Four Scarpetta Novels (64 page)

G
OVERNOR MITCHELL IS
visibly disturbed. His wife gets up to allow us a private conversation and the two of them have a quick exchange about a call that needs to be made to one of their daughters, then Edith tells me good night and leaves. The governor lights another cigar. He is a rugged, good-looking man with a former football player's strong body and hair as white as Caribbean sand. “I was going to try to get you tomorrow but didn't know if you might be off somewhere for the holidays,” he begins. “Thanks for coming over.”

Whisky heats up my throat with each swallow as we engage in a polite exchange about Christmas plans and how things are going at the Virginia Institute of Forensic Science and Medicine. With every breath, I think of Detective Stanfield. The fool. He obviously divulged sensitive case information, and of all people, to a goddamn politician, his brother-in-law, Representative Dinwiddie. The governor is an astute man. More importantly, he began his career as a prosecutor. He knows I am furious and why.

“Representative Dinwiddie has a tendency to stir up a hornet's nest,” the governor confirms who the troublemaker is. Dinwiddie is a militant pain in the ass who never lets the world forget his lineage can be traced back, albeit very indirectly, to Chief Powhatan, the father of Pocahontas.

“The detective was wrong to have told Dinwiddie anything,” I reply, “and Dinwiddie was wrong to have told you or anyone else. This is a criminal case. This is not about the four-hundredth anniversary of Jamestown.
It's not about tourism or politics. This is about a man who was most likely tortured and left to burn up in a motel room.”

“No question about it,” Mitchell replies. “But there are certain realities we have to consider. A hate crime that might in any shape or fashion seem connected to Jamestown would be catastrophic.”

“I'm not aware of any Jamestown connection, beyond the fact that the victim checked into a Jamestown area motel that offers a business special called the sixteen-oh-seven.” I am getting exasperated.

“With all the publicity Jamestown has already gotten, that information alone is enough to make the media's antennae go up.” He rolls the cigar in his fingertips and slowly raises it to his lips. “It's projected that the two-thousand-seven celebration could eventually generate a billion dollars in revenue for the commonwealth. It's our World's Fair, Kay. Next year Jamestown is being commemorated on a coin, a quarter. News crews have been coming to the excavation site in droves.”

He gets up to stir the fire and I am taken back in time to his former rumpled suits and harried demeanor, to his cramped office overwhelmed by files and books in the District Courts Building. We tried many cases together, some of them the most painful landmarks in my history, those sorts of random, cruel crimes whose victims still haunt my mind: the newspaper carrier abducted from her route and raped and left to slowly die; the old woman shot to death for the hell of it while she was hanging up clothes; the multiple people executed by the Briley brothers. Mitchell and I anguished over so many awful acts of violence, and I missed him when he moved on to a higher calling. Success separates friends. Politics, especially, is ruinous to relationships, because the very nature of politics is to re-create the person. The Mike Mitchell I knew has been replaced by a statesman who has learned to process his fiery beliefs through safe and meticulously calculated subroutines. He has a plan. He has one for me.

“I don't like media feeding frenzies any more than you do,” I say to him.

He replaces the poker on its brass stand and smokes with his back to the fire, his face flushed from heat. Wood pops and hisses. “What can we do about it, Kay?”

“Tell Dinwiddie to keep his mouth shut.”

“Mister Headline News?” He smiles wryly. “Who has been very vocal in pointing out that there are those who think Jamestown was the original hate crime—against the Native Americans?”

“Well, I think it's also rather hateful to kill, scalp and starve people to death. Seems there's always been plenty of hate to go around since the beginning of time. It won't be me using the term ‘hate crime,' Governor. It's not on any form I fill out, not a box to check on a death certificate. As you very well know, such a label is up to the prosecution, the investigators, not the medical examiner.”

“What about your opinion?”

I tell him about the second body found in Richmond late this afternoon. I worry the deaths are related.

