Cruel and Unusual

12

Over the next few days, I retained Nicholas Grueman, delivering to him my financial records and other information he requested, the health commissioner summoned me to his office to suggest that I resign, and the publicity would not end. But I knew much that I had not known even a week before.

It was Ronnie-Joe Waddell who died in the electric chair the night of December 13. Yet his identity remained alive and was wreaking havoc in the city. As best as could be determined, prior to Waddell's death his SID number in AFIS had been swapped with another's. Then the other person's SID number was dropped completely from the Central Computerized Records Exchange, or CCRE. This meant there was a violent offender at large who had no need of gloves when he committed his crimes. When his prints were run through AFIS, they would come back as a dead man's every time. We knew this nefarious individual left a wake of feathers and flecks of paint, but we could surmise almost nothing about him until January 3 of the new year.

On that morning, the Richmond Times-Dispatch ran a planted story about highly prized eiderdown and its appeal to thieves. At one-fourteen P.m., Officer Tom Lucero, head of the fictitious investigation, received his third call of the day.

“Hi. My name's Hilton Sullivan,” the voice said loudly.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

Lucero's deep voice asked.

“It's about the cases you're investigating. The eiderdown clothes and things that are supposedly hot with thieves. There was this article about it in the paper this morning. It said you're the detective.”

“Right”

“Well, it really pisses me off that the cops are so stupid.”

He got louder. “It said in the paper that since Thanksgiving this and that have been stolen from stores, cars, and homes in the greater Richmond metropolitan area. You know, comforters, a sleeping bag, three ski jackets, blah, blah, blah. And the reporter quoted several people.”

“What is your point, Mr. Sullivan?”

“Well, obviously the reporter got the victims' names from the cops. In other words, from you.”

"It's public information.”

"I don't really give a shit about that. I just want to know how come you didn't mention this victim, yours truly? You don't even remember my name, do you?”

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't say that I do.”

"Figures. Some fucking asshole breaks into my condo and wipes me out, and other than smearing black powder everywhere - on a day when I was dressed in white cashmere, I might add - the cops don't do a thing. I'm one of your fucking cases.”

"When was your condo broken into?”

"Don't you remember? I'm the one who raised such a stink about my down vest. If it wasn't for me, you guys would never have even heard of eiderdown! When I told the cop that among other things my vest had been taken and it had cost me five hundred bucks on sale, you know what he said?”

"I have no idea, sir.”

"He said, What's it stuffed with, cocaine?’

And I said, 'No, Sherlock. Eider duck down.’

And he looked around nervous as hell and dropped his hand close to his nine-mil. The dumb-shit really thought there was some other person in my place named Eider and I'd just yelled at this person to duck down, like I was going to pull a gun or something. At that point I just left and-"

Wesley switched off the tape recorder.

We sat in my kitchen. Lucy was working out at my club again.

"The B-and-E this Hilton Sullivan's talking about was in fact reported by him on Saturday, December eleventh. Apparently, he'd been out of town, and when he returned to his condo that Saturday afternoon, he discovered that he'd been burglarized," Wesley explained.

"Where is his condo located?”

I asked.

"Downtown on West Franklin, an old brick building with condos that start at a hundred grand. Sullivan lives on the first floor. The perpetrator got in through an unsecured window.”

"No alarm system?”

"No.”

"What was stolen?”

"Jewelry, money, and a twenty-two revolver. Of course, that doesn't necessarily mean that Sullivan's revolver is the one that was used to kill Eddie Heath, Susan, and Donahue. But I think we're going to find that it is, because there's no question that our guy did the Band-E.”

"Prints were recovered?”

"A number of them. The city had them, and you know how their backlog is. With all the homicides, B-and-Es aren't a top priority. In this instance, the latents had been processed and were just sitting. Pete intercepted them right after Lucero got the call. Vander's already run them through the system. He got a hit in exactly three seconds.”

"Waddell again.”

Wesley nodded.

"How far is Sullivan's condo from Spring Street?”

"Within walking distance. I think we know where our guy escaped from.”

"You're checking out recent releases?”

"Oh, sure. But we're not going to find him in a stack of paper on somebody's desk. The warden was too careful for that. Unfortunately, he's also dead. I think he sent this inmate back out on the street, and the first thing he did was burglarize a condominium and probably find himself a set of wheels.”

"Why would Donahue free an inmate?”

