Postmortem

by Patricia Cornwell

  “Absolutely not. I said her name had come up. And she leapt to the conclusion that the parents of the sixteen-year-old Eagle Scout honor student she accidentally ran over in her Bentley are always trying to cause her problems. You know, shocking acts of aggression like lawsuits to pay medical bills that aren’t covered by insurance, but how is that her fault? And she complained about the sob stories to the media. She supposed that the parents no doubt heard about the, and I quote, Midget Murder, and decided to somehow drag her through more public embarrassment.”

  “What a fucking bitch.”

  “I’m still thinking contamination,” Berger said. “I can’t see any other explanation for the DNA. Maybe Kay will have an insight that eludes me at the moment. And tomorrow, hopefully, we’ll have Oscar’s DNA. But we expect his DNA to be on everything. A positive result isn’t likely to be helpful.”

  “What about his e-mail? His consent or not, you can access it, right? I’m assuming he e-mailed Terri,” Benton said.

  “We can access it, and we will. And no one’s telling him that. In summary, and I think we’ve established this clearly? He’s really not as cooperative as he might seem. Unless we find probable cause for his arrest, that won’t change. A very difficult position for me. I have to be extra-careful, yet I want to know what Kay knows. He’s telling her something up there in the infirmary. Something he’s not telling us and she’s not allowed to divulge under the current circumstances. I’m sure I don’t need to ask, but she has no history with Oscar Bane?”

  “If she does, she didn’t know about it, didn’t remember it, or she would have said something the minute I mentioned his name when I called her earlier,” Benton said. “But we’re not going to find out unless Oscar is arrested or volunteers to waive doctor-patient confidentiality. I know Kay. She’s not going to say anything improper.”

  “What about a connection with Terri Bridges? Possible?”

  “Can’t imagine it. If Oscar discusses Terri with her, and she realizes there’s a connection, she’ll immediately recuse herself or at least notify us so we could figure out what to do.”

  “Not a fun thing to put her through,” Berger said. “Not fun for either of you, really. I imagine you’re not used to it. Professional discussions are your dinner conversations. They’re your dialogues on weekends, holidays. They’re even the source of fights, perhaps.” Her eyes on his. “Nothing off-limits unless you’re expert witnesses for opposing counsel in the same court case, and that almost never happens. Quite the team, the two of you. No secrets. Always professionally inseparable. And now, personally inseparable. I hope it’s going well.”

  “No, this isn’t fun.” He didn’t like her personal references. “It would be easier if Oscar’s charged with killing his girlfriend. That’s a terrible thing to hope.”

  “We hope a lot of things we don’t want to admit,” she said. “But fact is, if he murdered Terri Bridges, we’re not looking for someone else.”

  She remembered snow that stung like nettles, and she needed a pound of Breakfast Blend coffee, but she didn’t feel like going out. Overall, there was nothing good she could say about that day.

  She’d had a harder time than usual with a column she was supposed to post, an especially mean-spirited one titled “The Ex-File,” which was a list of celebrities whose fans had turned on them and why. Certainly Shrew had to leave out that part as she wrote the scene for Investigator Marino. There was a lot she had to leave out. For example, she couldn’t tell him her horror when her doorbell rang, and she let Terri in, not realizing the Gotham Gotcha website programming was as big as life on her twenty-four-inch computer screen.

  Terri set the basket on the coffee table and walked right over to the desk, which was forward of her, now that Shrew thought about it as she wrote the scene on her pad of paper, leaving out what she was remembering right this minute.

  Terri looked at what was on the screen, and Shrew tried to figure out how to explain what was clearly a Gotham Gotcha column, formatted and embedded in actual programming language.

  What’s this? Terri was so short, she was eye level with the computer screen on top of the desk.

  I confess I read Gotham Gotcha.

  Why does it look like that? Are you a computer programmer? I didn’t know you worked.

  I have display codes on because I’m such a ninny. Please sit down. Shrew almost bumped her out of the way so she could exit the program. No, I certainly don’t work. She was quick to clear that up.

