The Body Farm

by Patricia Cornwell

  “Where did he do his fellowship?”

  “Oklahoma City,” Lucy replies.

  “I’m not sure I should be listening to this.”

  “Was a forensic pathologist for a while in New Mexico, don’t know what he did from 1993 to 1998 except get divorced from a nurse. No kids. In 1999 he moved to St. Louis and worked in that medical examiner’s office until he moved to Richmond. He drives a twelve-year-old Volvo and he’s never owned a house. You might be interested to know that the house he is renting now is in Henrico County, not too far from Willow Lawn Shopping Center.”

  “I don’t need to hear this,” Scarpetta says. “That’s enough.”

  “He’s never been arrested. Thought you’d want to know that. Only a few traffic violations, nothing dramatic.”

  “This isn’t right,” Scarpetta says. “I don’t need to hear this.”

  “No problem,” Lucy replies in the voice she gets when her aunt has just trampled her spirit and hurt her feelings. “That’s about it anyway. I could find out a hell of a lot more, but preliminarily, that’s it.”

  “Lucy, I know you’re trying to help. You’re amazing. I wouldn’t want you after me. And he’s not a nice man. And God knows what his agenda is, but unless we find out something that directly impacts his ethics or competence or something that might make him dangerous, then I don’t need to know about his life. Do you understand? Please don’t dig up anything else.”

  “He’s dangerous all right,” Lucy says in the voice she gets. “Put a loser like him in a position of power and he’s dangerous. Good God. Who the hell hired him? And why? I can’t imagine how much he must hate you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “The governor’s a woman,” Lucy goes on. “Why the hell would a woman governor appoint a loser like him?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Of course, half the time, politicians don’t do the picking. They just sign off on stuff, and she probably had bigger things to think about.”

  “Lucy, did you call me just to upset me? Why are you doing this? Please don’t. I’m having a hard enough time.”

  Lucy is silent.

  “Lucy? Are you there?” Scarpetta asks.

  “I’m here.”

  “I hate the phone,” Scarpetta says. “I haven’t seen you since September. I think you’re avoiding me.”

  24.

  HE IS SITTING in his living room, the newspaper open in his lap, when he hears the garbage truck coming.

  The engine has a deep diesel sound. The truck stops at the end of the driveway, and the whining of a hydraulic lift is added to the diesel throbbing, and trash cans thud against the metal sides of the huge garbage truck. Then the big men sloppily drop the empty cans at the end of the driveway and the truck rumbles on down the street.

  Dr. Marcus sits in his big stuffed leather chair in his living room, dizzy and barely able to breathe, his heart thudding with terror as he waits. Garbage collection is on Mondays and Thursdays around eight-thirty in his upper-middle-class neighborhood of Westham Green, just west of the city in Henrico County. He is always late for staff meeting on the two days that the garbage collectors come, and not so long ago, he didn’t go to work at all on the two days that the big truck and the big dark men on it came.

  They call themselves sanitation engineers now, not garbage collectors, but it doesn’t matter what they call themselves or what is politically correct or what anybody calls the big dark men in their big dark clothes and big leather gloves. Dr. Marcus is terrified of garbage collectors and their trucks, and his phobia has gotten worse since he moved here four months ago, and he will not go out of the house on garbage collection days until the truck and its men have come and gone. He is doing better since he began seeing the psychiatrist in Charlottesville.

  Dr. Marcus sits in the chair and waits for his heart to slow down and the dizziness and nausea to subside and his nerves to stop firing, and then he gets up, still in his pajamas, robe, and slippers. There is no point in getting dressed until after garbage collection because he sweats so profusely as he anticipates the hideous guttural sound and heavy steel clanking of the big truck and its big dark men that by the time they are gone, he is soaking wet and shivering with cold, his fingernails blue. Dr. Marcus walks the length of the oak floor in his living room and looks out the window at the green Supercans sloppily left on the corner of his driveway, and he listens for the hideous noise to make sure the truck is nowhere near and not heading back this way, even though he knows the garbage route in his neighborhood.