"My theory is that the warden needed some dirty work done. So he selected an inmate to be his personal operative and set the animal loose. But Donahue made a slight tactical error. He picked the wrong guy, because the person who's committing these killings is not going to be controlled by anyone. My suspicion, Kay, is that Donahue never intended for anyone to die, and when Jennifer Deighton turned up dead, he freaked.”

"He was probably the one who called my office and identified himself as John Deighton.”

"Could very well be. The point is that Donahue's intention was to have Jennifer Deighton's house ransacked because someone was looking for something perhaps communications from Waddell. But a simple burglary isn't enough fun. The warden's little pet likes to hurt people.”

I thought of the indentations in the carpet of Jennifer Deighton's living room, the injuries to her neck, and the fingerprint recovered from her dining room chair.

"He may have sat her in the middle of her living room and stood behind her with his arm yoked around her neck while he interrogated her.”

"He may have done that to get her to tell him where things were. But he was being sadistic. Possibly forcing her to open her Christmas presents was also sadistic," said Wesley.

"Would someone like this go to the trouble to disguise her death as a suicide by placing her body in her car?” I asked.

"He might. This guy's been in the system. He's not interested in getting caught, and it's probably a challenge to see who he can fool. He eradicated bite marks from Eddie Heath's body. If he ransacked Jennifer Deighton's house, he left no evidence. The only evidence he left in Susan's case was two twenty-two slugs and a feather. Not to mention, the guy altered his fingerprints.”

"You think that was his idea?”

"It was probably something that the warden cooked up, and swapping records with Waddell may simply have been a matter of convenience. Waddell was about to be executed. If I wanted to trade an inmate's prints with someone, I'd choose Waddell's. Either the inmate's latents are going to come back to someone who is dead or - and this is more likely - eventually the dead person's records will be purged from the State Police computers, so if my little helper is messy and leaves prints somewhere, they aren't going to be identified at all," I stared at him, dumbfounded.

"What?” Surprise flickered in his eyes.

"Benton, do you realize what we're saying? We're sitting here talking about computer records that were altered before Waddell died. We're talking about a burglary and the murder of a little boy that were committed before Waddell was dead. In other words, the warden's operative, as you call him, was released before Waddell was executed.”

"I don't believe there can be a question about that.”

"Then the assumption was that Waddell was going to die," I pointed out.

"Christ.”

Wesley flinched. "How could anyone be certain? The governor can intervene literally at the last minute.”

"Apparently, someone knew that the governor wasn't going to.”

"And the only person who could know that with certainty is the governor,” he finished the thought for me.

I got up and stood before the kitchen window. A male cardinal pecked sunflower seeds from the feeder and flew off in a splash of blood red.

“Why?” I asked without turning around. “Why would the governor have a special interest in Waddell?”

“I don't know.”

“If it's true, he won't want the killer caught. When people get caught, they talk.”

Wesley was silent.

“Nobody involved will want this person caught. And nobody involved will want me on the scene. It will be much better if I resign or am fired - if the cases are screwed up as much as possible. Patterson is tight with Norring.”

“Kay, we've got two things we don't know yet. One is motive. The other is the killer's own agenda. This guy is doing his own thing, beginning with Eddie Heath.”

I turned around and faced him. “I think he began with Robyn Naismith. I believe this monster has studied her crime scene photographs, and either consciously or subconsciously re-created one of them when he assaulted Eddie Heath and propped his body against a Dumpster.”

“That could very well be,” Wesley said, staring off. “But how could an inmate get access to Robyn Naismith's scene photographs? Those would not be in Waddell's prison jacket.”

“This may be just one more thing that Ben Stevens helped with. Remember, I told you that he was the one who got the photos from Archives. He could have had copies made. The question is why would the photos be relevant? Why would Donahue or someone else even ask for them?”

“Because the inmate wanted them. Maybe he demanded them. Maybe they were a reward for special services.”

“That is sickening,” I said with quiet anger.

“Exactly.”

Wesley met my eyes. “This goes back to the killer's agenda, his needs and desires. It is very possible that he'd heard a lot about Robyn's case. He may have known a lot about Waddell, and it would excite him to think about what Waddell had done to his victim. The photographs would be a turn-on to someone who has a very active and aggressive fantasy life that is devoted to violent, sexualized thought. It is not farfetched to suppose that this person incorporated the scene photographs - one or more of them - into his fantasies. And then suddenly he's free, and he sees a young boy walking in the dark to a convenience store. The fantasy becomes real. He acts it out.”