  Terri sat on the sofa and her feet stuck straight out from the edge of the cushion, because her legs were stunted. She said she used e-mail, but aside from that was computer-illiterate. Of course, she was familiar with Gotham Gotcha, because she saw ads for it everywhere and heard references to it all the time, but she didn’t read it. Graduate school didn’t allow her time to read for pleasure, although she wouldn’t read a gossip column anyway. It wasn’t her thing. In fact, she’d heard it was filth and lowbrow. And she wanted to know if Shrew thought so, too.

  “I don’t know how to write a movie script,” Shrew said to Investigator Marino. “I believe they require a special language and formatting, and in fact, people who write them use special software. When I was at Vassar, I took a course in theater and read a number of scripts for plays and musicals, and I’m quite aware that scripts aren’t written to be read. They’re written to be acted, performed, sung, et cetera. I hope you won’t be offended, but it’s better I stick to plain prose. At any rate, let me read this to you.”

  She had a tickle in her throat. Memories and bourbon were making her emotional, and she sensed that Investigator Marino wouldn’t be sitting in the recliner if he had nothing better to do. He did have better things to do. Asking her to write a movie scene and all the rest hinted that what had happened across the street was part of a much bigger, more threatening problem. The only other explanation would be the worst one of all. He was an undercover agent, perhaps for the federal government, and believed she was involved with terrorists because of unusual banking activity, such as wires from the UK and the fact that she didn’t pay what she should in taxes, since on paper, it didn’t appear she had an income beyond Social Security benefits and other monies she received in dribs and drabs.

  She read from the pad of paper. “Terri set the basket on the coffee table and climbed up on the sofa with great agility and no hesitation, and it was quite clear she was accustomed to improvising and compensating for her short arms and legs. She managed in an effortless way, but I’d never seen her sit, so it did startle me a bit that her feet stuck out from the edge of the cushion like a cartoon character or a five-year-old. It’s important to add that no matter what she said or did, from the instant I opened my door to her, I could tell she was immensely sad. Indeed, she seemed quietly frantic, and held the basket in a way that told me something unusual was in it that she neither wanted nor was comfortable with.

  “I need to mention how she was dressed, because that, indeed, is part of a scene. She had on blue jeans and ankle boots, navy socks, and a navy blue cotton shirt. She was not wearing a coat, but had on blue dishwashing gloves, because she’d rushed out of her apartment as if it were on fire. No question, she was in the midst of a true crisis.

  “ ‘What on earth has happened?’ I said to her, and I offered her refreshment, which she declined.

  “ ‘I know you love animals. Especially dogs,’ she said, looking at all of the crystal and porcelain dogs placed about my apartment, gifts from my husband.

  “ ‘It’s true, but I don’t know how you would know. I haven’t had a dog since you moved in across the street.’

  “ ‘When we chat on the sidewalk, you mention them and notice other people out walking them. I’m sorry. This is urgent. I don’t know where else to turn.’

  “I pulled back the towel and I thought my heart would break. Ivy was no bigger than a small flashlight, and so quiet, I thought at first she was dead. Terri said it was a gift, and she couldn’t keep it, and he
r boyfriend had tried to get the shop to take it back. But it wouldn’t. Ivy wasn’t thriving, and right then a part of me knew she wouldn’t make it. She didn’t move until I picked her up to hold her against my heart, and she nuzzled her little head under my neck. I called her Ivy because she clung to me like . . .”

  Shrew dried her eyes with a tissue and after a moment said to Investigator Marino, “I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s as far as I got. It’s too painful. And I’m still so angry about it. Why are you upsetting me like this? If you’re toying with me, then I’ll file a complaint against you with Jaime Berger’s office. I don’t care if you’re the police. I’ll complain about you all the same. And if you’re some secret agent for the government, just come right out and say it and get it over with.”

