{"id":3180,"date":"2026-01-03T23:11:21","date_gmt":"2026-01-03T23:11:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/scarpetta-14-cornwell-patricia\/"},"modified":"2026-01-03T23:11:21","modified_gmt":"2026-01-03T23:11:21","slug":"scarpetta-14-cornwell-patricia","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/scarpetta-14-cornwell-patricia\/","title":{"rendered":"Scarpetta 14 – Cornwell, Patricia"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Book Preview<\/h3>\n
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Predator<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Kay Scarpetta (14)<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

by Patricia Cornwell<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 1<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It is Sunday afternoon and Dr. Kay Scarpetta is in her office at the National Forensic Academy in Hollywood, Florida, where clouds are building, promising another thunderstorm. It\u2019s not supposed to be this rainy and hot in February.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Gunfire pops, and voices yell things she can\u2019t make out. Simulated combat is popular on the weekends. Special Ops agents can run around in black fatigues, shooting up the place, and nobody hears them, only Scarpetta, and she barely notices. She continues reviewing an emergency certificate issued by a coroner in Louisiana, an examination of a patient, a woman who later went on to murder five people and claims to have no memory of it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The case probably isn\u2019t a candidate for the Prefrontal Determinants of Aggressive-Type Overt Responsivity research study known as PREDATOR, Scarpetta decides, vaguely aware of a motorcycle getting louder on the Academy grounds.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She writes forensic psychologist Benton Wesley an e-mail:<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>A woman in the study would be interesting, but wouldn\u2019t the data be irrelevant? I thought you were restricting PREDATOR to males.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The motorcycle blasts up to the building and stops right below her window. Pete Marino harassing her again, she thinks irritably as Benton sends her an Instant Message:<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Louisiana probably wouldn\u2019t let us have her anyway. They like to execute people too much down there. Food\u2019s good, though.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She looks out the window as Marino kills the engine, gets off his bike, looks around in his macho way, always wondering who\u2019s watching. She is locking PREDATOR case files in her desk drawer when he walks into her office without knocking and helps himself to a chair.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou know anything about the Johnny Swift case?\u201d he asks, his huge, tattooed arms bulging from a sleeveless denim vest with the Harley logo on the back.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Marino is the Academy\u2019s head of investigations and a part-time death investigator at the Broward County Medical Examiner\u2019s Office. Of late, he looks like a parody of a biker thug. He sets his helmet on her desk, a scuffed black brain bucket with bullet-hole decals all over it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cRefresh my memory. And that thing\u2019s a hood ornament.\u201d She indicates the helmet. \u201cFor show, and worthless if you have an accident on that donor cycle of yours.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He tosses a file onto her desk. \u201cA San Francisco doctor with an office here in Miami. Had a place in Hollywood on the beach, he and his brother. Not far from the Renaissance, you know, those twin high-rise condo buildings near John Lloyd State Park? About three months ago at Thanksgiving while he was at his place down here, his brother found him on the couch, dead from a shotgun wound to the chest. By the way, he\u2019d just had wrist surgery and it didn\u2019t go well. At a glance, a straightforward suicide.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI wasn\u2019t at the ME\u2019s office yet,\u201d she reminds him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She was already the Academy\u2019s director of forensic science and medicine then. But she didn\u2019t accept the position of consulting forensic pathologist at the Broward County Medical Examiner\u2019s Office until this past December when Dr. Bronson, the chief, started cutting back his hours, talking about retiring.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI remember hearing something about it,\u201d she says, uncomfortable in Marino\u2019s presence, rarely happy to see him anymore.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDr. Bronson did the autopsy,\u201d he says, looking at what\u2019s on her desk, looking everywhere but at her.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWere you involved?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNope. Wasn\u2019t in town. The case is still pending, because the Hollywood PD was worried at the time there might be more to it, suspicious of Laurel.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLaurel?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJohnny Swift\u2019s brother, identical twins. There was nothing to prove anything, and it all went away. Then I got a phone call Friday morning about three a.m., a weird-ass phone call at my house that we\u2019ve traced to a pay phone in Boston.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMassachusetts?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAs in the Tea Party.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI thought your number\u2019s unlisted.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt is.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Marino slides a folded piece of torn brown paper from the back pocket of his jeans and opens it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m going to read you what the guy said, since I wrote it down word for word. He called himself Hog.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAs in pig? That kind of hog?\u201d She studies him, halfway wondering if he\u2019s leading her on, setting her up for ridicule.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He\u2019s been doing that a lot these days.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHe just said, I am Hog. Thou didst send a judgment to mock them. Whatever the hell that means. Then he said, There\u2019s a reason certain items were missing from the Johnny Swift scene, and if you have half a brain, you\u2019ll take a good look at what happened to Christian Christian. Nothing is coincidence. You\u2019d better ask Scarpetta, because the hand of God will crush all perverts, including her dyke bitch niece. \u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scarpetta doesn\u2019t let what she feels register in her voice when she replies. \u201cAre you sure that\u2019s exactly what he said?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDo I look like a fiction writer?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cChristian Christian?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWho the hell knows. The guy wasn\u2019t exactly interested in me asking questions like how to spell something. He talked in a soft voice, like someone who feels nothing, kind of flat, then hung up.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDid he actually mention Lucy by name or just\u2014?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI told you exactly what he said,\u201d he cuts her off. \u201cShe\u2019s your only niece, right? So obviously he meant Lucy. And HOG could stand for Hand of God, in case you haven\u2019t connected those dots. Long story short, I contacted the Hollywood police and they\u2019ve asked us to take a look at the Johnny Swift case ASAP. Apparently, there\u2019s some other shit about the evidence showing he was shot from a distance and from close range. Well, it\u2019s one or the other, right?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIf there was only one shot, yes. Something must be skewed with the interpretation. Do we have any idea who Christian Christian is? Are we even talking about a person?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSo far nothing in our computer searches that\u2019s helpful.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy are you just telling me now? I\u2019ve been around all weekend.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cBeen busy.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou get information about a case like this, you shouldn\u2019t wait two days to tell me,\u201d she says as calmly as she can.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMaybe you\u2019re not one to talk about withholding information.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat information?\u201d she asks, baffled.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou should be more careful. That\u2019s all I got to say.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s not helpful when you\u2019re cryptic, Marino.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI almost forgot. Hollywood\u2019s curious about what Benton\u2019s professional opinion might be,\u201d he adds as if it is an afterthought, as if he doesn\u2019t care.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He typically does a poor job hiding how he feels about Benton Wesley.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cCertainly they can ask him to evaluate the case,\u201d she replies. \u201cI can\u2019t speak for him.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThey want him to figure out if the call I got from this wacko Hog was a crank, and I said that would be kind of hard when it\u2019s not recorded, when all he\u2019d get is my own version of shorthand scribbled on a paper bag.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He gets up from his chair, and his big presence seems even bigger, and he makes her feel even smaller than he used to make her feel. He picks up his useless helmet and puts on his sunglasses. He hasn\u2019t looked at her throughout their entire conversation, and now she can\u2019t see his eyes at all. She can\u2019t see what\u2019s in them.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll give it my complete attention. Immediately,\u201d she says as he walks to the door. \u201cIf you\u2019d like to go over it later, we can.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHuh.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy don\u2019t you come to the house?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHuh,\u201d he says again. \u201cWhat time?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSeven,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 2<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Inside the MRI suite, Benton Wesley watches his patient through a partition of Plexiglas. The lights are low, multiple video screens illuminated along the wraparound counter, his wristwatch on top of his briefcase. He is cold. After several hours inside the cognitive neuroimaging laboratory, even his bones are cold, or at least that\u2019s how it feels.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Tonight\u2019s patient goes by an identification number, but he has a name. Basil Jenrette. He is a mildly anxious and intelligent thirty-three-year-old compulsive murderer. Benton avoids the term serial killer. It has been so overused, it means nothing helpful and never did except to loosely imply that a perpetrator has murdered three or more people over a certain period of time. The word serial suggests something that occurs in succession. It suggests nothing about a violent offender\u2019s motives or state of mind, and when Basil Jenrette was busy killing, he was compulsive. He couldn\u2019t stop.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The reason he is getting his brain scanned in a 3-Tesla MRI machine that has a magnetic field sixty thousand times more powerful than the earth\u2019s is to see if there is anything about his gray and white matter and how it functions that might hint at why. Benton has asked him why numerous times during their clinical interviews.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I would see her and that was it. I had to do it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Had to do it right that minute?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Not right there on the street. I might follow her until I figured it out, came up with a plan. To be honest, the more I calculated, the better it felt.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>And how long would this take? The following, the calculating. Can you approximate? Days, hours, minutes?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Minutes. Maybe hours. Sometimes days. Depends. Stupid bitches. I mean, if it was you and you realized you were being abducted, would you just sit there in the car and not even try to get away?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Is that what they did, Basil? They sat in the car and didn\u2019t try to get away?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Except for the last two. You know about them because that\u2019s why I\u2019m here. They wouldn\u2019t have resisted, but my car broke down. Stupid. If it was you, would you rather be killed right there in the car or wait to see what I\u2019m going to do to you when I get you to my special spot?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Where was your special spot? Always the same place?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>All because my damn car broke down.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>So far, the structure of Basil Jenrette\u2019s brain is unremarkable except for the incidental finding of a posterior cerebellar abnormality, an approximately six-millimeter cyst that might affect his balance a little, but nothing else. It is the way his brain functions that isn\u2019t quite right. It can\u2019t be right. If it were, he wouldn\u2019t have been a candidate for the PREDATOR research study, and he probably wouldn\u2019t have agreed to it. Everything is a game to Basil, and he is smarter than Einstein, thinks he is the most gifted person on earth. He has never suffered one moment of remorse for what he\u2019s done and is quite candid in saying that he would kill more women given the opportunity. Unfortunately, Basil is likeable.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The two prison guards inside the MRI suite vacillate from confused to curious as they stare through the glass at the seven-foot-long tube, the bore of the magnet, on the other side. The guards wear uniforms but no guns. Weapons aren\u2019t allowed in here. Nothing ferrous, including handcuffs and shackles, is permitted, and only plastic flex-cuffs restrain Basil\u2019s ankles and wrists as he lies on the table inside the magnet, listening to the jarring knocks and wonks of radio frequency pulses that sound like infernal music played on high-voltage power lines\u2014or that\u2019s what Benton imagines.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cRemember, this next one is color blocks. All I want you to do is name the color,\u201d Dr. Susan Lane, the neuropsychologist, says into the intercom. \u201cNo, Mr. Jenrette, please don\u2019t nod your head. Remember, the tape is on your chin to remind you not to move.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTen-four,\u201d Basil\u2019s voice sounds through the intercom.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It is half past eight at night and Benton is uneasy. He has been uneasy for months, not so much worried that the Basil Jenrettes of the world are going to suddenly explode into violence inside the gracious old brick walls of McLean Hospital and slaughter everything in sight, but that the research study is doomed to failure, that it is a waste of grant money and a foolish expenditure of precious time. McLean is an affiliate of Harvard Medical School, and neither the hospital nor the university is gracious about failure.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDon\u2019t worry about getting all of them right,\u201d Dr. Lane is saying over the intercom. \u201cWe don\u2019t expect you to get all of them right.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cGreen, red, blue, red, blue, green,\u201d Basil\u2019s confident voice fills the room.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>A researcher marks down results on a data-entry sheet while the MRI technician checks images on his video screen.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Dr. Lane pushes the talk button again. \u201cMr. Jenrette? You\u2019re doing an excellent job. Can you see everything okay?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTen-four.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cVery good. Every time you see that black screen, you are nice and still. No talking, just look at the white dot on the screen.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTen-four.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She releases the talk button and says to Benton, \u201cWhat\u2019s with the cop jargon?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHe was a cop. That\u2019s probably how he was able to get his victims into his car.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDr. Wesley?\u201d the researcher says, turning around in her chair. \u201cIt\u2019s for you. Detective Thrush.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Benton takes the phone.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat\u2019s up,\u201d he asks Thrush, a homicide detective with the Massachusetts State Police.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI hope you weren\u2019t planning on an early bedtime,\u201d Thrush says. \u201cYou hear about the body found this morning out by Walden Pond?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNo. I\u2019ve been locked up in this place all day.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhite female, unidentified, hard to tell her age. Maybe in her late thirties, early forties, shot in the head, the shotgun shell shoved up her ass.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNews to me.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cShe\u2019s been autopsied already, but I thought you might want to take a look. This one ain\u2019t the average bear.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll be finished up in less than an hour,\u201d Benton says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMeet me at the morgue.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The house is quiet and Kay Scarpetta walks from room to room, turning on every light, unsettled. She listens for the sound of a car or a motorcycle, listens for Marino. He is late and hasn\u2019t returned her phone calls.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Unsettled and anxious, she checks to make sure that the burglar alarm is armed and the floodlights are on. She pauses at the video display on the kitchen phone to make sure the cameras monitoring the front, back and sides of her house are operating properly. Her property is shadowy in the video display, and dark images of citrus trees, palms and hibiscus move in the wind. The dock behind her swimming pool and the waterway beyond are a black plain dabbed with blurred lights from lamps along the seawall. She stirs tomato sauce and mushrooms in copper pots on the stove. She checks dough rising and fresh mozzarella soaking in covered bowls by the sink.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It is almost nine, and Marino was supposed to be here two hours ago. Tomorrow she is tied up with cases and teaching, and she doesn\u2019t have time for his rudeness. She feels set up. She has had it with him. She has worked nonstop on the Johnny Swift alleged suicide for the past three hours, and now Marino can\u2019t bother to show up. She is hurt, then angry. It is easier to be angry.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She is very angry as she walks into her living room, still listening for a motorcycle or a car, still listening for him. She picks up a twelve-gauge Remington Marine Magnum from her couch and sits down. The nickel-plated shotgun is heavy in her lap, and she inserts a small key in the lock. She turns the key to the right and pulls the lock free from the trigger guard. She racks the pump back to make sure there are no cartridges in the magazine.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 3<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe\u2019re going to do word reading now,\u201d Dr. Lane is telling Basil over the intercom. \u201cJust read the words from left to right. Okay? And remember, don\u2019t move. You\u2019re doing great.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTen-four.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHey, want to see what he really looks like?\u201d the MRI technician says to the guards.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>His name is Josh. He majored in physics at MIT, is working as a tech while working on his next degree, is bright but eccentric with a twisted sense of humor.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI already know what he looks like. I got to escort him to the showers earlier today,\u201d one of the guards says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThen what?\u201d Dr. Lane asks Benton. \u201cWhat would he do to them after he got them into his car?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cRed, blue, blue, red\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The guards wander closer to Josh\u2019s video screen.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTake them someplace, stab them in the eyes, keep them alive a couple days, rape them repeatedly, cut their throats, dump their bodies, pose them to shock people,\u201d Benton is telling Dr. Lane matter-of-factly, in his clinical way. \u201cThe cases we know about. I\u2019m suspicious he killed others. A number of women vanished in Florida during the same time frame. Presumed dead, bodies never found.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTake them where? A motel, his house?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHold on a second,\u201d Josh says to the guards as he selects the menu option 3D, then SSD, or Surface Shading Display. \u201cThis is really cool. We never show it to patients.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHow come?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTotally freak them out.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe don\u2019t know where,\u201d Benton is telling Dr. Lane as he keeps a check on Josh, ready to intervene if he gets too carried away. \u201cBut it\u2019s interesting. The bodies he dumped. They all had microscopic particles of copper on them.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat on earth?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMixed in with dirt and whatever else was adhering to blood, their skin, in their hair.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cBlue, green, blue, red\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s very strange.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She pushes the talk button. \u201cMr. Jenrette? How are we doing in there? You okay?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTen-four.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNext, you\u2019re going to see words printed in a different color from what they spell. I want you to name the color of the ink. Just name the color.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTen-four.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIsn\u2019t this awesome?\u201d Josh says as what looks like a death mask fills his screen, a reconstruction of one-millimeter-thick high-resolution slices that make up the MRI scan of Basil Jenrette\u2019s head, the image pale, hairless and eyeless, ending raggedly just below the jaw as if he has been decapitated.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Josh rotates the image so the guards can see it from different angles.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy\u2019s his head look cut off?\u201d one of them asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s where the signal from the coil stopped.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHis skin doesn\u2019t look real.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cRed uh green, blue I mean red, green\u2026\u201d Basil\u2019s voice enters the room.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s not really skin. How to explain\u2026 well, what the computer\u2019s doing is volume reconstruction, a surface rendering.