  By now, the truck and the men on it are stopping and starting, jumping off the truck and back on, and emptying Supercans several streets away, and they will keep on going until they turn off on Patterson Avenue, and where they go from there Dr. Marcus doesn’t know or care, as long as they are gone. He stares out his window at his haphazardly placed Supercans and decides it is not safe to go out.

  He doesn’t feel up to going out yet, and he walks to his bedroom and checks again to make sure his burglar alarm is still armed, and he takes off his wet pajamas and robe and gets into the shower. He doesn’t stay in the shower long, but when he is clean and warm, he dries off and gets dressed for the office, grateful that the attack has passed, and careful not to contemplate what might happen should an attack come on suddenly when he is in public. Well, it won’t. As long as he is home or near his office, he can shut the door and safely wait out the storm.

  In the kitchen, he takes an orange pill. He’s already had one Klonopin and his antidepressant this morning, but he takes another .5 milligram of Klonopin. In the past few months he has gotten up to three milligrams a day, and he is not happy about being dependent on benzodiazepines. His psychiatrist in Charlottesville says not to worry. As long as Dr. Marcus doesn’t abuse alcohol or other drugs, and he doesn’t touch either, he is fine taking Klonopin. Better to take Klonopin than to be so crippled by panic attacks that he hides inside his house and loses his job or humiliates himself. He can’t afford to lose his job or be humiliated. He isn’t wealthy like Scarpetta and he could never endure the humiliations she seems to take in stride. Before he succeeded her as chief medical examiner of Virginia, he hadn’t needed Klonopin or antidepressants, but now he has a comorbid disorder, according to his psychiatrist, meaning he has not one disorder but two. In St. Louis, he missed work sometimes and almost never traveled, but he managed. Life before Scarpetta was manageable.

  In the living room, he looks out the window again at the big green Supercans and listens for the big truck and the men on it, but he does not hear them. Slipping on his old gray wool overcoat and an old pair of black pigskin gloves, he pauses by the front door to see how he is feeling. He seems to be fine, so he disarms the burglar alarm and opens the door. He walks briskly to the end of his driveway, checking up and down the street for the truck but not hearing or seeing it, and he feels fine as he rolls the Supercans to the side of the garage where they belong.

  He returns to his house and takes off his coat and gloves, and he is much calmer now, even happy, and he thoroughly washes his hands and his thoughts return to Scarpetta and he feels relaxed and in good spirits because he is going to get his way about things. All these months he has heard Scarpetta-this and Scarpetta-that, and because he didn’t know her, he could not complain. When the health commissioner said, “Her shoes will be hard to fill, probably impossible for you to fill, and there are still some people who won’t respect you just because you aren’t her,” Dr. Marcus said not a word, because what could he say? He didn’t know her.

  When the new governor extended the courtesy of inviting Dr. Marcus to have coffee in her office after she appointed him, he had to decline because she set the time at eight-thirty on a Monday, which is the same day and time as garbage collection in Westham Green. Of course, he couldn’t explain why he couldn’t have coffee with her, but it was out of the question, just impossible, and he remembers sitting in his living room listening f
or the big truck and its big men and wondering how life was going to be for him in Virginia since he declined to have coffee with the governor, who is a woman and probably wouldn’t respect him anyway because he’s not a woman and he’s not Scarpetta.

  Dr. Marcus doesn’t know for a fact that the new governor is an admirer of Scarpetta, but she probably is. He had no idea what he was up against when he accepted the job of chief and moved here from St. Louis, leaving behind an office full of women medical examiners and death investigators, all of whom knew about Scarpetta and told him what a lucky man he was to get her job because thanks to her, Virginia has the best ME system in the United States, and it was a shame she didn’t get on with whoever the governor was back then, the one who fired her, and the women in his office encouraged him to take Scarpetta’s job.

  They wanted him gone. He knew that at the time. They couldn’t figure out for the life of them why Virginia was interested in him, of all people, unless it was because he was nonconfrontational and nonpolitical and nonexistent. He knew what the women in his office were saying at the time. They whispered and worried that his opportunity was going to fall through and they would be stuck with him, and he knew exactly what was being said at the time.

