Postmortem

by Patricia Cornwell

  “Sounds like the landlord might not have been too fond of her,” Benton said.

  “He called her demanding more than once,” Marino said. “Always e-mailed him, though. Never called, as if she was building a court case, is the way he put it.”

  “We can get Lucy to locate those e-mails,” Berger said. “We know which of her eighteen usernames she used for complaining to the landlord? I don’t think it was Lunasee, unless we just didn’t come across anything to or from him while I was with Lucy a little while ago. And by the way, I’ve asked her to forward anything to me she might find. So all of us are rather much online with her while she continues to go through the laptops removed from this apartment.”

  “It’s the one called Railroadrun, like running her railroad. My interpretation,” Marino said. “The landlord said that’s the e-mail address he’s got for her. Anyway, point being, it appears she was a royal pain in the butt.”

  Scarpetta said, “Also appears she had somebody who helped her when she needed something fixed.”

  “Well, I have my doubts it was Oscar,” Berger said. “No references to anything like that in the e-mails we’ve seen so far. Nothing—such as her asking him to come over and unstop the toilet or change a lightbulb in the ceiling. Although his height might have made at least a few tasks rather difficult.”

  “There’s the ladder in the closet upstairs,” Marino said.

  Scarpetta said, “I’d like to wander through alone first.”

  She found the tape measure in her crime scene case and slipped it into her suit jacket pocket, and looked at the evidence inventory that told her which cone corresponded to which item that had been removed from the scene. Some six feet inside the door, to her left, was cone number one, and this was where the flashlight had been found, described as a black metal Luxeon Star with two Duracell lithium batteries, and in working condition. It wasn’t plastic, as Oscar had described, which may or may not be of any consequence, except that a metal flashlight would be a serious weapon, suggesting Oscar hadn’t struck himself very hard at all to cause the bruises she’d examined.

  The cones numbered two through four corresponded to shoe prints lifted from the hardwood floor, described only as having a running shoe-type tread pattern with the approximate dimensions of six and a half by four inches. That was small, and as Scarpetta scanned the list, she noted that a pair of sneakers had been removed from Terri’s closet. Size five, women’s Reeboks, white with pink trim. A size-five woman’s shoe would not be six and a half inches from heel to toe, and as Scarpetta recalled looking at Terri’s feet in the morgue, she remembered them as smaller than that, because of her disproportionately short toes.

  She suspected the shoewear impressions recovered near the door were Oscar’s, and likely had been left when he’d gone in and out of the apartment, back to his car, to leave his coat and do whatever else he might have done after discovering the body.

  That was assuming his story was true, for the most part.

  Other impressions lifted from the floor were of interest because they had been left by bare feet, and Scarpetta recalled seeing several photographs that had been taken in oblique lighting. She had assumed the bare footprints were Terri’s, and the location of them was significant.

  All were clustered just outside the master bathroom where Terri’s body had been found, and Scarpetta wondered if Terri had put on body lotion or oil, perhaps after her shower, and that’s why the bare footprints had been visible on the hardwood floor, all in close proximity to one another. She wondered what it might mean if Terri hadn’t taken her slippers off until she’d been about to enter the area of the apartment where she was murdered. Had she been attacked the instant she’d opened her front door, and had she resisted or been forced to the master bedroom in back, wasn’t there a good chance her slippers would have come off earlier?

  In all of her years working homicide scenes, it had been Scarpetta’s experience that bedroom slippers, one or both, rarely stayed on once the violent encounter occurred. People literally were scared out of them.

  She walked as far as the dining room, and from here the smell of cooked chicken was stronger and more unpleasant, the kitchen just ahead, and then the guestroom/office, according to the detailed computer-aided drafting or CAD of the apartment’s interior and its dimensions that was included in the paperwork Marino had assembled.

  The dining room table was meticulously set, blue-rimmed plates on two starchy spotless blue mats opposite each other, the stainless flatware shiny and exact in its placement, everything just right to the extreme of fussiness, of obsessiveness. Only the flower arrangement was less than perfect, the button poms beginning to hang their heads, and petals had fallen from the larkspur like tears.