“Based on?” His cigar smolders in an ashtray. He rubs his face and massages his temples as if he has a headache.

“Bondage,” I reply. “Burns.”

“Burns? But the first guy was in a fire. Why does the second guy have burns?”

“I suspect torture.”

“Gay?”

“No obvious evidence of it in the second victim. But we can't rule it out.”

“Do we know who he is or if he's local?”

“So far, no. Neither victim has personal effects.”

“Suggesting someone involved doesn't want them identified. Or robbery. Or both.”

“Possibly.”

“Tell me more about the burns,” the governor says.

I describe them. I mention the case Berger had in New York, and the governor's anxieties become more palpable. Anger flashes across his face. “This sort of speculation needs to stay in this room,” he says. “Last thing we need is another New York connection. Jesus God.”

“There's no evidence of a connection, unless someone simply got the idea from the news,” I reply. “I can't say for a fact a heat gun was used in the cases here, for that matter.”

“Do you find it a little strange that Chandonne's murders have a New York connection? So the trial moves up there. Now we suddenly have two murders here that are similar to yet another New York murder?”

“Strange, yes. Very strange. Governor, all I can tell you with certainty is I've no intention of making the autopsy reports a major element in fueling other people's political agendas. I will, as always, stick to the facts and avoid speculating. I suggest we think in terms of managing rather than suppressing.”

“Goddamn. All hell's going to break loose,” he mutters in a cloud of smoke.

“I hope not,” I tell him.

“And your case? The French Werewolf, as some people are calling him?” Mitchell finally gets around to that. “What's all that going to do to you, hmmm?” He sits down again and gives me one of his earnest looks.

I sip my whisky, wondering how to tell him. There really is no graceful way to launch it. “What's that going to do to me?” I smile ruefully.

“Has to be awful. I'm just glad you nailed the son of a bitch.” Tears brighten his eyes and he quickly looks away. Mitchell is the prosecutor again. We are comfortable. We are old colleagues, old friends. I am touched, very touched, and at the same time, depressed. The past is past. Mitchell is the governor. He will probably land in Washington next. I am the chief medical examiner of Virginia and he is my boss. I am about to tell him I have to give up my position as chief.

“I don't think it's in my best interest or the best interest of the commonwealth for me to continue to serve in my position.” I am out with it.

He just stares at me.

“I'll submit this more formally, of course, in writing. But I've made my decision. I am resigning as of January first. Of course I'll stay on as long as you need me, while you search for my replacement.” I wonder if he was expecting this. Maybe he is relieved. Maybe he is angry.

“You're not a quitter, Kay,” he says. “That's one thing you've never been. Don't let assholes run you off, goddammit.”

“I'm not quitting my profession. Just changing the boundaries. No one's running me off.”

“Oh yes, boundaries,” the governor observes, leaning back against the cushions and studying me. “Sounds like you're becoming a hired gun.”

“Please.” We both share the same contempt for experts whose choice of which side to represent is based on money, not justice.

“You know what I mean.” He relights his cigar and stares off, already forming a new plan. I can see his mind working.

“I'll go to work as a private contractor,” I say. “But I will never be a hired gun. Actually, what I've got to do first won't earn me a dime, Mike. The case. New York. I've got to help and it's going to take a lot of my time.”

“All right. Then it's simple. You go to work as a private contractor, Kay, and the commonwealth will be your first client. We'll hire you as acting chief until there's a better solution for Virginia. I hope your rates are reasonable,” he drolly adds.

This isn't at all what I expected to hear.

“You look surprised,” he observes.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Maybe Buford Righter could explain,” I start to say, and indignation rises again. “We have two women horrendously murdered in this city, and no matter what, I don't feel it's right that their killer is now in New York. I can't help it, Mike. I feel it's my fault. I feel I've compromised the cases here because Chandonne came after me. I feel as if I've turned into a liability.”

