Cruel and Unusual

13

Had Grueman never been a practitioner of the law, I would not have entrusted my welfare to him. But before teaching he had been a litigator of renown, and he had done civil rights work and prosecuted mobsters for the Justice Department during the Robert Kennedy era. Now he represented clients who had no money and were condemned to die. I appreciated Grueman's seriousness and needed his cynicism.

He was not interested in trying to negotiate or protest my innocence. He refused to present the slightest shred of evidence to Marino or anyone. He told no one of the ten-thousand-dollar check, which was, he said, the worst piece of evidence against me. I was reminded of what he had taught his students on the first day of criminal law. Just say no. Just say no. Just say no. My former professor, abided by these rules to the letter, and frustrated Roy Patterson's every effort.

Then on Thursday, January 6, Patterson called me at home and requested that I come downtown to his office to talk.

"I'm sure we can dear all this up," he said amicably. "I just need to ask you a few questions.”

The implication was that if I cooperated, then something worse might be derailed, and I marveled that Patterson would consider, for even a moment, that such a shopworn maneuver would work with me. When the Commonwealth's Attorney wants to chat, he's on a fishing expedition that does not involve letting anything go. The same is true of the police. In good Gruemanian fashion, I told Patterson no, and the next morning was subpoenaed to appear before the special grand jury on January 20. This was followed by a subpoena duces tecum for my financial records. First Grueman claimed the Fifth, then filed a motion to quash the subpoena. A week later, we had no choice but to comply unless I wished to be held in contempt of court. About this same time, Governor Norring appointed Fielding acting chief medical examiner of Virginia.

"There's another TV van I just saw it go by," Lucy said from the dining room, where she stood staring out the window.

"Come on in and eat lunch," I called out to her from the kitchen. "Your soup is getting cold.”

Silence.

"Aunt Kay?”

She sounded excited.

"What is it?”

'You'll never guess who just pulled up."

From the window over the sink; I watched the white Ford LTD park in front. The driver's door opened, and Marino climbed out. He hitched up his trousers and adjusted his tie, his eyes taking in everything around him. As I watched him follow the sidewalk to my porch, I was so powerfully touched that it startled me.

"I'm not sure if I should be glad to see you or not," I said when I opened the door.

"Hey, don't worry. I'm not here to arrest you, Doc.’

"Please come in.”

"Hi, Pete," Lucy said cheerfully.

"Aren't you supposed to be in school or something?”

“No.?”

“What? Down there in South America they give you January off?”

"That's right. Because of the bad weather," my niece said. "When it drops below seventy degrees, everything shuts down.”

Marino smiled. He looked about the worst I had ever seen him.

Moments later I had built a fire in the living room, and Lucy had left to run errands.

"How have you been?” I asked.

"Are you going to make me smoke outside?”

I slid an ashtray closer to him.

"Marino, you have suitcases under your eyes, your face is flushed, and it's not warm enough in here for you to be perspiring.”

"I can tell you've missed me.”

He pulled a dingy handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped his brow. Then he lit a cigarette and stated into the fire. "Patterson's being an asshole, Doc. He wants to scorch you.”

"Let him try.”

"He will, and you'd better be ready.”

"He has no case against me, Marino.”

"He has a fingerprint found on an envelope inside Susan's house.”

“I can explain that:" "But you can't prove it, and then there's his little trump card. And I swear I shouldn't be telling you this, but I'm going to.

“What trump card?”

"You remember Tom Lucero?”

"1 know who he is," I said. "I don't know him.”

"Well, he can be a charmer and he's a pretty damn good cop, to be honest. Turns out he's been snooping around Signet Bank and talked up one of the tellers until she slipped him information about you. Now, he wasn't supposed to ask and she wasn't supposed to tell. But she told him she remembered you writing a big deck for cash sometime before Thanksgiving. According to her, it was for ten grand.”

I stared stonily at him.

"I mean, you can't really blame Lucero. He's just doing his job. But Patterson knows what to look for as he ages through your financial. He's going to hammer you hard when you get before the special grand jury.”

I did not say a word.

"Doc.” He leaned forward and met my eyes. "Don't you think you ought to tally about it?”

"No.”

Getting up, he went to the fireplace and nudged the curtain open far enough to flick the cigarette inside.

"Shit, Doc, “ he said quietly. "I don't want you indicted.”

"I shouldn't drink coffee and I know you shouldn't, but I feel like having something. Do you like hot chocolate?”

“I'll drink some coffee.”

I got up to fix it. My thoughts buzzed sluggishly like a housefly in the fall. My rage had nowhere to go. I made a pot of decaf and hoped Marino would not know the difference.

"How is your blood pressure?” I asked him.

"You want to know the truth? Some days if I was a kettle I’d be whistling.”

"I don't know what I'm going to do with you.”

He perched on the edge of the hearth. The fire sounded like the wind, and reflected flames danced in brass.

"For one thing," I went on, "you probably shouldn't even be here. I don't want you having any problems.”

"Hey, fuck the CA, the city, the governor, and all of them, " he said with sudden anger.

"Marino; we can't give in. Someone knows who this killer is. Have you talked to the officer who showed us around the penitentiary? Officer Roberts?”

"Yo. The conversation went exactly nowhere.”

"Well, I didn't fare a whole lot better with your friend Helen Grimes.”

"That must've been a treat.”

"Are you aware that she no longer works for the pen?”

"She never did any work there that I know of. Helen the Hun was lazy as hell unless she was patting down one of the lady guests. Then she got industrious. Donahue liked her, don't ask me why. After he got whacked, she got reassigned to guard tower duty in Greensville and suddenly developed a knee problem or something.

“I have a feeling she knows a lot more than she let m" I said "Especially if she and Donahue were friendly with each other.”

Marino sipped his coffee and looked out the sliding glass doors. The ground was frosted white, and snowflakes seemed to be falling faster. I thought of the snowy night I was summoned to Jennifer Deighton's house, and images flashed in my mind of an overweight woman in curlers sitting in a chair in tie middle of her living room. If the killer had interrogated her, he had done so for a reason. What was it he had been sent to find?

