Five Scarpetta Novels (160 page)

Through the same window he usually looks out, the one across from his favorite big leather chair, he watches the old black woman pull bags of groceries from the back of the Impala. She must be the housekeeper, he thinks, and it irks him that a black housekeeper would drive the same car his mother did when he was growing up. That was a nice car once. Not everybody had a white Impala with a blue stripe down the side, and he was proud of that car except when it got stuck in the snow at the bottom of the hill. His mother wasn't a good driver. She shouldn't have been allowed to drive that Impala. An Impala is named for a male African antelope that can leap great distances and is easily startled, and his mother was nervous enough when she was just on her own two feet. She didn't need to be behind the wheel of anything named after a male African antelope that was powerful and easily spooked.

The old housekeeper moves slowly, gathering up plastic bags of groceries from the back of the Impala, and moving in an old tired waddle from the car to a side door of the house, then back to the car, gathering up more bags, then closing the car door with her hip. That was a fine car once, Dr. Marcus thinks, staring out his window. The housekeeper's Impala must be forty years old and it seems to be in good shape, and he can't remember the last time he's seen a '63 or '64 Impala. That he should see one today strikes him as significant but he doesn't know what the significance is, and he returns to the kitchen to get his coffee. If he waits another twenty minutes, his doctors will be busy with autopsies and he won't have to talk to anyone, and his pulse picks up speed again as he waits. His nerves start firing again.

At first he blames his racing heart and shakiness and twitching on the trace of caffeine in decaffeinated coffee, but he's had only a few sips, and he realizes something else is happening. He thinks of the Impala across the street and becomes more agitated and out of sorts, and he wishes the housekeeper had never driven up, today of all days, when he was home because of garbage collection. He returns to the living room and sits down in his big leather chair and leans back, trying to relax, and his heart is pounding so violently he can see the front of his white shirt moving, and he takes deep breaths and closes his eyes.

He's lived here four months and never seen that Impala before. He imagines the thin blue steering wheel that has no airbag, and the blue dash on the passenger's side that isn't padded and has no airbag, and old blue seat belts that go around the lap because there aren't shoulder harnesses. He imagines the interior of the Impala, and it isn't the Impala across the street he imagines, but the white one with the blue stripe down the side that his mother drove. His coffee is forgotten and cold on the table by his big leather chair, and he sits back with his eyes shut. Several times Dr. Marcus gets up and looks out the window, and when he doesn't see the blue Impala anymore, he sets the alarm, locks his house, and walks into the garage, and it occurs to him with a stab of fear that maybe the Impala doesn't exist and was never there at all, but it was. Of course it was.

A few minutes later he drives slowly down his street and stops in front of the house several doors down and stares at the empty driveway where he saw the blue Impala and the old black housekeeper carrying in groceries. He sits in his Volvo, which has the highest safety rating of just about any car made, and he stares at the empty driveway, then finally turns into it and gets out. He is old-fashioned but neat in the long gray coat and gray hat and black pigskin gloves that he has worn in cold weather since before he lived in St. Louis, and he knows he looks respectable enough as he rings the front doorbell. He pauses, then rings it again, and the door opens.

“May I help you?” says the woman who answers the door, a woman who might be in her fifties and is wearing a tennis warm-up suit and tennis shoes. She looks familiar and is gracious but not overly friendly.

“I'm Joel Marcus,” he says in his pleasant-enough voice. “I live across the street and happened to notice a very old blue Impala in your driveway a little while ago.” He is prepared to suggest that he might have her house mixed up with another one should she say she doesn't know anything about a very old blue Impala.

“Oh, Mrs. Walker. She's had that car forever. Wouldn't trade it for a brand-new Cadillac,” the somewhat familiar neighbor says with a smile, to his vast relief.

“I see,” he says. “I was just curious. I collect old cars.” He doesn't collect cars, old or otherwise, but he wasn't imagining things, thank the Lord. Of course not.

“Well, you won't be collecting that one,” she says cheerfully. “Mrs. Walker sure does love that car. I don't believe we've formally met, but I do know who you are. You're the new coroner. You took the place of that famous woman coroner, oh what was her name? I was shocked and disappointed when she left Virginia. Whatever happened to her, anyway? Here you are, standing out in the cold. Where are my manners? Would you like to come in? She was such an attractive woman too. Oh, what was her name?”

