Sharp Force, page 4
“… The crucifix necklace I’m told he always wore was caught in the waistband of his undershorts,” I dictate. “Otherwise, it would have been lost. The twenty-four-inch-long gold chain likely snagged on something while his body was submerged, moving with the current…”
Having grown up Catholic, I can’t help but take the broken necklace as a sign. Obviously, a bad one.
“… A gift-wrapped velvet box with a ring inside,” I’m dictating. “Gold metal with a green stone…”
In a pocket of Rowdy O’Leary’s parka, the emerald ring was intended as a Christmas gift for his wife, Reba, I assumed. The receipt in his wallet is from a jewelry store in Pentagon City. He spent $2,850 in cash at 5:30 p.m. exactly one week ago. The ring was the last thing he ever bought.
“… I cleaned and disinfected it and other jewelry. Also, scraps of soggy holiday wrapping paper and ribbon, four credit cards, a driver’s license, keys on a keychain attached to the silver metal figure of a runner. Inside the wallet was two hundred and ninety-eight dollars…”
I add that the cause of death is a “myocardial infarct due to hypertensive cardiovascular disease and atherosclerosis.”
I’m not sure of the manner yet. Maybe natural causes. But I don’t know. There are too many questions.
“… For now, it’s pending further investigation. This provisional report was recorded by me on December twenty-fourth at five-fifteen p.m. I attest that all statements and conclusions are factual to the best of my knowledge. Doctor Kay Scarpetta, chief medical examiner, the Commonwealth of Virginia.”
I email the audio file to Shannon for transcription, and get up from my desk, shutting down the computer. I turn off the TV as the news shows images of the pier where Rowdy O’Leary was fishing, and then the stretch of the Potomac River where his body was found.
I’m working the thick plastic cover over my microscope when my fired former secretary Maggie Cutbush fills my doorway.
“Brilliant that you’re still here,” she says in her posh British accent.
Her designer briefcase is in one hand, and in the other a small package wrapped in gold paper and a black satin bow. I can smell her expensive perfume as she walks into my office, her dyed blond hair short and stylish. Her once pretty face is haughty and harsh, her arched eyebrows unnaturally dark, her lips fishlike from filler.
She’s quite the fashion statement in her shorn mink coat, and black rubber boots and pocketbook with the Chanel interlocking C’s logo emblazoned in front. I hear she’s often seen prowling the designer outlets in Tysons Corner.
“I’m on my way out before the weather gets any worse,” I let her know. “And you’d be wise to do the same.”
“Oh, no worries there,” she says with an imperious smile. “Elvin’s giving me a lift. His Porsche SUV has no trouble with snow.”
I walk to my conference table, my coat draped over a chair.
“I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, Kay,” Maggie adds, and that’s not why she’s here.
“What’s on your mind?” I make no pretense at being friendly.
“Before you leave the country, we need to discuss a few of your cases. Starting with Rowdy O’Leary. Let’s talk about what really happened to him,” she says as if in possession of information I don’t have.
“And why might we need to talk about him?” I begin putting on my coat, signaling it will be a quick conversation.
“I understand he was shooting his gun like a maniac, drinking while looking at pornography on his phone. All this while supposedly fishing on an old pier at night in the middle of winter, and that all by itself strikes me as a clear sign of mental illness.”
“What’s your interest in him, Maggie?”
“Well, clearly, this is someone who was very unstable,” she says with saccharine pity. “And no big surprise that he fell into the water and drowned. I mean, obviously he’s a drowning.”
“Where did you hear that he was looking at pornography?” I’m not giving her details.
“It’s my mission to gather information,” she says with her usual self-importance. “I happen to know what the police found on his phone. Most likely, Rowdy O’Leary’s death is simply and very tragically an accident.”
“It’s not for you to decide,” I reply.
“Do you have reason to suspect foul play?” she presses.
“You’ll have to ask the police that,” I tell her.
