Five Scarpetta Novels

by Patricia Cornwell

  “There’s a lot going on,” he said as he retrieved them from a tray and set them within my reach. “In my personal life, I mean. The wife, the house we bought. You wouldn’t believe all the problems with it.”

  “I’m sorry for your difficulties, but I have an entire state system to run. I frankly don’t have time for excuses. If you don’t carry your load, we have big problems. Don’t make me walk into the morgue and find you haven’t set up first. Don’t make me look for you one more time.”

  “We already have big problems,” he said as if this were the shot he’d been waiting to fire.

  I began the incision.

  “You just don’t know it,” he added.

  “Then why don’t you tell me what these big problems are, Chuck?” I said. I reflected back the dead man’s skin, down to the subcutaneous layer. Ruffin watched me clamp cut edges together to keep the skin taut. I stopped what I was doing and looked across the table at him.

  “Go on,” I said. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t think it’s my place to tell you,” Ruffin said, and I saw something in his eyes that unnerved me. “Look, Dr. Scarpetta. I know I haven’t been Johnny-on-the-spot. I know I’ve slipped off to go to job interviews and maybe just haven’t been accountable like I should be. And I don’t get along with Marino. I admit all of it. But I’ll tell you what everyone else won’t if you promise not to punish me for it.”

  “I don’t punish people for being honest,” I said, angry that he would even suggest such a thing.

  He shrugged, and I caught a glint of self-satisfaction because he had rattled me and he knew it.

  “I don’t punish, period,” I said. “I simply expect people to do what’s right, and if they don’t, they punish themselves. If you don’t last in this job, it’s your fault.”

  “Maybe I used the wrong word,” he replied, moving back to the counter and leaning against it, arms crossed. “I don’t express myself as good as you do, that’s for sure. I just don’t want you to get upset with me for shooting straight with you. Okay?”

  I didn’t answer him.

  “Well, everybody’s sorry about what happened last year,” he began his opening argument. “No one can imagine how you’ve dealt with it. Really. I mean, if someone did that to my wife, I don’t know what I would do, especially if it was something like what happened to Special Agent Wesley.”

  Ruffin had always referred to Benton as “special agent,” which I’d always thought was rather silly. If anyone had been unpretentious, if not embarrassed by the title, it was Benton. But as I pondered Marino’s derisive remarks about Ruffin’s infatuation with law enforcement, I gained more understanding. My wispy, weak morgue supervisor had probably been in awe of a veteran FBI agent, especially one who was a psychological profiler, and it occurred to me that Ruffin’s good behavior in those earlier days might have had more to do with Benton than me.

  “It affected all of us, too,” Ruffin was saying. “He used to come down here, you know, and order deli trays, pizza, joke around with us and shoot the breeze. A big, important guy like him not having any kind of attitude. It blew my mind.”

  The pieces of Ruffin’s past slipped into place, too. His father had died in an automobile accident when Ruffin was a child. He had been raised by his mother, a formidable, intelligent woman who taught school. His wife was very strong, too, and now he worked for me. I always found it fascinating that so many people returned to the scenes of their childhood crimes, repeatedly seeking out the same villain, which in this case was a female authority figure like me.

  “Everybody’s been treating you like we’re walking on eggshells,” Ruffin kept on making his case. “So no one’s said anything when you don’t pay attention, and all kinds of things are going on that you don’t have a clue about.”

  “Like what?” I asked as I carefully turned a corner with the scalpel.

  “Well, for one thing, we got a damn thief in the building,” he retorted. “And I’m betting it’s someone on our staff. It’s been going on for weeks and you haven’t done a thing about it.”

  “I didn’t know about it until recently.”

  “Proving my point.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Rose doesn’t withhold information from me,” I said.

  “People treat her with kid gloves, too. Face it, Dr. Scarpetta. To the office, she’s your snitch. People don’t confide in her.”