“I really must be on my way,” Dr. Marcus replies in a different voice, this one stiff and tight. “I'm afraid I'm quite late for a meeting with the governor,” he lies rather coldly.

T
HE SUN IS WEAK
in the pale gray sky and the light is thin and cold. Scarpetta walks through the parking lot, her long dark coat flapping around her legs. She walks quickly and with purpose toward the front door of her former building and is annoyed that the number-one parking place, the parking place reserved for the chief medical examiner, is empty. Dr. Marcus isn't here yet. As usual, he is late.

“Good morning, Bruce,” she says to the security officer at the desk.

He smiles at her and waves her on. “I'll sign you in,” he says, pushing a button that unlocks the next door, the one that leads into the medical examiner's wing of the building.

“Has Marino gotten here?” she asks as she walks.

“Haven't seen him,” Bruce replies.

When Fielding didn't answer his door last night, she stood on his front porch trying to call him on the phone, but the old home number she had for him didn't work anymore, and then she tried Marino and could barely hear him because of loud voices and laughter in the background. He might have been in a bar, but she didn't ask and simply told him that Fielding didn't seem to be home and if he didn't show up soon, she was going back to the hotel. All Marino had to say about it was, okay, Doc, and see you later, Doc, and call if you need me, Doc.

Then Scarpetta tried to open Fielding's front and back doors, but they were locked. She rang the bell and knocked, getting increasingly uneasy. Her former assistant chief and right-hand helper and friend had a car under a tarp in the carport, and she had little doubt that the car under the tarp was his beloved old red Mustang but she pulled up an edge of the tarp to make sure, and she was right. She had noticed the Mustang in the number 6 parking place behind the building that morning, so he was still driving it, but just because his Mustang was home under the tarp didn't mean he was inside the house and refusing to come to the door. He might have a second vehicle, perhaps an SUV. It would make sense for him to have a backup, more rugged vehicle, and he might be out somewhere in his SUV or whatever else he was driving these days, and was on his way and running a little late or had forgotten he had invited her to dinner.

She went through all these convolutions as she waited for him to come to the door, and then she began to worry that something had happened to Fielding. Maybe he had hurt himself. Maybe he was suffering a violent allergic reaction and had broken out in hives or was going into anaphylactic shock. Maybe he had committed suicide. Maybe he timed his suicide with her coming to his house because he would think she could handle it. If you kill yourself, somebody has to handle it. Everybody always assumes she can handle anything, so it would be her terrible lot in life to be the one to find him in bed with a bullet in his head or a stomach full of pills and handle the situation. Only Lucy seems to know that Scarpetta has her limitations, and Lucy rarely tells her anything. She hasn't seen Lucy since September. Something is going on, and Lucy doesn't think Scarpetta can handle it.

“Well, I can't seem to find Marino,” Scarpetta says to Bruce. “So if you hear from him, please tell him I'm looking for him, that there's a meeting.”

“Junius Eise may know where he is,” Bruce replies. “You know, from Trace? Eise was going to hook up with him last night. Maybe go to the FOP lounge.”

Scarpetta thinks of what Dr. Marcus said when he called her barely an hour ago, something about the trace evidence, which apparently is the reason for this meeting, and she can't find Marino. He was at his old Fraternal Order of Police watering hole hangout last night, probably drinking with Mr. Trace Evidence himself, and she has no idea what is going on and Marino isn't answering the phone. She pushes open the opaque glass door and steps inside her former waiting area.

She is shocked to see Mrs. Paulsson sitting on the couch, staring vacantly, her hands clutching the pocketbook in her lap. “Mrs. Paulsson?” Scarpetta says with concern, walking over to her. “Is someone helping you?”

“They told me to be here when they opened,” Mrs. Paulsson says. “Then I was told to wait because the chief hasn't gotten here yet.”

Scarpetta was not informed that Mrs. Paulsson would be present at the meeting with Dr. Marcus. “Come on,” she says to her. “I'll take you inside. You're meeting with Dr. Marcus?”

“I think so.”

“I'm meeting with him too,” Scarpetta says. “I guess we're going to the same meeting. Come on. You can come with me.”