“Do you think the killer was after letters when' he appeared at Jennifer Deighton's house?” I asked Marino.

"I think he was after something that had to do with Waddell. Letters, poems. Things he may have mailed to her over the years.”

"Do you think this person found what he was looking for?”

"Let's just put it this way, he may have looked around, but he was so tidy we couldn't tell.”

"Well, I don't think he found a thing," T said.

Marino looked skeptically at me as he lit another cigarette. "Based on what?”

"Based on the scene. She was in her nightgown and curlers. It appears she had been reading in bed. That doesn't sound like someone who is expecting company," "I'll go along with that.”

"Then someone appears at her door and she must have let him in, because there was no sign of forcible entry and no sign of a struggle. I think what may have happened next is this person demanded that she turn over to him whatever it was he was looking for, and she wouldn't. He gets angry, gets a chair from the dining room, and sets it in the middle of her living room. He sits her in it and basically tortures her. He asks questions, and when she doesn't tell him what he wants to hear he tightens the choke hold. This goes on until it goes too far. He carries her out and puts her in her car.”

"If he was going in and out of the kitchen, that might explain why that door was unlocked when we arrived," Marino considered.

"It might. In summary, I don't think he intended for her to die when she did, and after he tried to disguise her death. He probably didn't hang around very long. Maybe he got scared, or maybe he simply lost interest in his assignment. I doubt he rummaged through her house at all, and I also doubt that he would have found anything if he had.”

"We sure as hell didn't," Marino said.

"Jennifer Deighton was paranoid," I said. "She indicated to Grueman in the fax she sent him that there was something wrong about what was being done to Waddell. Apparently, she'd seen me on the news and had even tried to contact me, but continued to hang up when she got my machine.”

"Are you thinking she might have had papers or something that would tell us what the hell this is all about?”

"If she had," I said, "then she was probably sufficiently frightened to get them out of her house.”

"And stash them where?”

"I don't, know, but maybe her ex-husband would. Didn't she visit him for two weeks the end of November?”

“Yeah.” Marino looked interested. "As n matter of fact, she did.”

'Willie Travers had an energetic, pleasant voice over the phone when I finally reached him at the Pink Shell resort in Fort Myers Beach, Florida. But he was vague and noncommittal when I began to ask questions.

"Mr. Travers, what can I do to make you trust me?” I finally asked in despair.

"Come down here.”

"That's going to be very difficult at moment."

"I'd have to see you.”

"Excuse me?’

"That's the way I am. If I can see you, I can read you and know if you're okay. Jenny was the same way.”

"So if I come down to Fort Myers Beach and let you read me, you will help me?”

"Depends on what I pick up.”

I made airline reservations for six-fifty the following morning. Lucy and I would fly to Miami. I would leave her with Dorothy and drive to Fort Myers Beach, where there was a very good chance I would spend a night wondering if I'd lost my mind. Chances were overwhelming that Jennifer Deighton's holistic health nut of an ex would turn out to be a great big waste of time.

Saturday, the snow had stopped when I got up at four A.M. and went into Lucy's bedroom to wake her. For a moment I listened to her breathe, then lightly touched her shoulder and whispered her name in the dark she stirred and sat straight up. On the plane, she slept to Charlotte, then wallowed in one of her unbearable moods the rest of the way to Miami.

"I'd rather take a cab," she said, staring out the window…

"You can't take a cab, Lucy. Your mother and her friend will be looking for you.”

"Good. Let them drive around the airport all day. Why can't I come with you?”

"You need to go home, and I need to drive straight to Fort Myers Beach, and then I'm going to fly from there back to Richmond. Trust me. It wouldn't be any, fun.”

"Being with Mother and her latest idiot isn't any fun, either.”

"You don't know he's an idiot. You've never met him. Why don't you give him a chance?”

"I wish Mother would get AIDS.”

"Lucy, don't say such a thing.”

"She deserves it I don't understand how she can sleep with every dickhead who takes her out to dinner and a movie. I don't understand how she can be your sister.”

"Lower your voice," I whispered.

"If she missed me so much, she'd want to pick me up herself. She wouldn't want someone else around.”

"That's not necessarily true," I told her. "When you fall in love someday, you'll understand better.”

"What makes you think I've never been in love?” She looked furiously at me.

"Because if you had been, you would know that being in love brings out both the best and the worst in us. One day we're generous and sensitive to a fault, and the next we're not fit to shoot. Our lives become lessons in extremes.”

"I wish Mother would hurry up and go through menopause.”

Mid-afternoon, as I drove the Tamiami Trail in and out of the shade, I patched up the holes guilt had chewed into my conscience. Whenever I dealt with my family, I felt irritated. and annoyed. Whenever I refused to deal with them, I felt the same way I had as a child, when I learned the art of running away without leaving home. In a sense, I had become my father after he died. I was the rational one who made A's and knew how to cook and handle money. I was the one who rarely cried and whose reaction to the volatility in my disintegrating home was to cool down and disperse like a vapor. Consequently, my mother and sister accused me of indifference, and I grew up harboring a secret shame that what they said was true.

I arrived in Fort Myers Beach with the air-conditioning on and the visor down to shield the sun. Water met the sky in a continuum of vibrant blue, and palms were bright green feathers atop trunks as sturdy as ostrich legs. The Pink Shell resort was the color of its name. It backed up to Estero Bay and threw its front balconies open wide to the Gulf of Mexico. Willie Travers lived in one of the cottages, but I was not due to meet him until eight P.M. Checking into a one bedroom apartment, I literally left a trail of clothes on the floor as I snatched off my winter suit and grabbed shorts and a tennis shirt out of my bag. I was out the door and on the beach in seven minutes.

