Predator

by Patricia Cornwell

  “Interesting it would be back there, and appears to have been there for a while. Someone keep Lucy up on what we’re talking about. Where is she?”

  “Don’t know,” Marino says.

  “We need the DNA of Florrie Quincy and her daughter, Helen,” Scarpetta’s voice then says. “See if it’s their blood in the beach shop. Beach Bums.”

  “Single-donor blood in the bathroom,” Randy says. “Definitely not the blood of two people, and if there were, we could certainly tell if the two people were related. For instance, mother and daughter.”

  “I’ll get on it,” Phil says. “I mean the SEM part.”

  “Just how many cases are there?” Joe says. “And are you assuming they’re all connected? Is that why we’re supposed to treat everybody as if they’re dead?”

  “I’m not assuming everything’s connected,” Scarpetta’s voice answers. “But I’m worried it might be.”

  “Like I was saying about the Simister case, no dice with CODIS,” Randy resumes, “but the DNA from the inside of the bloody latex glove is different from the DNA of the blood on the outside of it. Which isn’t surprising. The inside would have skin cells that were shed by the wearer. The blood on the outside would be from someone else, at least that’s what you might suppose,” he explains, and Matthew wonders how the man can be married.

  Who could live with him? Who could stand it?

  “Is the blood Daggie Simister’s?” Scarpetta bluntly asks.

  Like everybody else, she logically would suspect that the bloody glove found at the scene of Daggie Simister’s homicide would, no doubt, be covered with her blood.

  “Well, actually, the blood from the carpet is.”

  “He means the carpet by the window where we think she might have been hit on the head,” Joe says.

  “I’m talking about the blood on the glove. Is it Daggie Simister’s?” Scarpetta’s voice asks, and it is beginning to sound strained.

  “No sir.”

  Randy says “no sir” to everyone, regardless of the person’s gender.

  “That’s definitely not her blood on that glove, which is curious,” Randy tediously explains. “Now, you would expect it to be her blood.”

  Oh God. Here he goes again, Matthew thinks.

  “Here are these latex gloves at the crime scene, and the blood’s on the outside of one but not on the inside.”

  “Why would blood be on the inside?” Marino scowls at him.

  “It’s not.”

  “I know it’s not, but why would it be?”

  “Well, for instance, if the perpetrator injured himself somehow, bled inside the glove, perhaps cut himself while he was wearing gloves. I’ve seen it before in stabbings. The perpetrator has on gloves, nicks himself and gets his blood inside a glove, which clearly didn’t happen in this case. Which brings me to the important question. If the blood is the killer’s in the Simister case, why would it be all over the outside of a glove? And why is that DNA different from the DNA I got from inside that same glove?”

  “I think we’re clear on the question,” Matthew says, because he can stand Randy’s supercilious sidewinding monologue maybe one minute longer.

  After a minute, Matthew will have to walk out of the lab, pretend he has to visit the men’s room, run an errand, eat poison.

  “The outside of the glove is where you’d expect blood to be if the perpetrator touched something bloody or someone bloody,” Randy says.

  They all know the answer, but Scarpetta doesn’t. Randy’s building up to the crescendo, playing it out, and no one can steal his thunder. DNA is his department.

  “Randy?” Scarpetta’s voice sounds.

  It’s the voice she uses when Randy is confusing and annoying everyone, including her.

  “Do we know whose blood it is on that glove?” she asks him.

  “Yes sir we do. Well, almost. It’s either Johnny Swift’s or his brother, Laurel. They’re identical twins,” he finally says it. “So their DNA’s the same.”

  “You still there?” Matthew asks Scarpetta after a long silence.

  Then Marino comments, “I just don’t see how it could be Laurel’s blood. He’s not the one whose blood was all over the living room when his brother’s head was blown off.”

  “Well, I for one am totally baffled,” Mary, the toxicologist, joins in. “Johnny Swift got shot way back in November, so how does his blood suddenly show up some ten weeks later in a case that doesn’t appear to be related?”

