Four Scarpetta Novels (7 page)

“I'm not going to give them that power right now,” Scarpetta says. “I have more important things to deal with. That's why I'm dressed in a damn suit and going into the damn office on a damn Sunday when I could be working in my garden or even going for a damn walk.”

“I ran a background check on the guy you're meeting with this afternoon. Recently, he was the victim of an assault. No suspect. And related to this, he was charged with a misdemeanor for possession of marijuana. The charge was dropped. Beyond that, not even a speeding ticket. But I don't think you should be alone with him.”

“What about the brutalized little boy all alone in my morgue? Since you haven't said anything, I assume your computer searches are still coming up empty-handed.”

“It's like he didn't exist.”

“Well, he did. And what was done to him is one of the worst things I've ever seen. Maybe it's time we go out on a limb.”

“And do what?”

“I've been thinking about statistical genetics.”

“I still can't believe no one's doing it,” Lucy says. “The technology's there. It's been there. It's all so stupid. Alleles are shared among relatives, and, as is true of any other database, it's all a function of probability.”

“A father, mother, sibling would have a higher score. And we'd see it and focus on it. I think we should try it.”

“If we do, what happens if it turns out this little kid was killed by a relative? We use statistical genetics in a criminal case, and what happens in court?” Lucy says.

“If we figure out who he is, then we'll worry about court.”

 

Belmont, Massachusetts. Dr. Marilyn Self sits before a window in her room with a view.

Sloping lawns, forests and fruit trees, and old brick buildings harken back to a genteel era when the wealthy and famous could disappear from their lives, briefly or for as long as needed, or in some hopeless cases, forever, and be treated with the respect and pampering they deserved. At McLean Hospital, it's perfectly normal to spot famous actors, musicians, athletes, and politicians strolling the cottage-style campus, designed by the famous landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted, whose other famous projects include New York's Central Park, the grounds of the U.S. Capitol, the Biltmore Estate, and Chicago's 1893 World's Fair.

It isn't perfectly normal to spot Dr. Marilyn Self. But she doesn't intend to be here much longer, and when the public eventually finds out the truth, her reasons will be clear. To be safe and sequestered, and then, as has always been the story of her life, a destiny. What she calls
a meant-to-be.
She'd forgotten Benton Wesley works here.

Shocking Secret Experiments: Frankenstein
.

Let's see.
She continues to script her first show when she returns to the air.
While in seclusion to guard my life, I unwittingly and unwillingly became an eyewitness—worse, a guinea pig—to clandestine experiments and abuse. In the name of science. It is as Kurtz said in
Heart of Darkness—
“The horror! The horror!” I was subjected to a modern form of what was done in asylums during the darkest days of the darkest times when people who didn't have the proper tools were considered subhuman and treated like…Treated like…?
The right analogy will come to her later.

Dr. Self smiles as she imagines Marino's ecstasy when he discovered she had written back to him. He probably believes that she (the most famous psychiatrist in the world) was happy to hear from him. He still believes she cares! She's never cared. Even when he was her patient in her less prominent Florida days, she didn't care. He was little more than a therapeutic amusement, and yes (she admits it), a dash of spice, because his adoration of her was almost as pathetic as his besotted sexual obsession with Scarpetta.

Poor, pathetic Scarpetta. Amazing what a few well-placed calls can do.

Her mind races. Her thoughts are nonstop inside her room at the Pavilion, where meals are catered and a concierge is available, should one wish to go to the theater or a Red Sox game or a health spa. The privileged patient at the Pavilion gets rather much whatever he or she wants, which in Dr. Self's case is her own e-mail account and a room that happened to be occupied by another patient named Karen when Dr. Self was admitted nine days ago.

The unacceptable room assignment was, of course, remedied easily enough without administrative intervention or delay on Dr. Self's first day when she entered Karen's room before dawn and awakened her by gently blowing on her eyes.

“Oh!” Karen exclaimed in relief when she realized it was Dr. Self, not a rapist, hovering over her. “I was having a strange dream.”