“He re-created Robyn Naismith's death scene?”

“Yes.”

“What do you suppose his fantasy is now?”

“Being hunted.”

“By us?”

“By people like us. I'm afraid he might imagine that he is smarter than everybody else and no one can stop him. He fantasizes about games he can play and murders he might commit that would reinforce these images he entertains. And for him, fantasy is not a substitute for action but a preparation for it.”

“Donahue could not have orchestrated releasing a monster like this, altering records, or anything else without help,” I said.

“No. I'm sure he got key people to cooperate, like someone at State Police headquarters, maybe a records person with the city and even the Bureau. People can be bought if you have something on them. And they can be bought with cash.”

“Like Susan.”

“I don't think Susan was the key person. I'm more inclined to suspect that Ben Stevens was. He's out in the bars. Drinks, parties. Did you know he's into a little recreational coke when he can get it?”

“Nothing would surprise me anymore.”

“I've got a few guys who have been asking a lot of questions. Your administrator has a life-style he can't afford. And when you screw with drugs, you end up screwing with bad people. Stevens's vices would have made him an easy mark for a dirtbag like Donahue. Donahue probably had one of his henchmen make a point of running into Stevens in a bar and they start talking. Next thing, Stevens has just been offered a way to make some pretty decent change.”

“What way, exactly?”

“My guess is to make sure Waddell wasn't printed at the morgue, and to make sure the photograph of his bloody thumbprint disappeared from Archives. That was probably just the beginning.”

“And he enlisted Susan.”

“Who wasn't willing but had major financial problems of her own.”

“So who do you think was making the payoffs?”

“They were probably handled by the same person who originally made Stevens's acquaintance and sucked him into this. One of Donahue's guys, maybe one of his guards.”

I remembered the guard named Roberts who had given Marino and me the tour. I remembered how cold his eyes were.

“Saying the contact is a guard,” I said, “then who was this guard meeting with? Susan or Stevens?”

“My guess is with Stevens. Stevens wasn't going to trust Susan with a lot of cash. He's going to want to shave his share off the top because dishonest people believe everybody is dishonest.”

“He meets the contact and gets the cash,” I said. “Then Ben would meet with Susan to give her a cut?”

“That's probably what the scenario was Christmas Day when she left her parents' house ostensibly to visit a friend. She was going to meet Stevens, only the killer got to her first.”

I thought of the cologne I smelled on her collar and her scarf, and I remembered Stevens's demeanor when I'd confronted him in his office the night I was looking through his desk.

“No,” I said. “That's not how it went.”

Wesley just looked at me.

“Stevens has several qualities that would set Susan up for what happened,” I said. “He doesn't care about anyone but himself. And he's a coward. When things get hot, he's not going to stick his neck out. His first impulse is to let someone else take the fall.”

“Like he's doing in your case by badmouthing you and stealing files.”

“A perfect example,” I said.

“Susan deposited the thirty-five hundred dollars in early December, a couple of weeks before Jennifer Deighton's death.”

“That's right.”

“All right, Kay. Let's go back a bit. Susan or Stevens or both of them tried to break into your computer days after Waddell's execution. We've speculated that they were looking for something in the autopsy report that Susan could not have observed firsthand during the post.”

“The envelope he wanted buried with him.”

“I'm still stumped over that. The codes on the receipts do not confirm what we'd speculated about earlier - that the restaurants and tollbooths are located between Richmond and Mecklenburg, and that the receipts were from the transport that brought Waddell from Mecklenburg to Richmond fifteen days prior to his execution. Though the dates on the receipts are consistent with the time frame, the locations are not. The codes come back to the stretch of I-95 between here and Petersburg.”

“You know, Benton, it very well may be that the explanation for the receipts is so simple that we've completely overlooked it,” I said.

“I'm all ears.”

“Whenever you go anywhere for the Bureau, I imagine you have the same routine I do when traveling for the state. You document every expense and save every receipt. If you travel often, you tend to wait until you can combine several trips on one reimbursement voucher to cut down on the paperwork. Meanwhile, you're keeping your receipts somewhere.”