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cRed, blue uh green, blue I mean green\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOnly thing we really use it for is Power Points, mainly, to overlay structural with functional. Just an MRI analysis package where you can put data together and look at it any way you want, have fun with it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMan, he\u2019s ugly.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Benton has heard enough. The color naming has stopped. He gives Josh a sharp look.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJosh? You ready?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cFour, three, two, one, ready,\u201d Josh says, and Dr. Lane begins the interference test.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cBlue, red I mean\u2026 shit, uh red I mean blue, green, red\u2026\u201d Basil\u2019s voice violates the room as he gets all of them wrong.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHe ever tell you why?\u201d Dr. Lane asks Benton.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he says, distracted. \u201cWhy what?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cRed, blue shit! Uh red, blue-green\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy he gouged their eyes out.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHe said he didn\u2019t want them to see how small his penis is.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cBlue, blue-red, red, green\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHe didn\u2019t do so well on this one,\u201d she says. \u201cIn fact, he missed most of them. What police department did he work for, so I remember not to get pulled for speeding in that part of the world?\u201d She pushes the talk button. \u201cYou okay in there?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTen-four.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDade County PD.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cToo bad. I\u2019ve always liked Miami. So that\u2019s how you managed to conjure this one up. Because of your South Florida connections,\u201d she replies, pushing the talk button again.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNot exactly.\u201d Benton stares through the glass at Basil\u2019s head in the far end of the magnet, imagining the rest of him dressed like a normal person in jeans and a button-up white shirt.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The inmates are not allowed to wear prison fatigues on the hospital campus. It\u2019s bad public relations.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhen we began querying state penitentiaries for study subjects, Florida thought he was just the guy for the job. He was bored. They were happy to get rid of him,\u201d Benton says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cVery good, Mr. Jenrette,\u201d Dr. Lane says into the intercom. \u201cNow, Dr. Wesley is going to come in and give you the mouse. You\u2019re going to see some faces next.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTen-four.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Ordinarily, Dr. Lane would go into the MRI room and deal with the patient herself. But women doctors and scientists are not allowed physical contact with the subjects of PREDATOR. Male doctors and scientists have to be cautious, too, while inside the MRI suite. Outside of it, restraining research study subjects during interviews is up to the clinician. Benton is accompanied by the two prison guards as he turns on the lights inside the MRI room and shuts the door. The guards hover near the magnet and pay attention as he plugs in the mouse and places it in Basil\u2019s restrained hands.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He is nothing much to look at, a short, slight man with thinning blond hair and small gray eyes closely spaced. In the animal kingdom, lions, tigers and bears\u2014the predators\u2014have closely spaced eyes. Giraffes, rabbits, doves\u2014the preyed upon\u2014have eyes more widely spaced and oriented toward the sides of their heads, because they need their peripheral vision to survive. Benton has always wondered if the same evolutionary phenomenon applies to humans. That\u2019s a research study nobody\u2019s going to fund.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou doing all right, Basil?\u201d Benton asks him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat kind of faces?\u201d Basil\u2019s head talks from the end of the magnet, bringing to mind an iron lung.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDr. Lane will explain it to you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ve got a surprise,\u201d Basil says. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you when we\u2019re done.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He has an odd gaze, as if a malignant creature is looking out through his eyes.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cGreat. I love surprises. Just a few more minutes and you\u2019re done,\u201d Benton says with a smile. \u201cThen we\u2019ll have a follow-up chat.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The guards accompany Benton back outside the MRI room and return to the suite as Dr. Lane begins to explain over the intercom that all she wants Basil to do is click the left side of the mouse if the face is male and right if it is female.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNothing for you to do or say, just press the button,\u201d she reiterates.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>There are three tests, and the point of them is not the patient\u2019s ability to distinguish between the two genders. What is actually measured in this series of functional scanning is affective processing. The male and female faces appearing on the screen are behind other faces that flash too quickly for the eye to detect, but the brain sees all. Jenrette\u2019s brain sees the faces behind the masks, faces that are happy, angry or afraid, faces that are provocative.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>After each set, Dr. Lane asks him what he saw, and if he had to attach an emotion to the faces, what was it. The male faces are more serious than the female, he answers. He says basically the same thing for each set. It means nothing yet. None of what has gone on in these rooms will mean anything until the thousands of neuroimages are analyzed. Then the scientists can visualize which areas of his brain were most active during the tests. The point is to see if his brain works differently from someone who supposedly is normal, and to learn something besides the fact that he has an incidental cyst that is completely unrelated to his predatory proclivities.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAnything jump out at you?\u201d Benton asks Dr. Lane. \u201cAnd by the way, thanks, as always, Susan. You\u2019re a good sport.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>They try to schedule inmate scans late in the day or on the weekend, when few people are around.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJust from the localizers, he looks okay\u2014I don\u2019t see any gross abnormalities. Except for his incessant chatting. His hyper fluency. He ever been diagnosed as bipolar?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHis evaluations and history make me wonder. But no. Never diagnosed. Unmedicated for any psychiatric disorders, in prison only a year. A dream subject.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, your dream subject didn\u2019t do well suppressing interfering stimuli, made a huge number of errors by commission on the interference test. My bet is he doesn\u2019t stay in set, which is certainly consistent with bipolar disorder. We\u2019ll know more later.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She pushes the talk button again and says, \u201cMr. Jenrette? We\u2019re all done. You did an excellent job. Dr. Wesley\u2019s coming back in to get you out. I want you to sit up very slowly, okay? Very slowly so you don\u2019t get dizzy. Okay?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s all? Just these stupid tests? Show me the pictures.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She gives Benton a look and releases the talk button.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou said you\u2019d look at my brain when I\u2019m looking at the pictures.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAutopsy pictures of his victims,\u201d Benton explains to Dr. Lane.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou promised me pictures! You promised I\u2019d get my mail!\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAll righty,\u201d she says to Benton. \u201cHe\u2019s all yours.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The shotgun is heavy and cumbersome, and she has trouble lying on the couch and pointing the barrel at her chest while trying to pull the trigger with her left toe.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scarpetta lowers the shotgun and imagines attempting the same thing after wrist surgery. Her shotgun weighs about seven and a half pounds and starts to shake in her hands when she holds it up by its eighteen-inch barrel. She lowers her feet to the floor and takes off her right running shoe and sock. Her left foot is dominant, but she will have to try her right, and she wonders what Johnny Swift was, right-foot-dominant or left. It would make a difference, but not necessarily a significant one, especially if he was depressed and determined, but she\u2019s not sure he was either, not sure of much.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She thinks about Marino, and the more her thoughts shift back to him, the more upset she gets. He has no right to treat her this way, no right to disrespect her the same way he did when they first met, and that was many years ago, so many years ago she is surprised he can even remember how to treat her the way he once did. The aroma of her homemade pizza sauce is in the living room. It fills the house, and resentment speeds up her heart and makes her chest tight. She lies back down on her left side, props the stock of the shotgun on the back of the couch, positions the barrel at the center of her chest and pulls the trigger with her right big toe.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 4<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Basil Jenrette is not going to hurt him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Unrestrained, he sits across the table from Benton inside the small examination room, the door shut. Basil is quiet and polite in his chair. His outburst inside the magnet lasted maybe two minutes, and when he calmed down, Dr. Lane was already gone. He didn\u2019t see her when he was escorted out, and Benton will make sure he never does.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re sure you\u2019re not lightheaded or dizzy,\u201d Benton says in his calm, understanding way.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI feel great. The tests were cool. I\u2019ve always loved tests. I knew I\u2019d get everything right. Where are the pictures? You promised.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe never discussed anything like that, Basil.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI got everything right, straight A\u2019s.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSo you enjoyed the experience.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNext time show me the pictures like you promised.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI never promised you that, Basil. Did you find the experience exciting?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI guess I can\u2019t smoke in here.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m afraid not.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat did my brain look like? Did it look good? Did you see anything? Can you tell how smart someone is by looking at their brain? If you showed me the pictures you\u2019d see they match the ones I have in my brain.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He is talking quietly and rapidly now, his eyes bright, almost glassy, as he goes on and on about what the scientists might expect to find in his brain, assuming they are able to decipher what is there, and there is definitely a there there, he keeps saying.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cA there there?\u201d Benton inquires. \u201cCan you explain what you mean, Basil?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMy memory. If you can see into it, see what\u2019s in there, see my memories.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m afraid not.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cReally. I\u2019ll bet all kinds of pictures came up when you were doing the beep-beep, bang-bang, knock-knock. Bet you saw the pictures and don\u2019t want to tell me. There were ten of them, and you saw them. Saw their pictures, ten of them, not four. I always say ten-four as a joke, a real big ha-ha. You think it\u2019s four and I know it\u2019s ten, and you would know if you showed me the pictures, because you\u2019d see they matched the pictures in my brain. You\u2019d see my pictures when you\u2019re inside my brain. Ten-four.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTell me which pictures you mean, Basil.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m just messing with you,\u201d he says with a wink. \u201cI want my mail.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat pictures might we see inside your brain?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThose foolish women. They won\u2019t give me my mail.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re saying you killed ten women?\u201d Benton asks this without shock or judgment. Basil smiles as if something has occurred to him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOh. I can move my head now, can\u2019t I. No more tape on my chin. Will they tape my chin down when they give me the needle?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou won\u2019t be getting the needle, Basil. That\u2019s part of the deal. Your sentence has been commuted to life. You remember us talking about that?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cBecause I\u2019m crazy,\u201d he says with a smile. \u201cThat\u2019s why I\u2019m here.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNo. We\u2019ll go over this again, because it is important you understand. You\u2019re here because you\u2019ve agreed to participate in our study, Basil. The governor of Florida allowed you to be transferred to our state hospital, Butler, but Massachusetts wouldn\u2019t agree to it unless he commuted your sentence to life. We don\u2019t have the death penalty in Massachusetts.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI know you want to see the ten ladies. See them as I remember them. They\u2019re in my brain.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He knows it isn\u2019t possible to scan someone and see his thoughts and memories. He is being his usual clever self. He wants the autopsy photographs so he can fuel his violent fantasies, and as is true of narcissistic sociopaths, he thinks he is quite entertaining.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIs that the surprise, Basil?\u201d he asks. \u201cThat you committed ten murders instead of the four you were charged with?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He shakes his head and says, \u201cThere\u2019s one you want to know about. That\u2019s the surprise. Something special just for you because you\u2019ve been so nice to me. But I want mail. That\u2019s the deal.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m very interested in hearing about your surprise.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe lady in The Christmas Shop,\u201d he says. \u201cRemember that one?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy don\u2019t you tell me about it,\u201d Benton replies, and he doesn\u2019t know what Basil means. He isn\u2019t familiar with a murder that occurred in a Christmas shop.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat about my mail?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll see what I can do.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cCross your heart and hope to die?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll look into it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI can\u2019t remember the exact date. Let me see.\u201d He stares at the ceiling, his unrestrained hands restless in his lap. \u201cAbout three years ago in Las Olas, I think it was around July. So maybe two and a half years ago. Why would anyone want to buy Christmas shit in July in South Florida? She sold little Santas and his elves and nutcrackers and baby Jesuses. I went in on this particular morning after staying up all night.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDo you remember her name?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI never knew her name. Well, I might have. But I forgot it. If you showed me the pictures, it might jog my memory, you might see her in my brain. Let me see if I can describe her. Let me see. Oh, yes. She was a white woman with long, dyed hair the color of I Love Lucy. Sort of fat. Maybe thirty-five or forty. I went in and locked the door and pulled a knife on her. I raped her in the back, in the storage area, cut her throat from here to here in one cut.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He makes a slicing motion across his neck.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt was funny because there was one of those oscillating fans in there and I turned it on because it was hot and stuffy and it blew blood all the fuck over the place. Quite a mess to clean up. Then, let\u2019s see\u201d\u2014he looks up at the ceiling again, the way he often does when he\u2019s lying\u2014\u201cI wasn\u2019t in my cop car that day, had taken my bike and parked it in a pay lot behind the Riverside Hotel.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYour motorcycle or a bicycle?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMy Honda Shadow. Like I would ride a bicycle when I was going to kill someone.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSo you planned on killing someone that morning?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt seemed like a good idea.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou planned on killing her or just planned on killing someone?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI remember there were all these ducks in the parking lot hanging out around the puddles because it had been raining for days. Mommy ducks and little baby ducks everywhere. That\u2019s always bothered me. Poor little ducks. They get run over a lot. You see little babies squashed in the road and mommy walking round and around her dead little baby, looking so sad.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDid you ever run over the ducks, Basil?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI would never hurt an animal, Dr. Wesley.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou said you killed birds and rabbits when you were a child.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat was a long time ago. You know, boys and their BB guns. Anyway, to go on with my story, all I got was twenty-six dollars and ninety-one cents. You have to do something about my mail.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSo you\u2019ve said repeatedly, Basil. I told you I\u2019ll do my best.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSort of disappointing after all that. Twenty-six dollars and ninety-one cents.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cFrom the cash drawer.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTen-four.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou must have had a lot of blood on you, Basil.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cShe had a bathroom in the back of the shop.\u201d He looks up at the ceiling again. \u201cI poured Clorox on her, just now remembered it. To kill my DNA. Now you owe me. I want my fucking mail. Get me out of the suicide cell. I want a normal cell where they don\u2019t spy on me.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe\u2019re making sure you\u2019re safe.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cGet me a new cell and the pictures and my mail, and I\u2019ll tell you more about The Christmas Shop,\u201d he says and his eyes are very glassy now and he is very restless in the chair, clenching his fists, tapping his foot. \u201cI deserve to be rewarded.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 5<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy sits where she can see the front door, where she can see who is coming in or leaving. She watches people without them knowing. She watches and calculates even when she is supposed to be relaxing.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The last few nights, she has wandered into Lorraine\u2019s and talked to the bartenders, Buddy and Tonia. Neither knows Lucy\u2019s real name, but both remember Johnny Swift, remember him as that hot-looking doctor who was straight. A brain doctor who liked Provincetown and unfortunately was straight, Buddy says. What a shame, Buddy says. Always alone, too, except for the last time he was here, Tonia says. She was working that night and remembers that Johnny had splints on his wrists. When she asked him about it, he said he\u2019d just had surgery and it hadn\u2019t gone very well.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Johnny and a woman sat at the bar and were very friendly with each other, talking as if no one else was there. Her name was Jan and she seemed really smart, was pretty and polite, very shy, not the least bit stuck on herself, young, dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt, Tonia recalls. It was obvious Johnny hadn\u2019t known her long, maybe had just met her, found her interesting, obviously liked her, Tonia says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Liked her as in sexually? Lucy asked Tonia.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I didn\u2019t get that impression. He was more, well, it\u2019s like she had some sort of problem and he was helping her out. He was a doctor, you know.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>That doesn\u2019t surprise Lucy. Johnny was unselfish. He was extraordinarily kind.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She sits at the bar in Lorraine\u2019s and thinks about Johnny walking in the same way she just did and sitting at the same bar, maybe on the same stool. She imagines him with Jan, someone he may have just met. It wasn\u2019t like him to pick up women, to have casual encounters. He wasn\u2019t into one-night stands and may very well have been helping her, counseling her. But about what? Some medical problem? Some psychological problem? The story about the shy young woman named Jan is puzzling and disconcerting. Lucy isn\u2019t quite sure why.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Maybe he wasn\u2019t feeling good about himself. Maybe he was scared because the carpal tunnel surgery wasn\u2019t as successful as he had hoped. Maybe counseling and befriending a shy, pretty young woman made him forget his fears, feel powerful and important. Lucy drinks tequila and thinks about what he said to her in San Francisco when she was with him last September, the last time she saw him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Biology is cruel, he said. Physical liabilities are unforgiving. Nobody wants you if you\u2019re scarred and crippled, useless and maimed.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>My God, Johnny. It\u2019s just carpal tunnel surgery. Not amputation.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I apologize, he said. We\u2019re not here to talk about me.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She thinks about him as she sits at the bar in Lorraine\u2019s, watching people, mostly men, enter and leave the restaurant as snow gusts in.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It has begun to snow in Boston as Benton drives his Porsche Turbo S past the Victorian brick buildings of the university medical campus and remembers the early days when Scarpetta used to summon him to the morgue at night. He always knew the case was bad.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Most forensic psychologists have never been to a morgue. They have never seen an autopsy and don\u2019t even want to look at the photographs. They are more interested in the details of the offender than in what he did to his victim, because the offender is the patient and the victim is nothing more than the medium he used to express his violence. This is the excuse many forensic psychologists and psychiatrists give. A more likely explanation is they don\u2019t have the courage or the inclination to interview victims or, worse, spend time with their mauled dead bodies.