“Here. I brought you coffee. You were sleeping like the dead. Perhaps you stared too long at the crystal light fixture last night?” Dr. Self looked up at the shadowy shape of the Victorian crystal light fixture above the bed.

“What!” Karen exclaimed in alarm, setting down her coffee on the antique bedside table.

“One must be most careful about staring at anything crystal. It can have a hypnotic effect and put you into a trancelike state. What was your dream?”

“Dr. Self, it was so real! I felt someone's breath in my face and I was scared.”

“Do you have any idea who? Perhaps someone in your family? A family friend?”

“My father used to rub his whiskers against my face when I was little. I could feel his breath. How funny! I'm just now remembering that! Or maybe I'm imagining it. Sometimes I have a problem knowing what's real.” Disappointed.

“Repressed memories, my dear,” Dr. Self said. “Don't doubt your inner Self [said slowly]. It's what I tell all my followers. Don't doubt your what, Karen?”

“Inner Self.”

“That's right. Your inner Self [said very slowly] knows the truth. Your inner Self knows what's real.”

“A truth about my father? Something real I don't remember?”

“An unbearable truth, an unthinkable reality you couldn't face back then. You see, my dear, everything really is about sex. I can help you.”

“Please help me!”

Patiently, Dr. Self led her back in time, back to when she was seven, and with some insightful guidance navigated her back to the scene of her original psychic crime. Karen finally, for the first time in her pointless, used-up life, recounted her father crawling into bed with her and rubbing his exposed erect penis against her buttocks, his boozy breath in her face, and then a warm, wet stickiness all over her pajama bottoms. Dr. Self went on to direct poor Karen to the traumatic realization that what happened wasn't an isolated incident, because sexual abuse, with rare exception, is repeated, and her mother must have been aware, based on the condition of little Karen's pajamas and the bedcovers, meaning her mother turned a blind eye to what her husband was doing to their younger daughter.

“I remember my father bringing me hot chocolate in bed once and I spilled it,” Karen finally said. “I remember the warm stickiness on my pajama bottoms. Maybe that's what I'm remembering and not…”

“Because it was safe to think it was hot chocolate. And then what followed?” No answer. “If you spilled it? Whose fault was it?”

“I spilled it. It was my fault,” Karen says, tearfully.

“Perhaps why you've abused alcohol and drugs ever since? Because you feel what happened is your fault?”

“Not ever since. I didn't start drinking or smoking pot until I was fourteen. Oh, I don't know! I don't want to go into another trance, Dr. Self! I can't bear the memories! Or if it wasn't real, now I think it is!”

“It's just as Pitres wrote in his
Leçons cliniques sur l'hystérie et l'hypnotisme
in 1891,” Dr. Self said as the woods and lawn beautifully materialized in the dawn—a view that soon would be hers. She explained delirium and hysteria, and intermittently looked up at the crystal light fixture over Karen's bed.

“I can't stay in this room!” Karen cried. “Won't you please trade rooms with me?” she begged.

 

Lucious Meddick snaps a rubber band on his right wrist as he parks his shiny black hearse in the alley behind Dr. Scarpetta's house.

Intended for horses, not huge vehicles, what kind of nonsense is this? His heart is still pounding. He's a nervous wreck. Damn lucky he didn't scrape against trees or the high brick wall that separates the alley and old houses along it from a public garden. What kind of ordeal is this to put him through, and already his brand-new hearse is feeling out of alignment, was pulling to one side as it bumped over pavers, kicking up dust and dead leaves. He climbs out, leaving the engine rumbling, noticing some old lady staring out her upstairs window at him. Lucious smiles at her, can't help but think it won't be long before the old bag needs his services.

He presses the intercom button on a formidable iron gate and announces, “Meddicks'.”

After a long pause, which requires him to make the announcement again, a woman's strong voice sounds through the speaker: “Who is this?”

“Meddicks' Funeral Home. I have a delivery….”

“You brought a delivery
here
?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Stay inside your vehicle. I'll be right there.”

