“Carley, I’m a medical examiner in New York City. I’m sure you understand why I can’t have this conversation.”
“Technically, you’re a private contractor, not a New York City employee.”
“I’m an employee and answer directly to the chief medical examiner of New York City,” Scarpetta said.
Another photo: the 1950s blue brick façade of the NYC chief medical examiner’s office.
“You work pro bono. I believe that’s been in the news—you donate your time to the New York office.” Carley turned to the camera. “For my viewers who might not know, let me explain that Dr. Kay Scarpetta is a medical examiner in Massachusetts and also works part-time, without pay, for the New York City ME’s office.” To Scarpetta, “Not that I completely understand how you can work for New York City and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
Scarpetta didn’t enlighten her.
Carley picked up a pencil as if she might take notes and said, “Dr. Scarpetta, the very fact that you say you can’t talk about Hannah Starr is because you believe she’s dead. If you didn’t believe she was dead, it wouldn’t be an issue for you to voice your opinion. She can’t be your case unless she’s dead.”
Not true. Forensic pathologists can, when needed, examine living patients or get involved in cases of missing persons who are presumed dead. Scarpetta wasn’t going to offer a clarification.
Instead she said, “It’s improper to discuss the details of any case that’s under investigation or hasn’t been adjudicated. What I agreed to do on your show tonight, Carley, was to have a general discussion about forensic evidence, specifically trace evidence, one of the most common types of which is the microscopic analysis of hair.”
“Good. Then let’s talk about trace evidence, about hair.” Tapping the pencil on paperwork. “Isn’t it a fact that tests done on hair could prove it was shed after someone was dead? If hair was discovered in a vehicle, for example, that had been used to transport a dead body?”
“DNA isn’t going to tell you someone is dead,” Scarpetta repeated.
“Then hypothetically, what could hair tell us, saying hair identified as Hannah’s was recovered from some location, such as a vehicle?”
“Why don’t we discuss microscopic hair examination in general. Since this is what you and I agreed we’d talk about tonight.”
“In general, then,” Carley said. “Tell us how you might be able to determine that hair is from a dead person. You find hair somewhere, let’s say inside a vehicle. How can you tell if the person who shed it was alive or dead at the time?”
“Postmortem root damage or lack of it can tell us if head hair was shed by a living person or a dead body,” Scarpetta answered.
“Precisely my point.” Tapping her pencil like a metronome. “Because according to my sources, there has been hair recovered in the Hannah Starr case, and it definitely showed evidence of the damage you would associate with death and decomposition.”
Scarpetta had no idea what Carley was talking about and wondered bizarrely if she might be confusing details of the Hannah Starr case with those from missing toddler Caylee Anthony, whose head hairs recovered from the family car trunk allegedly showed signs of decomposition.
“So, how do you explain hair damaged the way it gets after death if the person isn’t dead?” Carley nailed Scarpetta with a stare that looked perpetually startled.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘damaged,’ ” Scarpetta said, and it crossed her mind she should walk off the set.
“Damaged by, let’s say insects, for example.” Carley tapped the pencil loudly. “Sources have informed me that hair found in the Hannah Starr case shows evidence of damage, the sort of damage you see after death.” To the camera, “And this hasn’t been released to the public yet. We’re discussing it for the first time right here, right now, on my show.”
“Insect damage doesn’t necessarily mean the person who shed hair is dead.” Scarpetta answered the question, avoiding the topic of Hannah Starr. “If you naturally shed hair in your home, in your car, in your garage, the hair can be and in fact likely will be damaged by insects.”
“Maybe you can explain to our viewers how insects damage hair.”
“They eat it. Microscopically, you can see the bite marks. If you find hair with evidence of this type of damage, you generally assume the hair wasn’t shed recently.”
“And you assume the person is dead.” Carley pointed the pencil at her.
“Based on that finding alone, no, you couldn’t draw that conclusion.”
In the monitors: microscopic images of two human head hairs magnified 50X.
“Okay, Dr. Scarpetta, we have pictures you asked us to show our viewers,” Carley announced. “Tell us exactly what we’re looking at.”
