Black notice (14 page)

Bizarre, angry thoughts flew through my mind like a thousand starlings and overshadowed every perception I'd ever had about my life. A myriad of ugly, dark thoughts clung to my reason and dug in with their claws.

"I didn't mean to make you feel bad," Chuck said. "And I hope you know I understand how everything could get like this. After what you've been through."

I didn't want to hear another goddamn word about what I'd been through.

"Thank you for your understanding, Chuck," I said, my eyes piercing his until he looked away.

"We've got that case coming in from Powhatan, and it should have been here by now, if you want me to check on it," he said, anxious to leave the room.

"Do that, and then get this body back in the fridge."

"Sure thing," he said.

The doors shut behind him, returning silence to the room. I reflected back the last of the tissue and placed it on the cutting board as frigid paranoia and self-doubt seeped under the heavy door of my self-confidence. I began anchoring the tissue with hatpins, stretching it and measuring and stretching. I set the corkboard inside the surgical pan and covered it with a green cloth and placed it inside the refrigerator.

I showered and changed in the locker room, and cleared my thoughts of phobias and indignation. I took a long enough break to drink a cup of coffee; it was so old, the bottom of the pot was black. I started a new coffee fund by giving my office administrator twenty dollars.

"Jean, have you been reading these chat sessions that I'm supposedly having on the Internet?" I asked her.

She shook her head but looked uncomfortable. I tried Cleta and Polly next and asked the same question.

Blood rose to Cleta's cheeks, and with eyes cast down she said, "Sometimes."

"Pony?" I asked.

She stopped typing and also blushed.

"Not all the time;" she replied.

I nodded.

"It's not me," I told them. "Someone is impersonating me. I wish I'd known about it before now."

Both of my clerks looked confused. I wasn't sure they believed me.

"I can certainly understand why you didn't want to say anything to me when you became aware of these so-called chat sessions," i went on. "I probably wouldn't have either if the roles were reversed. But I need your help. u you have any ideas about who might be doing this, will you tell me?"

They looked relieved.

`That's awful;' Cleta said with feeling. "Whoever's doing that ought to.go to jail."

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything," Polly contritely added. "I don't have any idea about who would do something like that:"

"I mean it sort of sounds like you when you read it. That's the problem," Cleta added.

"Sort of sounds like me?" I said, frowning.

"You know, it gives advice about accident prevention, security, how to deal with grief and all sorts of medical things."

"You're saying it sounds like a doctor is writing it, or someone trained in health care?" I asked as my incredulity grew.

"Well, whoever it is seems to know what he's talking about," Cleta replied. "But it's more conversational. Not like reading an autopsy report or anything like that."

"I don't think it sounds much like her," Polly said. "Now that I think about it."

I noticed a case file on her desk that was open to color computer-generated autopsy photographs of a man whose shotgun-blasted head looked like a gory eggcup. I recognized him as the murder victim whose wife had been writing me from prison, accusing me of everything from incompetence to racketeering.

"What's this?" I asked her.

"Apparently, the Times-Dispatch and the A. G.'s office have heard from that crazy woman, and Ira Herbert called here a little while ago, asking about it," she told me.

Herbert was the police reporter for the local newspaper. If he was calling, that probably meant I was being sued.

"And then Harriet Cummins called Rose to get a copy of his records," Cleta explained. "It appears his psycho wife's latest story is he put the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger with his toe."

"The poor man was wearing army boots," I replied. "He couldn't possibly have pulled the trigger with his toe, and he was shot at close range in the back of the head."

"I don't know what it is with people anymore," Polly said with a sigh. "All they do is lie and cheat, and if they get locked up, they just sit around and stir up trouble and file lawsuits. It makes me sick."

"Me, too," Cleta agreed.

"Do you know where Dr. Fielding is?" I asked both of them.

"I saw him wandering around a little while ago," Polly said.

I found him in the medical library thumbing through Nutrition in Exercise and Sport. He smiled when he saw me, but looked tired and a little out of sorts.

"Not eating enough carbos," he said, tapping a page with his index finger. "I keep telling myself if I don't get fiftyfive to seventy percent of my diet in carbos, I get glycogen depletion. I haven't had much energy lately . . ."

"Jack." My tone cut him off. "I need you to be as honest as you've ever been with me."

I shut the library door. I told him what Ruffin had said, and a glint of painful recognition showed in my deputy chief's face. He pulled out a chair and sat down at a table. He closed his book. I sat next to him and we turned our chairs facing each other.

"Something's been going around about Secretary Wagner getting rid of you," he said. "I think it's bullshit and I'm sorry you even heard about it. Chuck's an idiot."

Sinclair Wagner was the Secretary of Health and Human Services, and only he or the governor could appoint or fire the chief medical examiner.

"When did you start hearing these rumors?" I asked.

"Recently. Weeks ago."

"Fired for what reason?" I quizzed him.

"Supposedly, you two aren't getting along."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Or he's not happy with you or something, and consequently, the governor isn't, either."

"Jack, please be more specific."

He hesitated and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He looked guilty, as if my problems were somehow his fault.

"Okay, to lay it all out, Dr. Scarpetta," he said, "the word is that you've embarrassed Wagner with this chat stuff you're doing on the Internet:'

I leaned closer to him and put my hand on his arm.

"It's not me doing it," I promised him. "It's someone impersonating me."

