The Body Farm ks-5

by Patricia Cornwell

  "My list of complaints about you all go back to one thing. You're stubborn, and when you're at your worst, you're bigoted and intolerant. In other words, you act toward others the way you suspect they're acting toward you." Marino jerked up the door handle.

  "Not only do I not got time for a lecture from you, I ain't interested in one." He threw down his cigarette and stamped it out. We walked in silence to Denesa Steiner's front door, and I had a feeling when she opened it she could sense Marino and I had been fighting. He would not look my way or acknowledge me in any way as she led us to a living room that was unnervingly familiar because I had seen photographs of it before. The decor was country, with an abundance of ruffles, plump pillows, hanging plants, and macrame. Behind glass doors, a gas fire glowed, and numerous clocks did not argue time. Mrs. Steiner was in the midst of watching an old Bob Hope movie on cable. She seemed very tired as she turned off the television and sat in a rocking chair.

  "This hasn't been a very good day," she said.

  "Well, now, Denesa, there's no way it could have been." Marino sat in a wing chair and gave her his full attention.

  "Did you come here to tell me what you found?" she asked, and I realized she was referring to the exhumation.

  "We still have a lot of tests to conduct," I told her.

  "Then you didn't find anything that will catch that man." She spoke with quiet despair.

  "Doctors always talk about tests when they don't know anything. I've learned that much after all I've been through."

  "These things take time, Mrs. Steiner."

  "Listen," Marino said to her.

  "I really am sorry to bother you, Denesa, but we've got to ask you a few more questions. The Doc here wants to ask you some." She looked at me and rocked.

  "Mrs. Steiner, there was a gift-wrapped package in Emily's casket that the funeral director says you wanted buried with her," I said.

  "Oh, you're talking about Socks," she said matter- of-factly.

  "Socks?" I asked.

  "She was a stray kitten who started coming around here. I guess that would have been a month or so ago. And of course Emily was such a sensitive thing she started feeding it and that was it. She did love that little cat." She smiled as her eyes teared up.

  "She called her Socks because she was pure black except for these perfect white paws." She held out her hands, splaying her fingers.

  "It looked like she had socks on."

  "How did Socks die?" I carefully asked.

  "I don't really know." She pulled tissues from a pocket and dabbed her eyes.

  "I found her one morning out in front. This was right after Emily… I just assumed the poor little thing died of a broken heart." She covered her mouth with the tissues and sobbed.

  "I'm going to get you something to drink." Marino got up and left the room. His obvious familiarity with both the house and its owner struck me as extremely unusual, and my uneasiness grew.

  "Mrs. Steiner," I said gently, leaning forward on the couch.

  "Emily's kitten did not die of a broken heart. It died of a broken neck." She lowered her hands and took a deep, shaky breath. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wide as they fixed on me.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The cat died violently."

  "Well, I guess it got hit by a car. That's such a pity. I told Emily I was afraid of that."

  "It wasn't hit by a car."

  "Do you suppose one of the dogs around here got it?"

  "No," I said as Marino returned with what looked like a glass of white wine.

  "The kitten was killed by a person. Deliberately."

  "How could you know such a thing as that?" She looked terrified, and her hands trembled as she took the wine and set it on the table next to her chair.

  "There were physical findings that make it clear the cat's neck was wrung," I continued to explain very calmly.

  "And I know it's awful for you to hear details like this, Mrs. Steiner, but you must know the truth if you are to help us find the person responsible."

  "You got any idea who might have done something like that to your little girl's kitten?" Marino sat back down and leaned forward again, forearms resting on his knees, as if he wanted to assure her that she could depend on and feel safe with him. She silently struggled for composure. Reaching for her wine, she took several unsteady sips.

  "I do know I've gotten some calls." She took a deep breath.

  "You know, my fingernails are blue. I'm such a wreck." She held out a hand.

  "I can't settle down. I can't sleep. I don't know what to do." She dissolved into tears again.

  "Denesa, it's all right," Marino said kindly.