When they arrived at the pier after Rowdy O’Leary’s wife reported him missing, they found his truck and belongings undisturbed. His fishing pole was in the rod holder, the line in the water, the small croaker on the hook likely caught postmortem. It appears he polished off a six-pack of beer, the empties in his cooler.
There would be nothing suspicious about his death were it not for his .38 revolver and the two spent rounds in the cylinder. But I’m not going to bring that up to Maggie. None of this is any of her affair.
“I think of his poor family. Haven’t they been through enough?” she goes on with phony empathy. “Even the governor’s office is concerned.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m good friends with the chief of staff,” Maggie reminds me whenever she can. “Laverne has made it clear that the governor doesn’t want it to seem that the powers that be bully and harass decent citizens, especially those grieving. Especially this time of year.”
“Just spell it out, Maggie. What are you telling me?”
“That the governor expects you to close the O’Leary case, and let the family have what little peace they can.”
“I don’t understand why the governor would expect that.” I’m buttoning my coat.
“It’s not for you to understand, Doctor Scarpetta. Your job is to close the case. Instead of making a big thing of it like you usually do.”
“Not happening until I know more,” I reply. “For now, his manner of death is pending.”
“And you see, that’s the problem with you.” Maggie narrows her eyes. “You open something to speculation when you don’t make a swift and absolute decision. And next thing we know, the police and everyone else are on a wild-goose chase that causes a world of trouble.”
“Unlike some people, facts matter to me.” I look at her.
“Conspiracies are fueled by your inability to decide a case.”
“I don’t answer to you, Maggie.”
“Well, you do answer to the governor,” she replies sharply.
“Not when it comes to my findings.”
“Have it your way, then. But for all things there are consequences. I expect you to copy me on information.” She stares at me like a cobra. “Elvin and I need to see Rowdy O’Leary’s records, whatever you have.”
“You’re welcome to ask the police for any information they choose to share with DEP.” I make a point of using her bogus department’s vapid acronym.
Maggie drifts closer to my desk, eyeing stacks of case files on top of it.
“Please, stay away.” I’m not nice about it.
“It’s also been brought to my attention that old bones from that cemetery on Mercy Island have a disturbing story to tell.” Maggie brazenly stares at everything on my desk.
I step closer.
“Some poor young woman brutally killed,” she goes on. “Probably a patient from long ago. But we don’t really know since there’s no record of her. Terribly sad.”
“Yes, I understand you were quizzing Doctor Kingston in the anthropology lab,” I reply.
“Dana Diletti is doing a big story on Mercy Island, which is most unfortunate,” Maggie says, and I had no idea. “I happened to be talking to the director of Mercy Psychiatric Hospital, Graden Crowley. I believe you two are acquainted.”
“Not in a good way.” I tell her what she already knows.
“Graden mentioned that Dana Diletti’s producer has been calling, and he’s very unhappy,” Maggie explains. “Imagine what this could do to the hospital’s reputation.”
“Who leaked information about our cases to Dana Diletti?”
“Nothing we can do about it, of course. Freedom of the press.” Maggie won’t answer my question directly. “Some people are going to grandstand whenever possible. Especially if it makes them appear a crime crusader. All to win votes.”
She’s implying that Bose Flagler is the source, and that wouldn’t surprise me. Marino recently spotted him and Dana Diletti having dinner at the Old Hat Bar in Old Town Alexandria.
It’s Flagler’s modus operandi to insert himself into high-profile cases. He’ll do anything for publicity and would love a scandalous story about old murders on Mercy Island.
“Maggie, I’ve got to go.” I tie a silk scarf around my neck.
She comes closer, handing me the small gift-wrapped box. “A little something for the holidays.” She offers another condescending smile.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you.” I’m just as disingenuous.
I didn’t give her olive oil from Sicily when she showed up uninvited to my office Christmas luncheon. I have nothing for Elvin Reddy either, not even a card. Their Department of Emergency Prevention occupies the top floor of my building, and I never visit.
