“Then you never saw him or spoke with him when he was supposedly at Spring Street awaiting execution.”
“Supposedly? That's a curious choice of words, Dr. Scarpetta.”
“We can't prove it was Waddell who was executed the night of December thirteenth.”
“Certainly you're not serious.” He looked amazed.
I explained all that had transpired, including that Jennifer Deighton was a homicide and Waddell's fingerprint had turned up on a dining room chair inside her home. I told him about Eddie Heath and Susan Story, and the evidence that someone had tampered with AFIS. When I was finished, Grueman was sitting very still, his eyes riveted on me.
“My Lord,” he muttered.
“Your letter to Jennifer Deighton never turned up,” I went on. “The police found neither that nor her original fax to you when they searched her house. Maybe someone took them. Maybe her killer burned them in her fireplace the night of her death. Or maybe she disposed of them herself because she was afraid. I do believe she was killed because of something she knew.”
“And this would be why Susan Story was killed, too? Because she knew something?”
“Certainly that's possible,” I said. “My point is that so far two people linked to Ronnie Waddell have been murdered. In terms of someone who might know a lot about Waddell, you would be considered high on the list.”
“So you think I may be next,” he said with a wry smile. “You know, perhaps my biggest grievance against the Almighty is that the difference between life and death should so often turn on timing. I consider myself forewarned, Dr. Scarpetta. But I am not foolish enough to think that if someone intends to shoot me I can successfully elude him.”
“You could at least try,” I said. “You could at least take precautions.”
“And I shall.”
“Maybe you and your wife could go on a vacation, get out of town for a while.”
“Beverly has been dead for three years,” he said.
“I'm very sorry, Mr. Grueman.”
“She had not been well for many years - in fact, not for most of the years we were together. Now that I have no one to depend on me, I have given myself up to my proclivities. I am an incurable workaholic who wants to change the world.”
“I suspect that if anyone could come close to changing it, you could.”
“That is an opinion not based on any sort of fact, but I appreciate it nonetheless. And I also want to express to you my great sadness over Mark's death. I did not know him well when he was here, but he seemed to be a decent-enough fellow.”
“Thank you.”
I got up and put on my coat. It took me a moment to find my car keys.
He got up, too. “What do we do next, Dr. Scarpetta?”
“I don't suppose you have any letters or other items from Ronnie Waddell that might be worth processing for his latent prints?”
“I have no letters, and any documents that he might have signed would have been handled by a number of people. You're welcome to try.”
“I'll let you know if we have no other alternative. But there is one final thing I've been meaning to ask.”
We paused in the doorway. Grueman was leaning on his cane. “You mentioned that during your last conversation with Waddell, he made three last requests. One was to publish his meditation, another to call Jennifer Deighton. What was the third?”
“He wanted me to invite Norring to the execution.”
“And did you?”
“Well, of course,” Grueman said. “And your fine governor didn't even have the manners to RSVP.”
10
It was late afternoon, and Richmond's skyline was in view when I called Rose.
“Dr. Scarpetta, where are you?”
My secretary sounded frantic. “Are you in your car?”
“Yes. I'm about five minutes from downtown.”
“Well, keep driving. Don't come here right now.”
“What?”
“Lieutenant Marino's trying to reach you. He said if I talk to you to tell you to call him before you do anything. He said it's very, very urgent.”
“Rose, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Have you been listening to the news? Did you read the afternoon paper?”
“I've been in D.C. all day. What news?”
“Frank Donahue was found dead early this afternoon.”
“The prison warden? That Frank Donahue?”
“Yes.”
My hands tensed on the wheel as I stared hard at the road.
“What happened?”
“He was shot. He was found in his car a couple of hours ago. It's just like Susan.”
“I'm on my way,” I said. gliding into the left lane and accelerating.
“I really wouldn't. Fielding's already started on him. Please call Marino. You need to read the evening paper. They know about the bullets.”
`They?” I said.
“Reporters. They know about the bullets linking Edgy; Heath's and Susan's cases.”
“I called Marino's pager and told him I was on my way home. When I pulled into my garage, I went straight to the front stoop and retrieved the evening paper.
A photograph of Frank Donahue smiled above they fold: The headline read, “STATE PENITENTIARY WARDEN SLAIN.”
