a case was especially sensitive, the detectives tried to keep all of us off the air.

The number Marino gave me was for a pay phone.

When he answered, he said, "Sorry, I didn't have any change."

"What's going on?" I didn't waste time.

"I'm skipping the M.E. on call because I knew you'd want us to get hold of you first."

"What is it?"

"Shit, Doc, I'm really sorry. But we've got Danny."

"Danny?" I said in confusion.

"Danny Webster. From your Norfolk office."

"What do you mean you've got him?" I was gripped by fear. "What did he do?" I imagined he had gotten arrested driving my car. Or maybe he had wrecked it.

Marino said, "Doc, he's dead."

Then there was silence on his end and mine.

"Oh God." I leaned against the counter and shut my eyes. "Oh my God," I said. "What happened?"

"Look, I think the best thing is for you to get down here.

"Where are you?"

"Sugar Bottom, where the old train tunnel is. Your car's about a block uphill at Libby Hill Park." I asked nothing further but told Lucy I was leaving and probably would not be home until late. I grabbed my medical bag and my pistol, for I was familiar with the skid row part of town where the tunnel was, and I could not imagine what might have lured Danny there. He and his friend were to have driven my car and Lucy's Suburban to my office, where my administrator was to meet them in back and give them a ride to the bus station. Certainly, Church Hill was not far from the OCME, but I could not imagine why Danny would have driven anywhere in my Mercedes other than where he knew he was to be. He did not seem the type to abuse my trust.

I drove swiftly along West Cary Street, passing huge brick homes with roof-, of copper and slate, and entrances barricaded by tall black wrought-iron gates. It seemed surreal to be speeding in the morgue wagon through this elegant part of the city while one of my employees lay dead, and I fretted over leaving Lucy alone again. I could not remember if I had armed the alarm system and turned the motion sensors off on my way out. My hands were shaking and I wished I could smoke.

Libby Hill Park was on one of Richmond's seven hills in an area where real estate was now considered prime.

Century-old row houses and Greek Revival homes had been brilliantly restored by people hold enough to reclaim a historic section of the city from the clutches of decay and crime. For most residents, the chance they took had turned out fine, but I knew I could not live near housing projects and depressed areas where the major industry was drugs. I did not want to work cases in my neighborhood.

Police cruisers with lights throbbing red and blue lined both sides of Franklin Street. The night was very dark, and I could barely make out the octagonal bandstand or bronze soldier on his tall granite pedestal facing the James. My Mercedes was surrounded by officers and a television crew, and people had emerged on wide porches to watch. As I slowly drove past, I could not tell if my car had been damaged, but the driver's door was open, the interior light on.

East past 29th Street, the road sloped down to a section known as Sugar Bottom, named for prostitutes once kept in business by Virginia gentlemen, or maybe it was for moonshine. I wasn't sure of the lore. Restored homes abruptly turned into slumlord apartments and leaning tarpaper shacks, and off the pavement, midway down the steep hill, were woods thick and dense where the C amp;O tunnel had collapsed in the twenties.

I remembered flying over this area in a state police helicopter once, and the tunnel's black opening had peeked out of trees at me, its railroad bed a muddy scar leading to the river. I thought of the train cars and laborers supposedly still sealed inside, and again, I could not imagine why Danny would have come here willingly. If nothing else, he would have worried about his injured knee. Pulling over, I parked as close to Marino's Ford as I could, and instantly was spotted by reporters.

"Dr. Scarpetta, is it true that's your car up the hill?"

asked a woman journalist as she hurried to my side. "I understand the Mercedes is registered to you. What color is it? Is it black?" she persisted when I did not reply.

"Can you explain how it got there?" A man pushed a microphone close to my face.

"Did you drive it there?" asked someone else.

"Was it stolen from you? Did the victim steal it from you'? Do you think this is about drugs?"

Voices folded into each other because no one would wait his turn and I would not speak. When several uniformed officers realized I had arrived, they loudly intervened.

"Hey, get back."

"Now. You heard me."

"Let the lady through."

"Come on. We got a crime scene to work here. I hope that's all right with you."

Marino was suddenly holding on to my arm. "Bunch of squirrels," he said as he glared at them. "Be real careful where you step. We got to go through the woods almost all the way to where the tunnel is. What kind of shoes you got on"

"I'll be all right."

There was a path, and it was long and led steeply down from the street. Lights had been set up to illuminate the way, and they cut a swath like the moon on a dangerous bay. On the margins, woods dissolved into blackness stirred by a subtle wind.

"Be real careful," he said again. "It's muddy and there's shit all over the place."

"What shit?" I asked.

I turned on my flashlight and directed it straight down at the narrow muddy path of broken glass, rotting paper, and discarded shoes that glinted and glowed a washed-out white amid brambles and winter trees.

"The neighbors have been trying to turn this into a landfill," he said.

"He could not have gotten down here with his bad knee," I said. "What's the best way to approach this?"

"On my arm."

"No. I need to look at this alone."

"Well, you're not going down there alone. We don't know if someone else might still be down there somewhere."

"There's blood there." I pointed the flashlight, and several large drops glistened on dead leaves about six feet down from where I was.