“All that makes good sense in terms of explaining the receipts in question,” Wesley said. “Someone on the prison staff, for example, had to go to Petersburg. But how did the receipts then turn up in Waddell's back pest?” I thought of the envelope with its urgent plea that it accompany Waddell to the grave. Then I recalled a detail that was as poignant as it was mundane. On the afternoon of Waddell's execution, his mother had been allowed a two-hour visit with him.

“Benton, have you talked to Ronnie Waddell's mother?”

“Pete went to see her in Suffolk several days ago. She's not feeling particularly friendly or cooperative toward people like us. In her eyes, we're the ones who sent her son to the chair.”

“So she didn't reveal anything significant about Waddell's demeanor when she visited him the afternoon of his execution?”

“Based on what little she said, he was very quiet and frightened. One interesting point, though. Pete asked her what had happened to Waddell's personal effects. She said that Corrections gave her his watch and ring and explained that he had donated his books, poetry, and so on to the N-double-A-C-P.”

“She didn't question that?” I asked.

“No. She seemed to think it made sense for Waddell to do that.”

“Why?”

“She doesn't read or write. What's important is that she was lied to, as were we when Vander tried to track down personal effects in hopes of getting latent prints. And the origin of these lies most likely was Donahue.”

“Waddell knew something,” I said. “For Donahue to want every scrap of paper that Waddell had written on and every letter ever sent to him, then there must be something that Waddell knew that certain people don't want anyone else to know.”

Wesley was silent.

Then he said, “What did you say is the name of the cologne Stevens wears?”

“Red.”

“And you're fairly certain this is what you smelled on Susan's coat and scarf?”

“I wouldn't swear to it in court, but the fragrance is quite distinctive.”

“I think it's time for Pete and me to have a little prayer meeting with your administrator.”

“Good. And I think I can help get him in the proper frame of mind if you'll give me until noon tomorrow.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Probably make him a very nervous man,” I said.

I was working at the kitchen table early that evening when I heard Lucy drive into the garage, and I got up to greet her. She was dressed in a navy blue warm-up suit and one of my ski jackets, and was carrying a gym bag.

“I'm dirty,” she said, pulling away from my hug, but not before I smelled gun smoke in her hair. Glancing down at her hands, I saw enough gunshot residues on the right one to make a trace element analyst ecstatic.

“Whoa,” I said as she started to walk off. “Where is it?”

“Where's what?” she asked innocently.

“The gun…

Reluctantly, she withdrew my Smith and Wesson from her jacket pocket.

“I wasn't aware you had a license for carrying a concealed weapon,” I said, taking the revolver from her and making sure it was unloaded.

“I don't need one if I'm carrying it concealed in my own house. Before that I had it on the car seat in plain view. “

“That's good but not good enough, “I said quietly. “Come on.”

Wordlessly, she followed me to the kitchen table, and we sat down.

“You said you were going to Westwood to work out,” I said.

“I know that's what I said.”

“Where have you been, Lucy?”

“The Firing Line on Midlothian Turnpike. It's an indoor range.”

“I know what it is. How many times have you done this?”

“Four times.” She looked me straight in the eye.

“My God Lucy.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Pete's not going to take me anymore.”

“Lieutenant Marino is very, very busy right now,” I said, and the remark sounded so patronizing that I was embarrassed. “You're aware of the problems,” I added.

“Sure I am. Right now he's got to stay away. And if he stays away from you, he stays away from me. So he's out on the street because there's some maniac on the loose who's killing people like your morgue supervisor and the prison warden. At least Pete can take care of himself. Me? I've been shown how to shoot one lousy time Gee, thanks a lot. That's like giving me one tennis lesson and then entering me in Wimbledon.”

“You're overreacting.”

“No. The problem is you're under reacting.”

“Lucy…”

“How would you feel if I told you that every time I come visit you, I never stop thinking about that night?”

I knew exactly which night she meant, though over the years we had managed to go on as if nothing had happened.

“I would not feel good if I knew you were upset by anything that has to do with me,” I said.

“Anything? What happened was just anything?”

“Of course it wasn't just anything.”

“Sometimes I wake up at night because I dream a gun is going off. Then I listen to the awful silence and remember lying there, staring into the dark. I was so scared I couldn't move, and I wet my bed. And there were sirens and red lights flashing, and neighbors coming out on their porches and looking out their windows. And you wouldn't let me see it when they carried him out, and you wouldn't let me go upstairs. I wish I had, because imagining it has been worse.”

