'Your Honor! I object! This is outrageous!'
'Overruled,' the judge coolly stated.
'It says right here in black and white that you have conspired with the FBI to send an innocent woman to the electric chair!'
Lampkin approached the jurors and waved the photocopied article in their faces.
'Your Honor, for God's sake!' exclaimed the C.A., sweating through his suit jacket.
'Mr Lampkin, please get on with your cross-examination,' Judge Bowls said to the overweight, thick-necked Lampkin.
What I said about distance and trajectories, and what vital organs had been struck by ten-millimeter bullets, was a blur. I could scarcely remember a word of it after I hurried down the courthouse steps and walked swiftly without looking at anyone. Two tenacious reporters followed me for half a block, and finally turned back when they realized it was easier to talk to a stone. The unfairness of what had happened in the witness stand went beyond words. Carrie had needed to fire but one small round and already I was wounded. I knew this would not end.
When I unlocked the back door to my building, for an instant the glare of sunlight made it hard for me to see as I stepped inside the cool shaded bay. I opened the door leading inside and was relieved to see Fielding in the corridor, heading toward me. He was wearing fresh scrubs, and I supposed another case had come in.
'Everything under control?' I asked, tucking my sunglasses inside my pocketbook.
'A suicide from Powhatan. Fifteen-year-old girl shot herself in the head. It seems daddy wouldn't let her see her dirtbag boyfriend anymore. You look terrible, Kay.'
'It's called a shark attack.'
'Uh oh. Damn fucking lawyers. Who was it this time?'
He was ready to beat somebody up.
'Lampkin.'
'Oh, good ole Lamprey the eel!' Fielding squeezed my shoulder. 'It's gonna be all right. Trust me. It really will be. You just gotta block out the bullshit and go on.'
'I know.' I smiled at him. 'I'll be in the decomp room if you need me.'
The solitary task of patiently working on bones was a welcome relief, for I did not want anyone on my staff to detect my dejection and fear. I switched on lights and shut the door behind me. I tied a gown over my clothes and pulled on two layers of latex gloves, and turned on the electric burner and took the lid off the pot. The bones had continued processing after I had left last night, and I probed them with a wooden spoon. I spread a plasticized sheet over a table. The skull had been sawn open during autopsy, and I carefully lifted the dripping calvarium, and the bones of the face with its calcined teeth, from tepid, greasy water. I set them on the sheet to drain.
I preferred wooden tongue depressors versus plastic spatulas to scrape tissue from bone. Metal instruments were out of the question because they would cause damage that might obviate our finding true marks of violence. I worked very carefully, loosening and defleshing while the rest of the skeletal remains quietly cooked in their steamy pot. For two hours I cleaned and rinsed until my wrists and fingers ached. I missed lunch, and in fact never thought of it. At almost two P.M. I found a nick in the bone beneath the temporal region where I had found hemorrhage, and I stopped and stared in disbelief.
I pulled surgical lamps closer, blasting the table with light. The cut to bone was straight and linear, no more than an inch in length and so shallow it easily could have been missed. The only time I had ever seen an injury similar to this was in the nineteenth-century skulls of people who had been scalped. In those instances, the nicks or cuts were not generally associated with temporal bone, but that meant nothing, really.
Scalping was not an exact surgical procedure and anything was possible. Although I had found no evidence that the Warrenton victim was missing areas of scalp and hair, I could not swear to it. Certainly, when we had found her, the head was not intact, and while a scalping trophy might involve most of the cranium, it might also mean the excision of a single lock of hair.
I used a towel to pick up the phone because my hands were unfit to touch anything clean. I paged Marino. For ten minutes I waited for him to call back while I continued to carefully scrape. But I found no other marks. This did not mean, of course, that additional injury had not been lost, for at least a third of the twenty-two bones of the skull were burned away. My mind raced through what I should do. I yanked off my gloves and threw them in the trash, and I was flipping through an address book I had gotten out of my purse when Marino called.
