Cruel and Unusual ks-4

by Patricia Cornwell

  “He wanted me to invite Norring to the execution.”

  “And did you?”

  “Well, of course,” Grueman said. “And your fine governor didn't even have the manners to RSVP.”

  10

  It was late afternoon, and Richmond's skyline was in view when I called Rose.

  “Dr. Scarpetta, where are you?”

  My secretary sounded frantic. “Are you in your car?”

  “Yes. I'm about five minutes from downtown.”

  “Well, keep driving. Don't come here right now.”

  “What?”

  “Lieutenant Marino's trying to reach you. He said if I talk to you to tell you to call him before you do anything. He said it's very, very urgent.”

  “Rose, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “Have you been listening to the news? Did you read the afternoon paper?”

  “I've been in D.C. all day. What news?”

  “Frank Donahue was found dead early this afternoon.”

  “The prison warden? That Frank Donahue?”

  “Yes.”

  My hands tensed on the wheel as I stared hard at the road.

  “What happened?”

  “He was shot. He was found in his car a couple of hours ago. It's just like Susan.”

  “I'm on my way,” I said. gliding into the left lane and accelerating.

  “I really wouldn't. Fielding's already started on him. Please call Marino. You need to read the evening paper. They know about the bullets.”

  `They?” I said.

  “Reporters. They know about the bullets linking Edgy; Heath's and Susan's cases.”

  “I called Marino's pager and told him I was on my way home. When I pulled into my garage, I went straight to the front stoop and retrieved the evening paper.

  A photograph of Frank Donahue smiled above they fold: The headline read, “STATE PENITENTIARY WARDEN SLAIN.”

  Below this was a second story featuring the photograph of another state official - me: That story's lead was that the bullets recovered from the bodies of the Heath boy and Susan had been fired from the same gun, and a number of bizarre connections seemed to link both homicides to me. In addition to the same intimation that had run in the Post was information much more sinister. My fingerprints, I was stunned to read, had been recovered from an envelope containing cash that the police had found inside Susan Story's house. I had demonstrated an “unusual interest” in Eddie Heath’s case by appearing at Henrico Doctor's Hospital, prior to his death, to examine his wounds. Later I had performed his autopsy, and it was at this time that Susan refused to witness his case and supposedly fled from the morgue When she was murdered less than two weeks later, I responded to the scene, appeared unannounced at the home of her parents directly afterward to ask them questions, and insisted on being present during the autopsy. I was not directly assigned a motive for malevolence toward anyone, but the one implied in Susan's case was as infuriating as it was amazing. I may have been making major mistakes on the job. I had neglected to print Ronnie Joe Waddell when his body came to the morgue after his execution. I recently had left the body of a homicide victim in the middle of a corridor, virtually in front of an elevator used by numerous people who worked in the building, thus seriously compromising the chain of evidence. I was described as aloof and unpredictable, with colleagues observing that my personality had begun to change after the death of my lover, Mark James. Perhaps Susan, who had worked by my side daily, had possessed knowledge that could ruin me professionally. Perhaps I had been paying for her silence.

  “My fingerprints?” I said to Marino the instant he appeared at my door. “What the hell is this business about fingerprints belonging to me?”

  “Easy, Doc.”

  “I might just file suit this time. This has gone too far.”

  “I don't think you want to be filing anything right now.“ He got out his cigarettes as he followed me toll kits; where the evening paper was spread out on the table. “Ben Steven is behind this.”

  “Doc, I think what you watt to do is listen to what I've got to say.”

  “He's got to be the source of the leak about bullets -“

  “Doc. Goddam it, shut up.”

  I sat down. “My ass is in the fire, too,” he said. “I'm working cases with you: and now suddenly you've become an element. Yes, we did find an envelope in Susan's house. It was in a dresser drawer under some clothes. There were three one-hundred-dollar bills inside it. Vander processed the envelope and several latents popped up. Two of them are yours. Your prints, like mine and those of a lot of other investigators, are in AFIS for exclusionary purposes, in case we ever do a dumbshit thing leave our prints at a scene.”