“That man is dead, Lucy. He can't hurt anyone now.”

“There are others just as bad, maybe worse than him.”

“I'm not going to tell you there aren't.”

“What are you doing about it, then?”

“I spend my every waking moment picking up the pieces of the lives destroyed by evil people. What more do you want me to do?”

“If you let something happen to you, I promise I will hate you,” my niece said.

“If something happens to me, I don't suppose it will matter who hates me. But I wouldn't want you to hate anyone because of what it would do to you.”

“Well, I will hate you. I swear.”

“I want you to promise me, Lucy, that you won't lie to me again.”

She did not say a word.

“I don't ever want you to feel that you need to hide anything from me,” I said.

“If I'd told you I wanted to go to the range, would you have let me?”

“Not without Lieutenant Marino or me.”

“Aunt Kay, what if Pete can't catch him?”

“Lieutenant Marino is not the only person on the case,” I said, not answering her question, because I did not know how to answer it.

“Well, I feel sorry for Pete.”

“Why?”

“He has to stop whoever this person is, and he can't even talk to you.”

“I imagine he's taking things in stride, Lucy. He's a pro.”

“That's not what Michele says.”

I glanced over at her.

“I was talking to her this morning. She says that Pete came by the house the other night to see her father. She said that Pete looks awful - his face was as red as a fire truck and he was in a horrible mood. Mr. Wesley tried to get him to go to the doctor or take some time off, but no way.”

I felt miserable. I wanted to call Marino immediately, but I knew it wasn't wise. I changed the subject.

“What else have you and Michele been talking about? Anything new with the State Police computers?”

“Nothing good. We've tried everything we can think of to figure out who Waddell's SID number was switched with. But any records marked for deletion were overwritten long ago on the hard disk. And whoever is responsible for the tampering was swift enough to do full system backups after the records were altered, meaning we can't run SID numbers against an earlier version of CCRE and see who pops up. Generally, you have at least one backup that's three to six months old. But not so in this case.”

“Sounds like an inside job to me.”

I thought how natural it seemed to be home with Lucy. She no longer was a guest or an irascible little girl. “We need to call your mother and Grans,“ I said.

“Do we have to tonight?”

“No. But we do need to talk about your returning to Miami.”

“Classes don't start until the seventh, and it won't make any difference if I miss the first few days.”

“School is very important.”

“It's also very easy.”

“Then you should do something on your own to make it harder.”

“Missing classes will make it harder,” she said.

The next morning I called Rose at eight-thirty, when I knew a staff meeting was in progress across the hall, meaning that Ben Stevens was occupied and would not know I was on the line.

“How are things?” I asked my secretary.

“Awful. Dr. Wyatt couldn't get here from the Roanoke office because they got snow in the mountains and the roads are bad. So yesterday Fielding had four cases with no one to help him. Plus, he was due in court and then got called to a scene. Have you talked to him?”

“We touch base when the poor man has a moment to get to the phone. This might be a good time for us to track down a few of our former fellows and see if one of them might consider coming here to help us hang on for a while. Jansen's doing private path in Charlottesville. You want to try him and see if he wants to give me a call.”

“Certainly. That's a fine idea.”

“Tell me about Stevens,” I said.

“He hasn't been here very much. He signs out in such an abbreviated, vague fashion that no one is ever sure where he's gone. I'm suspicious he's looking for another job.”

“Remind him not to ask me for a recommendation.”

“I wish you'd give him a great one so someone else would take him off our hands.”

“I need for you to call the DNA lab and get Donna to do me a favor. She should have a lab request for the analysis of the fetal tissue from Susan's case.”

Rose was silent. I could feel her getting upset.

“I'm sorry to bring this up,” I said gently.

She took a deep breath. “When did you request the analysis?”

“The request was actually made by Dr. Wright, since he did the post. He would have his copy of the lab request at the Norfolk office, along with the case.”

“You don't want me to call Norfolk and have them make a copy for us?”

“No. This can't wait, and I don't want anyone to know that I've requested a copy. I want it to appear that our office inadvertently got a copy. That's why I want you to deal directly with Donna. Ask her to pull the lab request immediately and I want you to pick it up in person.”

“Then what?”

“Then put it in the box up front where all the other copies of lab requests and reports are left for sorting.”

