Five Scarpetta Novels (85 page)

“Marino . . .”

“Hold on. Let me finish giving you the rundown. What Sparkes is saying is that security was waiting for him the minute his plane landed at Heathrow at nine-forty-five the next morning—on Saturday. And we're talking England time, making it four-forty-five
A
.
M
. back here. He was told about the fire and turned right around and caught a United flight back to Washington without bothering with his bags.”

“I guess if you were upset enough, you might do that,” I said.

Marino paused, looking hard at me as I set the soap on top of the sink and dried my hands.

“Doc, you got to quit sticking up for him,” he said.

“I'm not. I'm just trying to be more objective than I think some people are being. And certainly security at Heathrow should remember notifying him when he got off that plane?”

“Not so far. And we can't quite figure out how security knew about the fire anyway. Course Sparkes has got an explanation for everything. Says security always makes
special provisions when he travels and meets him at the gate. Apparently the fire had already hit the early-morning news in London, and the businessman that Sparkes was supposed to meet with called British Air to alert them to give Sparkes the news the second he was on the ground.”

“And someone's talked to this businessman?”

“Not yet. Remember, this is Sparkes's story. And I hate to tell you this, Doc, but don't think people wouldn't lie for him, either. If he's behind all this, I can guarantee that he planned it right down to the fine print. And let me also add that by the time he'd arrived at Dulles to catch the flight to London, the fire was already going and the woman was dead. Who's to say he didn't kill her and then use some kind of timer to get the fire going after he'd left the farm?”

“There's nothing to say it,” I agreed. “There's also nothing to prove it. And there doesn't seem to be much chance of our knowing such a thing unless some material turns up in forensic exams that might point to some sort of explosive device used remotely as an igniter.”

“These days half the stuff in your house can be used as a timer. Alarm clocks, VCRs, computers, digital watches.”

“That's true. But something has to initiate low explosives, like blasting caps, sparks, a fuse, fire,” I said. “Unless you have any other cleaning to do,” I added dryly, “I'll be heading out.”

“Don't be pissed at me,” Marino said. “You know, it's not like this whole damn thing is my fault.”

I stopped at his front door and looked at him. Thin gray wisps of hair clung to his sweating pate. He probably had dirty clothes flung all around his bedroom, and no one could clean and tidy up enough for him, not in a million
years. I remembered Doris, his wife, and could imagine her docile servitude until the day she suddenly left and fell in love with another man.

It was as if Marino had been transfused with the wrong blood type. No matter how well his meaning or brilliant his work, he was in terrible conflict with his environment. And slowly it was killing him.

“Just do me one favor,” I said with my hand on the door.

He wiped his face on his shirt sleeve and got out his cigarettes.

“Don't encourage Lucy to jump to conclusions,” I said. “You know as well as I do that the problem is local law enforcement, local politics. Marino, I don't believe we've even come close to what this is all about, so let's not crucify anyone just yet.”

“I'm amazed,” he said. “After all that son of a bitch did to run you out of office. And now suddenly he's this saint?”

“I didn't say he was a saint. Frankly, I don't know any saints.”

“Sparkes-the-ladies'-man,” Marino went on. “If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if you were getting sweet on him.”

“I won't dignify that with a response.”

I walked out onto the porch, halfway tempted to slam the door in his face.

“Yeah. Same thing everyone says when they're guilty.”

He stepped out after me.

“Don't think I don't know it when you and Wesley aren't getting along . . .”

I turned to face him and pointed my finger like a gun.

“Not one more word,” I warned him. “You stay out of my business, and don't you dare question my professionalism, Marino. You know better than that, goddamn it.”

I went down the front steps and got inside my car. I backed out slowly and with deliberate skill. I did not look at him as I drove off.

M
ONDAY MORNING WAS
carried in on a storm that thrashed the city with violent winds and pelting rains. I drove to work with windshield wipers going fast and air conditioning on to defog the glass. When I opened my window to toss a token into the toll bin, my suit sleeve got drenched, and then of all days for this to happen, two funeral homes had parked inside the bay, and I had to leave my car outside. The fifteen seconds it took me to dash through the parking lot and unlock the back door of my building concluded my punishment. I was soaked. Water dripped from my hair and my shoes squished as I walked through the bay.

I checked the log in the morning office to see what had come in during the night. An infant had died in his parents' bed. An elderly woman appeared to be a suicidal overdose, and, of course, there was a drug-related shooting from one of the housing projects on the fringes of what had become a more civilized and healthy downtown. In the last several years, the city had been ranked as one of the most violent in the United States, with as many as one hundred and sixty homicides in one year for a
population of less than a quarter of a million people.

