“I don’t believe we’ve met.” She introduces herself to Erin, and a brief turf war ensues that the FBI isn’t going to win. “Then you’re new to the Boston area,” Donoghue summarizes. “So let me tell you how things work. When my client says she won’t talk to you until I show up? You stop talking.”
“We were having a casual discussion about her recognizing Carrie Grethen …”
“See? Now that sounds like talking.”
“ … And how she could have recognized her or anyone for that matter, considering how fast it happened, considering the extreme duress of the alleged situation.”
“Alleged?” Donoghue almost laughs. “Have you seen Doctor Scarpetta’s leg?”
“Show me.” Erin’s eyes dancing with defiance, with her certainty I’m not about to undress.
But she couldn’t be more mistaken. I unzip my cargo pants.
CHAPTER 18
THAT’S OKAY,” SHE QUICKLY SAYS. “YOU DON’T NEED to prove anything.”
“In my profession you give up modesty rather quickly.” I ease the right pants leg down to my knee. “When you’ve just finished working a decomp, a floater, you really don’t care who’s in the shower next to you. The entrance and exit scars are right here.”
I point to them, round and angry red and smaller than a dime.
“The spear skewered my quadriceps muscles,” I explain. “Entering here almost midthigh and exiting just above my patella, my kneecap. The tip protruded about four inches from my skin. Obviously the significant damage was to muscle and bone, which were further injured because of the rope. One end was attached to the spear and the other to a float on the surface. You can imagine the tugging and pulling.”
“An awful thought. Very painful.” Erin pauses for effect. “But it’s within the realm of possibility the wound could have been self-inflicted, prompting you to make up some imaginary story about some phantom in camouflage.”
I hold an imaginary spear gun and try to line up the tip with the entrance wound on my thigh. “Difficult but not impossible. What would be my motivation?”
“You would do anything for your niece, wouldn’t you?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” Donoghue says.
“I wouldn’t,” I reply. “And I didn’t shoot myself. And I don’t know anything about a camo dive skin but that doesn’t mean Carrie wasn’t wearing one.”
“What if it meant saving Lucy’s life? Would you lie?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” Donoghue says.
“Would you lie to cover the shameful fact that you were suicidal?”
“It would be my nature to shoot the source of the threat,” I reply.
“You aren’t required to explain,” Donoghue says to me.
“Shooting myself, which I certainly didn’t do, would make no sense,” I add. “And which is it? Because I’m confused. I’m lying to cover for Lucy? Or I’m lying about attempting to kill myself? Maybe you have another theory to add to the mix?”
“Did you feel you panicked?” Erin is having a harder time keeping her composure. “When you realized you were shot? Did you feel panic?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” Donoghue says.
“Have you ever entertained even the slightest doubt that the person who shot you was Carrie Grethen?” Erin tastes blood.
“You don’t have to answer that.”
“Has it ever occurred to you, Doctor Scarpetta, that in your panic you thought it was her but you were mistaken?”
“You don’t have to answer that.”
“That’s fine because I really didn’t understand the question. I’m confused by yet another theory.” My attention is on the river beyond the window, on the slow eddies and ruffles.
The water is the greenish color of old bottle glass as it languidly bends around the point of land Lucy owns. An image flashes in my mind. I see my face through a fogged-up dive mask in murky muddy water. I see myself dead.
“I’m sorry,” Erin says with a chilliness that’s about to freeze over. “Let me try again. Has it ever entered your mind that the person you saw might have been someone else?”
“You don’t have to answer that.”
“Oh I see. We’re off the suicide theory and back to my being shot by someone,” I reply.
“Isn’t it more likely”—Erin continues her disjointed line of questioning—“that during the nanosecond you saw this person you made an instant assumption it was Carrie Grethen? You didn’t know it, you assumed it. And why wouldn’t you? Certainly she was on your mind.”
“You don’t have to answer that either,” Donoghue says.
“You were justified in fearing her, looking over your shoulder every minute.” Erin is baiting me, trying to make me react. “Therefore wouldn’t it be fair to conclude that if you were looking for her, then that’s who you imagined you saw in the nanosecond we’re talking about?”
She’s going to persist in using the word nanosecond. She’s practicing for a jury, making the case that the encounter happened so fast I didn’t really see anything. Therefore I didn’t see who shot me. I simply feared who it might be and made an assumption that I won’t back down from. Or if that story doesn’t work then I suppose she can resort to painting me as a crazy person who speared herself for God knows what reason. After several more minutes of this, Donoghue says she needs to talk privately with her client.
“I’ve never been here before,” she says to me for Erin’s benefit. “Do you mind showing me around, Kay? It looks absolutely breathtaking.”
We walk out into the corridor and follow red jarrah wood flooring slowly, quietly, beneath mica lamps that glow a pleasant coppery yellow. I’m aware of Lucy’s security system, of every keypad, camera and motion sensor we pass. I’m mindful that there can be no assumption of privacy.
“Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?” I ask Donoghue a seemingly innocuous question as I’m mindful of cameras all over Lucy’s house.