"There's a lot of it up here."

"Any up by the street?"

' ''No. It looks like it pretty much starts right here, But we've found some on the path going all the way down to where he is,"

"All right. Let's do it." I looked around and began careful steps, Marino's heavier ones behind me.

Police had run bright yellow tape from tree to tree, seCuring as much of the area as possible, for right now we did not know how big this scene might be. I could not see the body until I emerged from the woods into a clearing where the old railroad bed led to the river south of me and disappeared into the tunnel's yawning mouth to the west.

Danny Webster lay half on his back, half on his side in an awkward tangle of arms and legs. A large puddle of blood was beneath his head. I slowly explored him with the flashlight and saw an abundance of dirt and grass on his sweater and jeans, and bits of leaves and other debris clung to his blood-matted hair.

"He rolled down the hill," I said as I noted that several straps had come loose in his bright red brace, and debris was caught in Velcro. "He was already dead or almost dead when he came to rest in this position."

"Yeah, I think it's pretty clear he was shot up there," Marino said. "My first question was whether he bled while he maybe tried to get away. And he makes it about this far, then collapses and rolls the rest of the way."

"Or maybe he was made to think he was being given a chance to get away." Emotion crept into my voice. "You see this knee brace he has on? Do you have any idea how slowly he would have moved were he trying to get down this path? Do you know what it's like to inch your way along on a bad leg?"

"So some asshole was shooting fish in a barrel," Marino said.

I did not answer him as I directed the light at grass and trash leading up to the street. Drops of blood glistened dark red on a flattened milk carton whitened by weather and time.

"What about his wallet?" I asked.

"It was in his back pocket. Eleven bucks and charge cards still in it," Marino said, his eyes constantly moving.

I took photographs, then knelt by the body and turned it so I could get a better look at the back of Danny's ruined head. I felt his neck, and he was still warm, the blood beneath him coagulating. I opened my medical bag.

"Here." I unfolded a plastic sheet and gave it to Marino.

"Hold this up while I take his temperature."

He shielded the body from any eyes but ours as I pulled down jeans and undershorts, finding that both were soiled.

Although it was not uncommon for people to urinate and defecate at the instant of death, sometimes this was the body's response to terror. "You got any idea if he fooled around with drugs?" Marino asked.

"I have no reason to think so," I said. "But I have no idea."

"For example, he ever look like he lived beyond his means'? I mean, how much did he earn?"

"He earned about twenty-one thousand dollars a year. I don't know if he lived beyond his means. He still lived at home.

The body temperature was 94.5, and I set the thermometer on top of my bag to get a reading of the ambient air. I moved arms and legs, and rigor mortis had started only in small muscles like his fingers and eyes. For the most part, Danny was still warm and limber as in life, and as I bent close to him I could smell his cologne and knew I would recognize it forever. Making sure the sheet was completely under him, I turned him on his back, and more blood spilled as I began looking for other wounds.

"What time did you get the call?" I asked Marino, who was moving slowly near the tunnel, probing its tangled growths of vines and brush with his light.

"One of the neighbors heard a gunshot coming from this area and dialed 911 at seven-oh-five P.m. We found your car and him maybe fifteen minutes after that, So we're talking about two hours ago. Does that work with what you're finding?"

"It's almost freezing out. He's heavily clothed and he's lost about four degrees. Yes, that works. How about handing me those bags over there. Do we know what happened to the friend who was supposed to be driving Lucy's Suburban?"

I slipped the brown paper bags over the hands and secured them at the wrist with rubber bands to preserve fragile evidence like gunshot residue, or fibers or flesh beneath fingernails, supposing he had struggled with his assailant.

But I did not think he had. Whatever had happened, I suspected Danny had done exactly as he had been told.

"At the present time we don't know anything about whoever his friend is," Marino said. "I can send a unit down to your office to check."

"I think that's a good idea. We don't know that the friend isn't somehow connected to this."

"One hundred," Marino said into his portable radio as I began taking photographs again.

"One hundred," the dispatcher came back.

"Ten-five any unit that might be in the area of the medical examiner's office at Fourteenth and Franklin."$

Danny had been shot from behind, the wound close range, if not contact. I started to ask Marino about cartridge cases when I heard a noise I knew all too well.

"Oh no," I said as the beating sound got louder. "Marino, don't let them get near."

But it was too late, and we looked up as a news helicopter appeared and began circling low. Its searchlight swept the tunnel and the cold, hard ground where I was on my knees, brains and blood all over my hands. I shielded my eyes from the blinding glare as leaves and dirt stormed and bare trees rocked. I could not hear what Marino yelled as he furiously waved his flashlight at the sky while I shielded the body with my own as best I could.

I enclosed Danny's head in a plastic bag and covered him with a sheet while the crew for Channel 7 destroyed the scene because they were ignorant or did not care, or maybe both. The helicopter's passenger door had been removed, and the cameraman hung out in the night as the light nailed me for the eleven o'clock news. Then the blades began their thunderous retreat.

"Goddainnsonofabitch!" Marino was screaming as he shook his fist after them. "I ought to shoot your ass out of the air!"