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Benton is different. After more than a decade of Scarpetta, there is no way he couldn\u2019t be different.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>You have no right to work any case if you won\u2019t listen to what the dead have to say, she told him some fifteen years ago when they were working their first homicide together. If you can\u2019t be bothered with them, then, frankly, I can\u2019t be bothered with you, Special Agent Wesley.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Fair enough, Dr. Scarpetta. I\u2019ll trust you to make introductions.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>All right then, she said.Come with me.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>That was the first time he had ever been inside a morgue refrigerator, and he can still hear the loud clack of the handle pulling back and the whoosh of cold, foul air. He would know that smell anywhere, that dark, dead stench, foul and flat. It hangs heavy in the air, and he has always imagined that if he could see it, it would look like filthy ground fog slowly spreading out from whatever has died.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He replays his conversation with Basil, analyzes every word, every twitch, every facial expression. Violent offenders promise all sorts of things. They manipulate the hell out of everybody to get what they want, promise to reveal the locations of bodies, admit to crimes that were never solved, confess the details of what they did, offer insights into their motivation and psychological state. In most cases, it is lies. In this case, Benton is concerned. Something about at least some of what Basil confessed strikes him as true.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He tries Scarpetta on his cell phone. She doesn\u2019t answer. Several minutes later, he tries again and still can\u2019t get her.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He leaves a message: \u201cPlease call me when you get this,\u201d he says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The door opens again and a woman comes in with the snow, as if blown in by the blizzard.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She wears a long, black coat and is brushing it off as she pushes back her hood, and her fair skin is rosy from the cold, her eyes quite bright. She is pretty, remarkably pretty, with dark blond hair and dark eyes and a body that she flaunts. Lucy watches her glide to the back of the restaurant, glide between tables like a sexy pilgrim or a sensuous witch in her long, black coat, and it swirls around her black boots as she heads straight back to the bar where there are plenty of empty stools. She chooses one next to Lucy\u2019s and folds her coat and sits on it without a word or a glance.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy drinks tequila and stares at the TV over the bar as if the latest celebrity romance is interesting. Buddy makes the woman a drink as if he knows what she likes.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll have another,\u201d Lucy tells him soon enough.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cComing up.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The woman with the black hooded coat gets interested in the colorful tequila bottle that Buddy lifts from a shelf. She keenly watches the pale amber liquor pour in a delicate stream, filling the bottom of the brandy snifter. Lucy slowly swirls the tequila, and the smell of it fills her nose all the way up to her brain.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat stuff will give you the headache from Hades,\u201d the woman with the black hooded coat says in a husky voice that is seductive and full of secrets.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s much purer than regular liquor,\u201d Lucy says. \u201cHaven\u2019t heard the word Hades in a while. Most people I know say hell.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe worst headaches I ever got were from margaritas,\u201d the woman offers, sipping a Cosmopolitan that is pink and lethal-looking in a champagne glass. \u201cAnd I don\u2019t believe in hell.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019ll believe in it if you keep drinking that shit,\u201d Lucy replies, and in the mirror behind the bar, she watches the front door open again and more snow blow into Lorraine\u2019s.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Wind gusting in from the bay sounds like silk whipping, reminding her of silk stockings whipping on a clothesline, although she has never seen silk stockings on a clothesline or heard what they sound like in the wind. She is aware of the woman\u2019s black stockings because tall stools and short, slitted skirts are not a safe combination unless a woman is in a bar where the men are interested only in one another, and in Provincetown, this is usually the case.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAnother Cosmo, Stevie?\u201d Buddy asks, and now Lucy knows her name.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNo,\u201d Lucy answers for her. \u201cLet Stevie try what I\u2019m having.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll try anything,\u201d Stevie says. \u201cI think I\u2019ve seen you at the Pied and the Vixen, dancing with different people.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t dance.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ve seen you. You\u2019re hard to miss.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou come here a lot?\u201d Lucy asks, and she has never seen Stevie before, not at the Pied or the Vixen or any other club or restaurant in P town.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Stevie watches Buddy pour more tequila. He leaves the bottle on the bar, steps away and busies himself with another customer.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThis is my first time,\u201d Stevie says to Lucy. \u201cA Valentine\u2019s Day present to myself, a week in P town.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIn the dead of winter?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLast I checked, Valentine\u2019s Day was always in the winter. It happens to be my favorite holiday.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s not a holiday. I\u2019ve been here every night this week and never seen you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat are you? The bar police?\u201d Stevie smiles and looks into Lucy\u2019s eyes so intensely it has an effect.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy feels something. No, she thinks. Not again.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMaybe I don\u2019t come in here only at night like you do,\u201d Stevie says, reaching for the tequila bottle, brushing Lucy\u2019s arm.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The feeling gets stronger. Stevie studies the colorful label, sets the bottle back on the bar, taking her time, her body touching Lucy. The feeling intensifies.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cCuervo? What\u2019s so special about Cuervo?\u201d Stevie asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHow would you know what I do?\u201d Lucy says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She tries to make the feeling go away.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJust guessing. You look like a night person,\u201d Stevie says. \u201cYour hair is naturally red, isn\u2019t it. Maybe mahogany mixed with deep red. Dyed hair can\u2019t look like that. You haven\u2019t always worn it long, as long as it is now.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAre you some kind of psychic?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The feeling is awful now. It won\u2019t go away.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJust guessing,\u201d Stevie\u2019s seductive voice says. \u201cSo, you haven\u2019t told me. What\u2019s so special about Cuervo?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cCuervo Reserva de la Familia. It\u2019s special enough.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, that\u2019s something. It looks like this is my night for first times,\u201d Stevie says, touching Lucy\u2019s arm, her hand resting on it for a minute. \u201cFirst time in P town. First time for one hundred percent agave tequila that costs thirty dollars a shot.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy wonders how Stevie can know it costs thirty dollars a shot. For someone unfamiliar with tequila, she seems to know a lot.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI believe I\u2019ll have another,\u201d Stevie calls out to Buddy, \u201cand you really could pour a little more in the glass. Be sweet to me.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Buddy smiles as he pours her another, and two shots later, Stevie leans against Lucy and whispers in her ear, \u201cYou got anything?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLike what?\u201d Lucy asks, and she gives herself up to it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The feeling is fueled by tequila and plans to stay for the night.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou know what,\u201d Stevie\u2019s voice says quietly, her breath touching Lucy\u2019s ear, her breast pressed again her arm. \u201cSomething to smoke. Something that\u2019s worth it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat makes you think I\u2019d have something?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJust guessing.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re remarkably good at it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou can get it anywhere here. I\u2019ve seen you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy made a transaction last night, knows just where to do it, at the Vixen, where she doesn\u2019t dance. She doesn\u2019t remember seeing Stevie. There weren\u2019t that many people, never are this time of year. She would have noticed Stevie. She would notice her in a huge crowd, on a busy street, anywhere.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMaybe you\u2019re the one who\u2019s the bar police,\u201d Lucy says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou have no idea how funny that is,\u201d Stevie\u2019s seductive voice says. \u201cWhere you staying?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNot far from here.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 6<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The state Medical Examiner\u2019s Office is located where most are, on the fringe of a nicer part of town, usually at the outer limits of a medical school. The red-brick-and-concrete complex backs up to the Massachusetts Turnpike, and on the other side of it is the Suffolk County House of Corrections. There is no view and the noise of traffic never stops.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Benton parks at the back door and notes only two other cars in the lot. The dark-blue Crown Victoria belongs to Detective Thrush. The Honda SUV probably belongs to a forensic pathologist who doesn\u2019t get paid enough and probably wasn\u2019t happy when Thrush persuaded him to come in at this hour. Benton rings the bell and scans the empty back parking lot, never assuming he is safe or alone, and then the door opens and Thrush is motioning him inside.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJeez, I hate this place at night,\u201d Thrush says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThere\u2019s not much to like about it any time of day,\u201d Benton remarks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m glad you came. Can\u2019t believe you\u2019re out in that,\u201d he says, looking out at the black Porsche as he shuts the door behind them. \u201cIn this weather? You crazy?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAll-wheel drive. It wasn\u2019t snowing when I went to work this morning.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThese other psychologists I\u2019ve worked with, they never come out, snow, rain or shine,\u201d Thrush says. \u201cNot the profilers, either. Most FBI I\u2019ve met have never seen a dead body.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cExcept for the ones at headquarters.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNo shit. We got plenty of them at state police headquarters, too. Here.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He hands Benton an envelope as they follow a corridor.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cGot everything on a disk for you. All the scene and autopsy pictures, whatever\u2019s written up so far. It\u2019s all there. It\u2019s supposed to snow like a bitch.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Benton thinks of Scarpetta again. Tomorrow is Valentine\u2019s Day, and they\u2019re supposed to spend the evening together, have a romantic dinner on the harbor. She\u2019s supposed to stay through Presidents\u2019 Day weekend. They haven\u2019t seen each other in almost a month. She may not be able to get here.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI heard light snow showers are predicted,\u201d Benton says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cA storm\u2019s moving in from the Cape. Hope you got something to drive other than that million-dollar sports car.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Thrush is a big man who has spent his life in Massachusetts and talks like it. There isn\u2019t a single R in his vocabulary. In his fifties, he has military-short gray hair and is dressed in a rumpled brown suit, has probably worked nonstop all day. He and Benton follow the well-lit corridor. It is spotless and scented with air deodorizer and lined with storage and evidence rooms, all of them requiring electronic passes. There is even a crash cart\u2014Benton can\u2019t imagine why\u2014and a scanning electron microscope, the facility the most spacious and best equipped of any morgue he has ever seen. Staffing is another story.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The office has suffered crippling personnel problems for years because of low salaries that fail to attract competent forensic pathologists and other staff. Added to this are alleged mistakes and misdeeds resulting in scathing controversies and public-relations problems that make life and death difficult for everyone involved. The office isn\u2019t open to the media or to outsiders, and hostility and distrust are pervasive. Benton would rather come here late at night. To visit during business hours is to feel unwelcome and resented.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He and Thrush pause outside the closed door of an autopsy room that is used in high-profile cases or those that are considered a biohazard or bizarre. His cell phone vibrates. He looks at the display. No ID is usually her.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHi,\u201d Scarpetta says. \u201cI hope your night\u2019s been better than mine.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m at the morgue.\u201d Then, to Thrush, \u201cOne minute.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat can\u2019t be good,\u201d Scarpetta says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll fill you in later. Got a question. You ever heard of something that happened at a Christmas shop in Las Olas maybe two and a half years ago?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cBy something I assume you mean a homicide.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cRight.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNot offhand. Maybe Lucy can try to track it down. I hear it\u2019s snowing up there.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll get you here if I have to hire Santa\u2019s reindeer.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI love you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMe, too,\u201d he says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He ends the call and asks Thrush, \u201cWho are we dealing with?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, Dr. Lonsdale was nice enough to help me out. You\u2019ll like him. But he didn\u2019t do the autopsy. She did.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She is the chief. She got where she is because she\u2019s a she.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou ask me,\u201d Thrush says, \u201cwomen got no business doing this anyway. What kind of woman would want to do this?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThere are good ones,\u201d Benton says. \u201cVery good ones. Not all of them get where they are because of their gender. More likely, in spite of it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Thrush is unfamiliar with Scarpetta. Benton never mentions her, not even to people he knows rather well.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWomen shouldn\u2019t see shit like this,\u201d Thrush says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The night air is penetrating and milky-white up and down Commercial Street. Snow swarms in lamplight and lights the night until the world glows and seems surreal as the two of them walk in the middle of the deserted silent street east along the water to the cottage Lucy began renting several days ago after Marino got the strange phone call from the man named Hog.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She builds a fire, and she and Stevie sit in front of it on quilts and roll a joint with very good stuff from British Columbia, and they share it. They smoke and talk and laugh, and then Stevie wants more.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJust one more,\u201d she begs as Lucy undresses her.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s different,\u201d Lucy says, staring at Stevie\u2019s slender nude body, at the red hand prints on it, maybe tattoos.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>There are four of them. Two on her breasts as if someone is grabbing them, two on her upper inner thighs as if someone is forcing her legs apart. There are none on her back, none where Stevie couldn\u2019t reach and apply them herself, assuming they are fake. Lucy stares. She touches one of the hand prints, places her hand over one of them, fondling Stevie\u2019s breast.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJust checking to see if it\u2019s the right fit,\u201d Lucy says. \u201cFake?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy don\u2019t you take off your clothes.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy does what she wants, but she won\u2019t take off her clothes. For hours, she does what she wants in the firelight, on the quilts, and Stevie lets her, is more alive than anyone Lucy has ever touched, smooth with soft contours, lean in a way Lucy isn\u2019t anymore, and when Stevie tries to undress her, almost fights her, Lucy won\u2019t allow it, then Stevie gets tired and gives up and Lucy helps her to bed. After she is asleep, Lucy lies awake listening to the eerie whining of the wind, trying to figure out exactly what it sounds like, deciding it doesn\u2019t sound like silk stockings after all, but like something distressed and in pain.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 7<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The autopsy room is small with a tile floor and the usual surgical cart, digital scale, evidence cabinet, autopsy saws and various blades, dissecting boards and a transportable autopsy table latched to the front of a wall-mounted dissecting sink. The walk-in refrigerator is built into a wall, the door partially open.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Thrush hands Benton a pair of blue nitrile gloves, asks him, \u201cYou want booties or a mask or anything?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNo thanks,\u201d Benton says as Dr. Lonsdale emerges from the refrigerator, pushing a stainless-steel cadaver carrier bearing the pouched body.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe need to make this quick,\u201d he says as he parks near the sink and locks two of the swivel casters. \u201cI\u2019m already in deep shit with my wife. It\u2019s her birthday.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He unzips the pouch and spreads it open. The victim has raggedly cut short, black hair that is damp and still gory with bits of brain and other tissue. There is almost nothing left of her face. It looks as if a small bomb blew up inside her head, which is rather much what happened.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cShot in the mouth,\u201d Dr. Lonsdale says, and he is young with an intensity that borders on impatience. \u201cMassive skull fractures, brain pulpifaction, which of course we usually associate with suicides, but nothing else about this case is consistent with suicide. It appears to me that her head was tilted pretty far back when the trigger was pulled, explaining why her face is basically shot off, some of her teeth blown out. Again, not uncommon in suicides.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He switches on a magnifying lamp and positions it close to the head.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNo need to pry open her mouth,\u201d he comments. \u201cSince she has no face left. Thank God for small favors.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Benton leans close and smells the sweet, putrid stench of decomposing blood.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSoot on the palate, the tongue,\u201d Dr. Lonsdale continues. \u201cSuperficial lacerations of the tongue, the perioral skin and nasolabial fold due to the bulging-out effect when gases from the shotgun blast expand. Not a pretty way to die.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He unzips the pouch the rest of the way.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSaved the best for last,\u201d Thrush says. \u201cWhat do you make of it? Reminds me of Crazy Horse.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou mean the Indian?\u201d Dr. Lonsdale gives him a quizzical look as he unscrews the lid from a small glass jar filled with a clear liquid.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYeah. I think he put red hand prints on his horse\u2019s ass.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>There are red hand prints on the woman, on her breasts, abdomen and upper inner thighs, and Benton positions the magnifying lamp closer.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Dr. Lonsdale swabs the edge of a hand print and says, \u201cIsopropyl alcohol, a solvent like that will get it off. Obviously, it\u2019s not water-soluble and brings to mind the sort of stuff people use for temporary tattooing. Some type of paint or dye. Could also have been done in permanent Magic Marker, I suppose.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m assuming you haven\u2019t seen this in any other cases around here,\u201d Benton says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNot at all.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The magnified hand prints are well defined with clean margins, as if made with a stencil, and Benton looks for feathering strokes of a brush, for anything that might indicate how the paint, ink or dye was applied. He can\u2019t tell, but based on the density of color, he suspects the body art is recent.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI suppose she could have gotten this at some point earlier. In other words, it\u2019s unrelated to her death,\u201d Dr. Lonsdale adds.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s what I\u2019m thinking,\u201d Thrush agrees. \u201cThere\u2019s a lot of witchcraft around here with Salem and all.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat I\u2019m wondering is how quickly something like this begins to fade,\u201d Benton says. \u201cHave you measured them to see if they\u2019re the same size as her hand?\u201d He indicates the body.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThey look bigger to me,\u201d Thrush says, holding out his own hand.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat about her back?\u201d Benton asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOne on each buttock, one between her shoulder blades,\u201d Dr. Lonsdale replies. \u201cLook like a man\u2019s size, the hands do.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYeah,\u201d Thrush says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Dr. Lonsdale pulls the body partially on its side, and Benton studies the hand prints on the back.