“How nice that you and Benton are off to England and France,” Maggie adds in her loaded way. “The advantages of marrying somebody with means. I imagine you’ll be staying in lovely hotels, everything top-drawer.”
She’s not going to leave until I open her gift. I rip the paper with impatient fingers while trying not to seem openly hostile. I don’t visibly react to the small French phrasebook while anger simmers beneath my skin.
“How thoughtful.” I smile, balling up the gift paper, free throwing into the nearest trash can.
“I know you speak Italian. But French is quite tricky.” Maggie’s eyes fasten on me triumphantly. “I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself.”
CHAPTER 5
I listen to the tap-tap of her Chanel boots fading down the corridor. Then the elevator dings, and Maggie Cutbush is gone, thank God. I pick up my Kevlar briefcase, a gift from Lucy, and not particularly fashionable, boxy black, somewhat masculine.
One wouldn’t guess from looking that it’s water resistant, also bullet- and fireproof while able to deflect high-energy weapons. When opened like a shield, it’s gotten me out of a pinch or two, and I sling the strap over my shoulder. Grabbing my trash bag of dirty laundry, I try to calm down from my unpleasant encounter with Maggie.
Her agenda couldn’t be more obvious. She’s in the business of trading favors and assumes she can pressure me to accommodate. I’m supposed to worry about my findings causing an inconvenience for a psychiatric hospital, the governor, no telling who else. Maggie’s yet to learn that we’re not wired the same.
I take a final look around my office since I won’t be back for two weeks. Making sure to lock my credenza, I collect records the police turned over to me when Rowdy O’Leary’s body was delivered. Giving my potted trees and plants another quick misting, I promise them that Shannon will be here while I’m gone.
“She’ll keep you company, making sure you have plenty of sunshine and water,” I’m saying out loud, the spray bottle hissing, nobody around to hear me talking to my plants. “And I know you like music.”
I turn on the radio, finding the classical station I leave on when gone. Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite is playing softly as I walk out the door, locking it. I’m alone in the corridor, the lights on a timer and dimmed after hours. Avoiding the elevator as is my habit, I wonder how many steps I’ve put in today.
Not nearly enough, the tile floors hard on my back and knees. It feels good to move, my boots sounding on the fire exit’s concrete steps. I push my way through the metal door, following the morgue corridor. The anthropology lab is dark, a few tiny dancing skeletons glowing on the walls.
It’s 6:45 and Rowdy O’Leary has been signed out, the body on the way to a funeral home crematorium. His family will wake up in the morning knowing he’s been turned to ashes, and nothing so terrible should happen on Christmas. It shouldn’t happen ever.
As I near the autopsy suite, I hear Willie Nelson. Fabian has turned on the radio again only louder, “Winter Wonderland” booming. The floor is wet from mopping, deodorizer cloying. Rowdy O’Leary’s personal effects continue drying on the paper-covered tables, but I don’t smell the foul odor now.
I pause in the doorway as Fabian places a catch-and-release trap under one of the autopsy tables.
“No sign of our mouse, I guess.” I raise my voice above the music, placing the bag of dirty laundry on a countertop.
“No luck yet, but we’re using a different bait this time,” Fabian says, exotic-looking as always.
His long black hair is pinned up under a surgical cap, his black scrubs spangled with skulls wearing Santa hats. Tall and willowy with delicate features and elegant hands, Fabian Etienne is divine inside and out, to hear my secretary gush.
Best of all, he’s sensitive and kindhearted. He’s also our resident wildlife rescuer. Fabian is who we summon when uninvited visitors enter our building while the bay door is open.
We get bats, birds, an occasional squirrel or opossum, and all sorts of insects depending on the season. Many of our guests will build nests if we don’t relocate them as humanely as possible.