“Ah, Buford,” Mitchell blandly comments. “Well, he's a good enough guy but a lousy commonwealth's attorney, Kay. And I don't think letting New York have the first crack at Chandonne is all that bad an idea in light of the circumstances.” His words have the weight of many considerations, not the least of which, I suspect, is the way Europeans would react if Virginia executed a French native, and Virginia is known for the number of people it puts to death every year. I autopsy every one of them.
I know the statistics all too well. “Even I would be a little at odds as to how to handle this case,” Mitchell adds with a drawn-out pause.

I have the sensation that the sky is about to fall. Secrets crackle like static electricity, but there is no point in my prying. Governor Mitchell will not be coaxed into relaying any information he isn't ready to give. “Try not to take all this too personally, Kay,” he gives me advice. “I support you. I'll continue to do so. I've worked with you a long time and know you.”

“Everybody tells me not to take any of this personally.” I smile a little. The ominous feeling strengthens. He will continue to support me, as if to imply there are reasons he shouldn't.

“Edith, my kids, staff, all tell me the same thing,” he is saying. “And I still take things personally. I just don't let on that I do.”

“Then you had nothing to do with Berger—with this rather remarkable change of venue, so to speak?” I have to ask.

He sharpens his ash to a point, slowly rolling the cigar, puffing, buying time. He did have something to do with it. He had everything to do with it, I am convinced. “She's really good, Kay.” His non-answer is an answer.

I accept this. I resist prying. I simply ask him exactly how he is acquainted with her.

“Well, you know we both went to UVA law school,” he says. “Then when I was AG, I had a case. You should remember since it had to do with your office. The socialite from New York who took out a huge life insurance policy on her husband one month before she murdered him in a Fairfax hotel. She tried to pass it off as a suicidal shooting.”

I remember all too well. She later named my office and me in a lawsuit, accusing us of racketeering, among other things, for allegedly colluding with the insurance company to falsify records so no claim was paid to her.

“Berger got involved because it turns out the woman's first husband had died under suspicious circumstances in New York some years earlier,” Mitchell says. “Seems he was an older man, frail, and drowned in the bathtub just one month after the wife had taken out a huge life
insurance policy. The medical examiner found bruises that might have indicated a struggle, and pended the case for a very long time, hoping the investigation would turn up something conclusive. It didn't. The D.A.'s office just couldn't make the case. Then the woman sues the medical examiner there, too. For slander, emotional duress, baloney like that. I had numerous conversations with the people up there, mostly Bob Morgenthau, the D.A., but also with Jaime, comparing notes.”

“Guess I'm wondering if the feds might try to make Chandonne flip and snitch on his cartel family. Let's make a deal,” I say. “And then what?”

“I think you can bank on that,” Mitchell replies solemnly.

“So that's it.” Now I know. “He is guaranteed not to get the death penalty? That's the deal.”

“Morgenthau's not known for putting people to death,” he says. “But I am. I'm a tough old bird.”

The governor has just clued me in on the negotiations that have gone on. The feds get to work on Chandonne. In exchange, Chandonne is tried in New York, where he is assured he will not get the death penalty. No matter what happens, Governor Mitchell doesn't look bad. It is no longer his problem. It is no longer Virginia's problem. We won't incite an international incident by sticking a needle in Chandonne's arm.

“That's a shame,” I sum it up. “Not that I believe in capital punishment, Mike, but it's a shame that politics have gotten into the mix. I just listened to several hours of Chandonne's lies. He's not going to help anyone take down his family. Never. And I'll tell you something else, if he ends up in Kirby or Bellevue, he'll somehow get out. He'll kill again. So on the one hand, I'm glad there's an excellent prosecutor on the case and not Righter. Righter's a coward. But on the other hand, I'm sorry we've lost control of Chandonne.”

Mitchell leans forward and places his hands on his knees, a ready position signaling our conversation has ended. He isn't going to discuss the matter further with me, and that also speaks volumes. “Good of you to come, Kay,” he says. He holds my stare. This is his way of saying, “Don't ask.”