Mrs. Paulsson slowly gets up from the couch, as if she is tired and in pain. Scarpetta wishes there were real plants in the waiting area, just a few real plants to add warmth and life. Real plants make people feel less alone and there is no lonelier place on earth than a morgue, and no one should ever have to visit a morgue, much less wait to visit one. She presses a buzzer next to a window. On the other side of the glass is a countertop, then a stretch of gray-blue carpet, then a doorway leading to the administrative offices.

“May I help you?” a woman's voice blares over the intercom.

“Dr. Scarpetta,” she announces herself.

“Come in,” the voice says, and the glass door to the right of the window clicks open.

Scarpetta holds the door for Mrs. Paulsson. “I hope you haven't been waiting long,” Scarpetta says to her. “I'm so sorry you had to wait. I wish I'd known you were coming. I would have met you or made sure you had a comfortable place to sit and some coffee.”

“They told me to get here early if I wanted a parking place,” she replies, looking around as they walk into the outer office where the clerks file and work on their computers.

Scarpetta can tell that Mrs. Paulsson has never visited the OCME before. She isn't surprised. Dr. Marcus isn't the type to spend much time having sit-down visits with families, and Dr. Fielding is too used up to have sit-down emotionally wrenching meetings with families. She is suspicious that the reason for summoning Mrs. Paulsson to a meeting is political and is probably going to make Scarpetta angry and disgusted. From her cubicle a clerk tells them that they can go on back to the conference room, that Dr. Marcus is running a little late. It strikes Scarpetta that the clerks never seem to leave their cubicles. When she walks into the front office, it is as if cubicles work here, not people.

“Come on,” Scarpetta says, touching Mrs. Paulsson's back. “Would you like coffee? Let's get you some and we'll go sit down.”

“Gilly's still here,” she says, walking woodenly and looking around with frightened eyes. “They won't let me take her.” She begins to cry, twisting the strap of her pocketbook. “It's not right that she's still here.”

“What reason are they giving you?” Scarpetta asks as they walk slowly toward the conference room.

“It's all because of Frank. She was so attached to him, and he said she could come live with him. She wanted to.” She cries harder as Scarpetta stops at the coffee machine and begins pouring coffee into foam cups. “Gilly told the judge she wanted to move to Charleston after she finishes this school year. He wants her there, in Charleston.”

Scarpetta carries their coffees into the conference room and this time sits at the middle of the long polished table. She and Mrs. Paulsson are alone in the big empty room and Mrs. Paulsson stares numbly at the Guts Man, then at the anatomical skeleton hanging from his rack in a corner. Her hand trembles as she lifts the coffee to her lips.

“Frank's family's buried in Charleston, you see,” she says. “Generations of them. My family's buried here in Hollywood Cemetery, and I have a plot there too. Why does this have to be so hard? It's already so hard. He just wants Gilly so he can spite me, so he can pay me back, so he can make me look bad. He always said he'd drive me mad and they'd end up locking me in some hospital. Well, he's about done it this time.”

“Are you two talking to each other?” Scarpetta asks.

“He doesn't talk. He tells me things, gives me orders. He wants everyone to think he's a wonderful father. But he doesn't care about her the way I do. It's his fault she's dead.”

“You've said that before. How is it his fault?”

“I just know he did something. He wants to destroy me. First it was take Gilly away to live with him. Now it's take Gilly away forever. He wants me to go crazy. Then nobody sees what a bad husband and father he really is. Nobody sees the truth, and there's a truth all right. They just see that I'm crazy and feel sorry for him. But there's a truth all right.”

They turn around as the conference room door opens and a well-dressed woman walks in. She appears to be in her late thirties or early forties and has the fresh look of someone who finds plenty of time for sleep, a proper diet and exercise, and regular touch-ups to her highlighted blond hair. The woman sets a leather briefcase on top of the table and smiles and nods at Mrs. Paulsson as if they have met before. The clasps of her briefcase spring free in loud snaps and she gets out a file folder and a legal pad and sits down.

“I'm FBI Special Agent Weber. Karen Weber.” She looks at Scarpetta. “You must be Dr. Scarpetta. I was told you'd be here. Mrs. Paulsson, how are you today? I wasn't expecting to see you.”

