Four Scarpetta Novels (63 page)

“Is there any reason why I shouldn't believe that?”

“Obviously, my eyewitness account turns everything else he's said to the bullshit it is,” I reply. “It wasn't
them
. There was no
them
. Only that
goddamn son of a bitch pretending to be the police and coming after me with a hammer. I'd like to know how the hell he can explain that. Did you ask him why there were two chipping hammers at my house? I can prove from the hardware store receipt that I bought only one.” I push that point again. “So where did the other one come from?”

“Let me ask you a question instead.” She avoids answering me again. “Is there any possibility you only assumed he was attacking you? That you saw him and panicked? You're positive he had a chipping hammer and was coming after you with it?”

I stare at her. “
Assumed
he was attacking me? What possible explanation could there be for him being inside my house?”

“Well, you opened the door. That much we know, right?”

“You aren't asking me if he was an invited guest, are you?” I stare defiantly at her, the inside of my mouth sticky. My hands are trembling. I push back my chair when she doesn't answer me. “I don't have to sit here and take this. It's gone from the ridiculous to the sublimely ridiculous!”

“Dr. Scarpetta, how would it make you feel if it was publicly suggested that you, in fact, did invite Chandonne into your home and assaulted him? For no reason, except perhaps you panicked? Or worse. That you are part of his conspiracy as he has stated on tape—you and Jay Talley. Which also helps explain why you went to Paris and slept with Talley and then met Dr. Stvan and took evidence from the morgue.”

“How would that make me feel? I don't know what else to say.”

“You're the only witness, the only living person who knows that what Chandonne is saying is lies and more lies. If you're telling the truth, then this case is completely up to you.”

“I'm not a witness in your case,” I remind her. “I had nothing to do with the Susan Pless murder investigation.”

“I need your help. It's going to be very, very time-consuming.”

“I won't help you. Not if you're going to start questioning my veracity or state of mind.”

“Actually, I don't question either. But the defense will. Seriously. Excruciatingly.” She is cautiously working her way around the edges of a reality she has yet to share with me. Opposing counsel. I suspect she
knows who. She knows exactly who is going to finish what Chandonne started: the dismantling, the humiliation of me for all the world to see. My heart beats in sick thuds. I feel dead. My life has just ended right before my eyes.

“I will need you to come to New York at some point,” Berger is saying. “Sooner rather than later. And by the way, let me caution you to be very, very careful who you talk to right now. I don't recommend, for example, that you talk to anyone about these cases without conferring with me first.” She begins packing up her paperwork and books. “I caution you about having any contact with Jay Talley.” Her eyes flick mine as she snaps shut her briefcase. “Unfortunately, I think we're all going to get a Christmas present we're not going to like.” We get up from our chairs and face each other.

“Who?” I go ahead and ask her in a tired voice. “You know who's going to represent him, don't you? That's why you stayed up all night with him. You wanted to get to him before his counsel slams the door shut.”

“All true,” she replies with a hint of irritation. “The question is whether I was suckered into it.” We look at each other across the shiny expanse of the wooden table. “I find it a little too coincidental that within an hour of my last interview with Chandonne, I get word that he's retained counsel,” she adds. “I suspect he already knew who his counsel was and may, in fact, have already retained him. But Chandonne and the dirtbag he's hooked up with would believe that this tape”—she pats her briefcase—“would only hurt us and help him.”

“Because jurors either believe him or think he's paranoid and crazy,” I summarize.

She nods. “Oh sure. They'll go for insanity, if all else fails. And we don't want Mister Chandonne at Kirby, now do we?”

Kirby is a notorious forensic psychiatric hospital in New York. It is where Carrie Grethen was incarcerated before she escaped and murdered Benton. Berger has just touched another part of my painful history. “You know about Carrie Grethen, then,” I say in a defeated way as we walk out of a conference room that I will never feel the same about again. It, too, has become a crime scene. My entire world is turning into one.

“I've done some research on you,” Berger says almost apologetically. “And you're right, I do know who's going to represent Chandonne, and it's not good news. In fact, it's pretty damn awful.” She puts on her mink coat as we walk out into the hallway. “Have you ever met Marino's son?”