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLooks like she has some sort of abrasion here,\u201d he says, noting a scraped area on the hand print between the shoulder blades. \u201cSome inflammation.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m not clear on all the details,\u201d Dr. Lonsdale replies. \u201cIt\u2019s not my case.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLooks as if it was painted after she got the scrape,\u201d Benton says. \u201cAm I seeing welts, too?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMaybe some localized swelling. Histology should answer that. It\u2019s not my case,\u201d he reminds them. \u201cI didn\u2019t participate in her autopsy,\u201d he is sure to remind them. \u201cI glanced at her. That was it before I just now rolled her out. I did look over the autopsy report.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Should the chief\u2019s work be negligent or incompetent, he\u2019s not about to take the blame.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAny idea how long she\u2019s been dead?\u201d Benton asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, the cold temperatures would have slowed rigor.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cFrozen when she was found?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNot yet. Apparently, her body temperature when she got here was thirty-eight degrees. Fahrenheit. I didn\u2019t go to the scene. I can\u2019t give you those details.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe temperature at ten o\u2019clock this morning was twenty-one degrees,\u201d Thrush tells Benton. \u201cThe weather conditions are on the disk I gave you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSo the autopsy report has already been dictated,\u201d Benton says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s on the disk,\u201d Thrush answers.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTrace evidence?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSome soil, fibers, other debris adhering to blood,\u201d Thrush replies. \u201cI\u2019ll get them run in the labs as quick as I can.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTell me about the shotgun shell you recovered,\u201d Benton says to him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cInside her rectum. You couldn\u2019t see it from the outside, but it showed up on x-ray. Damnedest thing. When they first showed me the film, I thought maybe the shell was under her body on the x-ray tray. Had no idea the damn thing was inside her.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat kind?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cRemington Express Magnum, twelve-gauge.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, if she shot herself, she\u2019s certainly not the one who shoved the shell up her rectum after the fact,\u201d Benton says. \u201cYou running it through NIBIN?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAlready in the works,\u201d Thrush says. \u201cThe firing pin left a nice drag mark. Maybe we\u2019ll get lucky.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 8<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Early the next morning, snow blows sideways over Cape Cod Bay and melts when it touches the water. The snow barely dusts the tawny sliver of beach beyond Lucy\u2019s windows but is deep on nearby rooftops and the balcony beyond her bedroom. She pulls the comforter up to her chin and looks out at the water and the snow, unhappy that she has to get up and deal with the woman sleeping next to her, Stevie.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy shouldn\u2019t have gone to Lorraine\u2019s last night. She wishes she hadn\u2019t and can\u2019t stop wishing it. She is disgusted with herself and in a hurry to leave the tiny cottage with its wraparound porch and shingled roof, the furniture dingy from endless rounds of renters, the kitchen small and musty with outdated appliances. She watches the early morning play with the horizon, turning it various shades of gray, and the snow is falling almost as hard as it was last night. She thinks of Johnny. He came here to Provincetown a week before he died and met someone. Lucy should have found that out a long time ago, but she couldn\u2019t. She couldn\u2019t face it. She watches Stevie\u2019s regular breathing.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAre you awake?\u201d Lucy asks. \u201cYou need to get up.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She stares at the snow, at sea ducks bobbing on the ruffled gray bay, and wonders why they aren\u2019t frozen. Despite what she knows about the insulating qualities of down, she still can\u2019t believe that any warm-blooded creature can comfortably float on frigid water in the middle of a blizzard. She feels cold beneath the comforter, chilled and repulsed and uncomfortable in her bra and panties and button-down shirt.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cStevie, wake up. I\u2019ve got to get going,\u201d she says loudly.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Stevie doesn\u2019t stir, her back gently rising and falling with each slow breath, and Lucy is sick with regret and is annoyed and disgusted because she can\u2019t seem to stop herself from doing this thing, this thing she hates. For the better part of a year, she has told herself no more, and then nights like last night happen and it isn\u2019t smart or logical and she is always sorry, always, because it is degrading and then she has to extricate herself and tell more lies. She has no choice. Her life is no longer a choice. She is too deeply into it to choose anything different, and some choices have been made for her. She still can\u2019t believe it. She touches her tender breasts and distended belly to make sure it\u2019s true and still can\u2019t comprehend it. How could this happen to her?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>How could Johnny be dead?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She never looked into what happened to him. She walked away and took her secrets with her.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I\u2019m sorry, she thinks, hoping wherever he is, he knows her mind the way he used to, only differently. Maybe he can know her thoughts now. Maybe he understands why she kept away, just accepted he did it to himself. Maybe he was depressed. Maybe he felt ruined. She never believed his brother killed him. She didn\u2019t entertain the possibility that someone else did. Then Marino got the phone call, the ominous one from Hog.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019ve got to get up,\u201d she says to Stevie.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy reaches for the Colt Mustang .380 pistol on the table by the bed.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cCome on, wake up.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Inside Basil Jenrette\u2019s cell, he lies on his steel bed, a thin blanket pulled over him, the kind that doesn\u2019t give off poisonous gases like cyanide if there\u2019s a fire. The mattress is thin and hard and won\u2019t give off deadly gases if there\u2019s a fire. The needle would have been unpleasant, the chair worse, but the gas chamber, no. Choking, not breathing, suffocating. God, no.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>When he looks at his mattress when he is making the bed, he thinks about fires and not being able to breathe. He\u2019s not so bad. At least he\u2019s never done that to anybody, that thing that his piano teacher did until Basil quit his lessons, didn\u2019t care how hard his mother whipped him with the belt. He quit and wouldn\u2019t go back for one more episode of almost gagging, choking, almost suffocating. He didn\u2019t think about it much until the subject of the gas chamber came up. No matter what he knew about the way they execute people down there in Gainesville, with the needle, the guards threatened him with the gas chamber, laughed and hooted when he\u2019d curl up on the bed and start to shake.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Now he doesn\u2019t have to worry about the gas chamber or any other means of execution. He\u2019s a science project.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He listens for the drawer at the bottom of the steel door, listens for it to open, listens for his breakfast tray.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He can\u2019t see that it is light outside because there is no window, but he knows it is dawn by the sounds of guards making their rounds and drawers sliding open and slamming shut as other inmates get eggs and bacon and biscuits, sometimes fried eggs, sometimes scrambled. He can smell the food as he lies on the bed under his nonpoisonous blanket on his nonpoisonous mattress and thinks about his mail. He has to have it. He feels as furious and anxious as he\u2019s ever been. He listens to footsteps and then Uncle Remus\u2019s fat, black face appears behind the mesh opening high up on the door.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>That\u2019s what Basil calls him. Uncle Remus. Calling him Uncle Remus is why Basil\u2019s not getting his mail anymore. He hasn\u2019t gotten it for a month.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI want my mail,\u201d he says to Uncle Remus\u2019s face behind the mesh. \u201cIt\u2019s my constitutional right to get my mail.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat makes you think anybody would write your sorry ass,\u201d the face behind the mesh asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Basil can\u2019t make out much, just the dark shape of the face and the wetness of eyes peering in at him. Basil knows what to do about eyes, how to put them out so they don\u2019t shine at him, so they don\u2019t see places they shouldn\u2019t before they turn dark and crazed and he almost suffocates. He can\u2019t do much in here, in his suicide cell, and rage and anxiety twist his stomach like a dishrag.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI know I have mail,\u201d Basil says. \u201cI want it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The face vanishes and then the drawer opens. Basil gets off the bed, takes his tray and the drawer loudly clangs shut at the bottom of the thick, gray, steel door.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHope nobody spit on your food,\u201d Uncle Remus says through the mesh. \u201cEnjoy your breakfast,\u201d he says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The wide plank floor is cold beneath Lucy\u2019s bare feet as she returns to the bedroom. Stevie is asleep under the covers, and Lucy sets two coffees on the bedside table and slides her hand under the mattress, feeling for the pistol\u2019s magazines. She may have been reckless last night, but not so reckless that she would leave her pistol loaded with a stranger in the house.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cStevie?\u201d she says. \u201cCome on. Wake up. Hey!\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Stevie opens her eyes and stares at Lucy standing by the bed inserting a magazine into the pistol.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat a sight,\u201d Stevie says, yawning.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ve got to go.\u201d Lucy hands her a coffee.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Stevie stares at the gun. \u201cYou must trust me, leaving it right there on the table all night.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy wouldn\u2019t I trust you?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI guess you lawyers have to worry about all those people whose lives you\u2019ve ruined,\u201d Stevie says. \u201cYou never know about people these days.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy told her she is a Boston attorney. Stevie probably thinks a lot of things that aren\u2019t true.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHow did you know I like my coffee black?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI didn\u2019t,\u201d Lucy says. \u201cThere\u2019s no milk or cream in the house. I\u2019ve really got to go.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI think you should stay. Bet I can make it worth your while. We never finished, now did we? Got me so liquored up and stoned, I never got your clothes off. That\u2019s a first.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSeems like a lot of things were your first.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou didn\u2019t take your clothes off,\u201d Stevie reminds her, sipping coffee. \u201cThat\u2019s a first, all right.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou weren\u2019t exactly with it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI was with it enough to try. It\u2019s not too late to try again.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She sits up and settles into the pillows, and the covers slip below her breasts, and her nipples are erect in the chilled air. She knows exactly what she has and what to do with it, and Lucy doesn\u2019t believe what happened last night was a first, that any of it was.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cGod, my head hurts,\u201d Stevie says, watching Lucy look at her. \u201cI thought you told me good tequila wouldn\u2019t do that.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou mixed it with vodka.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Stevie plumps the pillows behind her and the covers settle low around her hips. She pushes her dark-blond hair out of her eyes, and she is quite something to look at in the morning light, but Lucy wants nothing more with her and is put off by the red hand prints again.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cRemember I asked you about those last night?\u201d Lucy says, looking at them.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou asked me a lot of things last night.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI asked you where you got them done.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy don\u2019t you climb back in.\u201d Stevie pats the bed, and her eyes seem to burn Lucy\u2019s skin.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt must have hurt getting them. Unless they\u2019re fake and I happen to think they are.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI can clean them off with nail polish remover or baby oil. I\u2019m sure you don\u2019t have nail polish remover or baby oil.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat\u2019s the point?\u201d Lucy stares at the hand prints.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt wasn\u2019t my idea.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThen whose?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSomeone annoying. She does it to me and I have to clean them off.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy frowns, staring at her. \u201cYou let someone paint them on you. Well, kind of kinky,\u201d and she feels a pinch of jealousy as she imagines someone painting Stevie\u2019s naked body. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to tell me who,\u201d Lucy says as if it\u2019s unimportant.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMuch better to be the one who does it to someone else,\u201d Stevie says, and Lucy feels jealous again. \u201cCome here,\u201d Stevie says in her soothing voice, patting the bed again.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe need to head out of here. I\u2019ve got things to do,\u201d Lucy replies, carrying black cargo pants, a bulky black sweater and the pistol into the tiny bathroom that adjoins the bedroom.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She shuts the door and locks it. She undresses without looking at herself in the mirror, wishing what has happened to her body is imagined or a nightmare. She touches herself in the shower to see if anything has changed and avoids the mirror as she towels herself dry.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLook at you,\u201d Stevie says when Lucy emerges from the bathroom, dressed and distracted, her mood much worse than it was moments before. \u201cYou look like some kind of secret agent. You\u2019re really something. I want to be just like you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou don\u2019t know me.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAfter last night, I know enough,\u201d she says, staring Lucy up and down. \u201cWho wouldn\u2019t want to be just like you? You don\u2019t seem afraid of anything. Are you afraid of anything?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy leans over and rearranges the bed linens around Stevie, covering her up to her chin, and Stevie\u2019s face changes. She stiffens, stares down at the bed.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m sorry. I didn\u2019t mean to offend you,\u201d Stevie says meekly, her cheeks turning red.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s cold in here. I was just covering you because\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s okay. It\u2019s happened before.\u201d She looks up, her eyes bottomless pits filled with fear and sadness. \u201cYou think I\u2019m ugly, don\u2019t you. Ugly and fat. You don\u2019t like me. In the daylight, you don\u2019t.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re anything but ugly or fat,\u201d Lucy says. \u201cAnd I do like you. It\u2019s just\u2026 Shit, I\u2019m sorry. I didn\u2019t mean to\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m not surprised. Why would someone like you like someone like me?\u201d Stevie says, pulling the blanket around her and off the bed, covering herself completely as she gets up. \u201cYou could have anybody. I\u2019m grateful. Thank you. I won\u2019t tell anyone.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy is speechless, watching Stevie retrieve her clothes from the living room, getting dressed, shaking, her mouth contorting in peculiar ways.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cGod, please don\u2019t cry, Stevie.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAt least call me the right thing!\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat is that supposed to mean?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Her eyes huge and dark and scared, Stevie says, \u201cI\u2019d like to go now, please. I won\u2019t tell anyone. Thank you, I\u2019m very grateful.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy are you talking like this?\u201d Lucy says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Stevie retrieves her long, black, hooded coat and puts it on. Through the window, Lucy watches her walk off in a swirl of snow, her long, black coat flapping around her tall, black boots.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 9<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Half an hour later, Lucy zips up her ski jacket and tucks the pistol and two extra magazines in a pocket.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She locks the cottage and climbs down the snow-covered wooden steps to the street as she thinks about Stevie and her inexplicable behavior, feeling guilty. She thinks about Johnny and feels guilty, remembering San Francisco, when he took her to dinner and reassured her that everything would be all right.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>You\u2019re going to be fine, he promised.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I can\u2019t live like this, she said.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It was women\u2019s night at Mecca on Market Street, and the restaurant was crowded with women, attractive women who looked happy and confident and pleased with themselves. Lucy felt stared at, and it bothered her in a way it never had before.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I want to do something about it now, she said.Look at me.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy, you look great.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I haven\u2019t been this fat since I was ten.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>You stop taking your medicine and\u2026<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It makes me sick and exhausted.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I\u2019m not going to let you do anything rash. You have to trust me.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He held her gaze in the candlelight, and his face will always be in her mind, looking at her the way he did that night. He was handsome, with fine features and unusual eyes the color of tiger eyes, and she could keep nothing from him. He knew all there was to know in every way imaginable.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Loneliness and guilt follow her as she follows the snowy sidewalk west along the Cape Cod Bay. She ran away. She remembers when she heard about his death. She heard about it the way no one should, on the radio.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>A prominent doctor was found shot to death in a Hollywood apartment in what sources close to the investigation say is a possible suicide\u2026<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She had no one to ask. She wasn\u2019t supposed to know Johnny and had never met his brother, Laurel, or any of their friends, so who could she ask?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Her cell phone vibrates, and she tucks the earpiece in her ear and answers.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhere are you?\u201d Benton says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWalking through a blizzard in P town. Well, not literally a blizzard. It\u2019s starting to taper off.\u201d She is dazed, a little hung-over.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAnything interesting come up?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She thinks of last night and feels bewildered and ashamed.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>What she says is, \u201cOnly that he wasn\u2019t alone when he was here last, the week before he died. Apparently, he came here right after his surgery, then went down to Florida.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLaurel with him?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNo.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHow did he manage alone?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAs I said, it appears he wasn\u2019t alone.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWho told you?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cA bartender. Apparently, he met someone.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe know who?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cA woman. Someone a lot younger.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cA name?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJan, don\u2019t know the rest of it. Johnny was upset about the surgery, which wasn\u2019t all that successful, as you know. People do a lot of things when they\u2019re scared and don\u2019t feel good about themselves.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHow are you feeling?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOkay,\u201d she lies.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She was a coward. She was selfish.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou don\u2019t sound okay,\u201d Benton says to her. \u201cWhat happened to Johnny isn\u2019t your fault.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI ran away from it. I didn\u2019t do a damn thing.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy don\u2019t you spend some time with us. Kay\u2019s going to be up here for a week. We\u2019d love to see you. You and I will find some private time to talk,\u201d Benton the psychologist says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t want to see her. Somehow make her understand.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLucy, you can\u2019t keep doing this to her.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m not trying to hurt anyone,\u201d she says, thinking of Stevie again.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThen tell her the truth. It\u2019s that simple.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou called me.\u201d She abruptly changes the subject.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI need you to do something for me as soon as possible,\u201d he replies. \u201cI\u2019m on a secured phone.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cUnless there\u2019s anyone around here with an intercept system, I am too. Go ahead.