“I noticed when I first walked in that if I’d taken a right instead of a left there seemed to be an area of interest at the end of that hallway.” Her casual comment points out a serious problem.
What she’s referring to is the guest suite Lucy renovated for me. It’s my bedroom, my private space when I stay here. As we get closer to the entranceway I can see what Donoghue is talking about. Beyond is another hallway. At the far end of it the door to my suite is open. As we get closer a man in a cheap khaki suit emerges with a large sealed brown paper package that he carries in both arms. Strong and sinewy, he’s dark with glittering brown eyes, his hair cropped close to his scalp on the sides and a buzz cut on top. He looks military.
“Afternoon,” he says as if we’re on the same team. “Can I help you with something?”
“Where are you taking that and why?” Donoghue indicates the brown paper package he clutches.
“Oh now I wouldn’t want to bog you down in every little thing we’re doing here. But you can’t go in right now. I’m Doug Wade. And you’re?”
“Jill Donoghue. May I see your badge?”
“I’d be happy to if I had one,” he says. “But I’m just a revenue officer for the IRS. We don’t get badges, guns, nothing fun like that.”
WHEN I REACH MY ROOM I don’t step inside. But I make my presence known.
I stand in the open doorway watching two agents strip my queen-size bed, flipping the mattress over and halfway off the frame, piling the honey-colored Egyptian cotton linens on the floor. Their gloved hands feel carefully for any hint of a hiding place. They aren’t IRS unless they’re looking for a mattress full of untaxed money. They’re looking for something else. But what?
More rifles? A spear gun? My dive mask? Drugs?
Through the open closet door I can see my clothing, my shoes sloppily returned to shelves that were riffled through. I confirm that my iMac computer is missing from the desk inside my country office with its river view. Lucy worked hard to make my guest quarters exa
ctly what she thought I’d like, a lot of glass, a colorful silk rug on the shiny cherry floor, copper light fixtures, a coffee bar, a gas fireplace and large photographs of Venice.
I’ve enjoyed many contented cozy times here, innocent gentle hiatuses that I may never have again. I feel my anger picking up steam as I think of the large brown-wrapped package I just watched go by. My mind races through what might be on the desktop or stored in documents. What might the IRS or FBI or some other agency see that could be a problem?
I’m diligent about dumping files and emptying the trash but that won’t stop government labs from recovering everything that was on my computer. Lucy could have scrubbed the hard drive and ensured that nothing deleted could be restored. But I assume she didn’t have time. She claims she didn’t know her property was being raided until Erin Loria called the house phone and announced her presence, and that would have given Lucy only minutes to take care of any security concerns. But I don’t know what’s true. She can be as manipulative and untruthful as the FBI. Maybe that’s where she learned it.
“Good morning,” I say and both agents look up at me, neither of them a day over forty, typically well groomed and buff in their cargo pants and polo shirts. “Am I being audited?”
“I sure hope not because that’s no fun,” one of them says cheerfully.
“I’m just wondering if I’m being audited and if that’s the explanation for why an IRS revenue agent just walked off with my computer, which by the way I don’t believe is proper. It’s my understanding that revenue agents can’t just enter a private residence without permission. Did Lucy give the IRS permission?”
No answer.
“Did her partner Janet?”
Nothing.
“Well for sure I know I didn’t,” I say to them. “So I’m wondering who gave the IRS permission to search this house and remove personal property from it? Not just my niece’s personal property but also mine.”
“We’re really not at liberty to discuss an active investigation, ma’am,” the other agent says curtly, loudly.
“If I’m the target of an active investigation and am being audited I have a right to know. Isn’t that true?” I ask Donoghue but I don’t need her to answer. “And I’m confused and find it necessary to continue to point out that revenue agents aren’t allowed to simply help themselves to whatever they decide to carry off-site.”
I’m playing them and they know it. The smiles are gone.
“You’ll have to take it up with them, ma’am,” the loud curt agent says and his tone is sharper. “We don’t work for the IRS.”
I’m not certain the man in the khaki suit who just walked out with the iMac works for the IRS either. He didn’t look like the type, not like any auditor I’ve ever met. Also he introduced himself as a revenue officer and not a revenue agent, and officers are usually assigned to cases that involve unpaid tax debts while agents conduct audits. I don’t know why either type of IRS employee would be inside Lucy’s house.
“This is my attorney and I’m glad she’s a witness to your active investigation,” I then say. “A picture’s worth a thousand words. You gentlemen have a nice day.”
“How did they know this is your room?” Donoghue asks me as we walk away.
“How did you know it’s my room?” I ask her back.
“Because I overheard someone make a reference when I first walked into the house. I caught words to the effect that what they’d just packed up was the Doc’s computer and to make sure it’s clear the contents of that room are yours,” she explains. “They had no doubt about it. Any reason to think you might have a problem with the IRS?”
“No more reason than anybody else that I’m aware of.”
“And Lucy?”
“I have nothing to do with her finances. She doesn’t discuss them with me. I do assume she pays her taxes,” I reply.
“Why might the IRS investigate her for tax crimes?”