“You're sure about this?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

I hung up and retrieved a telephone directory, which I was flipping through when Lucy walked into the kitchen. She was barefoot and still wearing the sweat suit she had slept in. Groggily wishing me a good morning, she began rummaging in the refrigerator as I ran my finger down a column of names. There were maybe forty listings for the name Grimes, but no Helens. Of course, when Marino had referred to the guard as Helen the Hun, he was being snide. Maybe Helen wasn't her real name at all. I noted that there were three listings with the initial H., two for the first name and one for a middle name.

“What are you doing?” Lucy asked, setting a glass of orange juice on the table and pulling out a chair.

“I'm trying to track down someone,” I said, reaching for the phone.

I had no luck with any of the Grimeses I called.

“Maybe she's married,” Lucy suggested.

“I don't think so.”

I called Directory Assistance and got the listing for the new penitentiary in Greensville.

“What makes you think she isn't?”

“Intuition.”

I dialed. “I'm trying to reach Helen Grimes,” I said to the woman who answered.

“Are you referring to an inmate?”

“No. To one of your guards.”

“Hold, please.”

I was transferred.

“Watkins,” a male voice mumbled.

“Helen Grimes, please,” I said.

“Officer Helen Grimes.”

“Oh. She don't work here anymore.”

“Could you please tell me where I could reach her, Mr. Watkins? It's very important.”

“Hold on.”

The phone dunked against wood. In the background, Randy Travis was singing.

Minutes later, the man returned. “We're not allowed to give out information like that, ma'am.”

“That's fine, Mr. Watkins. If you give me your first name, I'll just send all this to you and you can forward it to her.”

A pause. “All what?”

“This order she placed. I was calling to see if she wanted it mailed fourth-class or sent ground.”

“What order?”

He didn't sound happy.

“The set of encyclopedias she ordered. There are six boxes weighing eighteen pounds each.”

“Well, you can't be sending no encyclopedias here.”

“Then what do you suggest I do with them, Mr. Watkins? She's already made the down payment and your business address was the one she gave us.”

“Shhhhooo. Hold on.”

I heard paper rustle; then keys clicked on a keyboard.

“Look,” the man said quickly. “The best I can do is give you a P.O. box. You just send the stuff there. Don't be sending nothing to me.”

He gave me the address and abruptly hung up. The post office where Helen Grimes received her mail was in Goochland County. Next I called a bailiff I was friendly with at the Goochland courthouse. Within the hour he had looked up Helen Grimes's home address in court records, but her telephone number was unlisted. At eleven A.M., I gathered my pocketbook and coat, and found Lucy in my study.

“I've got to go out for a few hours,” I said.

“You lied to whoever you were talking to on the phone.”

She stared into the computer screen. “You don't have any encyclopedias to deliver to anyone.”

“You're absolutely right. I did lie.”

“So sometimes it's okay to lie and sometimes it's not.’

“It's never really okay, Lucy.”

I left her in my chair, modem lights winking and various computer manuals open and scattered over my desk and on the floor. On the screen the cursor pulsed rapidly. I waited until I was well out of sight before slipping my Ruger into my pocketbook. Though I was licensed to carry a concealed weapon, I rarely did. Setting the alarm, I left the house through the garage and drove west until Cary Street put me on River Road. The sky was marbled varying shades of gray. I was expecting Nicholas Grueman to call any day. A bomb ticked silently in the records I had given him, and I did not look forward to what he was going to say.

Helen Grimes lived on a muddy road just west of the North Pole restaurant, and on the border of a farm. Her house looked like a small barn, with few trees on its tiny parcel of land, and window boxes clumped with dead shoots that I guessed once had been geraniums. There was no sign in front to announce who lived inside, but the old Chrysler pulled up dose to the porch announced that at least somebody did.

When Helen Grimes opened her door, I could tell by her blank expression that I was about as foreign to her as my German car. Dressed in jeans and an untucked denim shirt, she planted her hands on her substantial hips and did not budge from the doorway. She seemed unbothered by the cold or who I said I was, and it wasn't until I reminded her of my visit to the penitentiary that recognition flickered in her small, probing eyes.

“Who told you where I live?”

Her cheeks were flushed, and I wondered if she might hit me.

“Your address is in the court records for Goochland County.”

“You shouldn't have looked for it. How would you like it if I dug up your home address?”