'Where the hell are you?' I asked as stress gushed toxins through my body.
'At Liberty Valance eating.'
'Thank you for getting back to me so quickly,' I said irritably.
'Gee, Doc. It must've been lost in space somewhere, because I just got it. What the shit's going on?'
I could hear the background noise of people drinking and enjoying food that was guaranteed to be heavy and rich but worth it.
'Are you on a pay phone?' I asked.
'Yeah, and I'm off duty, just so you know.'
He took a swallow of something that I figured was beer.
'I've got to get to Washington tomorrow. Something significant has come up.'
'Uh oh. I hate it when you say that.'
'I found something else.'
'You gonna tell me or do I have to stay up all night pacing?'
He had been drinking, and I did not want to talk to him about this now.
'Listen, can you go with me, assuming Dr Vessey can see us?'
'The bones man at the Smithsonian?'
'I'll call him at home as soon as we get off the phone.'
'I'm off tomorrow, so I guess I can squeeze you in.'
I did not say anything as I stared at the simmering pot and turned the heat down just a little.
'Point is, count me in,' Marino said, swallowing again.
'Meet me at my house,' I said. 'At nine.'
'I'll be there with bells on.'
Next I tried Dr Vessey's Bethesda home and he answered on the first ring.
'Thank God,' I said. 'Alex? It's Kay Scarpetta.'
'Oh! Well, how are you?'
He was always a bit befuddled and missing in action in the minds of the hoi polloi who did not spend their lives putting people back together again. Dr Vessey was one of the finest forensic anthropologists in the world, and he had helped me many times before.
'I'll be much better if you tell me you're in town tomorrow,' I said.
'I'll be working on the railroad as always.'
'I've got a cut mark on a skull. I need your help. Are you familiar with the Warrenton fire?'
'Can't be conscious and not know about that.'
'Okay. Then you understand.'
'I won't be there until about ten and there's no place to park,' he said. 'I got in a pig's tooth the other day with aluminum foil stuck in it,' he absently went on about whatever he'd been doing of late. 'I guess from a pig roast, dug up in someone's backyard. The Mississippi coroner thought it was a homicide, some guy shot in the mouth.'
He coughed and loudly cleared his throat. I heard him drink something.
'Still getting bear paws now and then,' he went on, 'more coroners thinking they're human hands.'
'I know, Alex,' I said. 'Nothing has changed.'
8
MARINO PULLED INTO my driveway early, at quarter of nine, because he wanted coffee and something to eat. He was officially not working, so he was dressed in blue jeans, a Richmond Police T-shirt, and cowboy boots that had lived a full life. He had slicked back what little hair had weathered his years, and he looked like an old beer-bellied bachelor about to take his woman to Billy Bob's.
'Are we going to a rodeo?' I asked as I let him in.
'You know, you always have a way of pissing me off.'
He gave me a sour look that didn't faze me in the least. He didn't mean it.
'Well, I think you look pretty cool, as Lucy would say. I've got coffee and granola.'
'How many times do I got to tell you that I don't eat friggin' birdseed,' he
grumbled as he followed me through my house.
'And I don't cook steak-egg biscuits.'
'Well, maybe if you did, you wouldn't spend so many evenings alone.'
'I hadn't thought about that.'
'Did the Smithsonian tell you where we was going to park up there? Because there's no parking in D.C.'
'Nowhere in the entire district? The President should do something about that.'
We were inside my kitchen, and the sun was gold on windows facing it, while the southern exposure caught the river glinting through trees. I had slept better last night, although I had no idea why, unless my brain had been so overloaded it simply had died. I remembered no dreams, and was grateful.
'I got a couple of VIP parking passes from the last time Clinton was in town,' Marino said, helping himself to coffee. 'Issued by the mayor's office.'
He poured coffee for me, too, and slid the mug my way, like a mug of beer on the bar.
'I figured with your Benz and those, maybe the cops would think we have diplomatic immunity or something,' he went on.