  “I did not leave prints at any scene. There's a logic explanation for this. There has to be. Maybe the envelope was one I touched at some point at the office or the morgue, and Susan took it home.”

  “It's definitely not an office envelope,” Marino said. “It's about twice as wide as a legal-size envelope of stiff, shiny black paper. There's no writing on it.”

  I looked at him in disbelief as it dawned on me. “The scarf I gave her.”

  “What scarf?”

  “Susan's Christmas present from me was a red silk scarf I bought in San Francisco. What you're describing is the envelope it was in, a glossy black envelope made of cardboard or stiff paper. The flap closed with a-small gold seal. I wrapped the, present myself. Of course my prints would be on it.”

  “So what about the three hundred dollars?” he said, avoiding my eyes.

  I don't know anything about any money.”

  “I'm saying, why was it in the envelope you gave her?”

  “Maybe because saw wanted to hide her cash in something. The envelope was handy. Maybe she didn't want to throw it away. I don't know. I had no control over what she dad with something I gave her.”

  “Did anybody see you give her the scarf?” he asked.

  “No. Her husband wasn't home when she opened my Yeah, well, the only gift from you anyone seemed to know about was a pink poinsettia. Don't sound like Susan said a word about you giving her a scarf.”

  “For God's sake, she was wearing the scarf when she was shot, Marino.”

  “That don't tell us where it came from.”

  “You're about to move into the accusatory stage,” I snapped.

  “I'm not accusing you of nothing. Don't you get it? This is the way it goes, goddam it. You want me to baby you and pat your hand so some other cop can bust inhere and broadside you with questions like this?”

  He got up and began pacing the kitchen, staring at tire floor, his hands in his pockets.

  “Tell me about Donahue,” I said quietly.

  “He was shot in his ride, probably early this morning. According to his wife, he left the house around sixteen. Around one-thirty this afternoon, his Thunderbird` was found parked at Deep Water Terminal with him in it.”

  “I read that much in the paper.”

  “Look. The less we talk about it, the better.”

  “Why? Are reporters going to imply that I killed him, too.

  “Where was you at six-fifteen this morning, Doc?”

  “I was getting ready to leave my house and drive to Washington.”

  “You got any witnesses that will verify you couldn't have been cruising around Deep Water Terminal? It's not very far from the Medical Examiner's Office, you know. Maybe two minutes.”

  “That's absurd.”

  'Get used to it. This is just the beginning. Wait, until Patterson sinks his teeth into you.”

  Before Roy Patterson had run for Commonwealth Attorney, he had been one of the city's more combative, egotistical criminal lawyers. Back then he had never appreciated what I had to say; since in the majority of cases, medical examiner testimony does not cause jurors to think more kindly of the defendant.

  “I ever told you how much Patterson hates your guts?”

  Marino went on. “You embarrassed him when he
was a defense attorney. You sat there cool as a cat in your sharp suits and made him look like an idiot.”

  “He made himself look like an idiot. All I did was answer his questions:” “Not to mention, your old boyfriend Bill Boltz was one of his closest pals, and I don't eves need to go into that.”

  “I wish you wouldn't.”

  “I just know Patterson's going to go after you. Shit, I bet he's a happy man right now.”

  “Marino, you're red as a beet. For God's sake, don't go stroking out on me.”

  “Let's get back to this scarf you said you gave to Susan:” “I said I gave to Susan?”

  “What was the name of the store in San francisco that sold it to you?” he asked.

  “It wasn't a store.” He glanced sharply at the as he continued to pace.

  “It was a street market. Lots of booths and stalls selling art, handmade things. Like Covent Garden,” I explained.

  “You got a receipt?”

  “I would have had no reason to save it.”

  “So you don't know the name of the booth or whatever. So there's no way to verify that you bought a scarf from some artist type who uses these glassy black envelopes.”

  “I can't verify it.”

  “He paced some more and I stared out the window. Clouds drifted past oblong and the dark shapes of trees moved in the wind: I got up to close the blinds.