I stop and stare at her, dumbfounded. “I don't know anyone who has ever met his son,” I reply.

“Come on, let's get you to your party. I'll explain as we walk out.” Berger cradles her books and files, walking slowly over quiet carpet. “Rocco Marino, affectionately known as ‘Rocky,' is an exceptionally sleazy criminal defense attorney who has an affinity for representing the mob and others who make it worth his while to get them off the hook by any means. He's flashy. Loves publicity.” She glances over at me. “Most of all, he loves to hurt people. That's his power trip.”

I flip off the hallway lights, throwing us briefly into darkness as we approach the first set of stainless steel doors.

“Some years ago—in law school, I'm told,” she continues, “Rocky changed his last name to Caggiano. A final rejection of the father he despises, I suppose.”

I hesitate, facing her in deep shadows. I don't want her to see the expression on my face, to detect my sense of utter undoing. I have always known that Marino hates his son. I have entertained many theories about why. Maybe Rocky is gay or a drug addict or simply a loser. Certainly it has been clear that Rocky is
something
of an anathema to his father, and now I know. I am struck by the bitter irony, the shame of it all. My God. “Rocky so-called Caggiano heard about the case and volunteered?” I ask.

“Could be. Could also be that the Chandonne family's organized crime ties have led him to their son, or hell, maybe Rocky is already connected to them. It may be a combination—personal and Rocky's own connections. But it does smack a little of throwing father and son into the Colosseum. Patricide in front of the world, albeit indirectly. Marino won't necessarily be testifying in Chandonne's trial in New York, but it could happen, depending on how this all unfolds.”

I know how it will unfold. It is all so clear to me. Berger came to
Richmond fully intending to insert these cases into the one in New York. I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't somehow manage to get the Paris cases included, as well.

“But regardless,” she says, “Chandonne will always feel like Marino's case. Cops like him care what happens. And Rocky's representing Chandonne puts me in an unfortunate position. If the case were in Richmond, I would go marching up to the judge
ex parte
and point out the very obvious conflict of interest. Probably get thrown out of his chambers and reprimanded. But at the very least, I might be able to get the His or Her Honor to request a co-counselor on the defendant's legal team so son doesn't actually cross-examine father.”

I push a button and more steel doors open.

“But I would create a storm of protest,” she goes on. “And maybe the court would rule in my favor, or if nothing else, I'd use the situation to get sympathy from the jury, show what bad guys Chandonne and his counsel are.”

“No matter how your case unfolds in New York, Marino won't be a fact witness.” I see where she is going with this. “Not in the Susan Pless murder. So you aren't going to have any luck getting rid of Rocky.”

“Exactly right. No conflict. Nothing I can do about it. And Rocky's poison.”

Our conversation continues into the bay, where we stand in the cold by our cars. The starkness of the bare concrete around us seems a symbol of the realities I now face. Life has turned hard and unforgiving. There is no view, no way out. I can't imagine how Marino will feel when he finds out that the very monster he has helped apprehend will be defended by Marino's estranged son. “Clearly, Marino doesn't know,” I say.

“Maybe I've been remiss in not telling him yet,” she replies. “But he's a big enough pain in the ass already. I thought I'd wait and drop this bomb tomorrow or the next day. You know he wasn't happy about my interviewing Chandonne.” She adds this with a glint of triumph.

“I could tell.”

“I had a case with Rocky several years ago.” Berger unlocks her car door. She leans inside to start it and get the heat going. “A wealthy man
on business in New York is accosted by a kid with a knife.” She straightens up and faces me. “The man struggles and manages to wrestle the kid to the ground, bangs the kid's head on the pavement, knocking him out, but not before he stabs the man in the chest. The man dies. The kid is hospitalized for a while but recovers. Rocky tried to turn the case on self-defense but fortunately the jury didn't buy it.”

“I'm sure that made Mr. Caggiano a fan of yours for life.”