'I'm supposing you've seen the boots they put on cars up there.'
I sliced a poppyseed bagel, then opened the refrigerator door to take an inventory.
'I've got Swiss, Vermont cheddar, prosciutto.'
I opened another plastic drawer.
'And Parmesan reggiano - that wouldn't be very good. No cream cheese. Sorry. But I think I've got honey, if you'd rather have that.'
'What about a Vidalia onion?' he asked, looking over my shoulder.
'That I have.'
'Swiss, prosciutto, and a slice of onion is just what the doctor ordered,' Marino said happily. 'Now that's what I call a breakfast.'
'No butter,' I told him. 'I have to draw the line somewhere so I don't feel responsible for your sudden death.'
'Deli mustard would be good,' he said.
I spread spicy yellow mustard, then added prosciutto and onion with the cheese on top, and by the time the toaster oven had heated up, I was consumed by cravings. I fixed the same concoction for myself and poured my granola back into its tin. We sat at my kitchen table and drank Columbian coffee and ate while sunlight painted the flowers in my yard in vibrant hues, and the sky turned a brilliant blue. We were on I-95 North by nine-thirty, and fought little traffic until Quantico.
As I drove past the exit for the FBI Academy and Marine Corps base, I was tugged by days that no longer were, by memories of my relationship with Benton when it was new, and my anxious pride over Lucy's accomplishments in a law enforcement agency that remained as much a politically correct all boys club as it had been during the reign of Hoover. Only now, the Bureau's prejudices and power-mongering were more covert as it marched forward like an army in the night, capturing jurisdictions and credits wherever it could as it pushed closer to becoming the official federal police force of America.
Such realizations had been devastating to me and were largely left unspoken, because I did not want to hurt the individual agent in the field who worked hard and had given his heart to what he believed was a noble calling. I could feel Marino looking at me as he tapped an ash out his window.
'You know, Doc,' he said. 'Maybe you should resign.'
He referred to my long-held position as the consulting forensic pathologist for the Bureau.
'I know they're using other medical examiners these days,' he went on. 'Bringing them in on cases instead of calling you. Let's face it, you haven't been to the Academy in over a year, and that's not an accident. They don't want to deal with you because of what they did to Lucy.'
'I can't resign,' I said, 'because I don't work for them, Marino. I work for cops who need help with their cases and turn to the Bureau. There's no way I'll be the one who quits. And things go in cycles. Directors and attorneys general come and go, and maybe someday things will be better again. Besides, you are still a consultant for them, and they don't seem to call you, either.'
'Yo. Well, I guess I feel the same way you do.'
He pitched his cigarette butt and it sailed behind us on the wind of my speeding car.
'It sucks, don't it? Going up there and working with good people and drinking beer in the Boardroom. It all gets to me, if you want to know. People hating cops and cops hating 'em back. When I was getting started, old folks, kids, parents - they was happy to see me. I was proud to put on the uniform and shined my shoes every day. Now, after twenty years, I get bricks throwed at me in the projects and citizens don't even answer if I say good morning. I work my ass off for twenty-six years, and they promote me to captain and put me in charge of the training bureau.'
'That's probably the place where you can do the most good,' I reminded him.
'Yeah, but that's not why I got stuck there.'
He stared out his side window, watching green highway signs fly by.
'They're putting me out to pasture, hoping I'll hurry up and retire or die. And I gotta tell you, Doc, I think about it a lot. Taking the boat out, fishing, taking the RV on the road and maybe going out west to see the Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, all those places I've always heard about. But then when it gets right down to it, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. So I just think I'll croak in the saddle.'
'Not anytime soon,' I said. 'And should you retire, Marino, you can do like Benton.'
'With all due respect, I ain't the consultant type,' he said. 'The Institute of Justice and IBM ain't gonna hire a slob like me. Doesn't matter what I know.'