  I willed myself to concentrate as his words stung my feelings and my pride. I continued reflecting back tissue, careful not to buttonhole it or cut through it. Ruffin waited for my reaction. I met his eyes.

  “I don’t have a snitch,” I said. “I don’t need one. Every member of my staff has always known he can come into my office and discuss anything with me.”

  His silence seemed a gloating indictment. He continued his defiant, smug pose, enjoying this immensely. I rested my wrists on the steel table.

  “I don’t think it’s going to be necessary to plead my case to anyone, Chuck,” I said. “I think you’re the only one on my staff who has a problem with me. Of course, I can understand why you might feel at odds with a woman boss when it appears that all of the power figures in your life have been women.”

  The gleam in his eyes blinked out at the touch of his switch. Then anger hardened his face. I resumed reflecting back slippery, fragile tissue.

  “But I appreciate your expressing your thoughts,” I said in a cool, calm way.

  “It’s not just my thoughts,” he replied, rudely. “Fact is, everyone thinks you’re on your way out.”

  “I’m glad you seem to know what everybody thinks,” I replied without showing the fury I felt.

  “It’s not hard. I’m not the only one who’s noticed how you don’t do things the way you used to. And you know you don’t. You’ve got to admit that.”

  “Tell me what I should admit.”

  He seemed to have a list all ready.

  “Out-of-character things. Like working yourself into the ground and going to scenes you don’t need to, so you’re tired all the time and don’t notice what’s going on in the office. And then upset people call and you don’t take time to talk to them like you used to.”

  “What upset people?” My self-control was about to snap. “I always talk to families, to anyone who asks, as long as the individual has a right to the information.”

  “Maybe you should check with Dr. Fielding and ask him how many of your calls he’s taken, how many families of your cases he’s dealt with, how much he’s covered up for you. And then your thing on the Internet. That’s what’s really gone too far. It’s sort of the last straw.”

  I was baffled.

  “What thing on the Internet?” I demanded.

  “Your chats or whatever it is you do. To be honest, since I don’t have a home computer and don’t use AOL or anything, I haven’t seen it for myself.”

  Bizarre, angry thoughts flew through my mind like a thousand starlings and overshadowed every perception I’d ever had about my life. A myriad of ugly, dark thoughts clung to my reason and dug in with their claws.

  “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Chuck said. “And I hope you know I understand how everything could get like this. After what you’ve been through.”

  I didn’t want to hear another goddamn word about what I’d been through.

  “Thank you for your understanding, Chuck,” I said, my eyes piercing his until he looked away.

  “We’ve got that case coming in from Powhatan, and it should have been here by now, if you want me to check on it,” he said, anxious to leave the room.

  “Do that, and then get this body back in the fridge.”

  “Sure thing,” he said.

  The doors shut behind him, returning silence to the room. I reflected back the last of the tissue and placed it on the cutting board as frigid paranoia and self-doubt seeped under the heavy door of my self-confidence. I began anchoring the tissue with hatpins, stretching it and measuring and stretching. I set th
e corkboard inside the surgical pan and covered it with a green cloth and placed it inside the refrigerator.

  I showered and changed in the locker room, and cleared my thoughts of phobias and indignation. I took a long enough break to drink a cup of coffee; it was so old, the bottom of the pot was black. I started a new coffee fund by giving my office administrator twenty dollars.

  “Jean, have you been reading these chat sessions that I’m supposedly having on the Internet?” I asked her.

  She shook her head but looked uncomfortable. I tried Cleta and Polly next and asked the same question.

  Blood rose to Cleta’s cheeks, and with eyes cast down she said, “Sometimes.”

  “Polly?” I asked.

  She stopped typing and also blushed.

  “Not all the time,” she replied.

  I nodded.

  “It’s not me,” I told them. “Someone is impersonating me. I wish I’d known about it before now.”

  Both of my clerks looked confused. I wasn’t sure they believed me.