“What I couldn't prevent was him then representing the kid in a civil suit, asking ten million for alleged permanent emotional damage, yada, yada, yada. The murdered man's family finally settled. Why? Because they just couldn't take it anymore. There was a lot of shit happening behind the scenes—harassment, weird events. They were burglarized. One of their cars was stolen. Their Jack Russell puppy was poisoned. On and on, and all of it I'm convinced was orchestrated by Rocky Marino Caggiano. I just could never prove it.” She climbs up into her Mercedes sport utility vehicle. “His modus operandi is pretty simple. He gets away with anything he can and puts everybody on trial except the defendant. He is also a very poor loser.”

I remember Marino telling me years ago he wished Rocky were dead. “Might that be part of his motivation then?” I ask. “Revenge. Not just getting the father, but getting you? And doing so very publicly.”

“Might be,” Berger says to me from the high perch of her SUV. “Whatever his motive, I do want you to know I plan to protest anyway. Just can't tell you how much good it will do since this really doesn't constitute an ethical violation. It's up to the judge.” She reaches for her seat belt and pulls it across her chest. “How are you spending Christmas Eve, Kay?”

So now I am Kay. I have to think for a minute. Christmas Eve is tomorrow. “I need to follow up on these cases, the ones with the burns,” I reply.

She nods. “It's important we go back to Chandonne's crime scenes while they still exist.”

Including my house, I think.

“Might you find some time tomorrow afternoon?” she asks. “Any time
you can give me. I'm working through the holidays. I don't mean to ruin yours.”

I have to smile at the irony. The holidays. Yes, Merry Christmas. Berger has given me a gift and doesn't even know it. She has helped me make a decision, an important decision, maybe even the most important decision of my life. I am going to quit my job and the governor will be the first to know. “I'll call you when I'm finished in James City County,” I tell Berger. “We can try for two o'clock.”

“I'll pick you up,” she says.

I
T IS ALMOST
ten when I turn off 9th Street into Capitol Square, cruising past the up-lit statue of George Washington astride his horse, and winding around the south portico of the building Thomas Jefferson designed, where a thirty-foot lighted tree decorated with glass balls rises behind thick white columns. I recall that the governor's party was a drop-in and not a dinner and am relieved at signs that his guests have left. I find not a single car in spaces designated for legislators and visitors.

The early-nineteenth-century executive mansion is pale yellow stucco with white trim and columns. According to legend, it was saved by a bucket brigade when Richmonders burned their own city at the end of the Civil War. In the understated tradition of Virginia Christmases, candles glow and fresh wreaths hang in every window, and evergreen swags decorate black iron gates. I roll down my window as a capitol police officer steps up to my car.

“May I help you?” he asks with an air of suspicion.

“I'm here to see Governor Mitchell.” I have been to the mansion a number of times, but not at this hour or in a big Lincoln SUV. “I'm Dr. Scarpetta. I'm a little late. If it's too late, I'll understand. Please tell him I'm sorry. ”

The officer brightens. “Didn't recognize you in that car. You get rid of your Mercedes? If you could just wait right here for a minute.”

He gets on the phone inside his booth as I look out at Capitol Square and am touched by ambivalence, then sadness. I have lost this city. I can't go back. I can blame it on Chandonne, but that isn't all of it, if I am
honest with myself. It is time to do the harder thing. Change. Lucy has inspired courage, or maybe she has made me see myself for what I have become, which is entrenched, static, institutionalized. I have been the chief medical examiner of Virginia for more than a decade. I am edging close to fifty. I don't like my only sister. My mother is difficult and her health is bad. Lucy is moving to New York. Benton is dead. I am alone.

“Merry Christmas, Dr. Scarpetta.” The capitol police officer leans close to my window and lowers his voice. The name on his brass tag is Renquist. “Just want you to know I hate what happened, but I'm glad you got that S.O.B. That was real quick thinking on your part.”

“I appreciate that, Officer Renquist.”

“You won't be seeing me down here anymore after the first of the year,” he goes on. “They've switched me to plainclothes investigations.”

“I hope that's good.”

“Oh, yes ma'am.”

“We'll miss you.”

“Maybe I'll see you on a case.”

I hope not. If he sees me on a case, that means someone else is dead. He gives me a crisp wave, directing me through the gates. “You can park right in front.”