  Scarpetta pulled out chairs, checking the blue-velvet cushions for indentations left by someone kneeling to compensate for a dramatically shortened reach. If Terri had climbed up to set the table, she had groomed the nap afterward. All of the furniture was the standard size, the apartment not handicap-equipped. But as Scarpetta began opening closets and cupboards, she found a step stool with a handle, a grabbing tool, and another tool similar to a fireplace poker that Terri probably had used for prodding and pulling.

  In the kitchen, there was chaos in the corner beneath the microwave, drips of blood and smears that had dried a blackish-red, presumably from Oscar cutting his thumb while grabbing a pair of kitchen shears that were no longer here. The wooden block of knives was gone and, like the shears, most likely sent to the labs. On the stove was the pot of uncooked spinach, the handle turned inward, the way people do when they are safety-minded. The chicken in the oven smelled pungent and was stuck to the bottom of the deep aluminum pan, grease coagulated around it like yellow wax.

  Cooking utensils and pot holders were in a neat line on the counter, as were basil, a set of salt and pepper mills, and cooking sherry. In a small ceramic bowl were three lemons, two limes, and a banana that was turning a speckled brown. Nearby was a cork pump, which Scarpetta considered a gadget that ruined the ritual and romance of opening a bottle, and an unopened chardonnay, a decent one for the money. Scarpetta wondered if Terri might have removed the wine from the refrigerator an hour or so before Oscar was due to arrive, again assuming she had been killed by someone other than him. If she had, a possible explanation was she’d done some research and knew that white wine should be served cool, not cold.

  Inside the refrigerator was a bottle of champagne, also a decent one for the money, as if Terri had followed every recommendation she could find, possibly on the Internet, as if her Bible was Consumer Reports. Apparently, no purchase she made was based on passion or playfulness. Whether it was a TV or stemware or china, all of it was the selection of a well-informed shopper who did nothing in a hurry or on a whim.

  In refrigerator drawers were fresh broccoli, peppers, onions, and lettuce, and deli packages of sliced turkey and Swiss cheese that according to their labels had been purchased from a grocery store on Lexington Avenue, several blocks from here, on Sunday, along with the food for last night’s dinner. Salad dressings and condiments in the refrigerator door were low-calorie. In cupboards were crackers, nuts, soups, all low-sodium. The liquor, like everything else, was the best brand for the price: Dewar’s. Smirnoff. Tanqueray. Jack Daniel’s.

  Scarpetta removed the rim from the trash can, not surprised it was brushed steel, which would neither rust nor show finger smudges. To open its lid, one stepped on a pedal and didn’t have to touch anything that might be dirty. Inside the custom-fit white polyethylene bag were wrappers from the roaster chicken and the spinach, and an abundance of crumpled paper towels, and the green paper from the flowers on the table. She wondered if Terri had used the kitchen shears to snip off about three inches of the stems, which were still bound in their rubber band, then cleaned the shears and returned them to the cutlery block.

  There was no receipt because the police had found it last night, and it was listed in the inventory. Terri had bough
t the flowers for eight dollars and ninety-five cents yesterday morning at a local market. Scarpetta suspected the rather pitiful little spring bouquet had been an afterthought. She found it sad to think of someone so lacking in creativity, spontaneity, and heart. What a hellish way to live, and what a shame she had done nothing about it.

  Terri had studied psychology. She certainly would have known she could have been treated for her anxiety disorder, and had she chosen that course, it might have changed her destiny. It was likely her compulsions had led, even if indirectly, to the reason strangers were now inside her apartment and investigating every aspect of who she was and how she had lived.

  Beyond the kitchen, on the right, was the small guest room that was an office. There was nothing in it but a desk, an adjustable chair, a side table with a printer, and, against a wall, two filing cabinets that were empty. Scarpetta stepped back out into the hallway and looked toward the apartment door. Berger, Marino, and Benton were in the living room, examining the evidence inventory and discussing the significance of the small orange cones.

