Five Scarpetta Novels (178 page)

So you can keep it forever, he replied. Now I need you to turn over for a minute.

What?

Just do it, he said. You'll see.

He helped her turn over and she couldn't have weighed anything, and he sat on her back and tucked his white handkerchief in her mouth so she would be quiet.

You talk too much, he said to her. Now is not the time to talk, he told her.

You should never have talked so much, he kept saying as he held her hands on the bed, and he can still feel her jerk her head and weakly struggle beneath his weight as he took her breath away. When she went still, he let go of her hands and gently took his white handkerchief out of her mouth, and he sat on top of her when she was all quiet like that, making sure she stayed quiet and didn't breathe while he talked to her the same way he did the girl, the doctor's daughter, the pretty little girl whose father did things in that house. Things Pogue should never have seen.

He jumps and gasps as something sharp raps on his window. His eyes fly open and he coughs dryly, strangling. A big grinning black man is on the other side of the car window, rapping the glass with his ring and holding up a big box of M&M's.

“Five dollars,” the man says loudly through the glass. “It's for my church.”

Pogue cranks the engine and shoves the white Buick into reverse.

D
R
. S
TANLEY
P
HILPOTT'S
office in the Fan is in a white brick row house on Main Street. He is a general practitioner and was very gracious when Scarpetta reached him on the phone late yesterday and asked if he would talk to her about Edgar Allan Pogue.

“You know I can't do that,” he said at first.

“The police can get a warrant,” she replied. “Would that make you more comfortable?”

“Not really.”

“I need to talk to you about him. Could I come by your office first thing in the morning?” she said. “I'm afraid the police are going to talk to you about him one way or another.”

Dr. Philpott doesn't want to see the police. He doesn't want their cars near his office and he doesn't want police showing up in his waiting room and scaring his patients. A gentle-looking man with bright white hair and a graceful way of carrying himself, he is quite polite when his secretary lets Scarpetta in through the back door and shows her into the tiny kitchen where he is waiting for her.

“I've heard you speak several times,” Dr. Philpott says, pouring coffee from a drip coffeemaker on the counter. “Once at the Richmond Academy of Medicine, another time at the Commonwealth Club. You'd have no reason to remember me. What do you take?”

“Black, please. Thank you,” she says from a table by a window that overlooks a cobblestone alleyway. “That was a long time ago, the Commonwealth Club.”

He sets the coffees on the table and pulls out a chair, his back to the window. Light breaking through clouds shines on his neatly combed thick white hair and starchy white lab coat. The stethoscope is loosely forgotten around his neck, his hands big and steady. “You told some rather entertaining stories, as I recall,” he says thoughtfully. “All in good taste. I remember thinking at the time that you were a brave woman. Back then not too many women were invited to the Commonwealth Club. Still aren't, really. You know, it actually crossed my mind that maybe I should sign up as a medical examiner. That's how inspirational you were.”

“It's not too late,” she replies with a smile. “I understand they have quite a shortage, more than a hundred short, which is a significant problem since they're the ones who sign out most deaths and respond to scenes and decide if a case needs to come in for an autopsy, especially out in the hinterlands. When I was here, we had about five hundred docs statewide who volunteered as medical examiners. The troops, I called them. I don't know what I would have done without them.”

“Doctors don't want to volunteer their time for much of anything anymore,” Dr. Philpott says, cradling the coffee mug in both hands. “Especially the young ones. I'm afraid the world's become a very selfish place.”

“I try not to think that or I get depressed.”

“That's probably a good philosophy. What can I help you with exactly?” His light blue eyes are touched by sadness. “I know you're not here to give me happy news. What has Edgar Allan done?”

“Murder, it appears. Attempted murder. Making bombs. Malicious wounding,” Scarpetta replies. “The fourteen-year-old girl who died several weeks ago, not far from here. I'm sure you've heard about it on the news.” She doesn't want to be any more specific.

“Oh God,” he says, shaking his head, staring down into his coffee. “Dear God.”

“How long has he been your patient, Dr. Philpott?”

“Forever,” he says. “Since he was a boy. I saw his mother too.”