“Postmortem root banding,” Scarpetta explained. “Or, in the words of the eminent trace evidence examiner Nick Petraco, an opaque ellipsoidal band which appears to be composed of a collection of parallel elongated air spaces along the hair shaft nearest the scalp.”
“Whew, let’s translate for the viewers, how ’bout it.”
“In the photos you’re looking at, it’s the dark area at the bulb-shaped root. See the dark banding? Suffice it to say, this phenomenon doesn’t occur in living people.”
“And these are Hannah Starr’s hairs we’re looking at,” Carley said.
“No, they’re certainly not.” If she walked off the set, it would only make matters worse. Just get through this, Scarpetta told herself.
“No?” A dramatic pause. “Then whose are they?”
“I’m simply showing examples of what the microscopic analysis of hair can tell us,” Scarpetta answered, as if the question was reasonable, when it absolutely wasn’t. Carley knew damn well the hair wasn’t from the Hannah Starr case. She knew damn well the image was generic, was from a PowerPoint presentation Scarpetta routinely gave at medicolegal death investigation schools.
“They’re not Hannah’s hairs, and they’re not related to her disappearance?”
“They’re an example.”
“Well, I guess this is what they mean by ‘the Scarpetta Factor.’ You pull some trick out of your hat to support your theory, which clearly is that Hannah’s dead, which is why you’re showing us hairs shed by a dead person. Well, I agree, Dr. Scarpetta,” Carley said slowly and emphatically. “I believe Hannah Starr is dead. And I believe it’s possible what happened to her is connected to the jogger who was just brutally murdered in Central Park, Toni Darien.”
In the monitors: a photograph of Toni Darien in tight pants and a skimpy blouse, bowling lanes in the background; another photograph—this one of her body at the crime scene.
Where the hell did that come from? Scarpetta didn’t show her shock. How did Carley get her hands on a scene photograph?
“As we know,” Carley Crispin said to the camera, “I have my sources and can’t always go into detail about who they are, but I can verify the information. Suffice it to say, I have information that at least one witness has reported to the NYPD that Toni Darien’s body was seen being dragged out of a yellow cab early this morning, that apparently a taxi driver was pulling her body out of his yellow cab. Are you aware of this, Dr. Scarpetta?” To the slow tempo of pencil tap-taps.
“I’m not going to talk about the Toni Darien investigation, either.” Scarpetta tried not to get distracted by the scene photograph. It looked like one of the photos taken by an OCME medicolegal investigator this morning.
“What you’re saying is there’s something to talk about,” Carley said.
“I’m not saying that.”
“Let me remind everyone that Hannah Starr was last seen getting into a yellow taxi after she had dinner with friends in Greenwich Village the day before Thanksgiving. Dr. Scarpetta, you’re not going to talk about it, I know. But let me ask you something you should be able to answer. Isn’t part of the medical examiner’s mission prevention? Aren’t you supposed to figure out why somebody died so
maybe you can prevent the same thing from happening to someone else?”
“Prevention, absolutely,” Scarpetta said. “And prevention sometimes requires that those of us responsible for public health and public safety exercise extreme caution about the information we release.”
“Well, let me ask you this. Why wouldn’t it be in the best interest of the public to know there might be a serial killer who’s driving a yellow cab in New York City, looking for his next victim? If you had access to a tip like that, shouldn’t you publicize it, Dr. Scarpetta?”
“If information is verifiable and would protect the public, yes, I agree with you. It should be released.”
“Then why hasn’t it been?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily know whether such information has or hasn’t been, or if it’s factual.”
“How is it possible you wouldn’t know? You get a dead body in your morgue and hear from the police or a credible witness that a yellow taxi might be involved, and you don’t think it’s your responsibility to pass along the tip to the public so some other poor innocent woman doesn’t get brutally raped and murdered?”
“You’re straying into an area that is beyond my direct knowledge and jurisdiction,” Scarpetta replied. “The function of the medical examiner is to determine cause and manner of death, to supply objective information to those whose job it is to enforce the law. It’s not an expectation that the medical examiner should act as an officer of the court or release so-called tips based on information or possibly rumors gathered and generated by others.”