I did not know how many miles I walked, for I lost track of time, and each stretch of sand and water looked magnificently the same: I watched bobbing pelicans throw their heads back as they downed fish like shots of bourbon, and I deftly stepped around the flaccid blue balloons of beached Portuguese men-of-war. Most people I passed were old. Occasionally, the high-pitched voice of a child lifted above the roar of waves like a bit of bright paper carried by the wind. I picked up sand dollars worn smooth by the surf and beached shells reminiscent of peppermints sucked thin. I thought of Lucy and missed her again.

When most of the beach was in shade, I returned to my room.

Showering and changing, I got in my car and, cruised Estero Boulevard until hunger guided me like a divining rod into the parking lot of the Skipper's Galley., I ate red snapper and, drank white wine while the horizon faded to a dusky blue. Soon boat lights drifted low in the darkness and I could not see the water.

By the time I found cottage 182 near the bait shop and thing pier, I was as relaxed as I had been in a long time. When Willie Travers opened the door, it seemed we had been friends forever.

"The first order of business is refreshment. Surely you haven't eaten," he said.

I regretfully told him I had.

"Then you'll simply have to eat again.”

"But I couldn't.”

"I will prove you wrong within the hour. The fare is very light. Grouper grilled in butter and Key Lime juice with a generous sprinkling of fresh ground pepper. And we have seven-grain bread I make from scratch that you'll never forget as long as you live. Let's see. Oh, yes. Marinated slaw and Mexican beer.”

He said all this as he popped the caps off two bottle of Doe Equis. Jennifer Deighton's former husband had to be close to eighty years old, his face as ruined by the sun as cracked mud, but the blue eyes set in it were as vital as a young man's. He smiled a lot as he talked, and was beef jerky lean. His hair reminded me of white tennis ball fuzz.

"How did you come to live here?” I asked, looking around at mounted fish on the walls and rugged furnishings.

"A couple of years ago I decided to retire and fish, so I worked out a deal with the Pink Shell. I'd run their bait shop if they'd let me rent one of the cottages at a reasonable rate.”

"What was your profession before you refined?”

"Same as it is now.”

He smiled. "I practice holistic medicine, and you never really retire from that any more than you retire from religion. The difference is, now I work with people I want to work with, and I no long have an office in town.”

"Your definition of holistic medicine?”

"I treat the whole persons plain and simple. The point is to get people in balance.”

He looked appraisingly at me, set his beer down, and carne over to the captain's chair where I sat, "Would you mind standing up?”

I was in a mood to be agreeable.

"Now hold out one of your arms. I don't care which one, but hold it straight out so it's parallel to the floor. That's fine. Now I'm going to ask you a question and then as you answer I'm going to try to push your arm down while you resist. Do you view yourself as the family hero?”

"No.”

My arm instantly yielded to his pressure and lowered like a drawbridge.

"Well, you do view yourself as the family hero. That tells me you're pretty damn hard on yourself and have been from the word go. All right. Now let's put your arm up again and I'm going to ask you another question. Are you good at what you do?”

"Yes.”

"I'm pushing down as hard as I can and your arm is steel. So you are good at what you do.”

He returned to the couch and I sat back down.

"I must admit that my medical teaching makes me somewhat skeptical," I said with a smile.

"Well, it shouldn't, because the principles are no different from what you deal with every day. Bottom line? The body doesn't lie. No matter what you tell yourself, your energy level responds to what is actually true. If your head says you aren't the family hero or you love yourself when that's not how you feel, your energy gets weak. Is this making any sense?”

"Yes.”

"One of the reasons Jenny came down here once or twice a year was so I could balance her. And when she was here last, around Thanksgiving, she was so out of whack I had to work with her several hours everyday.”

“Did she tell you what was wrong?”

"A lot of things were wrong. She'd just moved and didn't like her neighbors, especially the ones across the street.”

"The Clarys," I said.

"I suppose that was the name. The woman was a busybody and the man was a flirt until he had a stroke. Plus, Jenny's horoscope readings had gotten out of hand and were wearing her out.”

"What was your opinion of this business she ran?”

"Jenny had a gift but she was spreading it too thin.”

"Would you label her a psychic?”

"Nope. I wouldn't label Jenny - wouldn't even begin to try. She was into a lot of things:" I suddenly remembered the blank sheet of paper anchored by the crystal on her bed and asked Travers if he might know what that meant, or if it meant anything.

"It meant she was concentrating.”

"Concentrating?”

I puzzled. "On what?"

"When Jenny wanted to meditate, she would get a white sheet of paper and put a crystal on top of it. Then she would sit very still and slowly turn the crystal around and around, watching light from the facets move on the paper. That did for her what staring at the water does for me.”

"Was anything else bothering her when she came to see you, Mr. Travers?”

"Call me Willie. Yea, and you know what I'm about to say. She was upset about this convict who was waiting to be executed - Ronnie Waddell. Jenny and Ronnie had been writing to each other for many years and she just couldn't deal with the thought of him being put to death."

"Do you know if Waddell ever revealed anything to her that could have placed her in jeopardy?”

"Well, he gave her something that did.”

I reached for my beer without taking my eyes off him.

"When she came down here at Thanksgiving, she brought all of the letters he had written and anything else he had sent her over the years. She wanted me to keep them down here for her.”

“Why?”

"So they would be safe.”

"She was worried about somebody trying to get them from her?”

"All I know is, she was spooked. She told me that during the first week of this past November, Waddell called her collect and said he was ready to die and didn't want to fight it anymore. Apparently, he was convinced nothing could save him, and he asked her to go to the farm in Suffolk and get his belongings from his mother. He said he wanted Jenny to have them, and not to worry, that his mother would understand.”

"What were those belongings?” I asked.

"Just one thing.”

He got up. "I'm not real sure of the significance - and I'm not sure I want to be sure. So I'm going to turn it over to you, Dr. Scarpetta. You can take it on back to Virginia. Share it with the police. Do with it what you want.”

"Why are you suddenly being helpful?” I asked. "Why not weeks ago?’

"Nobody bothered to come see me," he said loudly from another room. "I told you when you called I don't deal with people over the phone.”