  “Does anybody know if these filing cabinets were empty when the police got here?” Scarpetta asked.

  Marino flipped through his list and said, “Mail and personal papers, is what it says they took. A file box of stuff like that was removed from the closet.”

  “Meaning nothing was taken from actual filing cabinets,” Scarpetta supposed. “That’s rather interesting. There are two of them in here with nothing in them, not even an empty folder. As if they’ve never been used.”

  Marino came toward her and asked, “What about dust?”

  “You can look. But Terri Bridges and dust weren’t compatible. There’s no dust, not a speck.”

  Marino entered the guest room office and opened the filing cabinets, and Scarpetta noted the indentations his booted feet left in the deep-pile dark blue wall-to-wall carpet. She realized there were no other indentations at all, except those left by her when she’d walked in, and that was odd. The police might be fastidious about not tracking dirt and evidence in and out of a scene, but they weren’t about to bother brushing the carpet when they were done.

  “It’s as if no one was in here last night,” she said.

  Marino closed file drawers.

  He said, “Doesn’t look to me like anything was in there, unless someone wiped down the bottom of the drawers. No dust outline of any hanging files that might have been there. But the cops was in here.”

  He finally met her eyes, and his were tentative.

  “You can see on the list the file box was taken out of the closet in here.” He frowned, looking at the carpet, apparently noticing the same thing she had. “Well, that’s fucking weird. I was in here this morning. That closet there”—he pointed—“is where her suitcases were, too.”

  He opened the closet door, where draperies in dry-cleaning bags hung from the rod and more luggage was neatly upright on the floor. Everywhere he stepped, he flattened the pile of the carpet.

  “But it’s like nobody walked in here or else came in after the fact and swept the carpet,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” Scarpetta said. “But what I’m hearing you say is nobody has walked through this apartment since last night except you. When you came in earlier today.”

  “Well, maybe I lost weight, but I don’t float off the ground,” Marino said. “So where the hell are my footprints?”

  On the floor near the desk, a magnetic power connecter was plugged into the wall, and Scarpetta found this curious, too.

  “She packed her laptops for the trip home to Arizona and left a power connecter behind?” she said.

  “Somebody’s been in here,” Marino said. “Probably that fucking Morales.”

  24

  Lucy was alone in her loft, her old bulldog asleep by her chair.

  She read more e-mails from Terri and Oscar as she talked to Scarpetta over the phone:

  Date: Sun, 11 November 2007 11:12:03

  From: “Oscar”

  To: “Terri”

  See, I told you Dr. Scarpetta wasn’t that kind of person. Obviously, she just didn’t get your earlier messages. Amazing how what’s under your nose and obvious sometimes works. Are you going to copy me on the e-mails?

  Date: Sun, 11 November 2007 14:45:16

  From: “Terri”

  To: “Oscar”

  No. That would be a violation of her Privacy.

  This project has now risen to the stars. I’m in awe! So happy!

  “What’s under her nose and obvious? It’s like she tried something, or he did, and got what he or she or both of them wanted,” Lucy said into her jawbone wireless earpiece. “What the hell’s she talking about?”

  “I don’t know what was under her nose, but she’s mistaken. Or not being truthful,” Scarpetta replied.

  “Probably untruthful,” Lucy said. “Which was why she wouldn’t let Oscar see e-mails from you.”

  “There can’t be any e-mails from me,” Scarpetta said again. “I need to ask you about something. I’m standing in the middle of Terri Bridges’s apartment, and it’s not a good place for us to be having this conversation. Especially over cell phones.”

  “I got you your cell phone. Remember? It’s special. You don’t have to worry. Neither do I. Our phones are secure.”

  Lucy talked as she opened each e-mail account and looked in the e-mail trash for anything useful that might have been deleted.

  She said, “May have given Oscar a reason to resent you as well. His girlfriend’s obsessed with her hero, who finally has answered her—he’s led to believe. And she won’t let him see the e-mails. Sounds like you might have created a problem you didn’t know anything about.”