“Is she still alive?”

“She died, I want to say ten years ago. A rather imperious woman, a difficult woman. Edgar Allan is the only child.”

“What about his father?”

“An alcoholic who committed suicide quite a long time ago. Maybe twenty years ago. Let me tell you right off that I don't know Edgar Allan well. He's come in from time to time for routine problems, mainly for flu and pneumococcal pneumonia vaccines. The vaccines he's done as regular as clockwork every September.”

“Including this past September?” Scarpetta asks.

“As a matter of fact, no. I went over his chart right before you got here. He came in on October fourteenth, got a pneumonia vaccine but not the flu shot. I'm afraid I was out of influenza vaccine. You know, there's been a shortage. I ran out. So he just got the one vaccine for pneumonia and left.”

“What do you remember about that?”

“He came in, said hello. I asked how he was doing with his bad lungs. He has a pretty significant case of pulmonary interstitial fibrosis from chronic exposure to embalming fluid. Apparently he worked in a funeral home once.”

“Not quite,” she replies. “He worked for me.”

“Well, I'll be darned,” he says, surprised. “Now that I didn't know. I wonder why he…Well, he said he worked in a funeral home, was an assistant director or something.”

“He didn't. He worked in the Anatomical Division, was there when I became chief back in the late eighties. Then he retired on disability in ninety-seven, right before we moved into our new building on East Fourth Street. What story did he give you about how he got his lung disease? Chronic exposure?”

“He said he got splashed one day and inhaled formaldehyde. It's in his chart. He had a rather grotesque story about it. Edgar Allan's a bit strange, I'll give you that. I've always known that. According to him, he was working in the funeral home and embalming a body and he forgot to stuff something in the mouth, this is according to him, and embalming fluid started bubbling out of the mouth because the rate of flow was too fast, or something grotesque like that, and a hose blew. He can be quite dramatic. Well, why am I telling you? If he worked for you, you know more than I do. I really don't need to repeat his fanciful tales.”

“I've never heard that story before,” she says. “All I remember is the chronic exposure part and that he did have fibrosis, or I should say he does have pulmonary fibrosis.”

“There's no question about that. He has scarring of the interstitial tissue, significant damage to the lung tissue as evidenced by biopsy. He isn't faking.”

“We're trying to find him,” Scarpetta says. “Is there anything you can tell me that might give us a lead as to where to look?”

“I don't mean to state the obvious. But what about people he worked with?”

“The police are checking all of that. I'm not hopeful. When he worked for me he was a loner,” she replies. “I know his prescription for prednisone is due to be renewed within days. Is he religious about doing that?”

“It's been my experience he goes through phases with his meds. He'll be fastidious for a year, then maybe he backs off from the stuff for months because it makes him gain weight.”

“Is he overweight?”

“Last time I saw him, he was very overweight.”

“How tall is he and how much did he weigh?”

“He's maybe five-eight. When I saw him in October, he looked like he weighed in excess of two hundred pounds and I told him that just put more of a strain on his breathing, not to mention his heart. I've gone back and forth with him about the corticosteroids because of the weight problem, and he can get very paranoid when he's on his meds.”

“You worry about steroid psychosis?”

“Always worry about that with anyone. If you've ever seen steroid psychosis, you worry. But I've never decided if Edgar Allan is off when he's on his meds or just off. How did he do it, if you don't mind my asking? How did he kill the girl, the Paulsson girl?”

“You've heard of Burke and Hare? Early-nineteenth-century Scotland, the two men who killed people and sold their bodies for medical dissection? There was quite a scarcity of bodies for dissection and in fact the only way some medical students could learn anatomy was from robbing fresh graves or getting bodies in other illicit ways.”

“Body snatching,” Dr. Philpott says. “I know a little about Burking, as it's called. Can't say I've ever heard of a modern case. The Resurrectionists, I believe those men were called back then, the ones who robbed graves and procured bodies for dissection.”

“These days we're not talking about killing someone and selling the body. But Burking happens. It's so difficult to detect, we don't know just how often it happens.”

“Suffocation or arsenic or what?”