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He tells her about a murder that supposedly occurred at some sort of Christmas shop, supposedly in the Las Olas area about two and a half years ago. He tells her everything Basil Jenrette told him. He says Scarpetta is unfamiliar with any case that sounds similar, but she wasn\u2019t working in South Florida back then.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe information came from a sociopath,\u201d he reminds her, \u201cso I\u2019m not holding my breath that there\u2019s anything to it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe alleged victim in the Christmas shop have her eyes gouged out?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHe didn\u2019t tell me that. I didn\u2019t want to ask him too many questions until I check out his story. Can you run it in HIT, see what you can find?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll get started on the plane,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 10<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The clock on the wall above the bookcase reads half past noon, and the attorney representing a kid who probably murdered his baby brother is taking his time going through paperwork on the other side of Kay Scarpetta\u2019s desk.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Dave is young, dark, nicely built, one of those men whose irregular features somehow fit together in a very appealing way. He is known for his flamboyance in the malpractice arena, and whenever he comes to the Academy, the secretaries and female students suddenly find reasons to walk past Scarpetta\u2019s door, except Rose, of course. She has been Scarpetta\u2019s secretary for fifteen years, is well past retirement age and isn\u2019t particularly vulnerable to male charm unless it is Marino\u2019s. He is probably the only man whose flirtations she welcomes, and Scarpetta picks up the phone to ask her where he is. He is supposed to be here for this meeting.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI tried him last night,\u201d Scarpetta says over the phone to Rose. \u201cSeveral times.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLet me see if I can find him,\u201d Rose says. \u201cHe\u2019s been acting rather odd lately.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNot just lately.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Dave studies an autopsy report, his head tilted back as he reads through the horn-rimmed glasses low on his nose.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe last few weeks have been worse. I have a funny feeling it\u2019s about a woman.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSee if you can find him.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She hangs up and looks across her desk to see if Dave is ready to get on with his prejudicial questions about another difficult death that he is convinced can be resolved for a substantial fee. Unlike most police departments that invite the assistance of the Academy\u2019s scientific and medical experts, lawyers usually pay, and, as a rule, most clients who can pay are representing people who are as guilty as hell.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMarino not coming?\u201d he asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe\u2019re trying to find him.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ve got a deposition in less than an hour.\u201d He turns a page of the report. \u201cSeems to me when all is said and done, the findings are in favor of an impact and nothing more.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m not going to say that in court,\u201d she replies, looking at the report, at the details of an autopsy she didn\u2019t perform. \u201cWhat I can say is that while a subdural hematoma can be caused by an impact\u2014in this case, the alleged fall off the couch onto the tile floor\u2014it is highly unlikely, was more likely caused by violent shaking that causes shearing forces in the cranial cavity and subdural bleeding and injury to the spinal cord.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAs for the retinal hemorrhages, aren\u2019t we in agreement those can also be caused by trauma, such as his head striking the tile floor, resulting in a subdural?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNot at all in a short fall like this. Again, was more likely caused by the head whipping back and forth. Just as the report makes clear.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t think you\u2019re helping me out much here, Kay.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIf you don\u2019t want an unbiased opinion, you should find another expert.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThere is no other expert. You\u2019re unrivaled.\u201d He smiles. \u201cWhat about a vitamin K deficiency?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIf you have antemortem blood that revealed protein-induced vitamin K deficiency,\u201d she replies. \u201cIf you\u2019re looking for leprechauns.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cProblem is, we don\u2019t have antemortem blood. He didn\u2019t survive long enough to get to the hospital.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s a problem.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, shaken baby syndrome can\u2019t be proved. It\u2019s definitely unclear and improbable. You can at least say that.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat\u2019s clear is you don\u2019t have mama\u2019s fourteen-year-old son babysit his newborn brother when the son has already been to juvenile court twice for assault on other children and is legendary for his explosive temper.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAnd you won\u2019t say that.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNo.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLook, all I ask is you point out there\u2019s no definitive evidence that this baby was shaken.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI will also point out there\u2019s no definitive evidence that he wasn\u2019t, that I can find no fault with the autopsy report in question.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe Academy\u2019s great,\u201d Dave says, getting up from his chair. \u201cBut you guys are roughing me up. Marino\u2019s a no-show. Now you\u2019re leaving me hanging out to dry.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m sorry about Marino,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMaybe you need to control him better.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s not exactly possible.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Dave tucks in his bold striped shirt, straightens his bold silk tie, puts on his tailored silk jacket. He arranges his paperwork inside his crocodile briefcase.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cRumor has it you\u2019re looking into the Johnny Swift case,\u201d he then says, snapping shut the silver clasps.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scarpetta is caught for a minute. She can\u2019t imagine how Dave could know this.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>What she says is, \u201cIt\u2019s been my practice to pay little attention to rumors, Dave.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHis brother owns one of my favorite restaurants in South Beach. Called Rumors, ironically,\u201d he says. \u201cYou know, Laurel\u2019s had some problems.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t know anything about him.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSomeone who works there is passing around the story that Laurel killed Johnny for money, for whatever Johnny might have left him in his will. Says Laurel\u2019s got habits he can\u2019t afford.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSounds like hearsay. Or maybe someone who has a grudge.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Dave walks to the door.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI haven\u2019t talked to her. Every time I try, she\u2019s not there. I personally think Laurel\u2019s a really nice guy, by the way. I just find it a bit coincidental that I start hearing stories and then Johnny\u2019s case is reopened.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m not aware it was ever closed,\u201d Scarpetta says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Snowflakes are icy and sharp, the sidewalks and streets frosted white. Few people are out.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy walks briskly, sipping from a steaming hot latte, heading to the Anchor Inn, where she checked in several days ago under a fictitious name so she could hide her rented Hummer. She hasn\u2019t parked it at the cottage once, never interested in strangers knowing what she drives. She veers off on a narrow drive that winds around to the small parking lot on the water where the Hummer is covered with snow. She unlocks the doors, starts the engine and turns on the defrost, and the white-blanketed windows give her the cool, shady sensation of being inside an igloo.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She is calling one of her pilots when a gloved hand suddenly begins wiping snow off her side window and a black-hooded face fills the glass. Lucy aborts the call and drops the phone on the seat.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She stares at Stevie for a long moment, then lowers the window as her mind races through possibilities. It isn\u2019t a good thing that she was followed here. It is a very bad thing that she didn\u2019t notice she was being followed.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Lucy asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI just wanted to tell you something.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Stevie\u2019s face has an expression that is hard to read. Maybe she is near tears and extremely upset and hurt, or it could be the cold, sharp wind blowing in from the bay that is making her eyes so bright.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re the most awesome person I\u2019ve ever met,\u201d Stevie says. \u201cI think you\u2019re my hero. My new hero.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy isn\u2019t sure if Stevie is mocking her. Maybe she isn\u2019t.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cStevie, I\u2019ve got to get to the airport.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThey haven\u2019t started canceling flights yet. But it\u2019s supposed to be terrible the rest of the week.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThanks for the weather update,\u201d Lucy says, and the look in Stevie\u2019s eyes is fierce and unnerving. \u201cLook, I\u2019m sorry. I never meant to hurt your feelings.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou didn\u2019t,\u201d Stevie says, as if this is the first she\u2019s heard of it. \u201cNot at all. I didn\u2019t think I\u2019d like you so much. I wanted to find you to tell you that. Tuck it away in some part of that clever head of yours, maybe remember it on a rainy day. I just never thought I would like you so much.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou keep saying that.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s intriguing. You come across so sure of yourself, arrogant really. Hard and distant. But I realize it\u2019s not who you are inside. Funny how things turn out so differently from what you expect.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Snow is blowing inside the Hummer, dusting the interior.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHow did you find me?\u201d Lucy asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI went back to your place but you were gone. I followed your footprints in the snow. They led right here. You wear what? Size eight? It wasn\u2019t hard.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, I\u2019m sorry for\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cPlease,\u201d Stevie says intensely, strongly. \u201cI know I\u2019m not just another notch on your belt, as they say.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m not into that,\u201d Lucy says, but she is.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She knows it, even if she would never describe it like that. She feels bad for Stevie. She feels bad for her aunt, for Johnny, for everyone she has failed.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSome might argue you\u2019re a notch on mine,\u201d Stevie says playfully, seductively, and Lucy doesn\u2019t want to have the feeling again.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Stevie is sure of herself again, full of secrets again, amazingly attractive again.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy shoves the Hummer into reverse as snow blows in and her face stings from the snow and the wind blowing off the water.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Stevie digs in her coat pocket, pulls out a slip of paper, hands it to her through the open window.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMy phone number,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The area code is 617, the Boston area. She never told Lucy where she lived. Lucy never asked.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s all I wanted to say to you,\u201d Stevie says. \u201cAnd happy Valentine\u2019s Day.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>They look at each other through the open window, the engine rumbling, snow coming down and clinging to Stevie\u2019s black coat. She\u2019s beautiful and Lucy feels what she felt at Lorraine\u2019s. She thought it was gone. She is feeling it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m not like all the rest,\u201d Stevie says, looking into Lucy\u2019s eyes.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re not.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMy cell phone number,\u201d Stevie says. \u201cI actually live in Florida. After I left Harvard, I never bothered to change my cell phone number. It doesn\u2019t matter. Free minutes, you know.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou went to Harvard?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI usually don\u2019t mention it. It can be rather off-putting.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhere in Florida?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cGainesville,\u201d she says. \u201cHappy Valentine\u2019s Day,\u201d she says again. \u201cI hope it turns out to be the most special one you\u2019ve ever had.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 11<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The smart board inside classroom 1A is filled with a colorful photograph of a man\u2019s torso. His shirt is unbuttoned, a large knife plunged into his hairy chest.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSuicide,\u201d one of the students volunteers from his desk.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHere\u2019s another fact. Although you can\u2019t tell from this picture,\u201d Scarpetta says to the sixteen students who make up this session\u2019s Academy class, \u201che has multiple stab wounds.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHomicide.\u201d The student quickly changes his answer and everybody laughs.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scarpetta flashes up the next slide, this one of multiple wounds clustered near the fatal one.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThey look shallow,\u201d another student says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat about the angle? They should be angled up if he did it to himself?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNot necessarily, but here\u2019s a question,\u201d Scarpetta says from the podium in the front of the classroom. \u201cWhat might his unbuttoned shirt tell you?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Silence.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIf you were going to stab yourself, would you do it through your clothing?\u201d she asks. \u201cAnd, by the way, you\u2019re right.\u201d She directs this to the student who made the comment about shallow stab wounds. \u201cMost of these\u201d\u2014she points them out on the smart board\u2014\u201cbarely broke the skin. What we call hesitation marks. \u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The students take notes. They are a bright, eager bunch, different ages, different backgrounds, from different areas of the country, two of them from England. Several are detectives who want intensive forensic training in crime-scene investigation. Others are death investigators who want the same thing. Some are college graduates working on master\u2019s degrees in psychology, nuclear biology and microscopy. One is an assistant district attorney who wants more convictions in court.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She displays another slide on the smart board, this one an especially gruesome photograph of a man with his intestines spilling out of a gaping incision to his abdomen. Several students groan. One says \u201couch.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWho\u2019s familiar with seppuku?\u201d Scarpetta asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHari-kari,\u201d a voice sounds from the doorway.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Dr. Joe Amos, this year\u2019s forensic pathology fellow, walks in as if it is his class. He is tall and gangly, with an unruly shock of black hair, a long, pointed chin and dark, glittering eyes. He reminds Scarpetta of a black bird, a crow.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t mean to interrupt,\u201d he says, then he does it anyway. \u201cThis guy\u201d\u2014he nods at the gruesome image on the smart board\u2014\u201ctook a big hunting knife, stabbed it into one side of his abdomen and slashed across to the other. That\u2019s called motivation.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWas it your case, Dr. Amos?\u201d a student asks, this one female and pretty.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Dr. Amos moves closer to her, looks very serious and important. \u201cNo. What you need to remember, though, is this: The way you can tell suicide versus homicide is if it\u2019s a suicide, the person will slash the knife across his abdomen and then cut upwards, making the classic L shape that you see in hari-kari. Which is not what you see here.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He directs the students\u2019 attention to the smart board.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scarpetta holds in her temper.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cBe kind of hard to do that in a homicide,\u201d he adds.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThis one\u2019s not L-shaped.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cPrecisely,\u201d he says. \u201cWho wants to vote for homicide?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>A few students raise their hands.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMy vote, too,\u201d he says with confidence.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDr. Amos? How quickly would he have died?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou might survive a few minutes. You\u2019re going to bleed out really fast. Dr. Scarpetta, I wonder if I could see you for a minute. I\u2019m sorry to interrupt,\u201d he says to the students.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She and Joe walk into the hallway.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat is it?\u201d she asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe hell scene we have scheduled for later this afternoon,\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019d like to spice it up a little.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThis couldn\u2019t wait until after class?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, I thought you could get one of the students to volunteer. They\u2019ll do anything you ask.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She ignores the flattery.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAsk if one of them will help out with this afternoon\u2019s hell scene, but you can\u2019t tell the details in front of everyone.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAnd what are the details, exactly?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI was thinking of Jenny. Maybe you\u2019ll let her skip your three o\u2019clock class so she can help me.\u201d He refers to the pretty student who asked him if the evisceration was his case.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scarpetta has seen them together on more than one occasion. Joe is engaged, but that doesn\u2019t seem to stop him from being quite friendly with attractive female students, no matter how much the Academy discourages it. So far, he hasn\u2019t been caught committing an unredeemable infraction, and, in a way, she wishes he had been. She\u2019d love to get rid of him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe get her to play the perp,\u201d he explains quietly, excitedly. \u201cShe looks so innocent, so sweet. So we take two students at a time, have them work a homicide, the victim shot multiple times while on the toilet. This is in one of the motel rooms, of course, and Jenny comes in acting all broken up, hysterical. The dead guy\u2019s daughter. We\u2019ll see if the students let their guard down.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scarpetta is silent.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOf course, there\u2019ll be a few cops at the scene. Let\u2019s say they\u2019re looking around, assuming the perp\u2019s fled. Point is, we\u2019ll see if anybody\u2019s smart enough to make sure this pretty young thing isn\u2019t the person who just blew the guy away, her father, while he was taking a dump. And guess what? She is. They let their guard down, she pulls a gun and starts shooting, gets taken out. And voil\u00e0. A classic suicide by police.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou can ask Jenny yourself after class,\u201d Scarpetta says as she tries to figure out why the scenario seems familiar.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Joe is obsessed with hell scenes, an innovation of Marino\u2019s, extreme mock crime scenes that are supposed to mirror the real risks and unpleasantries of real death. She sometimes thinks Joe should give up forensic pathology and sell his soul to Hollywood. If he has a soul. The scenario he has just proposed reminds her of something.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cPretty good, huh?\u201d he says. \u201cIt could happen in real life.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Then she remembers. It did happen in real life.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe had a case in Virginia like that,\u201d she recalls. \u201cWhen I was chief.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cReally?\u201d he says, amazed. \u201cGuess there\u2019s nothing new under the sun.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAnd by the way, Joe,\u201d she says. \u201cIn most cases of seppuku, of hari-kari, the cause of death is cardiac arrest due to sudden cardiac collapse due to a sudden drop in intra-abdominal pressure due to sudden evisceration. Not exsanguination.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYour case? The one in there?\u201d He indicates the classroom.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMarino\u2019s and mine. From years back. And one other thing,\u201d she adds. \u201cIt\u2019s a suicide, not a homicide.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 12<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The Citation X flies south at just under mach one as Lucy uploads files on a virtual private network that is so firewall-protected not even Homeland Security can break in.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>At least, she believes her information infrastructure is secure. She believes that no hacker, including the government, can monitor the transmissions of classified data generated by the Heterogenous Image Transaction database management system that goes by the acronym HIT. She developed and programmed HIT herself. The government doesn\u2019t know about it, she is sure of it. Few people do, she is sure of it. HIT is proprietary, and she could sell the software easily, but she doesn\u2019t need the money, having made her fortune years ago from other software development, mostly from some of the same search engines she is conducting through cyberspace this minute, looking for any violent deaths that might have occurred in a South Florida business of any description.