Below this was a second story featuring the photograph of another state official - me: That story's lead was that the bullets recovered from the bodies of the Heath boy and Susan had been fired from the same gun, and a number of bizarre connections seemed to link both homicides to me. In addition to the same intimation that had run in the Post was information much more sinister. My fingerprints, I was stunned to read, had been recovered from an envelope containing cash that the police had found inside Susan Story's house. I had demonstrated an “unusual interest” in Eddie Heath’s case by appearing at Henrico Doctor's Hospital, prior to his death, to examine his wounds. Later I had performed his autopsy, and it was at this time that Susan refused to witness his case and supposedly fled from the morgue When she was murdered less than two weeks later, I responded to the scene, appeared unannounced at the home of her parents directly afterward to ask them questions, and insisted on being present during the autopsy. I was not directly assigned a motive for malevolence toward anyone, but the one implied in Susan's case was as infuriating as it was amazing. I may have been making major mistakes on the job. I had neglected to print Ronnie Joe Waddell when his body came to the morgue after his execution. I recently had left the body of a homicide victim in the middle of a corridor, virtually in front of an elevator used by numerous people who worked in the building, thus seriously compromising the chain of evidence. I was described as aloof and unpredictable, with colleagues observing that my personality had begun to change after the death of my lover, Mark James. Perhaps Susan, who had worked by my side daily, had possessed knowledge that could ruin me professionally. Perhaps I had been paying for her silence.
“My fingerprints?” I said to Marino the instant he appeared at my door. “What the hell is this business about fingerprints belonging to me?”
“Easy, Doc.”
“I might just file suit this time. This has gone too far.”
“I don't think you want to be filing anything right now.“ He got out his cigarettes as he followed me toll kits; where the evening paper was spread out on the table. “Ben Steven is behind this.”
“Doc, I think what you watt to do is listen to what I've got to say.”
“He's got to be the source of the leak about bullets –“
“Doc. Goddam it, shut up.”
I sat down. “My ass is in the fire, too,” he said. “I'm working cases with you: and now suddenly you've become an element. Yes, we did find an envelope in Susan's house. It was in a dresser drawer under some clothes. There were three one-hundred-dollar bills inside it. Vander processed the envelope and several latents popped up. Two of them are yours. Your prints, like mine and those of a lot of other investigators,
are in AFIS for exclusionary purposes, in case we ever do a dumbshit thing leave our prints at a scene.”
“I did not leave prints at any scene. There's a logic explanation for this. There has to be. Maybe the envelope was one I touched at some point at the office or the morgue, and Susan took it home.”
“It's definitely not an office envelope,” Marino said. “It's about twice as wide as a legal-size envelope of stiff, shiny black paper. There's no writing on it.”
I looked at him in disbelief as it dawned on me. “The scarf I gave her.”
“What scarf?”
“Susan's Christmas present from me was a red silk scarf I bought in San Francisco. What you're describing is the envelope it was in, a glossy black envelope made of cardboard or stiff paper. The flap closed with a-small gold seal. I wrapped the, present myself. Of course my prints would be on it.”
“So what about the three hundred dollars?” he said, avoiding my eyes.
I don't know anything about any money.”
“I'm saying, why was it in the envelope you gave her?”
“Maybe because saw wanted to hide her cash in something. The envelope was handy. Maybe she didn't want to throw it away. I don't know. I had no control over what she dad with something I gave her.”
“Did anybody see you give her the scarf?” he asked.
“No. Her husband wasn't home when she opened my Yeah, well, the only gift from you anyone seemed to know about was a pink poinsettia. Don't sound like Susan said a word about you giving her a scarf.”
“For God's sake, she was wearing the scarf when she was shot, Marino.”
“That don't tell us where it came from.”
“You're about to move into the accusatory stage,” I snapped.
“I'm not accusing you of nothing. Don't you get it? This is the way it goes, goddam it. You want me to baby you and pat your hand so some other cop can bust inhere and broadside you with questions like this?”
He got up and began pacing the kitchen, staring at tire floor, his hands in his pockets.
“Tell me about Donahue,” I said quietly.
“He was shot in his ride, probably early this morning. According to his wife, he left the house around sixteen. Around one-thirty this afternoon, his Thunderbird` was found parked at Deep Water Terminal with him in it.”
“I read that much in the paper.”
“Look. The less we talk about it, the better.”
“Why? Are reporters going to imply that I killed him, too.
“Where was you at six-fifteen this morning, Doc?”
“I was getting ready to leave my house and drive to Washington.”
“You got any witnesses that will verify you couldn't have been cruising around Deep Water Terminal? It's not very far from the Medical Examiner's Office, you know. Maybe two minutes.”