He gave me a puzzled look.

"You're kidding;' he said.

"Oh, no. There's nothing funny about any of this:'

"Jesus Christ," he said with disgust. "Sometimes I think the Internet's the worst thing that's ever happened to us."

"Jack, why didn't you just ask me about it? If you thought I was doing something as inappropriate . . . well, have I somehow managed to estrange everybody in this office so nobody feels he can tell me anything anymore?"

"It's not that," he said. "It's not a reflection of people not caring or feeling estranged. If anything, we care so much I guess we got overprotective."

"Protecting me from what?" I wanted to know.

"Everyone should be allowed to grieve and even sit it out on the bench for a while," he quietly replied. "No one's expected you to function on all cylinders. I sure as hell wouldn't be. Christ, I barely made it through my divorce."

"I'm not sitting it out on the bench, Jack. And I'm functioning on all cylinders. My private, personal grief is just that."

He looked at me for a long moment, holding my gaze and not buying what I'd just said.

"I wish it were that easy," he said.

"I never said it was easy. Getting up some mornings is the hardest thing I've ever done. But I can't let my own problems interfere with what I'm doing here, and I don't."

"Frankly, I haven't known what to do, and I feel really bad about it;" he confessed. "I haven't known how to handle his death, either. I know how much you loved him. Over and over it's gone through my mind to take you out to dinner or ask if there's anything I can fix or do around your house. But I've had my own problems, too, as you know. And I guess I didn't feel there was anything I could offer you except carrying as much of the load here as I can."

"Have you been covering calls for me? When families have needed to get me on the phone?" I was out with it.

"It's not been a problem," he said. "It's the least I can do."

"Good God," I said, bending my head and running my fingers through my hair. "I don't believe this."

"I was just doing . . ."

"Jack," I interrupted him, "I've been here every day except when I'm in court. Why would any of my calls be defiected to you? This is something I know nothing about."

Now it was Fielding's turn to look confused.

"Don't you realize how despicable it would be for me to refuse to talk to bewildered, grieving people?" I went on. "For me not to answer their questions or even seem to care?"

"I just thought . . ."

"This is crazy!" I exclaimed, and my stomach was a tight fist. "If I were like that, I wouldn't deserve to do this work. If I ever become like that, I should quit! Of all people, how could I not care about another person's loss? How could I not feel and understand and do everything I could to answer the questions, lessen the pain and fight to send the bastard who did it to the fucking electric chair."

I was near tears. My voice shook."Or lethal injection. Shit, I think we should go back to hanging assholes in the public square," I declared.

Fielding glanced toward the shut door as if he were afraid someone might hear me. I took a deep breath and steadied myself.

"How many times has this happened?" I asked him. "How many times have you taken my calls?"

"A lot lately," he reluctantly told me.

"How many is a lot?"

"Probably almost every other case you've done in the last couple months:'

"That can't be right," I retorted.

He was silent, and as I thought about it, doubts crowded my mind again. Families hadn't seemed to be calling me as much as they used to, but I hadn't paid much attention because there was never a pattern, never a way to predict. Some relatives wanted every detail. Others called to vent their rage. Some people went into denial and wanted to know nothing.

"Then I can assume there have been complaints about me," I said. "Grieving, upset people thinking I'm arrogant and cold-blooded. And I don't blame them."

"Some have complained."

I could tell by his face that there had been more than just a few complaints. I had no doubt that letters had been written to the governor, too.

"Who's been rolling these calls over to you?" I asked matter-of-factly and quietly because I was afraid I might roar like a tornado down the hall and swear at everyone once I left this room.

"Dr. Scarpetta, it didn't seem unusual that you wouldn't want to talk about some things to traumatized people right now," he tried to make me understand. "Some painful things that might remind you . . . it made sense to me. Most of these people just want a voice, a doctor, and if I've not been around, either Jill or Bennett has," he said, referring to two of my resident doctors. "I guess the only big problem is when none of us has been available and somehow Dan or Amy have ended up with the calls."

Dan Chong and Amy Forbes were rotating medical students here to learn and observe. Never in a million years should they have been put in a position to talk to families.

"Oh, no," I said, closing my eyes at the nightmarish thought.

"Mainly after hours. That damn answering service," he said.

"Who's been rolling the telephone calls over to you?" I asked him again, this time more firmly.

He sighed. Fielding looked as grim and as worried as he'd ever been.

"Tell me;' I insisted.

"Rose," he said.

Rose was buttoning her coat and wrapping a long silk scarf around her neck when I walked into her office a few minutes before six o'clock. She had been working late as usual. Sometimes I had to make her go home at the end of the day, and although that had impressed and touched me in the past, now it made me uneasy.

"I'll walk you to your car;" I offered.

"Oh," she said. "Well, you certainly don't have to do that."

Her face got tight, her fingers suddenly fumbling with kid leather gloves. She knew I had something on my mind she didn't want to hear, and I suspected she knew exactly what it was. We said little to each other as we followed the hallway to the front office, our feet quiet on the carpet, the awkwardness between us palpable.

My heart was heavy. I wasn't sure if I was angry or crushed, and I began to wonder all sorts of things. What else had Rose kept from me and how long had it been going on? Was her fierce loyalty a possessiveness I hadn't recognized? Did she feel I belonged to her?

"I don't guess Lucy ever called," I said as we emerged into the empty marble lobby.