Police were blamed. Even I was if the statistics compiled by my office didn't suit the politicians or if convictions were slow to come in court. The irrationality of it all never ceased to appall me, for it did not seem to occur to those in power that there is such a thing as preventive medicine, and it is, after all, the only way to halt a lethal disease. It truly is better to vaccinate against polio, for example, than to deal with it after the fact. I closed the log and walked out of the office, my shoes carrying me wetly along the empty corridor.

I turned into the locker room because I was already getting chilled. I hurried out of my sticky suit and blouse and struggled into scrubs, which were always more unwilling the more I rushed. I put on my lab coat, and dried my hair with a towel, running my fingers through it to push it out of my way. The face staring back at me in the mirror looked anxious and tired. I had been neither eating nor sleeping well, and was less disciplined with coffee and alcohol. All of it showed around my eyes. A good deal of it was due to my underlying helpless anger and fear brought about by Carrie. We had no idea where she was, but in my mind she was everywhere.

I went into the break room, where Fielding, who avoided caffeine, was making herb tea. His healthy obsessions did not make me feel any better. I had not exercised in over a week.

“Good morning, Dr. Scarpetta,” he cheerfully said.

“Let's hope so,” I replied, reaching for the coffeepot. “Looks like our caseload is fairly light so far. I'm leaving it up to you, and you can run staff conference. I've got a lot to do.”

Fielding was crisp and fresh in a yellow shirt with
French cuffs, and vivid tie and creased black slacks. He was cleanly shaven and smelled good. Even his shoes were shined, because unlike me, he never let life's circumstances interfere with how he took care of himself.

“I don't see how you do it,” I said, looking him up and down. “Jack, don't you ever suffer from normal things, like depression, stress, cravings for chocolate, cigarettes, Scotch?”

“I tend to overcondition when I get whacked out,” he said, sipping his tea and eyeing me through steam. “That's when I get injured.”

He thought for a moment.

“I guess the worst thing I do, now that you have me thinking about it, is I shut out my wife and kids. Find excuses not to be home. I'm an insensitive bastard and they hate me for a while. So yes, I'm self-destructive, too. But I promise,” he said to me, “if you would just find time to fast-walk, ride a bike, do a few push-ups, maybe crunches, I swear you'd be amazed.”

He walked off, adding, “The body's natural morphines, right?”

“Thanks,” I called after him, sorry I asked.

I had barely settled behind my desk when Rose appeared, her hair pinned up, fit for a CEO in her smart, navy blue suit.

“I didn't know you were here,” she said, setting dictated protocols on top of a stack. “ATF just called. McGovern.”

“Yes?” I asked with interest. “Do you know about what?”

“She said she was in D.C. over the weekend and needs to see you.”

“When and about what?”

I began signing letters.

“She should be here soon,” Rose said.

I glanced up in surprise.

“She called from her car and told me to let you know that she was almost to Kings Dominion and should be here in twenty or thirty minutes,” Rose went on.

“Then it must be important,” I muttered, opening a cardboard file of slides.

I swung around and removed the plastic cover from my microscope and turned on the illuminator.

“Don't feel you have to drop everything,” said the ever protective Rose. “It's not as if she made an appointment or even asked if you could fit her in.”

I set a slide on the stage and peered through the eyepiece lens at a tissue section of pancreas, at pink and shrunken cells that looked hyalinized, or scarred.

“His tox came back as zip,” I said to Rose as I put another slide on the stage. “Except for acetone,” I added. “The byproduct of inadequate metabolism of glucose. And kidneys show hyperosmolar vacuolization of the proximal convoluted tubular lining cells. Meaning, instead of cuboidal and pink, they're clear, bulging and enlarged.”

“Sonny Quinn again,” Rose said dismally.

“Plus we've got a clinical history of fruity-smelling breath, weight loss, thirst, frequent urination. Nothing that insulin wouldn't have cured. Not that I don't believe in prayer, contrary to what the family has told reporters.”

Sonny Quinn was the eleven-year-old son of Christian Science parents. He had died eight weeks ago, and although there had never been any question as to his cause of death, at least not in my mind, I had finalized nothing until further studies and tests had been completed. In
short, the boy had died because he had not received proper medical treatment. His parents had violently protested the autopsy. They had gone on television and accused me of religious persecution and of mutilating their child's body.

Rose had endured my feelings about this many times by now, and she asked, “Do you want to call them?”

“Want has nothing to do with it. So, yes.”

She shuffled through Sonny Quinn's thick case file and jotted down a phone number for me.

“Good luck,” she said as she passed through the adjoining doorway.

I dialed, with dread in my heart.

“Mrs. Quinn?” I said when a woman answered.

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Kay Scarpetta. I have the results from Sonny's . . .”

“Haven't you hurt us enough?”

“I thought you might like to know why your son died . . .”

“I don't need you to tell me anything about my son,” she snapped.

I could hear someone taking the phone from her as my heart hammered.

“This is Mr. Quinn,” said the man whose shield was religious freedom and whose son, as a result, was dead.