Change. Yes, change. Suddenly, I am surrounded by it. In thirteen months, Governor Mitchell will be gone, too, and that is unsettling. I like him. I especially like his wife, Edith. In Virginia, governors have a one-term limit, and every four years the world gets turned on end. Hundreds of employees are moved, fired and hired. Phone numbers are changed. Computers get formatted. Job descriptions no longer apply even if the jobs themselves do. Files disappear or are destroyed. Mansion menus are redone or shredded. The only constancy is the mansion staff itself. The same prison inmates do the gardening and small outside tasks, and the same people cook and clean, or at least if they are rotated, it has nothing to do with politics. Aaron, for example, has been the butler for as long as I have lived in Virginia. He is a tall, handsome African American, lean and graceful in a long, spotless white coat and snappy black bow tie.

“Aaron, how are you?” I inquire as I step inside an entry hall that is dazzling with crystal lighting that passes its torch, chandelier to chandelier, through sweeping archways all the way to the back of the house. Between the two ballrooms is the Christmas tree decorated in red balls and white lights. Walls and plaster friezes and trim have been recently restored to their original gray and white and look like Wedgwood. Aaron takes my coat. He indicates he is fine and pleased to see me, using few words because he has mastered the art of being gracious with little noise.

Just off the entry hall, on either side, are two rather stiff parlors of Brussels carpet and formidable antiques. Wallpaper in the men's parlor has a Greco-Roman border. A floral border is in the women's. The psychology of these sitting areas is simple. They allow the governor to receive guests without ever really letting them inside the mansion. People are granted an audience at the front door and are not destined to stay long. Aaron guides me past these impersonal historic rooms and up a stairway carpeted in a Federal design of black stars against deep red that leads to the first family's personal quarters. I emerge in a sitting area of fir hardwood floors and accessible chairs and couches, where Edith Mitchell waits for me in a flowing red silk pants suit. She smells faintly exotic as she gives me a hug.

“When are we playing tennis again?” she asks dryly, staring at my cast.

“It's a very unforgiving sport if you haven't done it in a year, have a fractured arm and are doing battle with cigarettes again,” I say.

My reference to the past year is not lost on her. Those who know me are aware that after Benton's murder, I vanished into a dark vortex of frantic, perpetual motion. I stopped seeing friends. I didn't go out or have people in. I rarely exercised. All I did was work. I saw nothing that went on around me. I didn't hear what people said to me. I didn't feel. Food had no taste. I scarcely noticed the weather. In Anna's words, I became sensory deprived. Somehow through it all, I didn't make mistakes in my cases. If anything, I was more obsessive about them. But my absenteeism as a human being was detrimental in the office. I wasn't a good
administrator and it began to show. Certainly, I have been a shitty friend to everyone I know.

“How are you?” she asks, kindly.

“About as well as can be expected.”

“Please sit. Mike's getting off the phone,” Edith tells me. “I guess he didn't talk to enough people at the party.” She smiles and rolls her eyes as if she is talking about a naughty boy.

Edith has never really assumed the role of first lady, not in any tradition the Commonwealth of Virginia has ever seen, and although she may have her detractors, she has also become celebrated as a strong, modern woman. She is a historical archaeologist who didn't give up her career when her husband took office and avoids official events she considers frivolous or a poor use of her time. Yet she is her husband's devoted partner and has raised three children, now grown or in college. In her late forties, she has deep brown hair that she wears one length, at her collar and brushed straight back. Her eyes are almost amber, and in them thoughts and questions stir. She has something on her mind. “I was going to take you aside at the party. Kay, I'm glad you called. Thank you for dropping by. You know it's not like me to pry into your cases,” she goes on, “but I have to say I'm really unsettled by the one I just read about in the paper—the man found in that awful motel near Jamestown. Mike and I are both very concerned, well, obviously, because of the Jamestown connection.”

“I'm not aware of a Jamestown connection.” I am puzzled, and my first thought is that information has come in that she knows and I don't. “No connection to the archaeological excavation. Not that I'm aware of.”

“Perceptions,” she says simply. “If nothing else.”