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Other than homicides in the expected convenience and liquor stores, massage parlors and topless clubs, she has found no violent crime, unsolved or otherwise, that might verify what Basil Jenrette told Benton. However, there once was a business called The Christmas Shop. It was located at the intersection of A1A and East Las Olas Boulevard, along a strip of tacky touristy boutiques and caf\u00e9s and ice-cream joints on the beach. Two years ago, The Christmas Shop was sold to a chain called Beach Bums that specializes in T-shirts, swimwear and souvenirs.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It is hard for Joe to believe how many cases Scarpetta has worked in what is a relatively brief career. Forensic pathologists rarely land their first job until they are thirty, assuming their arduous educational track is continuous. Added to her six years of postgraduate medical training were three more for law school. By the time she was thirty-five, she was the chief of the most prominent medical examiner system in the United States. Unlike most chiefs, she wasn\u2019t just an administrator. She did autopsies, thousands of them.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Most of them are in a database that is supposed to be accessible to her only, and she\u2019s even gotten federal grants to conduct various research studies on violence\u2014sexual violence, drug-related violence, domestic violence\u2014all kinds of violence. In quite a number of her old cases, Marino, a local homicide detective when she was chief, was the lead investigator. So she has his reports in the database as well. It\u2019s a candy store. It\u2019s a fountain spewing fine champagne. It\u2019s orgasmic.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Joe scrolls through case C328-93, the police suicide that is the model for this afternoon\u2019s hell scene. He clicks on the scene photographs again, thinking about Jenny. In the real case, the trigger-happy daughter is facedown in a pool of blood on the living-room floor. She was shot three times, once in the abdomen, twice in the chest, and he thinks about the way she was dressed when she killed her daddy while he was on the toilet and then put on an act in front of the police before pulling out her pistol again. She died barefoot, in a pair of cutoff blue jeans and a T-shirt. She wasn\u2019t wearing panties or a bra. He clicks to her autopsy photographs, not as interested in what she looked like with a Y incision as in how she looked naked on the cold, steel table. She was only fifteen when the police shot her dead, and he thinks of Jenny.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He looks up, smiles at her from the other side of his desk. She has been sitting patiently, waiting for instructions. He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a Glock nine-millimeter, pulls back the slide to make sure the chamber is clear, drops out the magazine and pushes the pistol across the desk to her.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou ever shot a gun before?\u201d he asks his newest teacher\u2019s pet.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She has the cutest turned-up nose and huge eyes the color of milk chocolate, and he imagines her naked and dead like the girl in the scene photograph on his screen.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI grew up with guns,\u201d she says. \u201cWhat\u2019s that you\u2019re looking at, if you don\u2019t mind my asking.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cE-mail,\u201d he says, and not telling the truth has never bothered him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He rather likes not telling the truth, likes it far more than dislikes it. Truth isn\u2019t always truth. What is true? What is true is what he decides is true. It\u2019s all a matter of interpretation. Jenny cranes her head to get a better look at what\u2019s on his screen.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cCool. People e-mail entire case files to you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSometimes,\u201d he says, clicking to a different photograph, and the color printer behind his desk starts up. \u201cWhat we\u2019re doing is classified,\u201d he then says. \u201cCan I trust you?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOf course, Dr. Amos. I completely understand classified. If I didn\u2019t, I\u2019m training for the wrong profession.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>A color photograph of the dead girl in a pool of blood on the living-room floor slides into the printer tray. Joe turns around to get it, looks it over, hands it to her.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s going to be you this afternoon,\u201d he says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI hope not literally,\u201d she teases.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAnd this is your gun.\u201d He looks at the Glock in front of her on the desk. \u201cWhere do you propose you hide it?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She looks at the photograph, not fazed by it, and asks, \u201cWhere did she hide it?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou can\u2019t see it in the photograph,\u201d he replies. \u201cA pocketbook, which, by the way, should have cued somebody. She finds her father dead, supposedly, calls nine-one-one, opens the door when the cops get there and has her pocketbook. She\u2019s hysterical, never left the house, so why\u2019s she walking around with her pocketbook?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s what you want me to do.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe pistol goes in your pocketbook. At some point, you reach in for tissues because you\u2019re boo-hooing, and you pull the gun and start shooting.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAnything else?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThen you\u2019re going to get killed. Try to look pretty.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She smiles. \u201cAnything else?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe way she\u2019s dressed.\u201d He looks at her, tries to show it in his eyes, what he wants.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She knows.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t have the exact same thing,\u201d she replies, playing him a little, acting na\u00efve.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She\u2019s anything but, probably been fucking since kindergarten.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, Jenny, see if you can approximate. Shorts, T-shirt, no shoes or socks.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cShe doesn\u2019t have on underwear, looks to me.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThen there\u2019s that.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cShe looks like a slut.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOkay. Then look like a slut,\u201d he says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Jenny thinks this is very funny.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI mean, you are a slut, aren\u2019t you?\u201d he asks, his small, dark eyes looking at her. \u201cIf not, I\u2019ll ask somebody else. This hell scene requires a slut.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou don\u2019t need someone else.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOh, really.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cReally,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She turns around, glancing at the shut door as if worried that someone might walk in. He doesn\u2019t say anything.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe could get in trouble,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe won\u2019t.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t want to get kicked out,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou want to be a death investigator when you grow up.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She nods, looking at him, coolly playing with the top button of her Academy polo shirt. She looks good in it. He likes the way she fills it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m a grown-up,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re from Texas,\u201d he then says, looking at the way she fills her polo shirt, the way she fills her snug-fitting khaki cargo pants. \u201cThey grow things big in Texas, don\u2019t they.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhy, are you talking dirty to me, Dr. Amos?\u201d she drawls.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He imagines her dead. He imagines her in a pool of blood, shot dead on the floor. He imagines her naked on the steel table. One of life\u2019s fables is that dead bodies can\u2019t be sexy. Naked is naked if the person looks good and hasn\u2019t been dead long. To say a man has never had a thought about a beautiful woman who happens to be dead is a joke. Cops pin photographs on their corkboards, pictures of female victims who are exceptionally fine. Male medical examiners give lectures to cops and show them certain pictures, deliberately pick the ones they\u2019ll like. Joe has seen it. He knows what guys do.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou do a good job getting killed in the hell scene,\u201d he says to Jenny, \u201cand I\u2019ll cook dinner for you. I\u2019m a wine connoisseur.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re also engaged.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cShe\u2019s at a conference in Chicago. Maybe she\u2019ll get snowed in.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Jenny gets up. She looks at her watch, then looks at him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWho was your teacher\u2019s pet before me?\u201d she asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re special,\u201d he says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 13<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>An hour out from Signature Aviation in Fort Lauderdale, Lucy gets up for another coffee and a bathroom break. The sky beyond the jet\u2019s small oval windows is overcast with mounting storm clouds.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She settles back into her leather seat and executes more queries of Broward County tax assessment and real-estate records, news stories and anything else she can think of to see what she can find out about the former Christmas shop. From the mid-seventies to the early nineties, it was a diner called Rum Runner\u2019s. For two years after that, it was a fudge and ice-cream parlor called Coco Nuts. Then, in 2000, the building was rented to a Mrs. Florrie Anna Quincy, the widow of a wealthy landscaper from West Palm Beach.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy\u2019s fingers rest lightly on the keyboard as she scans a feature article that ran in The Miami Herald not long after The Christmas Shop opened. It says that Mrs. Quincy grew up in Chicago, where her father was a commodities broker, and every Christmas he volunteered as a Santa at Macy\u2019s department store.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cChristmas was just the most magical time in our lives,\u201d Mrs. Quincy said. \u201cMy father\u2019s love was lumber futures, and maybe because he grew up in the logging country of Alberta, Canada, we had Christmas trees in the house all year round, big potted spruces decorated with white lights and little carved figures. I guess that\u2019s why I like to have Christmas all year round.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Her shop is an astonishing collection of ornaments, music boxes, Santas of every description, winter wonderlands and tiny electric trains running on tiny tracks. One has to be careful moving down the aisles of her fragile, fanciful world, and it is easy to forget there are sunshine, palm trees and the ocean right outside her door. Since opening The Christmas Shop last month, Mrs. Quincy says there has been quite a lot of traffic, but far more customers come to browse than to buy\u2026<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy sips her coffee and eyes the cream-cheese bagel on the burlwood tray. She is hungry but afraid to eat. She thinks about food constantly, obsessed with her weight, knowing that dieting won\u2019t help. She can starve herself all she wants and it won\u2019t change the way she looks and feels. Her body was her most finely tuned machine, and it has betrayed her.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She executes another search and tries Marino on the phone built into the armrest of her seat as she scans more results from her queries. He answers but the reception is bad.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m in the air,\u201d she says, reading what is on her screen.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhen you going to learn to fly that thing?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cProbably never. Don\u2019t have time to get all the ratings. I barely have time for helicopters these days.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She doesn\u2019t want to have time. The more she flies, the more she loves it, and she doesn\u2019t want to love it anymore. Medication has to be explained to the FAA unless it is some innocuous over-the-counter remedy, and the next time she goes to the flight surgeon to renew her medical certificate, she will have to list Dostinex. Questions will be raised. Government bureaucrats will rip apart her privacy and probably find some excuse to revoke her license. The only way around it is to never take the medicine again, and she has tried to do without it for a while. Or she can give up flying completely.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll stick to Harleys,\u201d Marino is saying.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI just got a tip. Not about that case. A different one, maybe.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cFrom who?\u201d he says suspiciously.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cBenton. Apparently, some patient passed along a story about some unsolved murder in Las Olas.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She is careful how she words it. Marino hasn\u2019t been told about PREDATOR. Benton doesn\u2019t want him involved, fearing Marino wouldn\u2019t understand or be helpful. Marino\u2019s philosophy about violent offenders is to rough them up, to lock them up, to put them to death as cruelly as possible. He is probably the last person on the planet to care if a murderous psychopath is really mentally ill as opposed to evil, or if a pedophile can no more help his proclivities than a psychotic individual can help his delusions. Marino thinks psychological insights and explorations in structural and functional brain imaging are a crock of shit.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cApparently, this patient claims that maybe two and a half years ago, a woman was raped and murdered in The Christmas Shop,\u201d Lucy is explaining to Marino, worried that one of these days she will let it slip that Benton is evaluating inmates.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Marino knows that McLean, the teaching hospital for Harvard, the model psychiatric hospital with its self-pay Pavillion that caters to the rich and famous, is certainly not a forensic psychiatric institution. If prisoners are being transported there for evaluations, something unusual and clandestine is going on.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe what?\u201d Marino asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She repeats what she just said, adding, \u201cOwned by a Florrie Anna Quincy, white woman, thirty-eight, husband had a bunch of nurseries in West Palm\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTrees or kids?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cTrees. Mostly citrus. The Christmas Shop was around for only two years, from 2000 to 2002.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Lucy types in more commands and converts data files to text files that she will e-mail to Benton.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cEver heard of a place called Beach Bums?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re breaking up on me,\u201d Marino says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHello? Is this better? Marino?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI can hear you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s the name of the business there now. Mrs. Quincy and her seventeen-year-old daughter, Helen, vanished in July of 2002. I found an article about it in the newspaper. Not much in the way of follow-up, just a small article here and there and nothing at all in the past year.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSo maybe they turned up and the media didn\u2019t cover it,\u201d Marino replies.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNothing I can find would indicate they\u2019re alive and well. In fact, the son tried to have them declared legally dead last spring with no success. Maybe you can check with the Fort Lauderdale police, see if anybody remembers anything about Mrs. Quincy\u2019s and her daughter\u2019s disappearance. I plan to drop by Beach Bums at some point tomorrow.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe Fort Lauderdale cops wouldn\u2019t let it go like that without a damn good reason.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLet\u2019s find out what it is,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>At the USAir ticket counter, Scarpetta continues to argue.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s impossible,\u201d she says again, about to lose her temper, she\u2019s so frustrated. \u201cHere\u2019s my record location number, my printed receipt. Right here. First class, departure time six-twenty. How can my reservation have been cancelled?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMa\u2019am, it\u2019s right here in the computer. Your reservation was cancelled at two-fifteen.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cToday?\u201d Scarpetta refuses to believe it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>There must be a mistake.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYes, today.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s impossible. I certainly didn\u2019t call to cancel.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, someone did.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThen rebook it,\u201d Scarpetta says, reaching in her bag for her wallet.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe flight\u2019s full. I can wait list you for coach, but there\u2019s seven other people ahead of you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scarpetta reschedules her flight for tomorrow and calls Rose.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m afraid you\u2019re going to have to come back and get me,\u201d Scarpetta says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOh, no. What happened. Weathered out?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSomehow my reservation got cancelled. The plane\u2019s overbooked. Rose, did you call for a confirmation earlier?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI most certainly did. Around lunchtime.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t know what happened,\u201d Scarpetta says, thinking about Benton, about their Valentine\u2019s Day together. \u201cShit!\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 14<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The yellow moon is misshapen like an overripe mango, hanging heavy over scrubby trees and weeds and dense shadows. In the uneven light of the moon, Hog can see well enough to make out the thing.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He sees it coming because he knows where to look. For several minutes, he has detected its infrared energy in the Heat Stalker he moves horizontally in the dark in a slow scan, like a wand, like a magic wand. A line of bright-red hatch marks marches across the rear LED window of the lightweight olive-green PVC tube as it detects differences in the surface temperatures of the warm-blooded thing and the earth.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He is Hog, and his body is a thing, and he can leave it on demand and no one can see him. No one can see him now in the middle of the empty night holding the Heat Stalker like a leveler while it detects warmth radiating from living flesh and alerts him with small bright-red marks that flow in single file across the dark glass.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Probably the thing is a raccoon.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Stupid thing. Hog silently talks to it as he sits cross-legged on sandy soil and scans. He glances down at the bright red marks moving across the lens at the rear end of the tube, the front end pointed at the thing. He searches the shadowy berm and feels the ruined old house behind him, feels its pull. His head is thick because of the earplugs, his breathing loud, the way it sounds when you breathe through a snorkel, submerged and silent, nothing but the sound of your own rapid, shallow breaths. He doesn\u2019t like earplugs, but it is important to wear them.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>You know what happens now, he silently says to the thing. I guess you don\u2019t know.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He watches the dark, fat shape creep along, low to the ground. It moves like a thick, furry cat, and maybe it is a cat. Slowly, it moves through ragged Bermuda and torpedo grass and sedge, moving in and out of thick shadows beneath the spiny silhouettes of spindly pines and the brittle litter of dead trees. He scans, watching the thing, watching the red marks flow across the lens. The thing is stupid, the breeze blowing the wrong way for it to pick up his scent and be anything but stupid.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He turns off the Heat Stalker and rests it in his lap. He picks up the camouflage finished Mossberg 835 Ulti-Mag pump, the stock hard and cool against his jaw as he lines up the tritium ghost ring with the thing.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Where\u2019d you think you\u2019re going? he mocks it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The thing doesn\u2019t run. Stupid thing.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Go on. Run. See what happens.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It continues its oblivious lumbering pace, low to the ground.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He feels his own heart thud hard and slow, and hears his own rapid breathing as he follows the thing with the glowing green post and squeezes the trigger and the shotgun blast cracks open the quiet night. The thing jerks and goes still in the dirt. He removes the earplugs and listens for a cry or grunt but hears nothing, just distant traffic on South 27 and the gritty sound of his own feet as he gets up and shakes out the cramps in his legs. He slowly ejects the shell, catches it, stuffs it in a pocket and walks through the berm. He pushes the pressure pad on the shotgun\u2019s slide and the SureFire WeaponLight shines down on the thing.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It is a cat, furry and striped with a swollen belly. He nudges it over. It is pregnant, and he considers shooting it again as he listens. There is nothing, not a movement, not a sound, not a sign of any life left. The thing was probably slinking toward the ruined house, looking for food. He thinks about it smelling food. If it thought there was food in the house, then recent occupation is detectable. He ponders this possibility as he presses in the safety and shoulders the shotgun, draping his forearm over the stock like a lumberjack shouldering an ax. He stares at the dead thing and thinks of the carved wooden lumberjack in The Christmas Shop, the big one by the door.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cStupid thing,\u201d he says, and there is no one to hear him, only the dead thing.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNo, you\u2019re the stupid thing,\u201d God\u2019s voice sounds from behind him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He takes out the earplugs and turns around. She is there in black, a black, flowing shape in the moonlit night.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI told you not to do that,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNo one can hear it out here,\u201d he replies, shifting the shotgun to his other shoulder and seeing the wooden lumberjack as if it is right in front of him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m not telling you again.