  So he moved to Virginia and not a month later found himself at odds with the governor, all because of garbage collection in Westham Green, and he blamed it on Scarpetta. He was cursed because of her. All he did was hear about her and complaints about him because he’s not her. He was barely on the job when he came to hate her and everything she had accomplished, and he became masterful at showing his contempt in small ways, by neglecting whatever had been associated with Scarpetta way back when, whether it was a painting or a plant or a book or a pathologist or a dead patient who would have been better off were Scarpetta still chief. He became obsessed with proving that she is a myth and a fraud and a failure, but he couldn’t destroy a perfect stranger. He couldn’t even utter a negative word about her because he didn’t know her.

  Then Gilly Paulsson died and her father called the health commissioner, who in turn called the governor, who immediately called the director of the FBI, all because the governor heads a national terrorist committee and Frank Paulsson has connections with the Department of Homeland Security, and wouldn’t it be awful if it turned out that little Gilly was killed by some enemy of the U.S. government?

  The FBI was quick to agree that the matter merited checking into, and instantly the Bureau interfered with the local police and nobody knew what the other person was doing and some evidence went to the local labs and some evidence went to the FBI labs and other evidence wasn’t collected at all, and Dr. Paulsson didn’t want Gilly’s body released from the morgue until all the facts were known. Mixed in with this mess was Dr. Paulsson’s dysfunctional relationship with his estranged wife, and soon enough the death of this nobody little fourteen-year-old was so screwed up and politicized that Dr. Marcus had no choice but to ask the health commissioner what should be done.

  “We need to bring in a big-gun consultant,” the health commissioner replied. “Before things go really bad.”

  “They’re already bad,” Dr. Marcus replied. “The minute Richmond PD heard the FBI was involved, they backed off, ran for cover. And to make matters worse, we don’t know what killed the girl. I think her death is suspicious, but we don’t have a cause of death.”

  “We need a consultant. Immediately. Someone who’s not from here. Someone who can take the brunt of it, if need be. If the governor gets a lot of shit from this case, national shit, heads will roll and mine won’t be the only one, Joel.”

  “What about Dr. Scarpetta?” Dr. Marcus suggested, and it amazed him at the time that her name leaped to his tongue without premeditation. His response was that effortless and quick.

  “Excellent idea. An inspired one,” the health commissioner agreed. “Do you know her?”

  “I will soon enough,” Dr. Marcus said, and it amazed him that he was such a brilliant strategist.

  He had never known just how brilliant a strategist he was before that moment, but since he had never criticized Scarpetta, because he didn’t know her, he was justified in enthusiastically recommending her as a consultant. Because he had never uttered a negative word about her, he could call her himself, which is what he did that day, just the day before yesterday. Soon he would know Scarpetta, oh yes he would, and then he could criticize her and humiliate her and do whatever he liked to her.

  He would blame her for everything that went wrong with Gilly Paulsson and the OCME and anything else that might come up, and the governor would forget that Dr. Marcus had declined to have coffee with her. Should she ask him again and should she choose eight-thirty on a Monday or Thursday, Dr. Marcus will simply tell her scheduler that the OCME staff meeting is at eight-thirty, and could the governor do coffee later, because it is very important that he preside over staff meeting. Why he didn’t think of that the first time he’s not sure, but he’ll know what to say next time.

  Dr. Marcus picks up the phone in his living room and looks out at the empty street, relieved that garbage collection is of no concern for three more days, and he is feeling very good as he thumbs through a small black address book he has kept for so many years that half the names and numbers in it have been crossed out. He dials a number and looks out at his street and watches an old blue Chevrolet Impala drive by, and he remembers when his mother used to get her old white Impala stuck in the snow at the bottom of the hill, the same hill every winter, when he was growing up in Charlottesville.

  “Scarpetta,” she answers her cell phone.