“That's absurd.”
'Get used to it. This is just the beginning. Wait, until Patterson sinks his teeth into you.”
Before Roy Patterson had run for Commonwealth Attorney, he had been one of the city's more combative, egotistical criminal lawyers. Back then he had never appreciated what I had to say; since in the majority of cases, medical examiner testimony does not cause jurors to think more kindly of the defendant.
“I ever told you how much Patterson hates your guts?”
Marino went on. “You embarrassed him when he was a defense attorney. You sat there cool as a cat in your sharp suits and made him look like an idiot.”
“He made himself look like an idiot. All I did was answer his questions:” “Not to mention, your old boyfriend Bill Boltz was one of his closest pals, and I don't eves need to go into that.”
“I wish you wouldn't.”
“I just know Patterson's going to go after you. Shit, I bet he's a happy man right now.”
“Marino, you're red as a beet. For God's sake, don't go stroking out on me.”
“Let's get back to this scarf you said you gave to Susan:” “I said I gave to Susan?”
“What was the name of the store in San francisco that sold it to you?” he asked.
“It wasn't a store.” He glanced sharply at the as he continued to pace.
“It was a street market. Lots of booths and stalls selling art, handmade things. Like Covent Garden,” I explained.
“You got a receipt?”
“I would have had no reason to save it.”
“So you don't know the name of the booth or whatever. So there's no way to verify that you bought a scarf from some artist type who uses these glassy black envelopes.”
“I can't verify it.”
“He paced some more and I stared out the window. Clouds drifted past oblong and the dark shapes of trees moved in the wind: I got up to close the blinds.
Marino stopped pacing. “Doc, I'm going to need to go through your financial records.”
I did not say anything.
“I've got to verify that you haven't made any large withdrawals of cash in recent Months.”
I remained silent.
“Doc, you haven't; have you?”
I got up from the table, my pulse pounding.
“You can talk to my attorney,” I said.
After Marino left, I went upstairs to the cedar closet where I stored my private papers and began collecting bank statements, tax returns; and various accounting records. I thought of all the defense attorneys in Richmond who would probably be delighted if I were locked up or exiled for the rest of my days. I was sitting in the kitchen making notes on a legal pad when my doorbell rang: I let Benton Wesley and Lucy in, and I knew instantly by their silence that it was unnecessary to tell them what was going on.
“Where's Connie?” I asked wearily.
“She`s hoping to stay through the New Year with her family in Charlottesville.”
“I'm going back to your study, Aunt Kay;' Lucy said without hugging me or smiling. She left with her suitcase.
“Marino wants to go through my financial records,” I said to Wesley as he followed me into the living room.
“Ben Stevens is setting me up. Personnel files and copies of memos are missing from the office, and he's hoping it will appear that I took them. And Roy Patterson, according to Marino, is a happy man these days. That's the update of the hour.”
“Where do you keep the Scotch?”
“I keep the good stuff in the hutch over mere. Glasses are in the bar.”
“I don't want to drink your good stuff.”
“Well, I do.”
I began building a fire.
“I called your deputy chief as I was driving in. Firearms has already taken a look at the slugs that were in Donahue's brain. Winchester one-fifty-grain, lead, unjacketed, twenty-two-caliber. Two of them: One went in his left cheek and traveled up through the skull, the other was a tight contact at the nape of his neck.”
“Fired from the same weapon that killed the other two?”
“Yes. Do you want ice?”
“Please.”
I closed the screen and returned the poker to its stand. “I don't suppose any feathers were recovered from the scene or from-Donahue's body.”
“Not that I know Of. It's clear that his assailant was standing outside the car and shot him through the open driver's window. That doesn't mean this individual wasn't inside with him earlier, but I don't think so. My guess is Donahue was supposed to meet someone at Deep Water Terminal in the parking lot. When this person arrived, Donahue rolled down his window and that was it. Did you have any luck with Downey?” He handed coke my drink and settled on the couch.
“It appears that the origin of the feathers and feather particles recovered from the three other cases is common eider duck.”
“A sea duck?” Wesley frowned. “The down is used in what, ski jackets, gloves?”
“Rarely. Eiderdown is extremely expensive. Your average person is not going to own anything filled with it.”
I proceeded to inform Wesley of the events of the day, sparing no detail
s as I confessed that I had spent several hours: with Nicholas Grueman and did not believe he was even remotely involved in anything sinister.
“I'm glad you went to see him,” Wesley said. “I was hoping you would”