  “I can certainly understand why you didn’t want to say anything to me when you became aware of these so-called chat sessions,” I went on. “I probably wouldn’t have either if the roles were reversed. But I need your help. If you have any ideas about who might be doing this, will you tell me?”

  They looked relieved.

  “That’s awful,” Cleta said with feeling. “Whoever’s doing that ought to go to jail.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything,” Polly contritely added. “I don’t have any idea about who would do something like that.”

  “I mean it sort of sounds like you when you read it. That’s the problem,” Cleta added.

  “Sort of sounds like me?” I said, frowning.

  “You know, it gives advice about accident prevention, security, how to deal with grief and all sorts of medical things.”

  “You’re saying it sounds like a doctor is writing it, or someone trained in health care?” I asked as my incredulity grew.

  “Well, whoever it is seems to know what he’s talking about,” Cleta replied. “But it’s more conversational. Not like reading an autopsy report or anything like that.”

  “I don’t think it sounds much like her,” Polly said. “Now that I think about it.”

  I noticed a case file on her desk that was open to color computer-generated autopsy photographs of a man whose shotgun-blasted head looked like a gory eggcup. I recognized him as the murder victim whose wife had been writing me from prison, accusing me of everything from incompetence to racketeering.

  “What’s this?” I asked her.

  “Apparently, the Times-Dispatch and the A.G.’s office have heard from that crazy woman, and Ira Herbert called here a little while ago, asking about it,” she told me.

  Herbert was the police reporter for the local newspaper. If he was calling, that probably meant I was being sued.

  “And then Harriet Cummins called Rose to get a copy of his records,” Cleta explained. “It appears his psycho wife’s latest story is he put the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger with his toe.”

  “The poor man was wearing army boots,” I replied. “He couldn’t possibly have pulled the trigger with his toe, and he was shot at close range in the back of the head.”

  “I don’t know what it is with people anymore,” Polly said with a sigh. “All they do is lie and cheat, and if they get locked up, they just sit around and stir up trouble and file lawsuits. It makes me sick.”

  “Me, too,” Cleta agreed.

  “Do you know where Dr. Fielding is?” I asked both of them.

  “I saw him wandering around a little while ago,” Polly said.

  I found him in the medical library thumbing through Nutrition in Exercise and Sport. He smiled when he saw me, but looked tired and a little out of sorts.

  “Not eating enough carbos,” he said, tapping a page with his index finger. “I keep telling myself if I don’t get fifty-five to seventy percent of my diet in carbos, I get glycogen depletion. I haven’t had much energy lately . . .”

  “Jack.” My tone cut him off. “I need you to be as honest as you’ve ever been with me.”

  I shut the library door. I told him what Ruffin had said, and a glint of painful recognition showed in my deputy chief’s face. He pulled out a chair and sat down at a table. He closed his book. I sat next to him and we turned our chairs facing each other.

  “Something’s been going around about Secretary Wagner getting rid of you,” he said. “I think it’s bullshit and I’m sorry you even heard about it. Chuck’s an idiot.”

  Sinclair Wagner was the Secretary of Health and Human Services, and only he or the governor could appoint or fire the chief medical examiner.

  “When did you start hearing these rumors?” I asked.

  “Recently. Weeks ago.”

  “Fired for what reason?” I quizzed him.

  “Supposedly, you two aren’t getting along.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Or he’s not happy with you or something, and consequently, the governor isn’t, either.”

  “Jack, please be more specific.”

  He hesitated and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He looked guilty, as if my problems were somehow his fault.

  “Okay, to lay it all out, Dr. Scarpetta,” he said, “the word is that you’ve embarrassed Wagner with this chat stuff you’re doing on the Internet.”

  I leaned closer to him and put my hand on his arm.

  “It’s not me doing it,” I promised him. “It’s someone impersonating me.”

  He gave me a puzzled look.

  “You’re kidding,” he said.

  “Oh, no. There’s nothing funny about any of this.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he said with disgust. “Sometimes I think the Internet’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to us.”