  "You just take your time. We're not going anywhere. Now tell me about the phone calls." She wiped her eyes and went on.

  "It's been men mostly. Maybe one woman who said if I'd kept my eye on my little girl like a good mother, this wouldn't have… But one sounded young, like a boy playing pranks. He said something. You know. Like he'd seen Emily riding her bike. This was after. So it couldn't have been. But this other one, he was older. He said he wasn't finished. " She drank more wine.

  "He wasn't finished?" I asked.

  "Did he say anything else?"

  "I don't remember." She shut her eyes.

  "When was this?" Marino asked.

  "Right after she was found. Found by the lake." She reached for her wine again and knocked it over.

  "I'll get that." Marino abruptly got up.

  "I need to smoke."

  "Do you know what he meant?" I asked her.

  "I knew he was referring to what happened. To who did this to her. I felt he was saying it wasn't the end of bad things. And I guess it was a day later I found Socks."

  "Captain, maybe you could fix me some toast with peanut butter or cheese. I feel like my blood sugar's getting low," said Mrs. Steiner, who seemed oblivious to the glass on its side and the puddle of wine on the table by her chair. He left the room again.

  "When the man broke into your house and abducted your daughter," I said, "did he speak to you at all?"

  "He said if I didn't do exactly what he said, he'd kill me."

  "So you heard his voice." She nodded as she rocked, her eyes not leaving me.

  "Did it sound like the voice on the phone that you were just telling us about?"

  "I don't know. It might have. But it's hard to say."

  "Mrs. Steiner…?"

  "You can call me Denesa." Her stare was intense.

  "What else do you remember about him, the man who came into your house and taped you up?"

  "You're wondering if he might be that man in Virginia who killed the little boy." I said nothing.

  "I remember seeing pictures of the little boy and his family in People magazine. I remember thinking back then how awful it was, that I couldn't imagine being his mother. It was bad enough when Mary Jo died. I never thought I'd get past that."

  "Is Mary Jo the child you lost to SIDS?" Interest sparked beneath her dark pain, as if she were impressed or curious that I would know this detail.

  "She died in my bed. I woke up and she was next to Chuck, dead."

  "Chuck was your husband?"

  "At first I was afraid he might have accidentally rolled on top of her during the night and smothered her. But they said no. They said it was SIDS."

  "How old was Mary Jo?" I asked.

  "She'd just had her first birthday." She blinked back tears.

  "Had Emily been born yet?"

  "She came a year later, and I just knew the same thing was going to happen to her. She was so colicky. So frail. And the doctors were afraid she might have apnea, so I had to constantly check on her in her sleep. To make sure she was breathing. I remember walking around like a zombie because I never had a night's sleep. Up and down all night, night after night. Living with that horrible fear." She closed her eyes for a moment and rocked, brow furrowed by grief, hands clenching armrests. It occurred to me that Marino did not want to hear me question M
rs. Steiner because of his anger, and that was why he was out of the room so much. I knew then his emotions had wrestled him into the ropes. I feared he would no longer be effective in this case. Mrs. Steiner opened her eyes and they went straight to mine.

  "He's killed a lot of people and now he's here," she said.

  "Who?" I was confused by what I had been thinking.

  "Temple Gault."

  "We don't know for a fact he's here," I said.

  "I know he is."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Because of what was done to my Emily. It's the same thing." A tear slid down her cheek.

  "You know, I guess I should be afraid he'll get me next. But I don't care. What do I have left?"

  "I'm very sorry," I said as kindly as I could.

  "Can you tell me anything more about that Sunday? The Sunday of October first?"

  "We went to church in the morning like we always did. And Sunday school. We ate lunch, then Emily was in her room. She was practicing guitar some of the time. I didn't see her much, really." She stared the wide stare of remembering.

  "Do you recall her leaving the house early for her youth group meeting?"

  "She came into the kitchen. I was making banana bread. She said she had to go early to practice guitar and I gave her some change for the collection like I always did."