  Marino stopped pacing. “Doc, I'm going to need to go through your financial records.”

  I did not say anything.

  “I've got to verify that you haven't made any large withdrawals of cash in recent Months.”

  I remained silent.

  “Doc, you haven't; have you?”

  I got up from the table, my pulse pounding.

  “You can talk to my attorney,” I said.

  After Marino left, I went upstairs to the cedar closet where I stored my private papers and began collecting bank statements, tax returns; and various accounting records. I thought of all the defense attorneys in Richmond who would probably be delighted if I were locked up or exiled for the rest of my days. I was sitting in the kitchen making notes on a legal pad when my doorbell rang: I let Benton Wesley and Lucy in, and I knew instantly by their silence that it was unnecessary to tell them what was going on.

  “Where's Connie?” I asked wearily.

  “She`s hoping to stay through the New Year with her family in Charlottesville.”

  “I'm going back to your study, Aunt Kay;' Lucy said without hugging me or smiling. She left with her suitcase.

  “Marino wants to go through my financial records,” I said to Wesley as he followed me into the living room.

  “Ben Stevens is setting me up. Personnel files and copies of memos are missing from the office, and he's hoping it will appear that I took them. And Roy Patterson, according to Marino, is a happy man these days. That's the update of the hour.”

  “Where do you keep the Scotch?”

  “I keep the good stuff in the hutch over mere. Glasses are in the bar.”

  “I don't want to drink your good stuff.”

  “Well, I do.”

  I began building a fire.

  “I called your deputy chief as I was driving in. Firearms has already taken a look at the slugs that were in Donahue's brain. Winchester one-fifty-grain, lead, unjacketed, twenty-two-caliber. Two of them: One went in his left cheek and traveled up through the skull, the other was a tight contact at the nape of his neck.”

  “Fired from the same weapon that killed the other two?”

  “Yes. Do you want ice?”

  “Please.”

  I closed the screen and returned the poker to its stand. “I don't suppose any feathers were recovered from the scene or from-Donahue's body.”

  “Not that I know Of. It's clear that his assailant was standing outside the car and shot him through the open driver's window. That doesn't mean this individual wasn't inside with him earlier, but I don't think so. My guess is Donahue was supposed to meet someone at Deep Water Terminal in the parking lot. When this person arrived, Donahue rolled down his window and that was it. Did you have any luck with Downey?” He handed coke my drink and settled on the couch.

  “It appears that the origin of the feathers and feather particles recovered from the three other cases is common eider duck.”

  “A sea duck?” Wesley frowned. “The down is used in what, ski jackets, gloves?”

  “Rarely. Eiderdown is extremely expensive. Your average person is not going to own anything filled with it.”

  I proceeded to inform Wesley of the events of the day, sparing no details as I confessed that I had spent several hours: with Nicholas Grueman and did not believe he was even remotely involved in anything sinister.

  “I'm glad you went to see him,” Wesley said. “I was hoping you would”

  “Are you surprised by how it turned out?’

  “No. It makes sense the way it turned out: Grueman's predicament is somewhat similar to your own. He gets a fax from Jennifer Deighton and it looks suspicious just as it looks suspicious that your prints were found on an envelope in Susan's dresser drawer. When violence hits close to you, you get splashed. You get dirty.”

  “I'm more than splashed. I feel as if I'm about to drown.”

  “At the moment, it seems that way. Maybe you ought to be talking to Grueman about that “ I did not reply.

  “I'd want him on my side.”

  “I wasn't aware that you knew him.”

  Ice rattled quietly as Wesley sipped his drink. Brass on the hearth gleamed in the firelight Wood popped, sending sparks swarming up the chimney.

  “I know about Grueman,” he said. “I know that he graduated number one from Harvard Law School, was the editor of the Law Review, and was offered a teaching position there but turned it down. That broke his heart. But his wife, Beverly, did not want to move from the D.C. area. Apparently, she had a lot of problems, not the least of which was a young daughter, from a first marriage who was institutionalized at Saint Elizabeths at the time Grueman and Beverly met. He moved to D.C. The daughter died several years later.”