“If you needed my help as much as I need yours, I wouldn't mind, Helen,” I said.

She just looked at me. I noticed that her hair was damp, an earlobe smudged with black dye.

“The man you worked for was murdered,” I said. “Someone who worked for me was murdered. And there are others. I'm sure you've been keeping up with some of what is going on. There is reason to suspect that the person who is doing this was an inmate at Spring Street - someone who was released, perhaps around the time that Ronnie Joe Waddell was executed.”

“I don't know anything about anybody being released.”

Her eyes drifted to the empty street behind me.

“Would you know anything about an inmate who disappeared? Someone, perhaps, who wasn't legitimately released? It seems that with the job you had you would have known who entered the penitentiary and who left.”

“Nobody disappeared that I heard of.”

“Why don't you work there anymore?”

I asked.

“Health reasons.”

I heard what sounded like a cupboard door shut from somewhere inside the space she guarded.

I kept trying. “Do you remember when Ronnie Waddell's mother came to the penitentiary to visit him on the afternoon of his execution?”

“I was there when she came in.”

“You would have searched her and anything she had with her. Am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“What I'm trying to determine is if Mrs. Waddell might have brought anything to give her son. I realize that visiting rules prohibit people from bringing in items for the inmates “

"You can get permission. She got it.”

"Mrs. Waddell got permission to give something to her son?”

"Helen, you're letting all the heat out," a voice sounded sweetly from behind her.

Intense blue eyes suddenly fixed on me like gun sights in the space between Helen Grimes's meaty left shoulder and the door frame. I caught a flash of a pale cheek and aquiline nose before the space was empty again. The lock rattled and the door was quietly shut behind the erstwhile prison guard. She leaned up against it, staring at me. I repeated my question.

"She did bring something for-Ronnie, and it wasn't much. I called the warden for permission.”

"You called Frank Donahue?”

She nodded.

"And he granted permission?”

"Like I said; it wasn't much, what she brought for him.

"Helen, what was it?”

"A picture of Jesus about the size of a postcard, and something was wrote on the back. I don't remember exactly. Something like 'I will be with you in paradise; only the spelling was wrong. Paradise was spelled like 'pair of dice; all run together,' Helen Grimes said without a trace of a smile.

"And that was it?”

I asked. "This was what she wanted to give her son before he died?”

"I told you that was it. Now, I need to go in, arid I don't want you coming here again.”

She put her hand on the doorknob as the first few drops of rain slowly slipped from the sky and left wet spots the size of nickels on the cement, stoop.

When Wesley arrived at my house later in the day, he wore a black leather pilot's jacket, a dark blue cap, and a trace of a smile.

"What's happening?” I asked as we retreated to the kitchen, which by now had become such a common meeting place for us that he always took the same chair.

"We didn't break Stevens, but I think we put a pretty big crack in him. Your having the lab request left where be would find it did the trick. He's got good reason to fear the results of DNA testing done on fetal tissue from Susan Story's case.”

"He and Susan were having an affair," I said, and it was odd that I did not object to Susan's morals. I was disappointed in her taste.

"Stevens admitted to the affair and denied everything else.”

"Such as having any idea where Susan got thirty-five hundred dollars?” I said.

"He denies knowing anything about that but we're not finished with him. A snitch of Marino's says he saw a black Jeep with a vanity plate in the area where Susan was shot and about the time we think it happened. Ben Stephens drives a black Jeep with the vanity plate”

"Stevens didn't kill her, Benton," I said.

"No, he didn't. I think what happened is Stevens got spooked when whoever he was dealing with wanted information about Jennifer Deighton's case.”

"The implication would have been pretty clear,". I agreed. "Stevens knew that Jennifer Deighton was murdered.”

"And coward that he is, he decides that when it is time for the next payoff, he'll let Susan handle it. Then he'll meet her directly afterward to get his share.”

"By which time she's already been killed.”

Wesley nodded. "I think whoever was sent to meet her shot her and kept the money: Later - maybe mere minutes later - Stevens appears in the designated spot, the alleyway off Strawberry Street.”

'What you're describing is consistent with her position in the car," I said. "Originally, she had to have been slumped forward in order for the assailant to have shot her in the nape of the neck. But when she was found, she was leaning back in the seat.”

"Stevens moved her.”

"When he first approached the car, he wouldn't have immediately known what was wrong with her. Ht couldn't see her face if she were slumped forward against the steering wheel. He leaned her back in the seat.”