I didn't disagree or offer another word, because, with rare exception, what he had said was true. Benton was handsome and polished and commanded respect when he walked into a room, and that was really the only difference between him and Pete Marino. Both were honest and compassionate and experts in their fields.
'All right, we need to pick up 395 and head over to Constitution,' I thought out loud as I watched signs and ignored urgent drivers riding my bumper and darting around me because going the speed limit wasn't fast enough. 'What we don't want to do is go too far and end up on Maine Avenue. I've done that before.'
I flicked on my right turn signal.
'On a Friday night when I was coming up to see Lucy.'
'A good way to get carjacked,' Marino said.
'Almost did.'
'No shit?' He looked over at me. 'What'd you do?'
'They started circling my car, so I floored it.'
'Run anybody over?'
'Almost.'
'Would you have kept on going, Doc? I mean, if you had run one of them over?'
'With at least a dozen of his buddies left, you bet your boots.'
'Well, I'll tell you one thing,' he said, looking down at his feet. 'They ain't worth much.'
Fifteen minutes later we were on Constitution, passing the Department of the Interior while the Washington Monument watched over the Mall, where tents had been set up to celebrate African American art, and venders sold Eastern Shore crabs and T-shirts from the backs of small trucks. The grass between kiosks was depressingly layered with yesterday's trash, and every other minute another ambulance screamed past. We had driven in circles several times, the Smithsonian coiled in the distance like a dark red dragon. There was not a parking place to be found and, typically, streets were one way or abruptly stopped in the middle of a block, while others were barricaded, and harried commuters did not yield even if it meant your running into the back of a parked bus.
'I tell you what I think we should do,' I said, turning on Virginia Avenue. 'We'll valet park at the Watergate and take a cab.'
'Who the hell would want to live in a city like this?' Marino griped.
'Unfortunately, a lot of people.'
'Talk about a place that's screwed up,' he went on. 'Welcome to America.'
The uniformed valet at the Watergate was very gracious and did not seem to think it odd when I gave him my car and asked him to hail a cab. My precious cargo was in the backseat, packed in a sturdy cardboard box filled with Styrofoam peanuts. Marino and I were let
out at Twelfth and Constitution at not quite noon, and climbed the crowded steps of the National Museum of Natural History. Security had been intensified since the Oklahoma bombing, and the guard let us know that Dr Vessey would have to come down and escort us upstairs.
While we waited, we perused an exhibit called Jewels of the Sea, browsing Atlantic thorny oysters and Pacific lions' paws while the skull of a duckbill dinosaur watched us from a wall. There were eels and fish and crabs in jars, and tree snails and a mosasaur marine lizard found in a Kansas chalk bed. Marino was beginning to get bored when the bright brass elevator doors opened and Dr Alex Vessey stepped out. He had changed little since I had seen him last, still slight of build, with white hair and prepossessed eyes that, like those of so many geniuses, were perpetually focused somewhere else. His face was tan and perhaps more lined, and he still wore the same thick black-framed glasses.
'You're looking robust,' I said to him as we shook hands.
'I just got back from vacation. Charleston. I trust you've been there?' he said as the three of us boarded the elevator.
'Yes,' I replied. 'I know the chief there very well. You remember Captain Marino?'
'Of course.'
We rose three levels above the eight-ton African bush elephant in the rotunda, the voices of children floating up like wisps of smoke. The museum was, in truth, little more than a huge granite warehouse. Some thirty thousand human skeletons were stored in green wooden drawers stacked from floor to ceiling. It was a rare collection used to study people of the past, specifically Native Americans who of late had been determined to get their ancestors' bones back. Laws had been passed, and Vessey had been through hell on the Hill, his life's work halfway out the door and headed back to the not-so-wild west.
'We've got a repatriation staff that collects data to supply to this group and that,' he was saying as we accompanied him along a crowded, dim corridor. 'Respective tribes have to be informed as to what we've got, and it's really up to them to determine what's done. In another couple years, our American Indian material may be back in the earth again, only to be dug up again by archaeologists in the next century, my guess is.'
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