  “How does his blood show up at the Daggie Simister murder scene at all?” Scarpetta’s voice fills the room.

  “It’s certainly within the realm of possibility that the gloves were planted,” Joe says.

  “Maybe you should state the damn obvious,” Marino snipes at him. “And what’s obvious is whoever blew that poor old lady’s head off is telling us he had something to do with Johnny Swift’s death. Someone’s fucking with us.”

  “He’d had recent surgery….”

  “Bullshit,” Marino snaps. “No way the damn gloves came from some carpal tunnel surgery. Jesus Christ. You’re looking for unicorns when there’s horses everywhere.”

  “What?”

  “I think the damn message is pretty damn clear,” Marino says again, pacing the lab, talking loudly, his face bright red. “Whoever killed her is saying he also killed Johnny Swift. And the gloves are to fuck with us.”

  “We can’t assume it’s not Laurel’s blood,” Scarpetta’s voice says.

  “If it is, that certainly might explain things,” Randy says.

  “It don’t explain shit. If Laurel killed Mrs. Simister, why the hell would he leave his DNA in the sink?” Marino retorts.

  “Maybe it’s Johnny Swift’s blood, then.”

  “Shut up, Randy. You’re curling my hair.”

  “You don’t have any hair, Pete,” Randy says seriously.

  “You want to tell me how the hell we’re going to figure out whether it’s Laurel or Johnny, since their DNA’s supposedly the same?” Marino exclaims. “This is so fucked up it isn’t even funny.”

  He looks accusingly at Randy, then at Matthew, then back at Randy. “You sure you didn’t get something mixed up when you did your tests?”

  He never cares who hears him when he impeaches a person’s credibility or is just plain nasty.

  “Like maybe one or the other of you got swabs mixed up or something,” Marino says.

  “No sir. Absolutely not,” Randy replies. “Matthew received the samples and I did the extractions and analyses and ran them in CODIS. There was no break in the chain of evidence, and Johnny Swift’s DNA is in the database, because everybody who’s autopsied these days goes in there, meaning Johnny Swift’s DNA was entered into CODIS last November. I believe I’m right about that? You still there?” he asks Scarpetta.

  “I’m still here…” she starts to say.

  “The policy as of last year is to enter all cases, whether it’s suicide, accident, homicide or even a natural death,” Joe pontificates, interrupting her as usual. “Just because someone’s a victim or his death is unrelated to crime doesn’t mean he might not have been involved in criminal activity at some point in his life. I’m assuming we’re sure the Swift brothers are identical twins.”

  “Look alike, talk alike, dress alike, fuck alike,” Marino whispers to him.

  “Marino?” Scarpetta’s voice resumes its presence. “Did the police submit a sample of Laurel Swift’s DNA at the time of his brother’s death?”

  “Nope. No reason to.”

  “Not even for exclusionary purposes?” Joe asks.

  “Excluded from what? DNA wasn’t relevant,” Marino says to him. “Laurel’s DNA would be all over that house. He lives there.”

  “It would be good if we could test Laurel’s DNA,” Scarpetta’s voice says. “Matthew? Did you use any chemicals on the bloody glove, the one from Daggie Simister’s scene? Anything that might cause a problem if we want to do further testing?”

&nbs
p; “Superglue,” Matthew says. “And by the way, I ran the one print I got. Nothing. Nothing in AFIS. Couldn’t match it up with the partial from the seat belt in the station wagon. Wasn’t enough minutiae.”

  “Mary? I want you to get samples of the blood on that glove.”

  “Superglue shouldn’t have made a difference since it reacts to the amino acids in skin oils, sweat, and not blood,” Joe feels compelled to explain. “We should be all right.”

  “I’ll be glad to get her a sample,” Matthew says to the black telephone. “There’s plenty of bloody latex left.”

  “Marino?” Scarpetta’s voice says. “I want you to go to the ME’s office and get Johnny Swift’s case file.”

  “I can do it,” Joe quickly says.

  “Marino?” she reiterates. “Inside the file should be his DNA cards. We always make more than one.”