  "What about when she came home?"

  "We ate." She was not blinking.

  "She was unhappy. And wanted Socks in the house and I said no."

  "What makes you think she was unhappy?"

  "She was difficult. You know how children can get when they're in moods. Then she was in her room awhile and went to bed."

  "Tell me about her eating habits," I said, recalling that Ferguson had intended to ask Mrs. Steiner this after he returned from Quantico. I supposed he'd never had the chance.

  "She was picky. Finicky."

  "Did she finish her dinner Sunday night after her meeting?"

  "That was part of what we got into a fuss about. She was just pushing her food around. Pouting." Her voice caught.

  "It was always a struggle… It was always hard for me to get her to eat."

  "Did she have a problem with diarrhea or nausea?" Her eyes focused on me.

  "She was sick a lot."

  "Sick can mean a lot of different things, Mrs. Steiner," I said patiently.

  "Did she have frequent diarrhea or nausea?"

  "Yes. I already told Max Ferguson that." Tears flowed freely again.

  "And I don't understand why I have to keep answering these same questions. It just opens up things. Opens up wounds."

  "I'm sorry," I said with a gentleness that belied my surprise. When had she told Ferguson this? Did he call her after he left Quantico? If so, she must have been one of the last people to talk to him before he died.

  "This didn't happen to her because she was sickly," Mrs. Steiner said, crying harder.

  "It seems people should be asking questions that would help catch him."

  "Mrs. Steiner-and I know this is difficult-but where were you living when Mary Jo died?"

  "Oh God, please help me." She buried her face in her hands. I watched her try to compose herself, shoulders heaving as she wept. I sat numbly as she got still, little by little, her feet, her arms, her hands. She slowly lifted her eyes to me. Through their bleariness gleamed a strange cold light that oddly made me think of the lake at night, of water so dark it seemed another element. And I felt fretful the way I did in my dreams. She spoke in a low voice.

  "What I want to know. Dr. Scarpetta, is do you know that man?"

  "What man?" I asked, and then Marino walked back in with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on toast, a dish towel, and a bottle of chablis.

  "The man who killed the little boy. Did you ever talk to Temple Gault?" she asked as Marino set her glass upright and refilled it, and placed the sandwich nearby.

  "Here, let me help with that." I took the dish towel from him and wiped up spilled wine.

  "Tell me what he looks like." She shut her eyes again.

  I saw Gault in my mind, his piercing eyes and light blond hair. He was sharp featured, small and quick. But it was the eyes. I would never forget them.

  I knew he could slit a throat without flinching. I knew he had killed all of them with that same blue stare.

  "Excuse me," I said, realizing Mrs. Steiner was still talking to me.

  "Why did you let him get away?" she repeated her question as if it were an accusation, and began crying again. Marino told her to get some rest, that we were leaving. When we got into the car, his mood was horrible.

  "Gault killed her cat," he said.

  "We don't know that for a fact."

  "I ain't interested in hearing you talk like a lawyer right now."

  "I am a lawyer," I said.

  "Oh yeah. Excuse me for forgetting you got that degree, too. It just slips my mind that you really are a doctor-lawyer-Indian chief."

  "Do you know if Ferguson called Mrs. Steiner after he left Quantico?"

  "Hell, no, I don't know."

  "He mentioned in the consultation he intended to ask her several medical questions. Based on what Mrs. Steiner said to me, it sounds like he did, meaning he must have talked to her shortly before his death."

  "So maybe he called her as soon as he got home from the airport."

  "And then he goes straight upstairs and puts a noose around his neck?"

  "No, Doc. He goes straight upstairs to beat off. Maybe talking to her on the phone put him in the mood." That was possible.

  "Marino, what's the last name of the little boy Emily liked? I know his first name was Wren."

  "Why?"

  "I want to go see him."

  "In case you don't know much about kids, it's almost nine o'clock on a school night."

  "Marino," I said evenly, "answer my question."

  "I know he don't live too far from the Steiners' crib." He pulled off on the side of the road and turned on his interior light.