When he returned, he set a black Hartmann briefcase at my feet. The brass lock had been pried open and the leather was scarred: "Fact is, you'd be doing me a big favor to get this out of my life," Willie Travers said, and I could tell he mean it. "The very thought of it makes my energy bad.”

The scores of letters Ronnie Waddell had written Jennifer Deighton from death row were neatly bundled in rubber bands and sorted chronologically. I skimmed through few in my hotel roam that night, because their importance all but disappeared in the light of other items I found.

Inside the briefcase were legal pads filled with handwritten notes that made little sense, for they referred to cases and dilemmas of the Commonwealth from more than ten years ago. There were pens and pencils, a map of Virginia, a tin of Sucrets throat lozenges, a Vick's inhaler, and a tube of Chapstick. Still in its yellow box was an EpiPen, a 3 milligram epinephrine auto-injector routinely kept by people fatally allergic to bee stings or some foods. The prescription label was typed with the patient's name, the date, and the information that the EpiPen was one of five refills. Clearly, Waddell had stolen the briefcase from Robyn Naismith's house on the fateful morning he murdered her. It may be that he had no idea who it belonged to until he carried it off and broke the lock. Waddell discovered he had savaged a local celebrity whose lover Joe Norring, was then the attorney general of Virginia.

“Waddell never had a chance," I said. "Not that he necessarily deserved clemency in light of the severity of his crime. But from the moment he was arrested, Norring was a worried man. He knew he had left his briefcase at Robyn's house, and he knew it had not been recovered by the police.”

Why he had left his briefcase at Robyn's house was not clear, unless he'd simply forgotten it on a night that neither of them could know was her last.

"I can't even begin to imagine Norring's reaction when he heard," I said.

Wesley glanced at me over the arm of his glasses as he continued perusing paperwork. "I don't think we can imagine it. It was bad enough he had to worry about the world discovering he was having an affair, but his connection with Robyn would have instantly made him the, prime suspect in her murder.”

"In a way," Marino said, "he was lucky as hell Waddell took the briefcase.”

"I'm sure in his mind he was unlucky either way he looked at it," I said. "If the briefcase had turned up at the scene, he was in trouble. If the briefcase was stolen, as it was, then Norring had to worry about it turning up somewhere:" Marino got the coffeepot and refilled everyone’s cup. "Somebody must have done something to ensure Waddell's silence.”

"Maybe.”

Wesley reached for the cream. "Then again; maybe Waddell never opened his mouth. My guess is he feared from the beginning that what he had stumbled upon only made matters worse for him. The briefcase could be used as a weapon, but who would it destroy? Norring or Waddell? Was Waddell going to trust the system enough to badmouth the AG? Was he going to trust the system enough years later to badmouth the governor - the only man who could spare his life?”

"So Waddell remained silent, knowing that his mother would protect what he had hidden on the farm until he was ready for someone else to have it," I said.

"Norring had ten damn years to find his briefcase;" Marino said. "Why did he wait so long to start looking?”

"1 suspect Norring has had Waddell watched from, the beginning," Wesley said, "and that this surveillance was stepped up considerably over the past few months. The closer Waddell got to the execution, the less he had to lose, and the more likely he was to start talking. It's possible someone was monitoring his phone conversation when he called Jennifer Deighton in November. And it's possible that when word got to Norring, he panicked.”

"He should have," Marino said. "I personally searched through all of Waddell's belongings when we was working the case. The guy had next to nothing, and if anything belonging to him was back on the farm, we never found it.”

"And Norring would have known that," I said.

"Hell, yes," Marino said. "But he's going to know, there's something strange about belongings from the farm being given to this friend of Waddells. Norring starts seeing that damn briefcase in his nightmares again, and to make matters worse, he can't have someone just barge into Jennifer Deighton's house while Waddell's still alive. If something happens to her, there's no telling what Waddell will do. And the worst possibility would be if he started singing to Grueman.”

"Benton," I said, "would you happen to know why Norring was carrying epinephrine? What is he allergic to?”

“Apparently, to shellfish. Apparently, he keeps EpiPens all over the place.”

While they continued to talk,, I checked the lasagna in the oven and opened a bottle of Kendall Jackson. The case against Norring would take a very long time, if it could be proven at all, and I thought I understood, to a degree, how Waddell must have felt It wasn't until close to eleven P.M. that I called Nicholas Grueman at home.

"I'm finished in. Virginia," I said. "As long as Norring is in office, he'll make sure I won't be. They've taken my life, goddamn it, but I'm not giving them my soul. I plan to take the Fifth every time.”

“You will certainly be indicted.”

"Considering the bastards I'm up against, I think that's a certainty anyway.”

"My, my, Dr. Scarpetta. Have you forgotten the bastard representing you? I don't know where you spent your weekend, but I spent mine in London.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"Now, there's no guaranteeing that we can slide this around Patterson," said this man I used to think I hated, "but I'm going to move heaven and earth to get Charlie Hale on the stand.”

14 January 20 was as windy as March but much colder, and the sun was blinding. as I drove east on Broad Street toward the John Marshall courthouse.

"Now I will tell you something else you already know," Nicholas Grueman said. "The press is going to be churning up the water like bluefish on a feeding frenzy. You fly too low, you lose a leg. We'll walk side by side, eyes cast down, and don't turn and look at anyone no matter who it is or what he says.”

"We're not going to find a parking place," I said, turning left on 9th. "I knew this would happen.”

"Slow down. That good woman right there on the side is doing something. Wonderful. She's leaving, if she can ever get the wheels turned enough.

A horn blared behind me.

I glanced at my watch then turned to Grueman like an athlete awaiting last-minute instruction from the coach. He wore a long navy blue cashmere coat and black leather gloves, his silver-topped cane leaning against seat and a battle-scarred briefcase in his lap.

"Now remember," he said. "Your fried Mr. Patterson decides who's going in and who isn't, so we've got to depend on the jurors to intervene, and that's going to be up to you. You've got to connect with them, Kay. You've got to make friends with ten or eleven strangers the instant you walk into that room. No matter what they want to chat with you about, don't put up a wall. Be accessible.”