  “You touch that case file, your teeth will end up in the back of your head,” Marino whispers to Joe.

  “You can place one of the cards inside an evidence envelope and receipt it to Mary,” Scarpetta’s voice is saying. “And Mary? Take a sample of the blood from that card and a sample from the glove.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you,” Mary says, and Matthew doesn’t blame her.

  He can’t imagine what a toxicologist might be able to do with a drop of dried blood from a DNA card and an equally small amount of dried blood from a glove.

  “Maybe you mean Randy,” Mary suggests. “Are you talking about more DNA testing?”

  “No,” she says. “I want you to check for lithium.”

  Scarpetta rinses a whole young chicken in the sink. Her Treo is in her pocket, the earpiece in her ear.

  “Because his blood wouldn’t have been screened for it at the time,” she is saying to Marino over the phone. “If he was still taking lithium, apparently his brother never bothered telling the police.”

  “They should have found a prescription bottle at the scene,” Marino replies. “What’s that noise?”

  “I’m opening cans of chicken broth. Too bad you’re not here. I don’t know why they didn’t find any lithium,” she says, emptying the cans into a copper pot. “But it’s possible his brother collected any prescription bottles so the police wouldn’t find them.”

  “Why? It’s not like it’s cocaine or something.”

  “Johnny Swift was a prominent neurologist. He might not have wanted people to know he had a psychiatric disorder.”

  “I sure as hell wouldn’t want someone with mood swings screwing with my brain, now that you mention it.”

  She chops onions. “In reality, his bipolar disorder probably had no effect at all on his skills as a physician, but there are plenty of ignorant people in the world. Again, it’s possible Laurel didn’t want the police or anybody else to know about his brother’s problem.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. If what he said is true, he ran from the house right after he found the body. Doesn’t sound to me like he wandered around collecting pill bottles.”

  “I guess you’re going to have to ask him.”

  “As soon as we get the lithium results. Rather go in when I know what’s what. And right now we’ve got a bigger problem,” he says.

  “I’m not sure how our problems could get much bigger,” she says, cutting up the chicken.

  “It’s about the shotgun shell,” Marino says. “The one NIBIN got a hit on up there in the Walden Pond case.”

  Ididn’t want to say anything about it in front of everybody else,” Marino explains over the phone. “Someone on the inside, has to be. No other explanation.”

  He sits at his office desk, the door shut and locked.

  “Here’s what happened,” he goes on. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of everybody else,” he repeats himself, “but earlier this morning I had a little chat with a buddy of mine at Hollywood PD who’s in charge of the evidence room. So he checked the computer. It took all of five minutes for him to access the info on the shotgun used in that convenience-store robbery-homicide from two years back. And guess where the shotgun’s supposed to be, Doc. Are you sitting down?”

  “Sitting down has never helped,” she says. “Tell me.”

  “In our own fucking reference collection.”

  “At the Academy? Our reference firearms collection at the Academy?”

  “Hollywood PD donated it to us about a year ago when they gave us a bunch of other guns they no longer needed. Remember?”

  “Have you actually walked into the firearms lab to make sure it isn’t there?”

  “It’s not going to be. We know it was just used to kill some lady up there where you are.”

  “Go check right now,” she says. “Call me back.”

  51

  Hog waits in line.

  He stands behind a fat lady wearing a loud, pink suit. He holds his boots in one hand, and a tote bag, driver’s license and boarding pass in the other. He moves ahead and places his boots and coat in a plastic tub.

  He places the tub and his bag on the black belt, and they move away from him. He stands in the two white footprints, both stocking feet exactly on the white footprints on the carpet, and an airport security officer nods for him to pass through the x-ray scanner, and he does and nothing beeps, and he shows the officer his boarding pass, grabs his boots and jacket out of the tray, grabs his bag. He begins walking to gate twenty-one. Nobody pays any attention to him.