  “I’m not toying with you, and I’m sure as hell not a secret agent,” he said, and she detected kindness in his otherwise firm tone. “I promise I wouldn’t be digging into all this if it wasn’t important. Obviously, Terri’s bringing the sick puppy over here’s something I need to know about because it’s unusual and isn’t consistent with a few other things I’m aware of. I was inside her apartment earlier today. Went over there after talking to her parents. They live in Arizona. Maybe you knew that.”

  “I didn’t know. I can’t imagine what a mess her apartment must be.”

  “You told me you’ve never been inside it.”

  “Never.”

  “Let me put it to you this way. She’s not a pet person. You could eat off her floors, and anybody as concerned about tidiness and cleanliness as she was wouldn’t have pets. And she didn’t have pets, and the reason I can say that with certainty is after I saw her apartment and noticed all the antibacterial soaps and the rest of it, I called her parents a second time and asked a few more questions. That’s when the subject of pets came up. They said even as a child, she never had a pet and wouldn’t have anything to do with other people’s pets. She wouldn’t touch a dog or cat, and was afraid of them, and hated the hell out of birds. Maybe if you think back to that scene you just described to me, you’ll take a look at a couple of the details and see them in a different light. She didn’t have on her coat, but she was wearing dishwashing gloves. You assumed she was washing the dishes when someone arrived with the sick puppy as a gift, and in a panic, she fled across the street to see you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask her why she had on dishwashing gloves?”

  “I did. And that’s what she told me. She seemed slightly embarrassed, and took them off and gave them to me to throw away.”

  “Did she touch the puppy after she took them off?”

  “She never touched the puppy. She took the gloves off as she was leaving. I suppose I should make that clear. It was toward the end.”

  “That’s right. She had the gloves on because she was afraid of germs. She wasn’t wearing a coat because she didn’t want the sick puppy’s germs on it or germs from your apartment on it, and it’s easier to wash a shirt than a coat. I bet she left the basket and towel in your apartment, too.”

  “She certainly did.”

  “She knew damn well the puppy was sick as hell and dying when she gave it to you.”

  “I told you I was angry.”

  “Damn right you are. She knew the puppy was going to die, so she dumps it on you. That was a pretty lousy thing to do. Especially to someone who loves animals. She took advantage of you because you have a tender heart, especially when it comes to dogs. But the big question is, where did she get Ivy? You see what I mean?”

  “Exactly,” Shrew said, feeling very angry now.

  Those few days with Ivy were hell on earth. All Shrew did was cry as she held Ivy and tried to get her to drink water and eat something. By the time she got her to the vet, it was too late.

  “No one who knew Terri would give her a puppy and think it was a nice thing to do,” Investigator Marino said. “Certainly not a sick one. I can’t imagine her boyfriend would do that, unless he’s a mean son of a bitch and did it to hurt her, to make her suffer, to jerk her around.”

  “Well, she certainly was unhappy. Beside herself, really.”

  “It reminds me of dirty tricks little boys play on little girls in school. Remember? Scaring them with a spider, a snake in a shoe box. Whatever would make the little girl scream. Terri was afraid. She was afraid of germs and dirt, of sickness and death. So it was sick to give her a sick puppy.”

  “If what you’re saying is true, it was diabolical.”

  “How long have you and Terri Bridges lived across the street from each other?” he asked, and leather creaked as he stretched his legs.

  “She moved in about two years ago. I never knew her last name. We weren’t friends, I need to make that clear. Other than running into her, really. Usually on the sidewalk when both of us were heading in and out, although I also want to make it clear I’m not aware that she was out a lot. I don’t think she has a car. Walks like I do. Over the years I have run into her a few other places. Once in Lands’ End, both of us like their shoes, turns out. She was getting a pair of Mary Jane Trekkers, I remember that. Once I ran into her near the Guggenheim. In fact, I believe it was the last time I went to the Guggenheim, for a Jackson Pollock exhibit. We ran into each other on the sidewalk and stopped to chat.”

  “She was going to a museum?”