“I understand," I said.

"We're going for broke. A deal?”

"A deal.”

"Good luck, Doctor.”

He smiled and patted my arm.

Inside the courthouse, we were stopped by a deputy with a scanner. He went through my pocketbook and briefcase as he had a hundred times before when I had come to testify as an expert witness. But this time he said nothing to me and avoided my eyes. Grueman's cane set off the scanner, and he was the paragon of patience and courtesy as he explained that the silver top and tip would not come off, and that there truly was nothing concealed inside the dark wood shaft.

"What does he think I have here, a blowgun?” he remarked as we boarded the elevator.

The instant the doors opened on the third floor, reporters descended with the predicted predatory vigor. My counselor moved quickly for a man with gout, his strides punctuated by taps of his cane. I felt surprisingly detached and out of focus until we were inside the nearly deserted courtroom, where Benton Wesley sat in a corner with a slight young man I knew was Charlie Hale. The right side of his face was a road map of fine pink scars. When he stood and self-consciously slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, I saw that he was missing several fingers. Dressed in an ill-fitting somber suit and tie, he glanced around while I preoccupied myself with the mechanics of being seated and sorting through my briefcase. I could not speak to him, and the three men had the presence of mind to pretend they did not notice that I was upset.

"Let's talk for a minute about what they have," Grueman said. "I believe we can count on Jason Story testifying, and Officer Lucero. And, of course, Marino. I don't know who else Patterson will include in this Star Chamber proceeding of his.”

"For the record," Wesley said, looking at me, "I have spoken to Patterson. I've told him he doesn't have a case and I'll testify to that at the trial"

“We're assuming there will be no trial," Grueman said. "And when you go in, I want you to make sure the jurors know that you talked to Patterson and told him he has no case but he insisted on going forward. Whenever he asks a question and you respond by addressing an issue that you have already addressed with him in private, I want you to say so. "As I told you in your office or 'As I clearly stated when we spoke whenever it was; et cetera, et cetera.”

"It is implant that the jurors know that you are not only an FBI special agent, but that you are the chief of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, the purpose of which is to analyze violent crime and develop psychological profiles of the perpetrators. You may wish to state that Dr. Scarpetta in no way, shape, or form fits the profile of the perpetrator of the crime in question; and in fact, that you find the thought absurd. It is also important that you impress upon the jurors that you were Mark James's mentor and closest friend. Volunteer whatever you can because you can rest assured that Patterson isn't going to ask. Make it dear to the jurors that Charlie Hale is them.”

"What if they do not request me?” Charlie Hale asked.

"Then our hands are tied," Grueman replied. "As I explained when we talked in London, this is the prosecutor's show. Dr. Scarpetta has no right to present any evidence so we have to get at least one of the jurors to invite us in through the back door.”

“That's quite something," Hale said.

"You have the copies of the deposit slip and the fees you have paid?”

“Yes, sir.

'Very good. Don't wait to be asked. Just put them on the table as you're talking. And the status of your wife is the same, since we spoke?”

"Yes, sir. As I told you, she's had the in vitro ferrtilizaliion. So far, so good.”

“Remember to get that in if you can," Grueman said.

Several minutes later, I was summoned to the jury room.

"Of course. He wants you first.”

Grueman got up with me. "Then he'll call in your detractors so he can leave a bad taste in the jurors' mouths.”

He went as far as the door. "I will be right here when you need me.”

Nodding, I went inside and took the empty chair at the head of the table. Patterson was out of the room, and I knew this was one of his gambits. He wanted me to endure the silent scrutiny of these ten strangers who held my welfare in their hands. I met the gazes of all and even exchanged smiles with a few. A serious young woman wearing bright red lipstick decided not to wait for the Commonwealth's Attorney.

"What made you decide to deal with dead people instead of the living?” she asked. "It seems a strange thing for a doctor to choose.”

"It is my intense concern for the living that makes me study the dead," I said. "What we learn from the dead is for the benefit of the living, and justice is for those left behind.”

"Don't it get to you?” inquired an old man with big, rough hands. The expression on his fare was so sincere that he seemed in pain.

"Of course it does.”

"How many years did you have to go to school after you graduated from high school?” asked a heavyset black woman.

"Seventeen years, if you include residencies and the year I was a fellow.”

“Lord have mercy.”

"Where all did you go?”

"To school, you mean?” I said to the thin young man wearing glasses..

"Yes, ma'am.”

"Saint Michael's, Our Lady of Lourdes Academy, Cornell, Johns Hopkins, Georgetown.”

"Was your daddy a doctor?”

"My father owned a small grocery store in Miami.”

"Well, I'd hate to be the one paying for all that school.” Several of the jurors laughed softly.

"I was fortunate enough to receive scholarships," I said. "Beginning with high school.”

"I have an uncle who works at the Twilight Funeral one in Norfolk," said someone else.

"Oh, come on, Barry. There really isn't a funeral home called that.”

"I kid you not.’

“That’s nothing. We got one in Fayetteville owned by the Stiff family. Guess what its called.”

"No way.”

"You're not from around here.”

“I'm a native of Miami," I replied.

"Then the name Scarpetta's Spanish?”

“It's Italian.”

"That's interesting. I thought all Italians was dark.”

"My ancestors are from Verona in northern Italy, where a sizable segment of the population shares blood with the Savoyards, Austrians, and Swiss," I patiently explained. "Many of us are blue-eyed and blond.”

"Boy, I bet you can cook.”

"It's one of my favorite pastimes.”

"Dr. Scarpetta, I'm not real clear on your position," said a well-dressed man who looked about my age. "Are you the chief medical examiner for Richmond?”

"For the Commonwealth. We have four district offices. Central Office here in Richmond, Tidewater in Norfolk, Western in Roanoke, and the Northern Office in Alexandria.”

"So the chief just happens to be located here in Richmond?”

