Excerpt
Voltaire,Oeuvres Complètes 1785 A frigid wind gusted in from the East River, snatching at Dr. Kay Scarpettas coat as she walked quickly along 30th Street. It was one week before Christmas without a hint of the holidays in what she thought of as Manhattans Tragic Triangle, three vertices connected by wretchedness and death. Behind her was Memorial Park, a voluminous white tent housing the vacuum-packed human remains still unidentified or unclaimed from Ground Zero. Ahead on the left was the Gothic redbrick former Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital, now a shelter for the homeless. Across from that was the loading dock and bay for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, where a gray steel garage door was open. A truck was backing up, more pallets of plywood being unloaded. It had been a noisy day at the morgue, a constant hammering in corridors that carried sound like an amphitheater. The mortuary techs were busy assembling plain pine coffins, adult-size, infant-size, hardly able to keep up with the growing demand for city burials at Potters Field. Economy-related. Everything was. Scarpetta already regretted the cheeseburger and fries in the cardboard box she carried. How long had they been in the warming cabinet on the serving line of the NYU Medical School cafeteria? It was late for lunch, almost three p.m., and she was pretty sure she knew the answer about the palatability of the food, but there was no time to place an order or bother with the salad bar, to eat healthy or even eat something she might actually enjoy. So far there had been fifteen cases today, suicides, accidents, homicides, and indigents who died unattended by a physician or, even sadder, alone. She had been at work by six a.m. to get an early start, completing her first two autopsies by nine, saving the worst for lasta young woman with injuries and artifacts that were time-consuming and confounding. Scarpetta had spent more than five hours on Toni Darien, making meticulously detailed diagrams and notes, taking dozens of photographs, fixing the whole brain in a bucket of formalin for further studies, collecting and preserving more than the usual tubes of fluids and sections of organs and tissue, holding on to and documenting everything she possibly could in a case that was odd not because it was unusual but because it was a contradiction. The twenty-six-year-old womans manner and cause of death were depressingly mundane and hadnt required a lengthy postmortem examination to answer the most rudimentary questions. She was a homicide from blunt-force trauma, a single blow to the back of her head by an object that possibly had a multicolored painted surface. What didnt make sense was everything else. When her body was discovered at the edge of Central Park, some thirty feet off East 110th Street shortly before dawn, it was assumed she had been jogging last night in the rain when she was sexually assaulted and murdered. Her running pants and panties were around her ankles, her fleece and sports bra pushed above her breasts. A Polartec scarf was tied in a double knot tightly around her neck, and at first glance it was assumed by the police and the OCMEs medicolegal investigators who responded to the scene that she was strangled with an article of her own clothing. She wasnt. When Scarpetta examined the body in the morgue, she found nothing to indicate the scarf had caused the death or even contributed to it, no sign of asphyxia, no vital reaction such as redness or bruising, only a dry abrasion on the neck, as if the scarf had been tied around it postmortem. Certainly it was possible the killer struck her in the head and at some point later strangled her, perhaps not realizing she was already dead. But if so, how much time did he spend with her? Based on the contusion, swelling, and hemorrhage to the cerebral cortex of her brain, she had survived for a while, possibly hours. Yet there was very little blood at the scene. It wasnt until the body was turned over that the injury to the back of her head was even noticed, a one-and-a-half-inch laceration with significant swelling but only a slight weeping of fluid from the wound, the lack of blood blamed on the rain. Scarpetta seriously doubted it. The scalp laceration would have bled heavily, and it was unlikely a rainstorm that was intermittent and at best moderate would have washed most of the blood out of Tonis long, thick hair. Did her assailant fracture her skull, then spend a long interval with her outside on a rainy winters night before tying a scarf tightly around her neck to make sure she didnt live to tell the tale? Or was the ligature part of a sexually violent ritual? Why were livor and rigor mortis arguing loudly with what the crime scene seemed to say? It appeared she had died in the park late last night, and it appeared she had been dead for as long as thirty-six hours. Scarpetta was baffled by the case. Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe she wasnt thinking clearly, for that matter, because she was harried and her blood sugar was low, having eaten nothing all day, only coffee, lots of it. She was about to be late for the three p.m. staff meeting and needed to be home by six to go to the gym and have dinner with her husband, Benton Wesley, before rushing over to CNN, the last thing she felt like doing. She should never have agreed to appear on The Crispin Report. Why for Gods sake had she agreed to go on the air with Carley Crispin and talk about postmortem changes in head hair and the importance of microscopy and other disciplines of forensic science, which were misunderstood because of the very thing Scarpetta had gotten herself involved inthe entertainment industry? She carried her boxed lunch through the loading dock, piled with cartons and crates of office and morgue supplies, and metal carts and trollies and plywood. The security guard was busy on the phone behind Plexiglas and barely gave her a glance as she went past. At the top of a ramp she used the swipe card she wore on a lanyard to open a heavy metal door and entered a catacomb of white subway tile with teal-green accents and rails that seemed to lead everywhere and nowhere. When she first began working here as a part-time ME, she got lost quite a lot, ending up at the anthropology lab instead of the neuropath lab or the cardiopath lab or the mens locker room instead of the womens, or the decomp room instead of the main autopsy room, or the wrong walk-in refrigerator or stairwell or even on the wrong floor when she boarded the old steel freight elevator. Soon enough she caught on to the logic of the layout, to its sensible circular flow, beginning with the bay. Like the loading dock, it was behind a massive garage door. When a body was delivered by the medical examiner transport team, the stretcher was unloaded in the bay and passed beneath a radiation detector over the door. If no alarm was triggered indicating the presence of a radioactive material, such as radiopharmaceuticals used in the treatment of some cancers, the next stop was the floor scale, where the body was weighed and measured. Where it went after that depended on its condition. If it was in bad shape or considered potentially hazardous to the living, it went inside the walk-in decomp refrigerator next to the decomp room, where the autopsy would be performed in isolation with special ventilation and other protections. If the body was in good shape it was wheeled along a corridor to the right of the bay, a journey that could at some point include the possibility of various stops relative to the bodys stage of deconstruction: the x-ray suite, the histology specimen storage room, the forensic anthropology lab, two more walk-in refrigerators for fresh bodies that hadnt been examined yet, the lift for those that were to be viewed and identified upstairs, evidence lockers, the neuropath room, the cardiac path room, the main autopsy room. After a case was completed and the body was ready for release, it ended up full circle back at the bay inside yet another walk-in refrigerator, which was where Toni Darien should be right now, zipped up in a pouch on a storage rack. But she wasnt. She was on a gurney parked in front of the stainless-steel refrigerator door, an ID tech arranging a blue sheet around the neck, up to the chin. What are we doing?” Scarpetta said. Weve had a little excitement upstairs. Shes going to be viewed.” By whom and why?” Mothers in the lobby and wont leave until she sees her. Dont worry. Ill take care of it.” The techs name was Rene, mid-thirties with curly black hair and ebony eyes, and unusually gifted at handling families. If she was having a problem with one, it wasnt trivial. Rene could defuse just about anything. I thought the father had made the ID,” Scarpetta said. He filled out the paperwork, and then I showed him the picture you uploaded to methis was right before you left for the cafeteria. A few minutes later, the mother walks in and the two of them start arguing in the lobby, and I mean going at it, and finally he storms out.” Theyre divorced?” And obviously hate each other. Shes insisting on seeing the body, wont take no for an answer.” Renes purple nitrile-gloved hands moved a strand of damp hair off the dead womans brow, rearranging several more strands behind the ears, making sure no sutures from the autopsy showed. I know youve got a staff meeting in a few minutes. Ill take care of this.” She looked at the cardboard box Scarpetta was holding. You didnt even eat yet. What have you had today? Probably nothing, as usual. How much weight have you lost? Youre going to end up in the anthro lab, mistaken for a skeleton.” What were they arguing about in the lobby?” Scarpetta asked. Funeral homes. Mother wants one on Long Island. Father wants one in New Jersey. Mother wants a burial, but the father wants cremation. Both of them fighting over her.” Touching the dead body again, as if it were part of the conversation. Then they started blaming each other for everything you can think of. At one point Dr. Edison came out, they were causing such a ruckus.” He was the chief medical examiner and Scarpettas boss when she worked in the city. It was still a little hard getting used to being supervised, having been either a chief herself or the owner of a private practice for most of her career. But she wouldnt want to be in charge of the New York OCME, not that shed been asked or likely ever would be. Running an office of this magnitude was like being the mayor of a major metropolis. Well, you know how it works,” Scarpetta said. A dispute, and the body doesnt go anywhere. Well put a hold on her release until Legal instructs us otherwise. You showed the mother the picture, and then what?” I tried, but she wouldnt look at it. She says she wants to see her daughter and isnt leaving until she does.” Shes in the family room?” Thats where I left her. I put the folder on your desk, copies of the paperwork.” Thanks. Ill look at it when I go upstairs. You get her on the lift, and Ill take care of things on the other