  "His last name's Maxwell."

  "I want to go to his house." He flipped through his notepad, then glanced over at me. Behind his tired eyes I saw more than resentment. Marino was in terrific pain. The Maxwells lived in a modern log cabin that was probably prefabricated and had been built on a wooded lot in view of the lake. We pulled into a gravel drive lit by floodlights the color of pollen. It was cool enough for rhododendron leaves to begin to curl, and our breath turned to smoke as we waited on the porch for someone to answer the bell. When the door opened, we faced a young, lean man with a thin face and black-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a dark wool robe and slippers. I wondered if anyone stayed up past ten o'clock in this town.

  "I'm Captain Marino and this is Dr. Scarpetta," Marino said in a serious police tone that would fill any citizen with dread.

  "We're working with the local authorities on the Emily Steiner case."

  "You're the ones from out of town," the man said.

  "Are you Mr. Maxwell?" Marino asked.

  "Lee Maxwell. Please come-in. I guess you want to talk about Wren." We entered the house as an overweight woman in a pink sweatsuit came downstairs. She looked at us as if she knew exactly why we were there.

  "He's up in his room. I was reading to him," she said.

  "I wonder if I might speak to him," I said in as nonthreatening a voice as possible, for I could tell the Maxwells were upset.

  "I can get him," the father said.

  "I'd rather go on up, if I might," I said. Mrs. Maxwell absently fiddled with a seam coming loose on a cuff of her sweatshirt. She was wearing small silver earrings shaped like crosses that matched a necklace she had on.

  "Maybe while the doc does that," Marino spoke up, "I can talk to the two of you?"

  "That policeman who died already talked to Wren," said the father.

  "I know." Marino spoke in a manner that told them he didn't care who had talked to their son.

  "We promise not to take up too much
of your time," he added.

  "Well, all right," Mrs. Maxwell said to me.

  I followed her slow, heavy progress up uncarpeted stairs to a second floor that had few rooms but was so well lit my eyes hurt. There didn't seem to be a corner inside or out of the Maxwells' property that wasn't flooded with light. We walked into Wren's bedroom and the boy was in pajamas and standing in the middle of the floor. He stared at us as if we'd caught him in the middle of something we weren't supposed to see.

  "Why aren't you in bed, son?" Mrs. Maxwell sounded more weary than stern.

  "} was thirsty."

  "Would you like me to get you another glass of water?"

  "No, that's okay."

  I could see why Emily would have found Wren Maxwell cute. He had been growing in height faster than his muscles could keep up, and his sunny blond hair wouldn't stay out of his dark blue eyes. Lanky and shaggy, with a perfect complexion and mouth, he had chewed his fingernails to the quick. He wore several bracelets of woven rawhide that could not be taken off without cutting, and they somehow told me he was very popular in school, especially with girls, whom I expected he treated quite rudely.

  "Wren, this is Dr." -she looked at me"-I'm sorry, but you're going to have say your last name again."

  "I'm Dr. Scarpetta." I smiled at Wren, whose expression turned to bewilderment.

  "I'm not sick," he quickly said.

  "She's not that kind of doctor," Mrs. Maxwell told her son.

  "What kind are you?" By now his curiosity had overcome his shyness.

  "Well, she's a doctor sort of like Lucias Ray is one."

  "He ain't a doctor." Wren scowled at his mother.

  "He's an undertaker."

  "Now you go on and get in bed, son, so you don't catch cold. Dr. Scarletti, you can pull up that chair and I'll be downstairs."

  "Her name's Scarpetta," the boy fired at his mother, who was already out the door. He climbed into his twin bed and covered himself with a wool blanket the color of bubble gum. I noticed the baseball theme of the curtains drawn across his window, and the silhouettes of trophies behind them. On pine walls were posters of several sports heroes, and I recognized none of them except Michael Jordan, who was typically airborne in Nikes like some magnificent god. I pulled a chair close to the bed and suddenly felt old.