"Yes. That seems to make the most sense, since the medical examiner system is part of state government and Richmond is where the legislature meets," I replied as the door opened and Roy Patterson walked in. He was a broad shouldered, good-looking black man with close-shorn hair that was going gray. His dark blue suit was double-breasted, and his initials were embroidered on the cuffs of his pale yellow shirt. He was known for his ties, and this one looked hand painted, He greeted the jurors and was tepid toward me.

I discovered that the woman wearing the bright red lipstick was the foreman. She cleared her throat and informed me that I did not have to testify, and that anything I said could be used against me.

"I understand," I said, and I was sworn in.

Patterson hovered about my chair and offered the minimum of information about who I was, and elaborated on the power of my position and the ease with which this power could be abused.

"And who would there be to witness it?” he asked. "On many occasions there was no one to observe Dr. Scarpetta at work except for the person who was by her side virtually every day. Susan Story. You can't hear testimony from her because she and her unborn child are dead, ladies and gentlemen. But there are others you will hear from today. And they will paint for you a chilling portrait of a cold, ambitious woman, an empire builder who was making grievous mistakes on the job. First, she paid for Susan Story's silence. Then she killed for it.”

"And when you hear tales of the perfect crime, who better able to carry it off than someone who is an expert in solving crimes? An expert would know that if you plan to shoot someone inside a vehicle, it would behoove you to choose a low-caliber weapon so you don't run the risk of bullets ricocheting. An expert would leave no telling evidence at the scene, not even spent shells. An expert would not use her own revolver - the gun or guns that friends and colleagues know she possesses. She would use something that could not be traced back to "Why, she might even borrow a revolver from the lab, because, ladies and gentlemen, every year the courts routinely confiscate hundreds of firearms used in the commission of crimes, and some of these weapons are donated to the state firearms lab. For all we know, the twenty-two revolver that was put against the back of Susan Story's skull is, as we speak, hanging on a pegboard in the firearms lab or downstairs in the range the examiners use for test fires and where Dr. Scarpetta routinely practices shooting. And by the way, she is good enough to qualify for any police department in America. And she has killed before, though to give her credit, in the instance I'm referring to her actions were ruled to be self-defense.”

I stared down at my hands folded on top of the table as the court reporter played her silent keys and Patterson went on. His rhetoric was always eloquent, though he usually did not know when to quit. When he asked me to explain the. fingerprints recovered from the envelope found in Susan's dresser, he made such a big production of pointing out how unbelievable my explanation was that I suspected the reaction of some was to wonder why what I'd said couldn't be true, Then he got to the money.

"Is it not true, Dr. Scarpetta, that on November twelfth you appeared at the downtown branch of Signet Bank and made out a check for cash for the sum of ten thousand dollars?”

"That is true.”

Patterson hesitated for an instant, his surprise visible. He had counted on my taking the Fifth.

"And is it true that on this occasion you did not deposit the money in any of your various accounts?”

"That is also true," I said.

"So several weeks before your morgue supervisor inexplicably deposited thirty-five hundred dollars into her checking account, you walked out of Signet Bank with ten thousand dollars cash on your person?”

“No, sir, I did not. In my financial records you should have found a copy of a cashier's check made out to the sum of seven thousand, three hundred and eighteen pounds sterling. I have my copy here.”

I got it out of my briefcase.

Patterson barely glanced at it as he asked the court reporter to tag it as evidence. "Now, this is very interesting," he said. "You purchased a cashiers check made out to someone named Charles Hale. Was this some creative scheme of yours to disguise payoffs you were making to your morgue visor and perhaps to others? Did this individual termed Charles Hale turn around and convert pounds flack into dollars and route the cash elsewhere - perhaps to Susan Story?”

“No," I said. "And I never delivered the check to Charles Hale.”

“You didn't?”

He looked confused “What did you do with it?”

'I gave it to Benton Wesley, and he saw to it that the a was delivered to Charles Hale. Benton Wesley -"

He cut me off. “The story just gets more preposterous who is Charles Hale?”

"I would like to finish my previous statement," I said.

"Who is Charles Hale?”

"I'd like to hear what she was trying to say," said a man in a plaid blazer.

"Please," Patterson said with a cold smile.

"I gave the cashier's check to Benton Wesley. He is a special agent for the FBI, a suspect profiler at the Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico." A woman timidly raised her hand. "Is he the one I've read about in the papers? The one they call in when there are these awful murders like, the ones in Gainesville?”

"He is the one," I said. "He is a colleague of mine. He was also the best friend of a friend of mine, Mark James, who also was a special agent for the FBI.”

"Dr. Scarpetta, let's get the record straight here," Patterson said impatiently. "Mark James was more than a quote, friend of yours.”

"Are you asking me a question Mr. Patterson?”

"Aside from the obvious conflict of interest involved in the chief medical examiner's sleeping with an FBI agent, the subject is non-germane. So I won't ask-.“

I interrupted him. "My relationship with Mark James began in law school. There was no conflict of interest, and for the record, I object to the Commonwealth's Attorney's reference to whom I allegedly was sleeping with.”

The court reporter typed on.

My hands were clasped so tightly my knuckles were white.

Patterson asked again, "Who is Charles Hale and why would you give him the equivalent of ten thousand dollars?”

Pink scars flashed in my mind, and I envisioned two tigers attached to a stump shiny with scar tissue.

"He was a ticket agent at Victoria Station in London," I said.

"Was?”

"He was on Monday, February eighteenth, when the bomb went off.”

No one told me. I heard reporters on the news all day and had no idea until my phone rang on February 19 at two-fourty-one A.M. It was six-forty-one in the morning in London, and Mark had been dead for almost a day. I was so stunned as Benton Wesley tried to explain, that none of it made any sense.

“That was yesterday, I read about that yesterday. You mean it happened again?”

"The bombing happened yesterday morning during rush hour. But I just found out about Mark. Our legal in London just notified me.”

"You're sure? You're absolutely sure?”

“Jesus, I'm sorry, Kay.”

“They've identified him with certainty?”

“With certainty.’

"You're sure. I mean.. “

"Kay. I'm at home. I can be there in an hour.”