  He still smells the rotting bodies. He can’t seem to get the stench out of his nose. Maybe it’s an olfactory hallucination. He’s had them before. Sometimes he smells the cologne, the Old Spice cologne that he smelled when he did the bad thing on the mattress and was sent away where there were old brick houses, where it was snowing and cold, where he’s going now. It is snowing, not much, but some. He checked the weather before he took a taxi to the airport. He didn’t want to leave his Blazer in long-term parking. That costs real money, and it wouldn’t be good if someone looked inside the back of it. He hasn’t cleaned it up very well.

  In his bag are a few things, not much. All he needs is a change of clothing, a few toiletries, different boots that fit better. He won’t need his old boots much longer. They are a biological hazard, and the thought amuses him. Now that he thinks about it as the boots walk toward the gate, maybe he should save the boots in perpetuity. They have quite a history, have walked in places as if he owned them, taken people away as if he owned them, have returned to places and climbed up on things to spy, walked right in, brazenly, the boots carrying him from room to room from place to place, doing what God says. Punishing. Confusing people. The shotgun. The glove. To show them.

  God has an IQ of a hundred and fifty.

  His boots carried him right into the house, and he had the hood on before they even knew what was happening. Stupid religious freaks. Stupid little orphans. Stupid little orphan walking into the pharmacy, Mom Number One holding his hand so he could get his prescription filled. Lunatic. Hog hates lunatics, fucking religious freaks, hates little boys, little girls, hates Old Spice. Marino wears Old Spice, the big, dumb cop. Hog hates Dr. Self, should have put her on the mattress, had fun with the ropes, gotten her good after what she did.

  Hog ran out of time. God isn’t happy.

  There wasn’t time to punish the worst offender of all.

  You’ll have to go back, God said. This time with Basil.

  Hog’s boots walk toward the gate, carry him to Basil. They’ll have their good times again, just like those times in the old days after Hog did the bad thing, was sent away, then sent back, then met Basil in a bar.

  He was never afraid of Basil, not the least bit put off by him from the first moment they found themselves sitting next to each other, drinking tequila. They had several together, and there was something about him. Hog could tell.

  He said, You’re different.

  I’m a cop, Basil said.

  This was in South Beach, where Hog often cruised and hung out, looking for sex,
looking for drugs.

  You’re not just a cop, Hog said to him. I can tell.

  Oh, really?

  I can tell. I know about people.

  How about I take you somewhere, and Hog had a sense that Basil had figured him out, too. I’ve got something you can do for me, Basil said to Hog.

  Why should I do anything for you?

  Because you’ll like it.

  Later that night, Hog was in Basil’s car, not his police car but a white Ford LTD that looked just like an unmarked police car but wasn’t. It was his personal car. They weren’t in Miami, and he couldn’t possibly drive a marked car with Dade County on it. Someone might remember seeing it. Hog was a little disappointed. He loves police cars, loves sirens and lights. All those lights lit up and flashing remind him of The Christmas Shop.

  No way they’ll ever think twice if you talk to them, Basil said that first night they met, after they’d been riding around awhile, smoking crack.

  Why me? Hog asked, and he wasn’t the least bit afraid.

  Common sense would dictate that he should have been. Basil kills whomever he pleases, always has. He could have killed Hog. Easily.

  God told Hog what to do. That’s what kept Hog safe.

  Basil spotted the girl. It turned out later she was only eighteen. She was getting cash at an ATM, her car nearby, the engine running. Stupid. Never get cash after dark, especially if you are a young girl, a pretty one, all alone in shorts and a tight T-shirt. If you’re a young girl, a pretty one, bad things happen.

  Give me your knife and your gun, Hog told Basil.

  Hog tucked the gun in his waistband and cut his thumb with the knife. He smeared blood on his face and climbed over the seat, lying down in back. Basil rolled up to the ATM and got out of the car. He opened the back door, checking on Hog, looking appropriately distressed.

  It will be all right, he said to Hog. To the girl he said, Please help us. My friend’s been hurt. Where’s the nearest hospital?

  Oh my God. We should call nine-one-one, and she frantically dug her cell phone out of her bag and Basil shoved her hard into the backseat, and then Hog had the gun in her face.