“There’s no reason I’m aware of.” I don’t add that Doug Wade in his khaki suit isn’t that kind of IRS employee.
If he were empowered to investigate suspected criminal tax offenses he would have a gun and a badge. Special agents for the IRS also usually travel in pairs. I don’t say there’s something fishy about who Doug Wade is and why he’s here. But I’m quite sure it’s not for reasons that meet the eye. The FBI has an agenda. It won’t be one that’s palatable or in this case even justified.
“More to the point?” I’m saying to Donoghue loud enough for everyone to hear. “The Feds have a right to anything that’s mine? Just because it happens to be inside Lucy’s house?” I already know what she’ll say but that doesn’t stop me from hoping for a loophole, and I’m in a mood to remind the FBI that I won’t be bullied.
“Anything on the premises they have a warrant to search and it’s open season,” she says. “They would argue that they have no way of knowing whether laptops all over the place are Lucy’s or belong to someone else such as Janet or yourself. They would argue that the only way to be certain is to examine the contents.”
“In other words they get to do what they want.”
“In other words yes,” she says. “They pretty much do.”
Outside the house in the stifling heat I don’t see any agents walking about, and I look at the vehicles parked in front, a caravan of four white Tahoes. Behind them is a black Ford sedan and I wonder who it belongs to. Maybe the phony IRS agent.
The helicopter is gone, and I hear the wind in the trees and the distant kettledrums of thunder. Clouds to the south are rising like the Great Wall of China, building formidably like an edifice you can see from outer space. The air is humid and ominous.
“Why?” Donoghue looks up at the threatening sky.
“Why what?”
“Why did they have a helicopter here? What the hell was it doing? It circled for how long?”
“The better part of an hour.”
“Maybe they’re filming everything that goes on down here.”
“For what reason?”
“Political caution,” Donoghue decides, and what she means is public embarrassment or looking bad.
“I suggest we head down to the dock.” I point out every lamppost and some of the trees that have cameras with audio.
I’m slow picking my way down wooden steps that lead from the backyard to the water’s edge. It’s low tide and I smell the swampy odor of decomposing vegetation, and the hot flat air has gotten still, simmering with violent promise. To the south threatening clouds are building rapidly. We’re about to get a severe thunderstorm and I don’t want the damn FBI here when it hits. I don’t want them tracking water and mud in and out. They’ve done enough damage.
Our footsteps are hollow thuds on the weathered gray wooden dock. The boathouse is built on pilings, and underneath are colorful kayaks that are rarely used. Lucy has little interest in any mode of transportation that doesn’t include an engine. I suspect that anything requiring a paddle was Janet’s idea.
“How was your status conference this morning?” I lead us around to the front of the boathouse as I think about data fiction, about a case Donoghue apparently was discussing in federal court this morning.
Benton was there. Does data fiction have anything to do with why the FBI is here now? I don’t ask directly and Donoghue isn’t saying anything.
“I was just wondering because you brought it up.” I don’t say what she brought up but she understands what I’m suggesting.
“Yes I did,” she finally answers me. “There was a motion made that the case be dismissed because the evidence can’t be trusted.”
“Based on?”
“I think it’s the nature of digital media that we should assume it can be corrupted,” she replies, and as she continues to talk cautiously and shrewdly it dawns on me that she was the attorney who requested this dismissal.
Donoghue is a powerful, skilled attorney who wouldn’t miss the slightest opportunity to make a jury question the integrity of
every aspect of the prosecution’s case. For her data fiction would be a dream come true. But I have to wonder about the timing. Why today? Why was Benton there? Why is the FBI on Lucy’s property?
“It’s all connected,” I say under my breath, and then I hear it again.
The C-sharp cord on an electric guitar. I look at the message that’s just landed on my phone and Donoghue can tell by my face that I’m upset.
“Is everything all right?” She stares pointedly at my phone and says very quietly, barely moving her lips, “Use extreme caution. I’m sure they’ve seized her networks.”
I stop walking. “I need a minute.”
“Is it anything I can help you with?” She continues her careful conversation.
“It’s quite a view Lucy has here.” I look out at the water and Donoghue knows not to question me further.
I’ve been sent a communication she shouldn’t see, and if what I’m about to find relates to criminal activity then she doesn’t need the exposure. It’s bad enough that I have it, and I watch her walk ahead of me as I stand alone on the pier and put on my earpiece again. I face the river and hold my phone close, protecting any sliver of privacy I might have, calculating the most likely location for Lucy’s cameras and keeping my back to them, tucking myself in, preparing for something else that will be difficult for me to watch.
Like the other two messages this one appears to have been sent from Lucy’s ICE line, and there’s no text, nothing but a link. I click on it and without delay the video starts inside Lucy’s dorm room again. Then the credits begin to roll by, dripping down slowly in bloodred type:
DEPRAVED HEART—VIDEO III
BY CARRIE GRETHEN
JULY 11, 1997
CHAPTER 19
SHE STOPS READING AND HER NIMBLE PALE FINGERS quickly fold the sheets of white unlined paper with their script format.
Depraved Heart Page 15