"No, no.”

“I was shivering all over but could not cry. I wandered through my house, moaning quietly and wringing my hands.

"But you did not know this Charles Hale prior to his being injured in the bombing, Dr. Scarpetta. Why would you give him ten thousand dollars?”

Patterson dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

"He and his wife have wanted children and could not have them.”

"And how would you know such an intimate detail about strangers?”

“Benton Wesley told me, and I responded by suggesting Bourne Hall, the leading research facility for in vitro fertilization. IVF is not covered by national health insurance.”

"Bur you said the bombing was way back in February. You just wrote the check in November.”

"I did not know about the Hales' problem until this past fall, when the FBI had a photo spread for Mr. Hale to look at and somehow learned of his difficulties. I'd told Benton long ago to let me know if there was ever anything I could do for Mr. Hale.’

"Then you took it upon yourself to finance in vitro fertilization for strangers?” Patter asked as if I'd just told him that I believed in leprechauns.

"Yes.”

"Are you a saint, Dr. Scarpetta?”

"'No.”

"Then. please explain Your motivation.”

"Charles Hale tried to help Mark.”

"Tried to help him?” Patterson was pacing. "Tried to help him buy a ticket or catch a train or find the men's room? Just what is it that you mean?”

"Mark was conscious briefly, and Charles Hale was seriously injured on the ground next to him. He tried to move rubble off Mark. He talked to him, took off his jacket, and wrapped it around… He, uh, tried to stop the hemorrhaging. He did everything he could. There was nothing that would have saved him, but he wasn't alone. I am so grateful for that. Now there will be a new life in the world, and I am thankful I could do something in return. It helps. There is at least some meaning. No. I'm not a saint. The need was mine, too. When I helped the Hales, I was helping me.”

The room was so quiet it was as if it were empty.

The woman wearing red lipstick leaned forward a little to get Patterson's attention.

"I expect Charlie Hale is way over there in England. But I wonder if we could subpoena Benton Wesley?”

"It's not necessary to subpoena either one of them," I answered. "Both of them are here.”

When the foreman informed Patterson that the special grand jury had refused to indict, I was not there to see it. Nor was I present when Grueman was told. As soon as I had finished testifying, I had begun frantically looking for Marino.

"I saw him come out of the men's room maybe a half hour ago," said a uniformed officer I found smoking a by a water fountain. "Can you try him on your radio?” I asked.

Shrugging, he unfastened his radio from his belt and asked the dispatcher to raise Marino. Marino did not respond. I took the stairs and broke into a trot when I got outside. When I was in my car, I locked the doors and started the engine. I grabbed the phone and tried headquarters, which was directly across the street from the courthouse. While a detective in the squad room told me that Marino wasn't in, I drove through the lot in back looking for his white Ford LTD. It. wasn't there. Then I pulled into an empty reserved place and called Neils Vander.

"You remember the burglary on Franklin - the prints you recently ran that matched up with Waddell?”

"The burglary in which the eiderdown vest was-.”

"That's the one.”

“I remember it.”

"Was the complainant's ten print card turned in for exclusionary purposes?”

“No, I didn't have that. Just the latents recovered from the scene.”

"Thank you, Neils.”

“Next I called the dispatch.

“Can you tell me if Lieutenant Marino is marked on?”

I asked.

She came back to me, "He is marked on.”

“Listen, please see if you can, raise him and find out where he is. Tell him this is Dr. Scarpetta and it's urgent.”

Maybe a minute later the dispatcher's voice came over the line. "He's at the city pumps.”

"Tell him I'm two minutes from there and on my way.” The gas pumps used by the city police were located on a bleak patch of asphalt surrounded by a chain-link fence. Filling up was strictly self-service. There was no attendant, no rest room or vending machines, and the only way you were going to clean your windshield was if you brought your own paper towels and Windex. Marino was tucking his gas card in the side pouch where he always kept it when I pulled up next to him. He got out and came around to my window.

"I just heard the news on the radio.” He couldn't contain his smile. "Where's Grueman? I want to shaker his hand.”

“I left him at the courthouse with Wesley. What happened?” I suddenly felt light-headed.

"You don't know?” he asked, incredulous. "Shit, Doc. They cut you loose, that's what happened. I can think of maybe two times in my career that a special grand jury hasn't returned with a true bill.”

I took a deep breath and shook my head. "I guess I should be dancing a jig. But I don't feel like it.”

"I probably wouldn't, either.”

“Marino, what was the name of that man who claimed his eiderdown vest was stolen?”

“Sullivan. Hilton Sullivan. Why?”

"During my testimony, Patterson made the outrageous accusation that I might have used a revolver from the firearms lab to shoot Susan. In other words, there is always a risk involved if you use your own weapon because if it's checked and it's proven that it fired the then you've got a lot of explaining to do.”

"What's this got to do with Sullivan?”

"When did he move into his condo?”

"I don't know.”

"If I were going to kill someone with my Ruger, it would be pretty clever of me to report it stolen to the police before I commit any crimes. Then if for some reason the gun is ever recovered - for example if the heat is on and I decide to toss it - the cops might trace the serial number back to me, but I can prove through the burglary report I filed that the gun was not in my possession at the time of the crime.”

"Are you suggesting Sullivan falsified a report? That he staged the burglary?”

"I'm suggesting you consider that," I said. "It's convenient that he has no burglar alarm and left a window unlocked. It’s convenient that he was obnoxious with the cops. I'm sure they were delighted to see him leave and weren't about to go the extra mile and get his fingerprints for exclusionary purposes. Especially since he was dressed in white and bitching about the dusting powder everywhere: My point is, how do you know that the prints in Sullivan's condo weren't left by Sullivan? He lives there. His prints would be all over the place.”

"In AFIS they matched up with Waddell.”

"If that's the case, then why would Sullivan call the police in response to that story about eiderdown we planted in the paper?”

"As Benton said, this guy loves to play games. He loves to jerk people around. He skates on the edge for kicks.”

"Shit. Let me use your phone.”