Jamestown is Edith Mitchell's passion. Her own profession drew her to the site years ago, and then she became an advocate for it in her present political position. She has unearthed postholes and human bones and tirelessly courted the interest of potential financial backers and the media. “I've driven past that motel just about every time I go down there because it's closer to downtown to take Route Five instead of Sixty-four.”
A shadow passes over her face. “A real dump. Can't say it would surprise me if something bad happened there. Looks like the sort of place drug dealers and hookers would hang out. Did you go to the scene?”

“Not yet.”

“Can I get you anything to drink, Kay? I have some very good whisky I bootlegged back from Ireland last month. I know you like Irish whisky.”

“Only if you're having some.”

She reaches for the phone and asks Aaron to bring up the bottle of Black Bush and three glasses.

“What's going on at Jamestown these days?” The air is tainted by a patina of cigar smoke that awakens my frustrating hunger for cigarettes. “I think the last time I was there was three or four years ago,” I tell her.

“When we found JR,” she recalls.

“Yes.”

“It's been that long since you were there?”

“Nineteen ninety-six, I think.”

“Well, you must come see what we're doing. It's amazing how the footprint of the fort has changed, and the artifacts, hundreds of thousands of them, as you probably know from the news. We've been doing isotopic studies on some of the bones, which I should think you would find interesting, Kay. JR continues to be our biggest mystery. His isotopic profile wasn't at all consistent with a diet of either corn or wheat, so we didn't know what to make of that, except that maybe he wasn't English. So we sent one of his teeth to a lab in England, for DNA.”

JR stands for Jamestown Rediscovery. It is the prefix given every feature discovered at the excavation site, but in this instance, Edith refers specifically to the one-hundred-and-second feature unearthed in the third or C layer of soil. JR102C is a grave. It has become the most celebrated grave of the excavation because the skeleton inside it is thought to be that of a young man who arrived at Jamestown with John Smith in May 1607 and was shot to death that fall. At the first hint of violence inside the coffin-stained clay, Edith and the chief archaeologist called me to the site, where together we brushed back dirt from a sixty-caliber
musket ball and twenty-one shot that had fractured the tibia and rotated it one hundred and eighty degrees, so that the foot was pointing backward. The injury would have torn if not severed the popliteal artery behind the knee, and JR, as he has since become affectionately known, would have bled to death quickly.

Of course, there was acute interest in what was immediately dubbed the first murder in America, a rather presumptuous claim since we can't say for a fact it is a murder or the first one and the New World was hardly America yet. We did prove from forensic testing that JR was shot with a combat load fired from a European weapon called a matchlock musket and that, based on the spread of the shot, the gun was fired from a distance of approximately fifteen feet. He could not possibly have shot himself accidentally. One might deduce that a fellow settler was to blame, leading to the not so far-fetched notion that America's karma, sadly, seems to be for us to kill each other.

“Everything's moved indoors for the winter.” Edith slips out of her jacket and drapes it over the back of the sofa. “Cataloging artifacts, writing up the findings, all the things we can't get around to while we're working on the site. And of course, fund-raising. That awful part of life that tends to fall in my lap more and more these days. Bringing me to my point. I got a rather disturbing phone call from one of our legislators who read about the motel death. He's in an uproar, which is unfortunate, because he's only going to end up doing the very thing he says he doesn't want, which is to draw attention to the case.”

“Uproar over what?” I frown. “There was very little information in the newspaper.”

Edith's expression stiffens. Whoever this legislator is, she obviously has no use for him. “He's from the Jamestown area,” she tells me. “He seems to think the case might be a hate crime, that the victim was gay.”

Footsteps sound softly on the carpeted stairs and Aaron appears with a tray, a bottle and three tumblers etched with the seal of the commonwealth.

“Needless to say, such a thing could severely compromise what we're
doing out there.” She chooses her words carefully as Aaron pours Black Bush. A door off the sitting area opens and the governor emerges from his private office in a draft of cigar smoke, his tuxedo jacket and tie off.

“Kay, I'm sorry to keep you waiting,” he says to me with a hug. “Brushfires. Maybe Edith has given you the hint.”

“She was just getting around to it,” I reply.