  “Dr. Marcus here,” he says in his practiced, authoritative, but pleasant-enough voice, and he has many voices but at the moment he has chosen his pleasant-enough one.

  “Yes,” she replies. “Good morning. I hope Dr. Fielding briefed you on our reexamination of Gilly Paulsson.”

  “I’m afraid he did. He told me your opinion,” he says, savoring the words “your opinion” and wishing he could see her reaction, because the words “your opinion” are ones a calculating defense attorney would say. A prosecutor, on the other hand, would say “your conclusion” because that is a validation of experience and expertise, whereas to say “your opinion” is a veiled insult.

  “I’m wondering if you’ve heard about the trace evidence,” he then says, thinking of the e-mail he got yesterday from the ever inappropriate Junius Eise.

  “No,” she says.

  “It’s quite extraordinary,” he says ominously. “That’s why we’re having a meeting,” Dr. Marcus says. He set up the meeting yesterday but is telling her about it only now. “I’d like you to come by my office this morning at nine-thirty.” He watches the old blue Impala pull into a driveway two houses down, and he wonders why it is stopping there and who it belongs to.

  Scarpetta hesitates as if his last-minute suggestion doesn’t suit her, then she replies, “Of course. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “May I ask what you did yesterday afternoon? I didn’t see you at my office,” he inquires, watching an old black woman get out of the old blue Impala.

  “Paperwork, a lot of phone calls. Why, did you need something?”

  Dr. Marcus feels slightly giddy and dizzy as he watches the old black woman and the old blue Impala. The great Scarpetta is asking him if he needed something, as if she works for him. But she does work for him. Right now she does. This he finds hard to believe.

  “I don’t need anything from you at the moment,” he says. “I’ll see you at the meeting,” and he hangs up, and it gives him great pleasure to hang up on Scarpetta.

  The heels of his lace-up old-fashioned brown shoes click against the oak floors as he walks into the kitchen and puts on a second pot of decaffeinated coffee. Most of the first pot went to waste because he was too worried about the garbage truck and the men on it to remember the coffee, and it began to smell cooked and he poured it down the sink. So he puts on the coffee and walks back into the living room
to check on the Impala.

  Through the same window he usually looks out, the one across from his favorite big leather chair, he watches the old black woman pull bags of groceries from the back of the Impala. She must be the housekeeper, he thinks, and it irks him that a black housekeeper would drive the same car his mother did when he was growing up. That was a nice car once. Not everybody had a white Impala with a blue stripe down the side, and he was proud of that car except when it got stuck in the snow at the bottom of the hill. His mother wasn’t a good driver. She shouldn’t have been allowed to drive that Impala. An Impala is named for a male African antelope that can leap great distances and is easily startled, and his mother was nervous enough when she was just on her own two feet. She didn’t need to be behind the wheel of anything named after a male African antelope that was powerful and easily spooked.

  The old housekeeper moves slowly, gathering up plastic bags of groceries from the back of the Impala, and moving in an old tired waddle from the car to a side door of the house, then back to the car, gathering up more bags, then closing the car door with her hip. That was a fine car once, Dr. Marcus thinks, staring out his window. The housekeeper’s Impala must be forty years old and it seems to be in good shape, and he can’t remember the last time he’s seen a ’63 or ’64 Impala. That he should see one today strikes him as significant but he doesn’t know what the significance is, and he returns to the kitchen to get his coffee. If he waits another twenty minutes, his doctors will be busy with autopsies and he won’t have to talk to anyone, and his pulse picks up speed again as he waits. His nerves start firing again.

  At first he blames his racing heart and shakiness and twitching on the trace of caffeine in decaffeinated coffee, but he’s had only a few sips, and he realizes something else is happening. He thinks of the Impala across the street and becomes more agitated and out of sorts, and he wishes the housekeeper had never driven up, today of all days, when he was home because of garbage collection. He returns to the living room and sits down in his big leather chair and leans back, trying to relax, and his heart is pounding so violently he can see the front of his white shirt moving, and he takes deep breaths and closes his eyes.