  “Or have anything to do with,” Scarpetta said. “What type of power supplies do her laptops use? That’s my simple question.”

  One of Terri’s e-mail accounts was empty, and Lucy had saved that one for last, assuming Terri had created it but simply never gotten around to using it. As Lucy opened the trash folder, she was stunned by what she found.

  “Wow,” Lucy said. “This is unbelievable. She deleted everything yesterday morning. One hundred and thirty-six e-mails. She deleted them one right after another.”

  “Not a USB but a magnetized power cord? What was deleted?” Scarpetta asked.

  “Hold on,” Lucy said. “Don’t go anywhere. Stay on with me and we’ll look at this together. You might want to get Jaime, Benton, Marino in there and put me on speakerphone.”

  All of the deleted e-mails were between Terri and another user with the name Scarpetta612.

  Six-twelve—June 12—was Scarpetta’s birthday.

  The Internet service provider address was the same as that of the eighteen accounts that were assumed to be Terri’s, but Scarpetta612 wasn’t listed in the history. It hadn’t been created on this laptop, nor was that account accessed by this laptop or—based on the dates of the e-mails Lucy was already seeing—Scarpetta612 would be listed in the history along with the other eighteen accounts.

  It would be in the history if Terri had created Scarpetta612. But there was no evidence she had, not so far.

  “Scarpetta six-twelve,” Lucy said, scrolling through text. “Someone with that username was writing to her—to Terri, I’m presuming. Can you get Jaime and Marino so we can get the password to that account?”

  “Anybody could come up with some permutation of my name, and my date of birth is no big secret, if anybody cares,” her aunt said.

  “Just give Jaime the username. Scarpetta appended to the numbers six one two.”

  Lucy gave her the e-mail service provider and waited. She could hear Scarpetta talking to someone. It sounded like Marino.

  Then Scarpetta said to Lucy, “It’s being taken care of.”

  “Like right now,” Lucy said.

  “Yes, right now. I was asking if either of the laptops you have might use a magnetized power supply.”

  “No,” Lucy said. “USB, recessed five pin
port, eighty-five-watt. What you’re talking about wouldn’t be recognized by Terri’s laptops. The IP for Scarpetta six-twelve traces to eight-ninety-nine Tenth Avenue. Isn’t that John Jay College of Criminal Justice?”

  “What IP? And yes. What’s John Jay got to do with anything? Jaime and Marino are still here. They want to listen to what you’re saying. I’m putting you on speakerphone. What’s Benton doing?” she asked them.

  Lucy could hear Berger’s voice in the background say something about Benton being on the phone with Morales. It bothered Lucy to hear Berger say anything about Morales, and she wasn’t sure why unless it was her sense that he was interested in Berger, that he wanted her sexually, and maybe it seemed he had a way of getting what he wanted.

  “Whoever was writing to Terri and saying she was you was doing so from that IP address, from John Jay,” Lucy said.

  She continued going through deleted e-mails sent by someone who was clearly impersonating her aunt.

  “I’m going to forward some of these,” she said. “Everybody should look at them, then I need the password, okay? This most recent one was sent by Scarpetta six-twelve to Terri four days ago, December twenty-eighth, at close to midnight. The day after Bhutto was assassinated, and you talked about it on CNN, Aunt Kay. You were here in New York.”

  “I was, but that’s not me. That’s not my e-mail address,” Scarpetta insisted.

  The e-mail read:

  Date: Fri, 28 December 2007 23:53:01

  From: “Scarpetta”

  To: “Terri”

  Terri,

  Again, I owe you an apology. I’m sure you understand. Such a terrible tragedy, and I had to get to CNN. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking I don’t keep my word, but I don’t have much say about my schedule when somebody dies or other inconveniences interfere. We’ll try again!—Scarpetta

  P.S. Did you get the photograph?

  Lucy read it over the phone and said, “Aunt Kay? When did you leave CNN that night?”