The southern charm of General Patton, Lucious thinks, somewhat humiliated and irked as he climbs back into his hearse. He rolls up his window and thinks of the stories he's heard. At one time Dr. Scarpetta was as famous as Quincy, but something happened when she was the chief medical examiner…. He can't remember where. She got fired or couldn't take the pressure. A breakdown. A scandal. Maybe more than one of each. Then that highly publicized case in Florida a couple years back, some naked lady strung up from a rafter, tortured and tormented until she couldn't take it anymore and hung herself with her own rope.

A patient of that TV talk-show shrink. He tries to remember. Maybe it was more than one person tortured and killed. He's quite sure Dr. Scarpetta testified and was key in convincing the jury to find Dr. Self guilty of something. And in a number of articles he's read since, she has referred to Dr. Scarpetta as “incompetent and biased,” a “closet lesbian,” and a “has-been.” Probably true. Most powerful women are like men or at least wish they were men, and when she started out, there weren't many women in her profession. Now there must be thousands of them. Supply and demand, nothing special about her anymore, no-sirree-bob, women all over the place—young ones—getting ideas from TV and doing the same thing she does. That and all the other stuff said about her sure as heck would explain why she moved to the Lowcountry and works out of a tiny carriage house—a former stable, let's be honest—which certainly isn't what Lucious works out of, not hardly.

He lives in the upstairs of the funeral home the Meddick family has owned in Beaufort County for more than a hundred years. The three-story mansion on a former plantation still has the original slave cabins, sure isn't some itty-bitty carriage house on an old narrow alleyway. Shocking, downright shocking. It's one thing to embalm bodies and prepare them for burial in a professionally outfitted room in a mansion, quite another to do autopsies in a carriage house, especially if you're dealing with floaters—
greenies
, he calls them—and others who are hard as hell to make presentable to families, no matter how much D-12 deodorant powder you use so they don't stink up the chapel.

A woman appears behind her two sets of gates, and he begins to indulge in his favorite preoccupation, voyeurism, scrutinizing her through the dark-tinted side window. Metal clanks as she opens and shuts the first black gate, then the outer one—tall with flat, twisted bars centered by two J-curves that look like a heart. As if she has a heart, and by now he's sure she doesn't. She's dressed in a power suit, has blond hair, and he calculates she's five-foot-five, wears a size-eight skirt, a size-ten blouse. Lucious is darn near infallible when it comes to his deductions about what people would look like naked on an embalming table, jokes around about having what he calls “x-ray eyes.”

Since she so rudely ordered him not to get out of his vehicle, he doesn't. She knocks on his dark window, and he starts to get flustered. His fingers twitch in his lap, try to rise to his mouth as if they have a will of their own, and he tells them
no.
He snaps himself hard with the rubber band around his wrist and tells his hands to
stop it.
He snaps the rubber band again and grips the wood-grain steering wheel to keep his hands out of trouble.

She knocks again.

He sucks on a wint-o-green Life Saver and rolls down his window. “You sure got a strange location to be hanging out your shingle,” he says with a big practiced smile.

“You're in the wrong place,” she tells him, not so much as a
good morning
or
nice to meet you.
“What in the world are you doing here?”

“Wrong place, wrong time. That's what keeps people like you and me in business,” Lucious replies with his toothy smile.

“How did you get this address?” she says in the same unfriendly tone. She seems like she's in a real big hurry. “This isn't my office. This certainly isn't the morgue. I'm sorry for your inconvenience, but you need to leave right now.”

“I'm Lucious Meddick from Meddicks' Funeral Home in Beaufort, right outside of Hilton Head.” He doesn't shake her hand, doesn't shake anybody's hand if he can avoid it. “I guess you could call us the resort of funeral homes. Family-run, three brothers, including me. The joke is when you call for
a Meddick,
it doesn't mean the person's still alive. Get it?” He jerks his thumb toward the back of the hearse, says, “Died at home, probably a heart attack. Oriental lady, old as dirt. I reckon you've got all the information on her already. Your neighbor up there some kind of spy or something?” He looks up at the window.