  “Jack, why didn’t you just ask me about it? If you thought I was doing something as inappropriate . . . well, have I somehow managed to estrange everybody in this office so nobody feels he can tell me anything anymore?”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s not a reflection of people not caring or feeling estranged. If anything, we care so much I guess we got overprotective.”

  “Protecting me from what?” I wanted to know.

  “Everyone should be allowed to grieve and even sit it out on the bench for a while,” he quietly replied. “No one’s expected you to function on all cylinders. I sure as hell wouldn’t be. Christ, I barely made it through my divorce.”

  “I’m not sitting it out on the bench, Jack. And I’m functioning on all cylinders. My private, personal grief is just that.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, holding my gaze and not buying what I’d just said.

  “I wish it were that easy,” he said.

  “I never said it was easy. Getting up some mornings is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I can’t let my own problems interfere with what I’m doing here, and I don’t.”

  “Frankly, I haven’t known what to do, and I feel really bad about it,” he confessed. “I haven’t known how to handle his death, either. I know how much you loved him. Over and over it’s gone through my mind to take you out to dinner or ask if there’s anything I can fix or do around your house. But I’ve had my own problems, too, as you know. And I guess I didn’t feel there was anything I could offer you except carrying as much of the load here as I can.”

  “Have you been covering calls for me? When families have needed to get me on the phone?” I was out with it.

  “It’s not been a problem,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Good God,” I said, bending my head and running my fingers through my hair. “I don’t believe this.”

  “I was just doing . . .”

  “Jack,” I interrupted him, “I’ve been here every day except when I’m in court. Why would any of my calls be deflected to you? This is something I know nothing about.”

/>   Now it was Fielding’s turn to look confused.

  “Don’t you realize how despicable it would be for me to refuse to talk to bewildered, grieving people?” I went on. “For me not to answer their questions or even seem to care?”

  “I just thought . . .”

  “This is crazy!” I exclaimed, and my stomach was a tight fist. “If I were like that, I wouldn’t deserve to do this work. If I ever become like that, I should quit! Of all people, how could I not care about another person’s loss? How could I not feel and understand and do everything I could to answer the questions, lessen the pain and fight to send the bastard who did it to the fucking electric chair.”

  I was near tears. My voice shook.

  “Or lethal injection. Shit, I think we should go back to hanging assholes in the public square,” I declared.

  Fielding glanced toward the shut door as if he were afraid someone might hear me. I took a deep breath and steadied myself.

  “How many times has this happened?” I asked him. “How many times have you taken my calls?”

  “A lot lately,” he reluctantly told me.

  “How many is a lot?”

  “Probably almost every other case you’ve done in the last couple months.”

  “That can’t be right,” I retorted.

  He was silent, and as I thought about it, doubts crowded my mind again. Families hadn’t seemed to be calling me as much as they used to, but I hadn’t paid much attention because there was never a pattern, never a way to predict. Some relatives wanted every detail. Others called to vent their rage. Some people went into denial and wanted to know nothing.

  “Then I can assume there have been complaints about me,” I said. “Grieving, upset people thinking I’m arrogant and cold-blooded. And I don’t blame them.”

  “Some have complained.”

  I could tell by his face that there had been more than just a few complaints. I had no doubt that letters had been written to the governor, too.

  “Who’s been rolling these calls over to you?” I asked matter-of-factly and quietly because I was afraid I might roar like a tornado down the hall and swear at everyone once I left this room.

  “Dr. Scarpetta, it didn’t seem unusual that you wouldn’t want to talk about some things to traumatized people right now,” he tried to make me understand. “Some painful things that might remind you . . . it made sense to me. Most of these people just want a voice, a doctor, and if I’ve not been around, either Jill or Bennett has,” he said, referring to two of my resident doctors. “I guess the only big problem is when none of us has been available and somehow Dan or Amy have ended up with the calls.”