The teleprompter was letting Carley know she had a caller on hold. Scarpetta suspected the producer, Alex Bachta, might be trying to derail what was happening, was alerting Carley to quit while she was ahead. Scarpetta’s contract had just been about as violated as it could get.
“Well, we have a lot to talk about,” Carley said to her viewers. “But first let’s take a call from Dottie in Detroit. Dottie, you’re on the air. How are things in Michigan? You folks glad the election’s over and we’ve finally been told we’re in a recession, in case you didn’t know?”
“I voted for McCain and my husband just got laid off from Chrysler and my name’s not—” A quiet, breathy voice sounded in Scarpetta’s earpiece.
“What’s your question?”
“My question’s for Kay. You know, I feel close to you, Kay. I just wish you could drop by and have coffee, because I know we’d be good friends and I’d love to offer you spiritual guidance you’re not going to get from any lab—”
“What’s your question?” Carley cut in.
“What kind of tests they might do to see if a body has begun decomposing. I believe they can test air these days with some kind of robot—”
“I haven’t heard anything about a robot,” Carley interrupted again.
“I wasn’t asking you, Carley. I don’t know what to believe anymore except forensic science certainly isn’t solving what’s wrong with the world. The other morning I was reading an article by Dr. Benton Wesley, who is Kay’s highly respected forensic psychologist husband, and according to him, the clearance rate for homicides has dropped thirty percent in the past twenty years and is expected to continue to plummet. Meanwhile, one out of every thirty adults or about that is in prison in this country, so imagine if we caught everybody else who deserves it. Where are we going to put them and how can we afford it? I wanted to know, Kay, if it’s true about the robot.”
“What you’re referring to is a detector that’s been dubbed a mechanical sniffer or electronic nose, and yes, you’re right,” Scarpetta said. “There is such a thing, and it’s used in place of cadaver dogs to search for clandestine graves.”
“This question’s for you, Carley. It’s a pity you’re so banal and rude. Just look at how you disgrace yourself night after—”
“Not a question.” Carley disconnected the call. “And I’m afraid we’re out of time.” She stared into the camera and shuffled papers on the desk—papers that were nothing more than a prop. “Join me tomorrow night on The Crispin Report for more exclusive details about the shocking disappearance of Hannah Starr. Is she connected to the brutal murder of Toni Darien, whose brutalized body was found in Central Park this morning? Is the missing link a yellow taxi, and should the public be warned? Talking with me again will be former FBI forensic psychiatrist Warner Agee, who believes both women may have been murdered by a violent sexual psychopath who could be a cabdriver in New York City and that city officials may be withholding this information to protect tourism. That’s right. Tourism.”
“Carley, we’re off the air.” A cameraman’s voice.
“Did we get that last part about tourism? I should have hung up on that woman sooner,” Carley said to the dark set. “I’m assuming there were a hell of a lot of callers on hold.”
Silence. Then, “We got the part about tourism. A real cliff-hanger, Carley.”
“Well, that should get the phones ringing around here,” Carley said to Scarpetta. “Thanks so much. That was great. Didn’t you think it was great?”
“I thought we had an agreement.” Scarpetta removed her earpiece.
“I didn’t ask you about Hannah or Toni. I made statements. You can’t expect me to ignore credible information. You don’t have to answer anything you’re uncomfortable with, and you handled yourself perfectly. Why don’t you come back tomorrow night? I’ll have you and Warner on. I’m going to ask him to work up a profile of the cabdriver,” Carley said.
“Based on what?” Scarpetta said heatedly. “Some antiquated anecdotal theory of profiling that isn’t based on empirical research? If Warner Agee has something to do with the information you just released, you’ve got a problem. Ask yourself how he would know it. He’s not remotely involved in these cases. And for the record, he was never an FBI profiler.”