end,” Scarpetta said. Maybe you can let Dr. Edison know Im going to miss the three-oclock. In fact, its already started. Hopefully Ill catch up with him before he heads home. He and I need to talk about this case.” Ill tell him.” Rene placed her hands on the steel gurneys push handle. Good luck on TV tonight.” Tell him the scene photos have been uploaded to him, but I wont be able to dictate the autopsy protocol or get those photos to him until tomorrow.” I saw the commercials for the show. Theyre cool.” Rene was still talking about TV. Except I cant stand Carley Crispin and whats the name of that profiler whos on there all the time? Dr. Agee. Im sick and tired of them talking about Hannah Starr. Im betting Carleys going to ask you about it.” CNN knows I wont discuss active cases.” You think shes dead? Because I sure do.” Renes voice followed Scarpetta into the elevator. Like whats-her-name in Aruba? Natalee? People vanish for a reasonbecause somebody wanted them to.” Scarpetta had been promised. Carley Crispin wouldnt do that to her, wouldnt dare. It wasnt as if Scarpetta was simply another expert, an outsider, an infrequent guest, a talking head, she reasoned, as the elevator made its ascent. She was CNNs senior forensic analyst and had been adamant with executive producer Alex Bachta that she could not discuss or even allude to Hannah Starr, the beautiful financial titan who seemingly had vanished in thin air the day before Thanksgiving, reportedly last seen leaving a restaurant in Greenwich Village and getting into a yellow cab. If the worst had happened, if she was dead and her body turned up in New York City, it would be this offices jurisdiction, and Scarpetta could end up with the case. She got off on the first floor and followed a long hallway past the Division of Special Operations, and through another locked door was the lobby, arranged with burgundy and blue upholstered couches and chairs, coffee tables and racks of magazines, and a Christmas tree and menorah in a window overlooking First Avenue. Carved in marble above the reception desk was Taceant colloquia. Effugiat risus. Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. Let conversations cease. Let laughter depart. This is the place where death delights to help the living. Music sounded from a radio on the floor behind the desk, the Eagles playing Hotel California.” Filene, one of the security guards, had decided that an empty lobby was hers to fill with what she called her tunes. . . . You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave,” Filene softly sang along, oblivious to the irony. There should be someone in the family room?” Scarpetta stopped at the desk. Oh, Im sorry.” Filene reached down, turning off the radio. I didnt think she could hear from in there. But thats all right. I can go without my tunes. Its just I get so bored, you know? Sitting and sitting when nothings going on.” What Filene routinely witnessed in this place was never happy, and that rather than boredom was likely the reason she listened to her upbeat soft rock whenever she could, whether she was working the reception desk or downstairs in the mortuary office. Scarpetta didnt care, as long as there were no grieving families to overhear music or lyrics that might be provocative or construed as disrespectful. Tell Mrs. Darien Im on my way,” Scarpetta said. I need about fifteen minutes to check a few things and look at the paperwork. Lets hold the tunes until shes gone, okay?” Off the lobby to the left was the administrative wing she shared with Dr. Edison, two executive assistants, and the chief of staff, who was on her honeymoon until after the New Year. In a building half a century old with no space to spare, there was no place to put Scarpetta on the third floor, where the full-time forensic pathologists had their offices. When she was in the city, she parked herself in what was formerly the chiefs conference room on the ground level, with a view of the OCMEs turquoise-blue brick entrance on First Avenue. She unlocked her door and stepped inside. She hung her coat, set her boxed lunch on her desk, and sat in front of her computer. Opening a Web browser, she typed BioGraph into a search field. At the top of the screen was the query Did you mean: BioGraphy. No, she didnt. Biograph Records. Not what she was looking for. American Mutoscope and Biograph Company, the oldest movie company in America, founded in 1895 by an inventor who worked for Thomas Edison, a distant ancestor of the chief medical examiner, not sure how many times removed. An interesting coincidence. Nothing for BioGraph with a capital B and a capital G, the way it was stamped on the back of the unusual watch Toni Darien was wearing on her left wrist when her body arrived at the morgue this morning. It was snowing hard in Stowe, Vermont, big flakes falling heavy and wet, piled in the branches of balsam firs and Scotch pines. The ski lifts traversing the Green Mountains were faint spidery lines, almost invisible in the storm and at a standstill. Nobody skiing in this stuff, nobody doing anything except staying inside. Lucy Farinellis helicopter was stuck in nearby Burlington. At least it was safely in a hangar, but she and New York County Assistant District Attorney Jaime Berger werent going anywhere for five hours, maybe longer, not before nine p.m., when the storm was supposed to have cleared to the south. At that point, conditions should be VFR again, a ceiling greater than three thousand feet, visibility five miles or more, winds gusting up to