Five Scarpetta Novels (111 page)

“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 fifty-five 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 deflected 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.

R
ose 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.

“No,” Rose replied. “I tried her office several times, too.”

“She got the flowers?”

“Oh, yes.”

The night guard waved at us.

“It's cold out there! Where's your coat?” he said to me.

“I'll be all right,” I answered him with a smile, and then to Rose I said, “We know that Lucy actually saw them?”

She looked confused.

“The flowers,” I said. “Do we know if Lucy saw them?”

“Oh, yes,” my secretary said again. “Her supervisor said she came in and saw them, read the card and everybody was teasing her, asking who'd sent them.”

“I don't guess you know if she took them home with her.”

Rose glanced over at me as we went out of the building into the dark, empty parking lot. She looked old and sad, and I didn't know if her eyes were tearing up because of me or the cold, sharp air.

“I don't know,” she answered me.

“My scattered troops,” I muttered.

She turned her collar up to her ears and tucked in her chin.

“It has come to this,” I said. “When Carrie Grethen murdered Benton, she took out all the rest of us, too. Didn't she, Rose?”

“Of course it's had its horrendous effect. I've not known what I can do for you, but I've tried.”

She glanced over at me as we walked, hunched against the cold.

“I've tried as hard as I can and still do,” she went on.

“Everybody scattered,” I muttered. “Lucy's angry with me, and when she gets that way, she always does the same thing. She shuts me out. Marino's not a detective anymore. And now I find out that you've been rolling my telephone calls over to Jack without asking me, Rose. Distraught
families haven't been allowed to get through to me. Why would you do such a thing?”

We had reached her blue Honda Accord. Keys jingled as she dug for them in her big pocketbook.

“Isn't that funny,” she said. “I was afraid you were going to ask me about your schedule. You're teaching at the Institute more than ever, and as I worked on next month's calendar, I realized you are terribly overcommitted. I should have picked up on it earlier and prevented it.”

“That's the least of my worries at the moment,” I replied, and I tried not to sound upset. “Why did you do this to me?” I said, and I wasn't talking about my commitments. “You shielded me from phone calls? You hurt me as a person and a professional.”

Rose unlocked the door and started the engine, turning on the heat to warm up the car for her lonely ride home.

“I'm doing what you instructed me to do, Dr. Scarpetta,” she finally answered me, her breath smoking out.

“I
never
instructed you to do such a thing, nor would I
ever,”
I said, not believing what I was hearing. “And you know that. You know how I feel about being accessible to families.”

Of course she knew. I had gotten rid of two forensic pathologists in the last five years because they had been so unavailable and indifferent to the grieving left behind.

“It wasn't with my blessing,” Rose said, sounding like her mothering self again.

“When did I supposedly say this to you?”

“You didn't say it. You e-mailed it. This was back in late August.”

“I never e-mailed such a thing to you,” I told her. “Did you save it?”

“No,” she said with regret. “I generally don't save e-mail. I have no reason to. I'm sorry I have to use it at all.”

“What did this e-mail message allegedly from me say?”

“I need you to redirect as many calls from families as
you can. It's too hard for me right now. I know you understand.
Or words to that effect.”

“And you didn't question this?” I said in disbelief.

She turned the heat down.

“Of course I did,” she replied. “I e-mailed you right back and asked you about it. I voiced my concerns, and you replied that I was just to do it and not discuss it anymore.”

“I never got an e-mail like that from you,” I told her.

“I don't know what to say,” she replied, fastening her shoulder harness. “Except is it possible you just don't remember? I forget e-mails all the time. I'll say I didn't say something and then find out I did.”

“No. It isn't possible.”

“Then it would seem to me someone is pretending to be you.”

“Is?
Have there been more?”

“Not many,” she replied. “Just one here and there, warm ones thanking me for being so supportive. And let's see. . .?”

She searched her memory. Lights in the parking lot made her car look dark green instead of blue. Her face was in shadows and I could not read her eyes. She tapped her gloved fingers on the steering wheel while I stood looking down at her. I was freezing.

“I know what it was,” she suddenly said. “Secretary Wagner wanted you to meet with him and you told me to let him know you couldn't at that time.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“This was early last week,” she added.

“E-mail again?”

“Sometimes it's the only way to get hold of people these days. His assistant e-mailed me and I e-mailed you—you were in court somewhere. Then you e-mailed me back that evening, I guess from home.”

“This is crazy,” I said, my mind running after possibilities and catching nothing.

Everyone in my office had my e-mail address. But no one except me should have my password, and obviously, no one could sign on as me without it. Rose was thinking the same thing.