Mrs. Paulsson finds a tissue in her pocketbook and wipes her eyes. “Good morning,” she replies.

Scarpetta has to control her impulse to bluntly ask Special Agent Weber why the FBI has inserted itself or has been inserted into the case. But Gilly's mother is sitting at the table. There is very little Scarpetta can bluntly ask. She tries an indirect approach.

“Are you from the Richmond Field Office?” she says to Special Agent Weber.

“From Quantico,” she replies. “The Behavioral Science Unit. Perhaps you've seen our new forensic labs at Quantico?”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“They're something. Really something.”

“I'm sure they are.”

“Mrs. Paulsson, what brings you here today?” Special Agent Weber asks.

“I don't know,” she replies. “I came for the report. They're supposed to give me Gilly's jewelry. She has a pair of earrings she was wearing and a bracelet, a little leather bracelet she never took off. They said the chief wanted to say hello to me.”

“You're here for this meeting?” the FBI agent asks with a puzzled look on her attractive, well-maintained face.

“I don't know.”

“You're here for Gilly's reports and belongings?” Scarpetta asks as it begins to enter her mind that a mistake has been made.

“Yes. I was told I could come by for them at nine. I haven't been able to come here before now, I just couldn't. I have a check written because there's a fee,” Mrs. Paulsson says with the same scared look in her eyes. “Maybe I'm not supposed to be in here. Nobody said anything about a meeting.”

“Yes, well, while you're here,” says Special Agent Weber, “let me ask you a question, Mrs. Paulsson. You remember when we talked the other day? You said your husband, your former husband, is a pilot? Is that correct?”

“No. He's not a pilot. I said he wasn't.”

“Oh. Okay. Because I couldn't find any record of his ever having a pilot's license of any type,” Special Agent Weber replies. “So I was a little confused.” She smiles.

“A lot of people assume he's a pilot,” Mrs. Paulsson says.

“Understandably.”

“He likes to spend time with pilots, especially military ones. He especially likes women pilots. I've always known what he's about,” Mrs. Paulsson says dully. “You'd have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to know what he's about.”

“Could you elaborate on that?” Special Agent Weber asks.

“Oh, he gives the pilots physicals. You can imagine,” she says. “That's what floats his boat. A woman comes in wearing a flight suit. You can just imagine.”

“You've heard stories about him sexually harassing female pilots?” Special Agent Weber asks somberly.

“He always denies it and gets away with it,” she adds. “You know he has a sister in the Air Force. I've always wondered if it has to do with that. She's quite a lot older than him.”

It is at this precise moment that Dr. Marcus walks into the conference room. He wears another white cotton shirt, a sleeveless undershirt showing through it, and his tie is dark blue and narrow. His eyes drift past Scarpetta and fix on Mrs. Paulsson.

“I don't believe we've met,” he says to her in an authoritative but cordial tone.

“Mrs. Paulsson,” Dr. Scarpetta says, “this is the chief medical examiner, Dr. Marcus.”

“Did one of you invite Mrs. Paulsson?” He looks at Scarpetta, then at Special Agent Weber. “I'm afraid I'm confused.”

Mrs. Paulsson gets up from the table, her movements slow and muddled as if her limbs are communicating different messages to each other. “I don't know what's happened. I just came for the paperwork and her little gold heart earrings and the bracelet.”

“I'm afraid it's my fault,” Scarpetta says, getting up too. “I saw her waiting and made an assumption. I apologize.”

“That's right,” Dr. Marcus says to Mrs. Paulsson. “I heard you might come by this morning. Please let me express my sympathy.” He smiles his condescending smile. “Your daughter is a very high priority here.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Paulsson replies.

“I'll walk you out.” Scarpetta opens the door for her. “I'm truly sorry,” she says as they walk along the gray-blue carpet, past the coffee machine, and into the main corridor. “I hope I haven't embarrassed or upset you.”

“Tell me where Gilly is,” she says, stopping in the middle of the corridor. “I have to know. Please tell me exactly where she is.”

Scarpetta hesitates. Such questions are not unusual for her but they are never simple to answer. “Gilly is on the other side of those doors.” She turns around and points down the length of the corridor to a set of doors. Beyond them is another set of doors, then the morgue and its coolers and freezers.