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI didn\u2019t know you were here.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou know where I am if I choose for you to know.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI got you the Field & Stream\u2019s. Two of them. And the paper, the glossy laser paper.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI told you to get me six in all, including two Fly Fishing, two Angling Journal\u2019s.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI stole them. It was too hard to get six at once.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThen go back. Why are you so stupid?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She is God. She has an IQ of a hundred and fifty.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou will do what I say,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>God is a woman, and she is it, and there is no other. She became God after he did the bad thing and was sent away, sent very far away where it was cold and kept snowing, and then he came back and by then, she had somehow become God and she told him he is her Hand. The Hand of God. Hog.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He watches God go away, dissolving in the night. He hears the loud engine as she flies away, flying down the highway. And he wonders if she\u2019ll ever have sex with him again. All the time he thinks about it. When she became God, she wouldn\u2019t have sex with him. Theirs is a holy union, she explains it. She has sex with other people but not with him, because he is her Hand. She laughs at him, says she can\u2019t exactly have sex with her own Hand. It would be the same thing as having sex with herself. And she laughs.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou were stupid, now weren\u2019t you?\u201d Hog says to the dead pregnant thing in the dirt.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He wants to have sex. He wants it right now as he stares at the dead thing and nudges it with his boot again and thinks about God and what she looks like naked with hands all over her.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I know you want it, Hog.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I do, he says. I want it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I know where you want to put your hands. I\u2019m right, aren\u2019t I?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Yes.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>You want to put them where I let other people put them, don\u2019t you?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I wish you wouldn\u2019t let anybody. Yes, I want it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She makes him paint the red hand prints in places he doesn\u2019t want other people to touch, places where he put his hands when he did the bad thing and was sent away, sent to the cold place where it snows, the place where they put him in the machine and rearranged his molecules.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 15<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The next morning, Tuesday, clouds pile up from the distant sea and the pregnant dead thing is stiff on the ground and flies have found it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNow look what you did. Killed all your children, didn\u2019t you? Stupid thing.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Hog nudges it with his boot. Flies scatter like sparks. He watches as they buzz back to the gory, coagulated head. He stares at the stiff, dead thing and the flies crawling on it. He stares at it, not bothered by it. He squats beside it, getting close enough to craze the flies again and now he smells it. He gets a whiff of death, a stench that in several days will be overpowering and noticeable an acre away, depending on the wind. Flies will lay their eggs in orifices and the wounds, and soon the carcass will team with maggots, but it won\u2019t bother him. He likes to watch what death does.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He walks off toward the ruined house, the shotgun cradled in his arms. He listens to the distant rumble of traffic on South 27, but there is no reason for anybody to come out here. Eventually, there will be. But now there isn\u2019t. He steps up on the rotting porch and a curling plank gives under his boots, and he shoves open the door, entering a dark, airless space thick with dust. Even on a clear day, it is dark and suffocating inside the house, and this morning it is worse because a thunderstorm is on the way. It is eight o\u2019clock and almost as dark as night inside the house, and he begins to sweat.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIs that you?\u201d The voice sounds from the darkness, from the rear of the house, where the voice ought to be.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Against a wall is a makeshift table of plywood and cinder blocks, and on top is a small glass fish tank. He points the shotgun at the tank and pushes the pressure pad on the slide, and the xenon light flashes brilliantly on glass and illuminates the black shape of the tarantula inside. It is motionless on sandy dirt and wood chips, poised like a dark hand next to its water sponge and favorite rock. In a corner of the tank, small crickets stir in the light, disturbed by it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cCome talk to me,\u201d the voice calls out, demanding but weaker than it was not even a day ago.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He isn\u2019t sure if he is glad the voice is alive, but he probably is. He takes the lid off the tank and talks quietly, sweetly, to the spider. Its abdomen is balding and crusty with dried glue and pale yellow blood, and hatred wraps around him as he thinks about why it is bald and what caused it to almost bleed to death. The spider\u2019s hair won\u2019t grow back until he molts, and maybe he will heal and maybe he won\u2019t.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou know whose fault it is, don\u2019t you?\u201d he says to the spider. \u201cAnd I did something about it, didn\u2019t I?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cCome here,\u201d the voice calls out. \u201cDo you hear me?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The spider doesn\u2019t move. He might die. There\u2019s a good chance he will.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m sorry I\u2019ve been gone so much. I know you must be lonely,\u201d he says to the spider. \u201cI couldn\u2019t take you with me because of your condition. It was a very long drive. Cold, too.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He reaches inside the glass tank and gently strokes the spider. It barely moves.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIs that you?\u201d The voice is weaker and hoarse but demanding.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He tries to imagine what it will be like when the voice is gone, and he thinks about the dead thing, stiff and fly-infested on the dirt.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIs that you?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He keeps his finger pressed against the pressure pad, and the light points where the shotgun points, illuminating wooden flooring filthy with dirt and the hulls of dried-out insect eggs. His boots move behind the moving light.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHello? Who\u2019s there?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 16<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Inside the firearm sand tool marks lab, Joe Amos zips a Harley-Davidson black leather jacket around an eighty-pound block of ordnance gelatin. On top is a smaller block weighing twenty pounds, and it wears a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses and a black do-rag with a skull-and-bones pattern.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Joe steps back to admire his work. He is pleased but a little tired. He stayed up late with his newest teacher\u2019s pet. He drank too much wine.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s funny, isn\u2019t it,\u201d he says to Jenny.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cFunny but disgusting. You\u2019d better not let him know. I hear he\u2019s not somebody to tangle with,\u201d she says, sitting on a countertop.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe person not to tangle with is me. I\u2019m thinking of putting red food coloring in a batch. To look more like blood.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cCool.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAdd a little brown, and maybe it will look like it\u2019s decomposing. Maybe find a way to make it stink.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou and your hell scenes.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMy mind never stops. My back hurts,\u201d he says, admiring his work. \u201cI hurt my damn back and I\u2019m suing her.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The gelatin, an elastic transparent material comprised of denatured animal bone and connective-tissue collagen, isn\u2019t easy to handle, and the blocks he has dressed up were hard as hell to transfer from the ice chests to the back padded wall of the indoor firing range. The lab door is locked. The red light on the wall outside is on, warning that the range is hot.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAll dressed up with no place to go,\u201d he says to the unappetizing mass.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>More properly known as gelatin hydrolysate, it is also used in shampoos and conditioners, lipsticks, protein drinks, arthritis relief formulas and many other products that Joe will never touch the rest of his life. He won\u2019t even kiss his fianc\u00e9e if she is wearing lipstick, not anymore. Last time he did, he closed his eyes as her lips pressed against his and suddenly he imagined cow, pig and fish shit boiling in a huge pot. He reads labels now. If hydrolyzed animal protein is listed in the ingredients, the item goes into the trash or back on the shelf.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Properly prepared, ordnance gelatin simulates human flesh. It is almost as good a medium as swine tissue, which Joe would prefer. He\u2019s heard of firearms labs that shoot up dead swine to test bullet penetration and expansion in a multitude of different situations. He would rather shoot up a hog. He would rather dress up a big hog carcass to look like a person and let the students riddle it with bullets from different distances and with different weapons and ammunition. That would be a good hell scene. A more hellish one would be to shoot a live hog, but Scarpetta would never allow it. She wouldn\u2019t even hear of the students shooting a dead one.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt won\u2019t do any good to try to sue her,\u201d Jenny is saying. \u201cShe\u2019s also a lawyer.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cBig shit.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, from what you tell me, you tried that before and didn\u2019t get anywhere. Anyway, Lucy\u2019s the one with all the money. I hear she thinks she\u2019s something. I\u2019ve never met her. None of us have.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re not missing anything. One of these days, someone will put her in her place.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cLike you?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMaybe I already am.\u201d He smiles. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you one thing, I\u2019m not leaving here without my share. I deserve something after all the shit she\u2019s put me through.\u201d And now he\u2019s thinking about Scarpetta again. \u201cShe treats me like shit.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMaybe I\u2019ll meet Lucy before I graduate,\u201d Jenny says thoughtfully, sitting on the counter, staring at him and the gelatin man he has dressed up like Marino.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThey\u2019re all crap,\u201d he says. \u201cThe fucking trinity. Well, I\u2019ve got a little surprise for them.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019ll see. Maybe I\u2019ll share it with you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cPut it this way,\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019m getting something out of this. She underestimates me, and that\u2019s a huge mistake. At the end of the day, it\u2019s going to be a lot of laughs.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Part of his fellowship entails his assisting Scarpetta in the Broward County morgue, where she treats him like a common laborer, forcing him to suture up the bodies after autopsies and count the pills in bottles of prescription drugs that come in with the dead and catalogue personal effects as if he is a lowly morgue assistant and not a doctor. She has made it his responsibility to weigh, measure, photograph and undress the bodies, and to sift through any disgusting mess that might linger in the bottom of a body bag, especially if it is putrid, maggot-infested slop from a floater, or rancid flesh and bones from partially skeletonized remains. Most insulting is the chore of mixing up ten percent ordinance gelatin for the ballistic gelatin blocks used by the scientists and students.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Why? Give me one good reason, he said to Scarpetta when she gave him the assignment last summer.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It\u2019s part of your training, Joe, she replied in her typically unflappable way.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I\u2019m training to be a forensic pathologist, not a lab tech or a cook, he complained.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>My method is to train forensic fellows from the ground up, she said. There isn\u2019t anything you shouldn\u2019t be able or willing to do.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Oh. And I suppose you\u2019re going to tell me you\u2019ve made ordnance jelly blocks, that you used to do that when you were getting started, he said.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I still do it and am happy to pass along my favorite recipe, she replied. I prefer Vyse but Kind & Knox Type two-fifty-A will do just fine. Always start with cold water, between seven and ten degrees centigrade, and add the gelatin to the water and not the other way around. Keep stirring, but not vigorously, because you don\u2019t want to introduce air. Add two-point-five milliliters of Foam Eater per twenty-pound block and make sure the mold pan is whistle-clean. For the pi\u00e8ce de r\u00e9sistance, add point-five milliliters of cinnamon oil.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>That\u2019s cute.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Cinnamon oil prevents fungus growth, she said.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She wrote out her personal recipe and then an equipment list that included a triple-beam balance, graduated pitcher, paint stirrer, 12cc hypodermic syringe, propionic acid, aquarium hose, aluminum foil, large spoon and so on, and next gave him a Martha Stewart demonstration in the lab kitchen, as if that makes it all fine and dandy when he\u2019s scooping animal-pieces-and-parts powder out of twenty-five-pound drums and weighing and curing and lifting or dragging huge, heavy pans and placing them inside ice chests or the walk-in refrigerator and then making sure the students gather at the indoor range or outdoor rifle deck before the damn things start deteriorating, because they do. They melt like Jell-O and are best when served no longer than twenty minutes after removal from refrigeration, depending on the ambient temperature of the test environment.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He retrieves a window screen from a storage closet and props it flush against the Harley-outfitted blocks of ordnance gelatin, then puts on hearing protectors and protective glasses. He nods for Jenny to do the same. He picks up a stainless-steel Baretta 92, a top-of-the-line double-action pistol with a tritium front post sight. He loads a magazine with 147-grain Speer Gold Dot ammunition, which has six serrations around the rim of the hollow point so the projectile will expand or blossom even after passing through clothing as heavy as four layers of denim or a thick leather motorcycle jacket.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>What will be different in this test-fire is the mesh pattern produced when the bullet passes through the window screen before ripping through the Harley jacket and buzz-sawing a swath through the chest of Mr. Jell-O, as he calls his ordnance-gelatin test dummies.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He racks back the slide and fires fifteen rounds, imagining Mr. Jell-O is Marino.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 17<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Palm trees thrash in the wind beyond the conference-room windows. It will rain, Scarpetta thinks. It looks like a bad thunderstorm is headed her way, and Marino is late again and still hasn\u2019t returned her phone calls.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cGood morning and let\u2019s get going,\u201d she says to her staff. \u201cWe\u2019ve got a lot to go over, and it\u2019s already quarter of nine.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She hates being late. She hates it when someone else causes her to be late, and in this instance, it\u2019s Marino. Again, it\u2019s Marino. He is ruining her routines. He is ruining everything.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThis evening, hopefully, I\u2019ll be on a plane, heading to Boston,\u201d she says. \u201cProviding my reservation isn\u2019t magically cancelled again.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe airlines are so screwed up,\u201d Joe says. \u201cNo wonder they\u2019re all going bankrupt.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe\u2019ve been asked to take a look at a Hollywood case, a possible suicide that has some disturbing circumstances associated with it,\u201d she begins.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThere\u2019s one thing I\u2019d like to bring up first,\u201d says Vince, the firearms examiner.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cGo ahead.\u201d Scarpetta slides eight-by-ten photographs out of an envelope and begins passing them around the table.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSomeone was test-firing in the indoor range about an hour ago.\u201d He looks pointedly at Joe. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t on the schedule.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI meant to reserve the indoor range last night but forgot,\u201d Joe says. \u201cNo one was waiting for it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019ve got to reserve it. It\u2019s the only way we can keep track of\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI was trying out a new batch of ballistic gelatin, where I used hot water instead of cold to see if it made any difference in the calibration test. A difference of one centimeter. Good news. It passed.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThere\u2019s probably a difference of plus or minus one centimeter every time you mix up the damn stuff,\u201d Vince says irritably.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe aren\u2019t supposed to use any block that isn\u2019t valid. So I\u2019m constantly checking the calibration and trying to perfect it. That requires me to spend a lot of time in the firearms lab. It\u2019s not my choice.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Joe looks at Scarpetta.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOrdnance gelatin is one of my assignments.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He looks at her again.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI hope you remembered to use stopper blocks before you started pounding the back wall with a lot of firepower,\u201d Vince says. \u201cI\u2019ve asked you before.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou know the rules, Dr. Amos,\u201d Scarpetta says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>In front of his colleagues, she always calls him Dr. Amos instead of Joe. She shows him more respect than he deserves.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe have to enter everything in the log,\u201d she adds. \u201cEvery firearm removed from the reference collection, every round, every test-fire. Our protocols must be followed.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYes, ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThere are legal implications. Most of our cases end up in court,\u201d she adds.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYes, ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAll right.\u201d She tells them about Johnny Swift.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She tells them that in early November he had surgery on his wrists, and soon after came to Hollywood to stay with his brother. They were identical twins. The day before Thanksgiving, the brother, Laurel, went out shopping and returned to the house at approximately four thirty p.m. After carrying in the groceries, he discovered Dr. Swift on the couch, dead from a shotgun wound to the chest.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI sort of remember this case,\u201d Vince says. \u201cIt was in the news.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, I happen to remember Dr. Swift very well,\u201d Joe says. \u201cHe used to call Dr. Self. Once when I was on her show, he called in, gave her hell about Tourette\u2019s syndrome, and I happen to agree with her, usually nothing more than an excuse for bad behavior. He rambled on about neurochemical dysfunction, about abnormalities of the brain. Quite the expert,\u201d he says sarcastically.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Nobody is interested in Joe\u2019s appearances on Dr. Self\u2019s show. Nobody is interested in his appearances on any show.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat about an ejected shell and the weapon?\u201d Vince asks Scarpetta.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAccording to the police report, Laurel Swift noted a shotgun on the floor some three feet behind the back of the couch. No shell casing.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, that\u2019s a bit unusual. He shoots himself in the chest and then somehow manages to toss the shotgun over the back of the couch?\u201d It is Joe talking again. \u201cI\u2019m not seeing a scene photograph with the shotgun.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe brother claims he saw the shotgun on the floor behind the couch. I say claims. We\u2019ll get to that part in a minute,\u201d Scarpetta says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat about gunshot residue on him?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m sorry Marino isn\u2019t here, since he\u2019s our investigator in this case and working closely with the Hollywood police,\u201d she replies, keeping her feelings about him barricaded. \u201cAll I know is that Laurel\u2019s clothing wasn\u2019t tested for GSR.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat about his hands?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cPositive for GSR. But he claims he touched him, shook him, got blood on him. So theoretically, that could explain it. A few more details. His wrists were in splints when he died, his blood alcohol point-one, and according to the police report, there were numerous empty wine bottles in the kitchen.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe sure he was drinking alone?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe\u2019re not sure of anything.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSounds like holding a heavy shotgun might not have been easy for him if he\u2019d just had surgery.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cPossibly,\u201d Scarpetta says. \u201cAnd if you can\u2019t use your hands, then what?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYour feet.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt can be done. I tried it with my twelve-gauge Remington. Unloaded,\u201d she adds a little humor.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She tried it herself because Marino didn\u2019t show up. He didn\u2019t call. He didn\u2019t care.