  “You've been running a background check on him,” I said.

  “Sort of”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I learned he had received a fax from Jennifer Deighton. By all accounts, it appears he’s Mr. Clean, but someone still had to talk to him.”

  “That's not the only reason you suggested it to me, is it?”

  “An important reason but not the only one. I thought you should go back there.”

  I took a deep breath. “Thank you, Benton. You are good man with the best of intentions.”

  He lifted his glass to his lips and stared into the fire.

  “Please don't interfere,” I added.

  “It's not my style.”

  “Of course it is. You're a pro at it. If you want to quietly steer, propel, or unplug someone from behind the scenes, you know how to do it. You know how to throw up so many obstacles and blow out so many bridges that someone like me would be lucky to find her way home.”

  “Marino and I are very involved in all this, Kay. Richmond P.D. is involved. The Bureau's involved. Either we've got a psychopath out there who should have been executed or we've got somebody else who seems intent on making us think someone is out there who should have been executed.”

  “Marino doesn't want me involved at all,” I said.

  “He's in an impossible situation. He's the chief homicide investigator for the city and a member of a Bureau VICAP team, yet he's your colleague and friend. He's supposed to find out everything he can about you and what's gone on in your office. Yet his inclination is to protect you. Try to put yourself in his position.”

  “I will. But he needs to put himself in mine.”

  “That's only fair.”

  “The way he talks, Benton, you would think half the world has a vendetta against me and would love to see me go up in flames.”

  “Maybe not half
the world, but there are people other than Ben Stevens who are standing around with boxes of matches and gasoline.”

  “Who else?”

  “I can't give you names because I don't know. And I'm not going to claim that ruining you professionally is the major mission for whoever is behind all this. But I suspect it's on the agenda, if for no other reason than that the cases would be severely compromised if it appears that all evidence routed through your office is tainted. Not to mention, without you, the Commonwealth loses one of its most potent expert witnesses.”

  He met my eyes. “You need to consider what your testimony would be worth right now. If you took the stand this minute, would you be helping or hurting Eddie Heath?”

  The remark cut to the bone.

  “Right this minute, I would not be helping him much. But if I default, how much will that help him or anyone?”

  “That's a good question. Marino doesn't want you hurt further, Kay.”

  “Then perhaps you can impress upon him that the only reasonable response to such an unreasonable situation is for me to allow him to do his job while he allows me to do mine.”

  “Can I refresh that?”

  Getting up, he returned with the bottle. We didn't bother with ice.

  “Benton, let's talk about the killer. In light of what's happened to Donahue, what are you thinking now?”

  He set down the bottle and stirred the fire. For moment, he stood before the fireplace, his back to;a hands in his pockets. Then he sat on the edge of hearth, his forearms on his knees. Wesley was more rev less than I had seen him in a very long time.

  “If you want to know the truth, Kay, this animal scares the hell out of me.”

  “How is he different from other killers you have p sued?”

  “I think he started out with one set of rules and then decided to change them.”

  “His rules or someone else's?”

  “I think the rules were not his at first. Whoever behind the conspiracy to free Waddell first made the decisions. But this guy's got his own rules now. Or maybe would be better to say that there are no rules now. He is cunning and he's careful. So far, he's in control.”

  “What about motive?” I asked.

  “That's hard. Maybe it would be better for me phrase it in terms of mission or assignment. I suspect there's some method to his madness, but the madness what turns him on. He gets off on playing with people minds. Waddell was locked up for ten years, then, suddenly the nightmare of his original crime is revisited. On the night of his execution, a boy is murdered in a sexually sadistic fashion that is reminiscent of Robin Naismith's case. Other, people start dying, and all of them are in some way connected to Waddell. Jennifer Deighton was his friend. Susan was it appears, involved, at least tangentially, in whatever this conspiracy is. Frank Donahue was the prison warden and would have supervised the execution that occurred on the night of December thirteenth. And what is this doing to everybody else, to the other players?”