“I don't know how this could happen,” she said, then exclaimed, “Wait a minute. Ruth sets up AOL on each person's computer.”

Ruth Wilson was my computer analyst.

“Of course. And she had to have my password in order to do that,” I carried out the thought. “But Rose, she would never do anything like this.”

“Never in a million years,” Rose agreed. “But she must have the passwords written down somewhere. She couldn't possibly remember all of them.”

“One would think so.”

“Why don't you get inside the car before you die of exposure,” she said.

“You go on home and get some rest,” I replied. “I'm going to do the same thing.”

“Of course you won't,” she chided me. “You'll go right back into your office and try to figure everything out.”

She was right. I walked back to the building as she drove off, and I wondered how I could be so foolish as to have gone out the door without a coat. I was stiff and numb. The night guard shook his head.

“Dr. Scarpetta, you need to dress warmer than that!”

“You're absolutely right,” I said.

I passed the magnetic key over the lock and the first set of glass doors clicked free, then I unlocked the one to my wing of the building. It was absolutely silent inside, and when I turned into Ruth's office, I stood for a moment, just looking around at upright microcomputers and printers, and a map on a screen that showed if the connections to our other offices were trouble-free.

The floor behind her desk was a thick hank of cables, and printouts of software programming that made no sense
to me were stacked all over the place. I scanned crammed bookshelves. I walked over to filing cabinets and tried to open a drawer. Every one of them was locked.

Good for you, Ruth,
I thought.

I returned to my office and tried her home number.

“Hello?” she answered.

She sounded harried. There was a baby screaming in the background, and her husband was saying something about a frying pan.

“I'm sorry to bother you at home,” I said.

“Dr. Scarpetta,” she was very surprised. “You're not bothering me. Frank, can you take her in the other room?”

“I've got just one quick question,” I said. “Is there a place you keep all our AOL passwords?”

“Is there a problem?” she quickly replied.

“It appears someone knows my password and is signing on to AOL as me.” I didn't mince words. “I want to know how someone could possibly have gotten hold of my password. Is there any way?”

“Oh, no,” she said, dismayed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Obviously, you haven't told anybody what it is,” she suggested.

I thought hard for a moment. Not even Lucy knew my password. Nor would she care.

“Other than you,” I said to Ruth, “I can't imagine who.”

“You know I wouldn't give it to anyone!”

“I believe that,” I replied, and I did.

For one thing, Ruth would never jeopardize her job that way.

“I keep everyone's addresses and passwords in a computer file that no one can access,” she said.

“What about a hard copy?”

“In a file in a filing cabinet, which I keep locked.”

“At all times?”

She hesitated, then said, “Well, not
all
the time. Certainly after hours, but they're unlocked much of the day, unless I'm in and out a lot. But I'm in my office most of the time. Really, it's only when I get coffee and eat lunch in the break room.”

“What's the file's name?” I asked as paranoia towered like storm clouds.

“E-mail,”
she replied, knowing how I was going to feel about that. “Dr. Scarpetta, I've got thousands of files filled with programming codes and updates, patches, bugs, new things coming out, you name it. If I don't label them fairly precisely, I can never find anything.”

“I understand,” I said. “I have the same problem.”

“I can change your password first thing in the morning.”

“That's a good idea. And Ruth, let's not put it anywhere that anyone can find it this time. Not in that file, okay?”

“I hope I'm not in trouble,” she uneasily said as her baby continued to scream.

“You aren't, but someone is,” I told her. “And maybe you can help me figure out who that is.”

It didn't take much intuition on my part to immediately think of Ruffin. He was clever. It was obvious he didn't like me. Ruth routinely kept her door shut so she could concentrate. I didn't suppose it would have been hard for Ruffin to slip inside her office and shut the door while she was in the break room.

“This conversation is absolutely confidential,” I said to Ruth. “You can't even tell friends or family.”

“You have my word on that.”

“What's Chuck's password?”

“R-O-O-S-T-R. I remember because it irritated me when he wanted it assigned to him. As if he's the rooster in the henhouse,” she said. “His address, as you probably know, is C-H-U-K-O-C-M-E, as in Chuck, Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.”

“And what if I were signed on and someone else tried at the same time?” I then asked.

“The person trying would be kicked off and told someone was already signed on. There would be an error message and an alert. Now the reverse isn't true. If, let's say, the bad guy's already signed on and you try, although you get the error message, he isn't alerted at all.”

“So someone could try to do it while I'm already logged on, and I'm not going to know it.”

“Exactly.”

“Does Chuck have a home computer?”

“He asked me one time what to get that was affordable, and I told him to try a consignment shop. I gave him the name of one.”

“The name?”

“Disk Thrift. It's owned by a friend of mine.”