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t have photographs of the demonstration,\u201d she says, diplomatic enough not to add that the reason she doesn\u2019t have them is because Marino didn\u2019t show up. \u201cSuffice it to say the blast would have kicked the gun back, or maybe his foot jerked and kicked the gun back, and the shotgun would have fallen off the back of the couch. Saying he killed himself. No abrasions on either of his big toes, by the way.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cA contact wound?\u201d Vince asks.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDensity of soot on his shirt, the abraded margin and diameter and shape of the wound, the absence of petal marks from the wad, which was still in the body, are consistent with a contact wound. Problem is, we have a gross inconsistency, which, in my opinion, is due to the medical examiner relying on a radiologist for a distance determination.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWho?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s Dr. Bronson\u2019s case,\u201d she says, and several of the scientists groan.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJesus, he\u2019s as old as the damn Pope. When the hell\u2019s he going to retire?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe Pope died,\u201d Joe jokes.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThank you, CNN news flash.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe radiologist decided the shotgun wound is a, quote, distant wound,\u201d Scarpetta resumes. \u201cA distance of at least three feet. Uh-oh. Now we have a homicide, because you couldn\u2019t possibly hold the barrel of a shotgun three feet from your own chest, now could you?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Several clicks of the mouse, and a digital x-ray of Johnny Swift\u2019s fatal shotgun blast is sharply displayed on the smart board. Shotgun pellets look like a storm of tiny white bubbles floating through the ghostly shapes of ribs.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe pellets are spread out,\u201d Scarpetta points out, \u201cand to give the radiologist a little credit, the spread of the pellets inside the chest is consistent with a range of three or four feet, but what I think we\u2019re dealing with here is a perfect example of the billiard-ball effect.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She clears the x-ray off the smart board and collects several styluses, different ones for different colors.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe leading pellets slowed when they entered the body and were then hit by the trailing pellets, causing colliding pellets to ricochet and spread out into a pattern that simulates distant-range fire,\u201d she explains, drawing red ricocheting pellets hitting blue pellets like billiard balls. \u201cTherefore simulating a distant gunshot wound, when in fact, it wasn\u2019t a distant shot at all but a contact wound.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNone of the neighbors heard a shotgun blast?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cApparently not.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMaybe a lot of people were out on the beach or out of town for the Thanksgiving holiday.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMaybe.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat kind of shotgun, and whose was it?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAll we can tell is it\u2019s a twelve-gauge, based on the pellets,\u201d Scarpetta says. \u201cApparently, the shotgun disappeared before the police showed up.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 18<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Ev Christian is awake and sitting on a mattress that is black with what she by now believes is old blood.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scattered about the filthy floor inside the small, filthy room with its caving ceiling and water-stained wallpaper are magazines. She sees poorly without her glasses and can barely make out the pornographic covers. She barely makes out soda-pop bottles and fast-food wrappers scattered about. Between the mattress and the splintery wall is a small pink Keds tennis shoe, a girl\u2019s size. Ev has picked it up countless times and held it, wondering what it means and who it once belonged to, worried the girl is dead. Sometimes Ev tucks the shoe behind her when he comes in, fearful he will take it from her. It is all she has.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She never sleeps longer than an hour or two at a stretch and has no idea how much time has passed. There is no such thing as time. Gray light fills the broken window on the other side of the room, and she can\u2019t see the sun. She smells rain.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She doesn\u2019t know what he has done with Kristin and the boys. She doesn\u2019t know what he has done to them. She dimly remembers the first hours, those awful, unreal hours when he brought her food and water and stared at her from the darkness, and he was as dark as the darkness, dark like a dark spirit, hovering in the doorway.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>How does it feel? he said to her in a soft, cold voice. How does it feel to know you\u2019re going to die?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It is always dark inside the room. It is so much darker when he is in it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I\u2019m not afraid. You can\u2019t touch my soul.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Say you\u2019re sorry.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It\u2019s not too late to repent. God will forgive even the most vile sin if you humble yourself and repent.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>God is a woman. I am her Hand. Say you\u2019re sorry.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Blasphemy. Shame on you. I\u2019ve done nothing to be sorry about.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I\u2019ll teach you shame. You\u2019ll say you\u2019re sorry just like she did.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Kristin?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Then he was gone, and Ev heard voices from another part of the house. She couldn\u2019t make out what they were saying, but he was talking to Kristin, must have been. He was talking to a woman. Ev really couldn\u2019t hear it, but she heard them talking. She could not make out what they said, and she remembers feet scuffing and voices on the other side of the wall, and then she heard Kristin, knew it was her. When Ev thinks about it now, she wonders if she dreamed it.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Kristin! Kristin! I\u2019m right here! I\u2019m right here! Don\u2019t you dare hurt her!<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She hears her own voice in her head, but it might have been a dream.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Kristin? Kristin? Answer me! Don\u2019t you dare hurt her!<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Then she heard talking again, so maybe it was all right. But Ev\u2019s not sure. She might have dreamed it. She might have dreamed she heard his boots moving down the hallway and the front door shutting. All this might have taken place in minutes, maybe hours. Maybe she heard a car engine. Maybe it was a dream, a delusion. Ev sat in the dark, her heart flying as she listened for Kristin and the boys and heard nothing. She called out until her throat was on fire and she could barely see or breathe.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Daylight came and went, and his dark shape would appear with paper cups of water and something to eat, and his shape would stand and watch her, and she could not see his face. She has never seen his face, not even the first time, when he came into the house. He wears a black hood with holes cut in it for his eyes, a hood like a black pillowcase, long and loose around his shoulders. His hooded shape likes to poke her with the barrel of the shotgun as if she is an animal in the zoo, as if he is curious about what she will do if he pokes her. He pokes her in her private places and watches what she will do.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Shame on you, Ev says when he pokes her. You can harm my flesh but you can\u2019t touch my soul. My soul belongs to God.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She isn\u2019t here. I am her Hand. Say you\u2019re sorry.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>My God is a jealous God. \u201cThou shalt have no other gods before me.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She isn\u2019t here, and he pokes her with the gun barrel, sometimes pokes her so hard it leaves perfect blackish-blue circles on her flesh.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Say you\u2019re sorry, he says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Ev sits on the stinking, rotting mattress. It has been used before, used horribly, stiff and stained black, and she sits on it inside the stinking, airless, trash-strewn room, listening and trying to think, listening and praying and screaming for help. No one answers. No one hears her, and she wonders where she could be. Where is she that no one can hear her scream?<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She can\u2019t escape because of the clever way he bent and twisted coat hangers around her wrists and ankles with ropes through them and looped over a rafter in the falling-down ceiling, as if she is some sort of grotesque marionette, bruised and covered with insect bites and rashes, her naked body itching and racked with pain. With effort, she can get to her feet. She can move off the mattress to relieve her bladder and bowels. When she does, the pain is so searing, she almost faints.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He does everything in the dark. He can see in the dark. She hears his breathing in the dark. He is a black shape. He is Satan.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHelp me God,\u201d she says to the broken window, to the gray sky beyond, to the God beyond the sky, somewhere in His heaven. \u201cPlease God help me.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 19<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scarpetta hears the distant roar of a motorcycle with very loud pipes.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She tries to concentrate as the motorcycle gets closer, cruising past the building toward the faculty parking lot. She thinks about Marino and wonders if she is going to have to fire him. She\u2019s not sure she could.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She is explaining that there were two phones inside Laurel Swift\u2019s house and both of them were unplugged, the cords missing. Laurel had left his cell phone in his car and says he was unable to find his brother\u2019s cell phone, so he had no way to call for help. Panicking, Laurel fled and flagged somebody down. He didn\u2019t return to the house until the police arrived, and by then the shotgun was gone.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThis is information I got from Dr. Bronson,\u201d Scarpetta says. \u201cI\u2019ve talked to him several times and I\u2019m sorry I don\u2019t have a better grasp of the details.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThe phone cords. Have they ever shown up?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d Scarpetta says, because Marino hasn\u2019t briefed her.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cJohnny Swift could have removed them to make sure no one could call for help in case he didn\u2019t die right away, assuming he\u2019s a suicide,\u201d Joe offers another one of his creative scenarios.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Scarpetta doesn\u2019t answer because she knows nothing about the phone cords beyond what Dr. Bronson relayed to her in his vague, somewhat disjointed way.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAnything else missing from the house? Anything besides the phone cords, the decedent\u2019s cell phone and the shotgun? As if that\u2019s not enough.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou\u2019ll have to ask Marino,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI believe he\u2019s here. Unless someone else has a motorcycle as loud as the space shuttle.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI\u2019m surprised Laurel hasn\u2019t been charged with murder, you want my opinion,\u201d Joe says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou can\u2019t charge someone with murder when the manner of death hasn\u2019t been determined,\u201d Scarpetta replies. \u201cThe manner is still pending, and there isn\u2019t sufficient evidence to change it to suicide or homicide or accident, although I certainly fail to see how this is an accident. If the death isn\u2019t resolved to Dr. Bronson\u2019s satisfaction, he\u2019ll eventually change the manner to undetermined.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Heavy footsteps sound on carpet in the hallway.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat happened to common sense?\u201d Joe says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cYou don\u2019t determine manner of death based on common sense,\u201d Scarpetta says, and she wishes he could keep his unwelcome comments to himself.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The conference-room door opens, and Pete Marino walks in carrying a briefcase and a box of Krispy Kreme donuts, dressed in black jeans, black leather boots, a black leather vest with the Harley logo on the back, his usual garb. He ignores Scarpetta as he sits in his usual chair next to hers and scoots the box of donuts across the table.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI sure wish we could test the brother\u2019s clothing for GSR, get our hands on whatever he was wearing when he was shot,\u201d Joe says, leaning back in his chair the way he does when he\u2019s about to pontificate, and he tends to pontificate more than usual when Marino is around. \u201cTake a look at them on soft x-ray, the Faxitron, SEM\/spectrometry.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Marino stares at Joe as if he might hit him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOf course, it\u2019s possible to get trace amounts on your person from sources other than a gunshot. Plumbing materials, batteries, automobile greases, paints. Just like in my lab practicum last month,\u201d Joe says as he plucks out a chocolate-iced donut that is smashed, most of its icing stuck to the box. \u201cYou know what happened to them?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>He licks his fingers as he looks across the table at Marino.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat was quite a practicum,\u201d Marino says. \u201cWonder where you got the idea.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat I asked is, do you know what happened to the brother\u2019s clothes,\u201d Joe says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI think you been watching too many fantasy forensic shows,\u201d Marino says, his big face staring at him. \u201cToo much Harry Potter policing on your big flat-screen TV. Think you\u2019re a forensic pathologist, or almost one, a lawyer, a scientist, a crime-scene investigator, a cop, Captain Kirk and the Easter Bunny all rolled up in one.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cBy the way, yesterday\u2019s hell scene was a screaming success,\u201d Joe says. \u201cToo bad all of you missed it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, what is the story about the clothes, Pete?\u201d Vince asks Marino. \u201cWe know what he had on when he found his brother\u2019s body?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhat he had on, according to him, was nothing,\u201d Marino says. \u201cSupposedly, he came in through the kitchen door, put the groceries on the counter, then went straight back to the bedroom to pee. Supposedly. Then he took a shower because he had to work at his restaurant that night and happened to look out the doorway and saw the shotgun on the carpet behind the couch. At this point, he was naked, so he says.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSounds like a lot of crap to me.\u201d Joe talks with his mouth full.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cMy personal opinion is it\u2019s probably a robbery that got interrupted,\u201d Marino says. \u201cOr something got interrupted. A rich doctor maybe gets tangled up with the wrong person. Anybody seen my Harley jacket? Black with a skull and bones on one shoulder, an American flag on the other.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWhere did you have it last?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI took it off in the hangar the other day when Lucy and me were doing an aerial. Came back, it was gone.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI haven\u2019t seen it.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNeither have I.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cShit. That thing cost me. And the patches are custom. Goddamn it. If someone stole it\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cNobody steals around here,\u201d Joe says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOh yeah? What about stealing ideas?\u201d Marino glares at him. \u201cAnd that reminds me,\u201d he says to Scarpetta, \u201cwhile we\u2019re on the subject of hell scenes\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe\u2019re not on the subject,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI came here this morning with a few things to say about them.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cAnother time.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI got some good ones, left a file on your desk,\u201d Marino says to her. \u201cGive you something interesting to think about during your vacation. Especially since you\u2019ll probably get snowed in up there, we\u2019ll probably see you again in the spring.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She controls her irritation, tries to keep it tucked into a secret place where she hopes no one can see it. He is deliberately disrupting staff meeting and treating her the same way he did some fifteen years ago when she was the new chief medical examiner of Virginia, a woman in a world where women didn\u2019t belong, a woman with an attitude, Marino decided, because she has an M.D. and a law degree.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI think the Swift case would be a damn good hell scene,\u201d Joe says. \u201cGSR and x-ray spectrometry and other findings tell two different stories. See if the students figure it out. Bet they\u2019ve never heard of the billiard-ball effect.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI didn\u2019t ask the peanut gallery.\u201d Marino raises his voice. \u201cAnybody hear me ask the peanut gallery?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWell, you know my opinion about your creativity,\u201d Joe says to him. \u201cFrankly, it\u2019s dangerous.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI don\u2019t give a shit about your opinion.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cWe\u2019re lucky the Academy isn\u2019t bankrupt. That would have been one hell of an expensive settlement,\u201d Joe says, as if it never has occurred to him that one of these days Marino might knock him across the room. \u201cReal lucky after what you did.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Last summer, one of Marino\u2019s mock crime scenes traumatized a student who then quit the Academy, threatened to sue and fortunately was never heard from again. Scarpetta and her staff are paranoid about allowing Marino to participate in training, whether it is mock scenes, hellish or otherwise, or even classroom lectures.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cDon\u2019t think what happened doesn\u2019t enter my mind when I\u2019m creating hell scenes,\u201d Joe goes on.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cHell scenes you create?\u201d Marino declares. \u201cYou mean all those ideas you stole from me?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI believe that\u2019s called sour grapes. I don\u2019t need to steal anyone\u2019s ideas, certainly not yours.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cOh really? You think I don\u2019t recognize my own shit? You don\u2019t know enough to come up with the kind of shit I do, Dr. Almost a Forensic Pathologist.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s it,\u201d Scarpetta says. She raises her voice. \u201cThat\u2019s enough.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cI happen to have a great one of a body found in what appears to be a drive-by shooting,\u201d Joe says, \u201cbut when the bullet\u2019s recovered, it has an unusual waffle or mesh pattern in the lead because the victim was actually shot through a window screen, his body dumped\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s mine!\u201d Marino slams his fist down on the table.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Chapter 20<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The Seminole belongs to a beat-up white pickup truck filled with ears of corn, parked some distance from the gas pumps. Hog has been watching him for a while.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>\u201cSome motherfucker took my fucking wallet, my cell phone, I think maybe when I was in the fucking shower,\u201d the man is saying on the pay phone, standing with his back to the CITGO station and all the eighteen-wheelers rumbling in and out.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Hog doesn\u2019t show his amusement as he listens to the man rant and rave about overnighting again, complaining and cursing because he\u2019ll have to sleep in the cab of his truck, has no phone, no money for a motel. He doesn\u2019t even have money for a shower, and anyway, a shower has gone up to five bucks, and that\u2019s a lot to pay for a shower when nothing comes with it, not even soap. Some of the men double up and get a discount, disappearing behind an unpainted privacy fence on the west side of the CITGO food mart, piling their clothes and shoes on a bench inside the fence before stepping into a tiny concrete space dimly lit with a single shower head and a big, rusty drain in the middle of the floor.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>It is always wet inside the shower. The shower head always drips, and the water handles screech. The men carry in their own soap, shampoo, toothbrushes and toothpaste, usually in plastic bags. They bring their own towels. Hog has never showered in there, but he\u2019s looked at the men\u2019s clothes, figuring out what might be in the pockets. Money. Cell phones. Sometimes drugs. Women shower in a similar arrangement on the east side of the food mart. They never go in two at a time, no matter the discount, and are in a nervous hurry when they shower, shamed by their nakedness and terrified that someone will walk in on them, that a man will, a big, powerful man who can do what he wants.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Hog dials the 800 number on the green card he keeps folded in his back pocket, a rectangular card maybe eight inches long with a large hole and a slit in one end so it can be attached to a door handle. Printed on the card is information and a cartoon of an animated citrus fruit wearing a tropical shirt and sunglasses. He is doing God\u2019s will. He is the Hand of God doing God\u2019s work. God has an IQ of a hundred and fifty.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n

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Book Preview Predator Kay Scarpetta (14) by Patricia Cornwell Chapter 1 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It is Sunday afternoon and Dr. Kay Scarpetta is in her office at the National Forensic Academy in Hollywood, Florida, where clouds are building, promising another thunderstorm. It\u2019s not supposed to be this rainy and hot in February. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Gunfire pops, and voices … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3179,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[172],"class_list":["post-3180","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-patricia-cornwell"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3180","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3180"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3180\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3179"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3180"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3180"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3180"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}