thirty knots out of the northeast. Theyd have a hell of a tailwind heading home to New York, should get there in time for what they needed to do, but Berger was in a mood, had been in the other room on the phone all day, not even trying to be nice. The way she looked at it, the weather had trapped them here longer than planned, and since Lucy was a pilot, it was her fault. Didnt matter the forecasters had been wrong, that what began as two distinct small storms combined into one over Saskatchewan, Canada, and merged with an arctic air mass to create a bit of a monster. Lucy turned down the volume of the YouTube video, Mick Fleetwoods drum solo for World Turning,” live in concert in 1987. Can you hear me now?” she said over the phone to her Aunt Kay. The signals pretty bad here, and the weather isnt helping.” Much better. How are we doing?” Scarpettas voice in Lucys jawbone. Ive found nothing so far. Which is weird.” Lucy had three MacBooks going, each screen split into quadrants, displaying Aviation Weather Center updates, data streams from neural network searches, links prompting her that they might lead to websites of interest, Hannah Starrs e-mail, Lucys e-mail, and security camera footage of the actor Hap Judd wearing scrubs in the Park General Hospital morgue before he was famous. You sure of the name?” she asked as she scanned the screens, her mind jumping from one preoccupation to the next. All I know is whats stamped on the steel back of it.” Scarpettas voice, serious and in a hurry. BioGraph.” She spelled it again. And a serial number. Maybe its not going to be picked up by the usual software that searches the Internet. Like viruses. If you dont already know what youre looking for, you wont find it.” Its not like antivirus software. The search engines I use arent software-driven. I do open-source searches. Im not finding BioGraph because its not on the Net. Nothing published about it. Not on message boards or in blogs or in databases, not in anything.” Please dont hack,” Scarpetta said. I simply exploit weaknesses in operating systems.” Yes, and if a back door is unlocked and you walk into somebodys house, its not trespassing.” No mention of BioGraph or Id find it.” Lucy wasnt going to get into their usual debate about the end justifying the means. I dont see how thats possible. This is a very sophisticated-looking watch with a USB port. You have to charge it, likely on a docking station. I suspect it was rather expensive.” Not finding it if I search it as a watch or a device or anything.” Lucy watched results rolling by, her neural net search engines sorting through an infinity of keywords, anchor text, file types, URLs, title tags, e-mail and IP addresses. Im looking and not seeing anything even close to what youve described.” Got to be some way to know what it is.” It isnt. Thats my point,” Lucy said. Theres no such thing as a BioGraph watch or device, or anything that might remotely fit what Toni Darien was wearing. Her BioGraph watch doesnt exist.” What do you mean it doesnt?” I mean it doesnt exist on the Internet, within the communication network, or metaphorically in cyberspace. In other words, a BioGraph watch doesnt exist virtually,” Lucy said. If I physically look at whatever this thing is, Ill probably figure it out. Especially if youre right and its some sort of data-collecting device.” Cant do that until the labs are done with it.” Shit, dont let them get out their screwdrivers and hammers,” Lucy said. Being swabbed for DNA, thats all. The police already checked for prints. Nothing. Please tell Jaime she can call me when its convenient. I hope youre having some fun. Sorry I dont have time to chat right now.” If I see her, Ill tell her.” Shes not with you?” Scarpetta probed. The Hannah Starr case and now this. Jaimes a little tied up, has a lot on her mind. You of all people know how it is.” Lucy wasnt interested in discussing her personal life. I hope shes had a happy birthday.” Lucy didnt want to talk about it. Whats the weather like there?” Windy and cold. Overcast.” Youre going to get more rain, possibly snow north of the city,” Lucy said. It will be cleared out by midnight, because the system is weakening as it heads your way.” The two of you are staying put, I hope.” If I dont get the chopper out, shell be looking for a dog-sled.” Call me before you leave, and please be careful,” Scarpetta said. Ive got to go, got to talk to Toni Dariens mother. I miss you. Well have dinner, do something soon?” Sure,” Lucy said. She got off the phone and turned the sound up again on YouTube, Mick Fleetwood still going at it on the drums. Both hands on MacBooks as if she was in her own rock concert playing a solo on keyboards, she clicked on another weather update, clicked on an e-mail that had just landed in Hannah Starrs in-box. People were bizarre. If you know someone has disappeared and might even be dead, why do you continue to send e-mail? Lucy wondered if Hannah Starrs husband, Bobby Fuller, was so stupid it didnt occur to him that the NYPD and the district attorneys office might be monitoring Hannahs e-mail or getting a forensic computer expert like Lucy to do it. For the past three weeks Bobby had been sending daily messages to his missing wife. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing, wanted law enforcement to see what he was writing to his bien-aimée, his chouchou, his amore mio,the love of his life. If hed murdered her, he wouldnt be writing her love notes, right? From: Bobby Fuller Sent: Thursday, December 18, 3:24 P.M. To: Hannah