  “I don’t believe so. I think she was just walking. But I do recall her face looked rather red and puffy, and she had on a hat and sunglasses, even though it was overcast. I wondered if she had gotten into something she was allergic to, or maybe had been crying. I didn’t ask. I’m not a nosy person.”

  “Her last name’s Bridges.” He said it again. “It was in today’s Post. So nobody’s mentioned it.”

  “I don’t read the Post. I get all the news I want on the Internet.” Instantly, she regretted saying it.

  The last thing she needed was for him to get nosy about what she did on the Internet.

  “Well, TV, mostly,” she added. “If you don’t mind my asking, how bad was it? The break-in? It appears a police car’s been there all day, and you’ve been over there, and I haven’t seen her. I’m sure she went to stay with family, perhaps her boyfriend. I wouldn’t sleep a wink after something like that. I’ve noticed you’ve used the past tense several times, as if she’s not over there anymore. And you’ve talked to her family. So I assume it was bad. I don’t know what her family in Arizona has to do with . . . Well, why you would talk to them. It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

  He said, “I’m afraid it doesn’t get any worse.”

  Something fluttered in her stomach like fingers about to grab.

  Leather creaked loudly as he leaned forward in a chair not meant for him, and his face got bigger as he said to her, “Where’d you get the idea it was a burglary?”

  “I just thought . . .” She could barely speak.

  “I’m sorry to tell you it wasn’t. Your neighbor was murdered last night. Kind of hard to believe you weren’t aware of all the commotion out there, right across the street. Police cars, a van from the Medical Examiner’s office.”

  Shrew thought about Dr. Scarpetta.

  “A lot of flashing lights and car doors slamming shut, and people talking. And you didn’t hear or see a thing,” he said it again.

  “Did Dr. Scarpetta show up at the scene?” she blurted out, wiping her eyes, her heart racing.

  The look on his face—it was as if she’d just given him the finger.

  “What the hell are you getting at?” he said, not nicely.

  She realized it much too late. She hadn’t made the connection, at least not consciously, before this instant. How could it be possible? P. R. Marino? As in Pete Marino, the same name in the column she herself had edited, formatted, and posted. It couldn’t be the same person, could it? That Marino lived in South Carolina, didn’t he? He didn’t work for Jaime Berger, surely not. A woman like Ms. Berger wouldn’t hire a man like that, would she?

  Shre
w was about to panic, her heart beating so hard, her chest hurt. If this Marino was the same one the Boss had just written about, then he had no business sitting in Shrew’s living room, in her husband’s recliner. For all she knew, he was the maniac who murdered that defenseless little lady across the street.

  This was exactly how the Boston Strangler got his victims. Pretended to be someone nice and responsible. Had a cup of tea and a pleasant conversation in the living room right before he . . .

  “What about Dr. Scarpetta?” Investigator Marino looked at Shrew as if she had insulted him unforgivably.

  “I worry about her,” Shrew said as calmly as she could, her hands shaking so hard she had to lace them tightly in her lap. “I worry about all the publicity she gets and the nature of what she . . . well, the subject matter. It appeals to the ones who do the things she talks about.”

  She took a deep breath. She’d said just the right thing. What she mustn’t do is make any allusion to having read anything about Dr. Scarpetta on the Internet, specifically in the very columns Shrew had posted today.

  “I have a feeling you’re thinking about something in particular,” he said. “So get it out on the table.”

  “I think she might be in danger,” Shrew said. “It’s just a feeling.”

  “Based on what?” He looked stonily at her.

  “Terrorists,” she said.

  “Terrorists?” He looked less stony. “What terrorists?” He didn’t look as offended.

  “It’s what all of us are afraid of these days.” Shrew tried that tactic.

  “I tell you what.” Pete Marino got up and was a giant towering over her. “I’m leaving my card for you, and I want you to do a lot of thinking. Anything that comes to mind, even if it seems trivial, you call me right away. I don’t care what time it is.”

  “I can’t imagine who would do something like that.” She got up and followed him to the door.

  “It’s always the ones you don’t imagine,” he said. “Either because they knew the victim or they didn’t.”