He came around to the passenger's side and got in. Dialing Directory Assistance, he got the number of the building where Sullivan lived. When the superintendent was on the line, Marino asked him how long ago Hilton Sullivan had purchased his condominium..

"Well, then, who does?” Marino asked. He scribbled something on a notepad. "What's the number and what street does it face? Okay… What about, his car? Yeah, if you've got it.”

When Marino hung up, he looked at me. "Christ, the squirrel doesn't own the condo at all. It's owned by some businessman who rents it, and Sullivan started renting it the friggin' first week in December. He paid the deposit on the sixth, to be exact.”

He opened the car door, adding, "And he drives a dark blue Chewy van. An old one with no windows.”

Marino followed me back to headquarters and we left my car in his parking place. We shot across Broad Street, heading toward Franklin.

"Let's hope the manager hasn't alerted him.” Marino raised his voice above the roar of the engine.

He slowed down and parked in front of an eight-story brick building.

"His condo's in back," he explained, looking around. "So he shouldn't be able to see us.”

He reached under the seat and got out his nine-millimeter to back up the 357 in the holster under his left arm. Tucking the pistol in the back of his trousers and an extra clip in his pocket, he opened his door.

"If you're expecting a war, I'll be glad to stay In the car," I said.

"If a war starts, I'll toss you my three-fifty and a couple speed loaders, and you damn better be as good a shot as Patterson's been saying you are. Stay behind me at all times.”

At the top of the steps, he rang the bell. "He's probably not going to be here.”

Momentarily, the lock clicked free and the door opened. An elderly man with bushy gray eyebrows identified himself as the building superintendent Marino hail spoken to earlier do the phone.

"Do you know if he's in?” Marino asked: "I have no idea.”

"We're going to go up and check.”

"You Won't be going up because hers on this floor.”

The superintendent pointed east. “Just follow that corridor and take the first left. It's a corner apartment at the very end. Number seventeen.”

The building possessed a debut tined luxuriousness, reminiscent of old hotels that no one particularly wards to stay in anymore because the rooms are too small and the decor is too dark and a little frayed. I noted cigarette burns in the deep red carpet, and the stain on the paneling was almost black. Hilton Sullivan's corner apartment was announced by a small brass 17. There was no peephole, and when Marino knocked, we heard footsteps.

"Who is it?” a voice asked.

"'Maintenance," Marino said. “To change the filter in your heater.”

The door opened, and the instant I saw the piercing blue eyes in the space and they saw me, my breath caught. Hilton Sullivan tried to slam shut the door, but Marino's foot was wedged against the jamb.

"Get to the side!”

Marino shouted at me as he snatched out his revolver and leaned as far away from the door's opening as he could.

I darted up the corridor as he suddenly kicked the door open wide and it slammed against the wall inside. Revolver ready, he went in, anti I waited in dread for a scuffle or gunfire. Minutes went by. Then l heard Marino saying something on his portable radio. He reappeared, sweating, his face an angry red.

"I don't fucking believe it He went out the window like a damn jackrabbit and there's not a sign of him. Goddamn son of a bitch. His van's sitting right-out there in the lot in back. He's off on foot somewhere. I've sent out an alert to units in the area.”

He wiped his face on his sleeve and struggled to catch his broth.

"I thought he was a woman," I said numbly.

"Huh?” Marino stared at me.

"When I went to see Helen Grimes, he was inside her house. He looked out the door once while we were talking on the porch. I thought it was a woman.”

"Sullivan was at Helen the Hun's house?” Marino said loudly.

"I'm sure of it.”

"Jesus Christ. That don't make a damn bit of sense.”

But it did make sense when we began looking around Sullivan's apartment. It was elegantly furnished with antiques and fine rugs, which Marino said belonged to the owner, not to Sullivan, according to the superintendent. Jazz drifted from the bedroom, where we found Hilton Sullivan's blue down jacket on the bed next to a beige corduroy shirt and a pair of faded jeans, neatly folded. His running shoes and socks were on the rug. On the mahogany dresser were a green cap and a pair of sunglasses: and a loosely folded blue uniform shirt that still had Helen Grimes's nameplate pinned above the breast pocket. Beneath it was a large envelope of photographs that Marino went through while I silently looked on.

"Holy shit," Marino muttered every other minute.

In more than a dozen of them, Hilton Sullivan was nude and in poses of bondage, and Helen Grimes was his sadistic guard. One favorite scenario seemed to be Sullivan sitting in a chair while she played the role of interrogator, yoking him from behind or inflicting other punishments. He was an exquisitely pretty blond young maid, with a lean body that I suspected was surprisingly strong. Certainly, he was agile. We found a photograph of Robyn Naismith's bloody body propped against the television in her living nom, and another one of her on a steel table in the morgue. But what unnerved me more than any of this was Sullivan's face. It was absolutely devoid of expression, his eyes cold the way I imagined they would be when he killed.

"Maybe we know why Donahue liked him so much„" Marino said, sliding the photographs back inside their envelope. "Someone was taking these pictures. Donahue's wife told me the warden's hobby was photography.”

"Helen Grimes must know who Hilton Sullivan really is," I said as sirens wailed.

Marino peered out the window. "Good. Lucero's here.”

I examined the down vest on the bed and discovered a downy white feather protruding from a minute tear in a seam.

More engines sounded. Car doors slammed shut.

"We're out of here," Marino said when Lucero arrived. "Make sure you impound his blue van.”

He turned to me. "Doc? You remember how to get to Helen Grimes's crib?”

"Yes.”

“Lets go talk at her.”

Helen Grimes did not have much to say.

When we got to her house some forty-five minutes later, we found the front door unlocked and went inside. The heat was turned up as high as it would go, and I could have been anywhere in the world and recognized the smell.

"Holy God," Marino said when he walked into the bedroom.

Her headless body was in uniform and sitting in a chair against the wall. It wasn't until three days later that the farmer across the road found the rest of her. He didn't know why anyone would have left a bowling bag in one of his fields. But he wished he had never opened it.