“Sonny's cause of death was acute pneumonia due to acute diabetic ketoacidosis due to acute onset of diabetes mellitus. I'm sorry for your pain, Mr. Quinn.”

“This is all a mistake. An error.”

“There's no mistake, Mr. Quinn. No error,” I said, and it was all I could do to keep the anger out of my voice. “I can only suggest that if your other young children show Sonny's same symptoms that you get them medical
treatment immediately. So you don't have to suffer this way again . . .”

“I don't need some medical examiner telling me how to raise my children,” he coldly said. “Lady, I'll see you in court.”

That you will,
I thought, for I knew the Commonwealth would charge him and his wife with felony child abuse and neglect.

“Don't you call us anymore,” said Mr. Quinn, and he hung up on me.

I returned the receiver to its cradle with a heavy heart and looked up to see Teun McGovern standing in the hallway, just outside my door. I could tell by the look on her face that she had heard every word.

“Teun, come in,” I said.

“And I thought my job was hard.” Her eyes were on mine as she took a chair and moved it directly across from me. “I know you have to do this all the time, but I guess I've never really heard it. It's not that I don't talk to families all the time, but thankfully it's not my job to tell them exactly what inhaling smoke did to their loved one's trachea or lungs.”

“It's the hardest part,” I said simply, and the weight inside me would not go away.

“I guess you're the messenger they want to kill.”

“Not always,” I said, and I knew that in the solitude of my raw inner self, I would hear the Quinns' accusing, harsh words replay for the rest of my days.

There were so many voices now, screams and prayers of rage and pain and sometimes blame, because I had dared to touch the wounds, and because I would listen. I did not want to talk about this with McGovern. I did not want her to get any closer to me.

“I've got one more phone call to make,” I said. “So if you want to get coffee? Or just relax for a minute. I'm sure you'll be interested in what I find out.”

I called the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, and although it was not quite nine, the registrar was in. He was excruciatingly polite but not at all helpful.

“I completely understand why you're calling and promise that we very much want to help,” he was saying. “But not without a court order. We can't simply decide to release personal information about any of our students. Certainly not over the phone.”

“Mr. Shedd, we're talking about a homicide,” I reminded him as impatience tugged at me.

“I understand,” he said again.

This went on and got me nowhere. Finally I gave up and got off the line. I was dejected when I returned my attention to McGovern.

“They're just covering their asses in case the family tries to come after them later,” McGovern told me what I already knew. “They need us to give them no choice, so I guess that's what we'll do.”

“Right,” I dully said. “So what brings you here?” I asked.

“I understand the lab results are in, or at least some of them. I called late Friday,” she said.

“News to me.”

I was irked. If the trace evidence examiner had called McGovern before me, I was going to be really hot. I picked up the phone and called Mary Chan, a young examiner who was new with the labs.

“Good morning,” I said. “I understand you have some reports for me?”

“I was just getting ready to bring them downstairs.”

“These are the ones you've sent to ATF.”

“Yes. The same ones. I can fax them or bring them in person.”

I gave her the number of the fax machine in my office, and I did not let her know my irritation. But I did give her a hint.

“Mary, in the future, it's best if you let me know about my cases
before
you start sending lab results to others,” I calmly said.

“I'm sorry,” and I could tell she very much was. “The investigator called at five as I was halfway out the door.”

The reports were in my hands two minutes later, and McGovern opened her battered briefcase to retrieve her copies. She watched me as I read. The first was an analysis of the metal-like shaving that I had recovered from the dead woman's cut to the left temporal region. According to the scanning electron microscope and energy dispersive X ray, or SEM/EDX, the elemental composition of the material in question was magnesium.

As for the melted debris recovered from the victim's hair, those results were just as inexplicable. A FTIR, or Fourier transform infrared spectrophotometer, had caused the fibers to selectively absorb infrared light. The characteristic pattern turned out to be that of the chemical polymer polysiloxane, or silicone.

“A little strange, don't you think?” McGovern asked me.

“Let's start with magnesium,” I said. “What comes to mind is sea water. There's plenty of magnesium in that. Or mining. Or the person was an industrial chemist or worked in a research lab? What about explosives?”

“If potassium chloride came up, then yes. That could be flash powder,” she answered. “Or RDX, lead
styphnate, lead azide of mercury fulminate if we're talking about blasting caps, for example. Or nitric acid, sulfuric acid, glycerin, ammonium nitrate, sodium nitrate. Nitroglycerin, dynamite, and so on and so on. And I will add that Pepper would have picked up on high explosives like that.”

“And magnesium?” I asked.

“Pyrotechnics, or fireworks,” she said. “To produce the brilliant white light. Or flares.” She shrugged. “Although aluminum powder is preferred, because it keeps better, unless the magnesium particles are coated with something like linseed oil.”