Scarpetta unclipped her mike, got up from the table, and stepped over cables, heading out of the studio alone. Emerging into a brightly lit long hallway, she passed poster-size photographs of Wolf Blitzer, Nancy Grace, Anderson Cooper, and Candy Crowley, and inside the makeup room she was surprised to discover Alex Bachta sitting on a high swivel chair. He was staring blankly at a TV with the sound turned low as he talked on the phone. She retrieved her coat from a hanger in the closet.
“. . . Not that there was any doubt, but I’d agree, yes, a fait ac compli. We can’t have this sort of . . . I know, I know,” Alex said to whoever was on the line. “Got to go.”
He looked serious and tired in his rumpled shirt and tie as he hung up. Scarpetta noticed how gray his neatly trimmed beard was getting, how creased his face was, and the bags under his eyes. Carley had that effect on people.
“Don’t ask me again,” Scarpetta said to him.
Alex motioned for her to shut the door as lights on the phone began to flash.
“I quit,” she added.
“Not so fast. Have a seat.”
“You violated my contract. More important, you violated my trust, Alex. Where did you get the scene photograph, for God’s sake?”
“Carley does her own research. I had nothing to do with it. CNN had nothing to do with it. We had no idea Carley was going to say a fucking thing about yellow cabs and hairs being found. Jesus Christ, I hope it’s true. Huge headlines, well, that’s great. But it damn well better be true.”
“You hope it’s true there’s a serial killer driving a yellow cab in the city?”
“Not what I mean. Jesus, Kay. A damn hornet’s nest, the phones are going crazy. The NYPD deputy commissioner of public information is denying it. Categorically denying it. He said the detail about Hannah Starr’s decomposing head hair being found is unfounded, complete crap. Is he right?”
“I’m not going to help you with this.”
“Fucking Carley. She’s so damn competitive, so damn jealous of Nancy Grace, Bill Kurtis, Dominick Dunne. She’d better have something to back up what she just said, because people are flying all over us. I can’t imagine what tomorrow wi
ll be like. Interestingly enough, though, the yellow cab connection? Neither denied nor confirmed by NYPD. So, what do you make of that?”
“I’m not going to make anything of it,” Scarpetta said. “My job as a forensic analyst isn’t to help you work cases on the air.”
“It would have been better if we’d had B roll of the mechanical sniffer.” Alex shoved his fingers through his hair.
“I didn’t know the subject was going to come up. I’d been promised Hannah Starr wouldn’t come up. It was never a question that Toni Darien would. Good God. You know she’s an OCME case, was at my office this morning. You promised me, Alex. What happened to contracts?”
“I’m trying to envision what it looks like. Rather hard to take it seriously, some crime-busting tool called a sniffer. But then I suppose most police departments don’t have access to cadaver dogs.”
“You can’t bring in experts who are actively working criminal cases and allow this sort of thing to happen.”
“If you had explained cadaver dogs. That would have been amazing.”
“I would have been happy to go into detail about that, but not the other. You agreed the Starr case was off-limits. You know damn well the Toni Darien case is off-limits.”
“Look. You were great tonight, okay?” He met her eyes and sighed. “I know you don’t think so and you’re upset. I know you’re pissed, understandably. So am I.”
Scarpetta dropped her coat in a makeup chair and sat. “I probably should have resigned months ago, a year ago. Never done it to begin with. I promised Dr. Edison I would never discuss active cases, and he took me at my word. You’ve put me in jeopardy.”
“I didn’t. Carley did.”
“No, I did. I put myself in jeopardy when I of all people know better. I’m sure you can find some forensic pathologist or criminal ist who’d love to do this and would be happy to voice sensational opinions and speculations instead of being cautiously theoretical and objective the way I am.”
“Kay . . .”
“I can’t be a Carley. That’s not who I am.”
“Kay, The Crispin Report is in the toilet. Not just the ratings, but she’s being blasted by reviewers, by bloggers, and I’m getting complaints from the top, have been getting them for a while. Carley used to be a decent journalist, but no longer, that’s for damn sure. She wasn’t my idea, and in all fairness to the network, she’s known from the start this is an audition.”
The Scarpetta Factor Page 14