“As fate would have it, Faye brought in some fun snack stuff for our sleepover,” Fabian is saying, the blue plastic trap shaped like a tiny wind tunnel. “We’re trying Boursin on a Ritz cracker for bait in here, the anthro lab, also the anatomical division and elsewhere.”
“Let’s hope it does the trick,” I reply, keeping up my scan for our furry squatter.
“A nice pungent cheese on a buttery cracker. How can Pinky resist?” Fabian asks, and it’s an unpleasant thought considering where we’re having this conversation.
“Well, I hope our clever little mouse likes garlic and chives. Certainly, he isn’t tricked by peanut butter, birdseed or chocolate, which is surprising,” I reply.
“Some things aren’t from here.” Fabian gives me a knowing look. “Maybe Pinky’s a spirit mouse sent to us for a reason.”
“We’ll take all the help we can get.” I glance at the wall clock, the time slipping by. “I hope tonight will be quiet, but considering the weather report, we can expect cases.”
“Nothing much so far. But that will change soon enough.” Fabian begins spraying my workstation with metal polish, wiping down stainless steel with a towel. “Snow and ice guarantees car wrecks, people falling or dying of exposure and from faulty heaters. Plus, the expected domestic homicides, overdoses, suicides.”
“I’m sorry this is how you’re spending your holiday,” I tell him while feeling guilty about tomorrow’s trip to the UK and France.
It’s been a long time since Benton and I have managed to get away longer than a night or two. We never fail to have ambivalence about taking time off. Both of us are hardwired to be fixers, and there’s always something broken. Fabian’s no better. He grew up in the business, his father a legendary Louisiana coroner.
“My favorite time to be here,” Fabian is saying. “It’s when all the worst things happen, explaining why my dad was hardly ever home on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Day, you name it. That’s when people killed themselves and each other. As soon as I was old enough, I’d go with him to the scenes.”
He walks over to a countertop, picking up a large manila evidence envelope and a ballpoint pen.
“Which is one of the reasons you’re such a good death investigator.” I take the envelope from him, scrawling my initials under his.
“I know it sounds sick, but there was nothing I liked better than shadowing my dad. The nastier the case the better,” Fabian adds. “Although I’ll never see Baton Rouge the same way other people do. The landmarks on my map are places where people died, often horribly.”
“We don’t see anything the same way other people do, Fabian.”
I’m looking at Rowdy O’Leary’s clothing and other belongings arranged on tables.
“Once you know it, you can’t unknow it. And I don’t want to go through the world with blinders on,” Fabian says. “You and I both know that’s contrary to survival.”
“We’ll leave these things in here for now to continue air-drying,” I decide. “Maybe tomorrow hang them in the evidence room.”
“Then what?” He collects my bag of dirty laundry from the countertop.
“Then we hold on to them until I’m sure we have no further need,” I explain.
“Anything that might make us think someone killed him? Like a bullet or two in him?” Fabian asks.
“No bullets.”
“The state police keep bugging me about the case. And Maggie Cutbush has texted several times wanting to know about the autopsy.”
“Ignore her, please.” I’m looking at my phone.
“She’s itching for it to be natural causes. Or maybe an accidental drowning,” Fabian says.
“This isn’t Let’s Make a Deal.” I send Reba O’Leary a text, letting her know I’m headed her way.
“I sprayed everything again a little while ago, the money still damp, but nothing smells bad.” Fabian indicates the evidence envelope tucked under my arm. “The paperwork is inside, so you can receipt the stuff to the family, everything accounted for and by the book.”
“Thank you for that and for being on call. I know it’s a lot to ask even if you supposedly enjoy it,” I say to him. “Wish Faye a happy holiday for me.”
“I’m right here!” She emerges from the anteroom at the far end of the autopsy suite. “I’ve been placing traps while looking for Pinky.”
The firearms examiner is funky in her tie-dye scrubs, goth jewelry, body piercings and many tattoos. When here after hours, she wears a Beretta pistol in a belly band holster. Fabian’s .40 caliber Glock is on his hip for all to see.