"And then ran like hell.”

"And if he'd just splashed on some of his cologne before heading out to meet her, then he would have cologne on his hands. When he leaned her back in the seat; his hands would have been in contact with her coat probably in the area of her shoulders. That's what I smelled at the scene.”

"We'll break him eventually.”

"There are more important things to do, Benton," I said, and I told him about my visit with Helen Grimes and what she had said about Mrs. Waddell's last visit with her son.

"My theory," I went on, "is that Ronnie Waddell wanted the picture of Jesus buried with him, and that this may have been his last request. He puts it in an envelope and writes on it 'Urgent, extremely confidential,' and so on.”

"He couldn't have done this without Donahue's permission," Wesley said. "According to protocol, the inmate's last request must be communicated to the warden.”

“Right, and no matter what Donahue's been told, he's going to be too paranoid to let Waddell's body be carried off with a sealed envelope in a pocket. So he grants Waddell's request, then devises away to see what's inside the envelope without a hassle or a stink. He decides to switch envelopes after Wadded is dead, and instructs one of his thugs to take care of it. And this is where the receipts come in.”

"I was hoping you'd get around to that," Wesley said.

"I think the person made a little mistake Let's say he's got a white envelope on his desk, and inside it are receipts from a recent trip to Petersburg. Let's say he gets a similar white envelope, tucks something innocuous inside it, and then writes the same thing on the front that Waddell had written on the envelope he wanted buried with him.”

“Only the guard writes this on the wrong envelope.”

"Yes. He writes it on the one containing the receipts.”

"And he's going to discover this later when he looks for his receipts and finds the innocuous something inside the envelope instead.

"Precisely," I said. "And that's where Susan fits in. If I were the guard who made this mistake, I'd be very worried. The burning question for me would be whether one of the medical examiners opened that envelope in the morgue, or if the envelope was left sealed. If I, this guard, also happened to be the contact for Ben Stevens, the person forking over cash in exchange for making sure Waddell's body wasn't printed at the morgue, for example, then I'd know exactly where to turn.”

"You'd contact Stevens and tell him to find out if the envelope was opened. And if so, whether its contents made anybody suspicious or inclined to go around asking questions: It's called tripping over your paranoia and ending up with many more problems than you would have had if you'd just been cool. But it would seem Stevens could have answered that question easily.”

"Not so," I said. "He could ask Susan, but she didn't witness the opening of the envelope. Fielding opened it upstairs, photocopied the contents, and sent the original out with Waddell’s other personal effects.”

"Stevens couldn't have just pulled the case and looked at the photocopy?”

'Not unless he broke the lock on my credenza," I said.

"Then, in his mind, the only other alternative was the computer.”

"Unless he asked Fielding or me. He would know better than that. Neither of us would have divulged a confidential detail like that to him or Susan or anyone else.”

"Does he know enough about computers to break into your directory?”

"Not to my knowledge, but Susan had taken several courses and had UNIX books in her office.”

The telephone rang and I let Lucy answer it. When she came into the kitchen, her eyes were uneasy.

"It's your lawyer, Aunt Kay.”

She moved the kitchen phone within reach, and 'I picked it up without moving from my chair. Nicholas Grueman wasted no words on a greeting but went straight to his point.

"Dr. Scarpetta, on November twelfth you wrote a money market account check to the tune of ten thousand dollars cash. And I find no records in any of your bank statements that might indicate this money was deposited in any of your various accounts.”

"I didn't deposit the money.”

"You walked out of the bank with ten thousand dollars.”

"No, I did not. I wrote the check at Signet Bank, downtown, and with it purchased a cashier's check in British sterling.”

"To whom was the cashier's check made out?” My former professor asked as Benton Wesley stared tensely at me.

"Mr. Grueman, the transaction was of a private nature and in no way has any bearing on my profession.”

"Come now, Dr. Scarpetta. You know that's not good enough.”

I took a deep breath.

"Certainly, you know we're going to be asked about this. Certainly, you must realize it doesn't look good that "within weeks of your morgue assistant's depositing an unexplained amount of cash, you wrote a check for a large amount of cash.”

I shut my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair as Wesley got up from the table and came around behind me.

"Kay" - I felt Wesley's hands on my shoulders - "for God's sake, you've got to tell him.”