“In forensic pathology, Burking refers to homicide by mechanical asphyxia. Burke's MO, legend has it, was to select someone feeble, usually an old person, a child, someone sick, and sit on the chest and cover the nose and mouth.”

“That's what happened to that poor girl?” Dr. Philpott asks, his face deeply lined with distress. “That's what he did to the Paulsson girl?”

“As you know, sometimes a diagnosis is made based on the lack of a diagnosis. A process of elimination,” Scarpetta replies. “She has no findings except what appear to be fresh bruises that certainly would be consistent with someone sitting on her back, her hands pinned. She had a nosebleed.” She doesn't want to say much more about it. “Obviously, this is extremely confidential.”

“I have no idea where he might be,” Dr. Philpott grimly says. “If he calls in for any reason, I'll tell you right away.”

“Let me give you Pete Marino's number.” She starts writing it down.

“Edgar Allan's really not someone I know much about. I never did like him, truth be told. He's a strange one, gave me a creepy feeling, and while his mother was alive, she always came with him to his appointments. I'm talking about when he was a grown man, right up until she died.”

“What did she die of?”

“That worries me, now that we're talking about this,” he says, his face grim. “She was obese and took terrible care of herself. One winter she got the flu and died at home. There was nothing suspicious about it at the time. Now I wonder.”

“Might I look at his medical record? And hers, if you still have it?” Scarpetta asks.

“Now, I wouldn't have hers easily accessible since she died so long ago. But I can let you look at his. You can sit right here and do it. I have it out on my desk.” He gets up from his chair and leaves the kitchen, and he moves more slowly and seems more tired than he did earlier.

Scarpetta looks out the window at a blue jay robbing the bird feeder dangling from the bare branch of an oak tree. The jay is a flurry of blue aggression, and seeds fly as it pillages the feeder, bounces off in a feathery blue spurt, and is gone. Edgar Allan Pogue may get away with it. Fingerprints don't prove much, and the cause and manner of death will be debated. There is no telling how many people he has killed, she thinks, and now she has to worry about what he was doing when he worked for her. What was he doing down there belowground? She sees him down there in scrubs. He was pale and thin back then, and she remembers his white face looking at her, stealing shy glances at her when she got off that awful service elevator and showed up to talk to Dave, who didn't like Edgar Allan much either and probably wouldn't have a clue where he is.

Scarpetta spent as little time in the Anatomical Division as she could. It was a depressing place, and there was so little state funding for it, so little paid by the medical colleges that needed the bodies, not enough money to allow the dead any dignity at all. And the crematorium was always breaking down. There were baseball bats propped in a corner because when cremains were removed from the oven, some chunks of bone needed to be pulverized or they would not fit in the cheap urns supplied by the state. A grinder was too expensive, and a baseball bat worked fine for reducing chunks of bone to a manageable size, to dust. She didn't want to be reminded of what went on down there, and she visited that division only when necessary and avoided the crematorium, avoided looking at the baseball bats. She knew about the baseball bats and kept away from them, pretending they weren't there.

I should have bought a grinder, she thinks as she sits looking at the empty bird feeder. I should have bought one with my own money. I should never have allowed baseball bats. I wouldn't allow them now.

“Here,” Dr. Philpott says as he returns to the kitchen and hands her a thick file folder with Edgar Allan Pogue's name printed on it. “I've got to get back to my patients. But I'll check in to see if you need anything.”

The truth is, she wasn't keen on the Anatomical Division. She is a forensic pathologist, a lawyer, and not a funeral home director or embalmer. She always assumed that those dead people had nothing to say to her because there was no mystery surrounding their deaths. If people can die peacefully, those people did. Her mission is people who don't die peacefully. Her mission is people who die violently and suddenly and suspiciously, and she did not want to talk to the people in the vats, so she avoided that subterranean part of her world back then. She avoided the people who worked in it and she avoided the people who were dead in it. She didn't want to spend time with Dave or Edgar Allan. No, she did not. When pink bodies were cranked up by pulleys and chains and with hooks, she didn't want to see it. No, she did not.

I should have paid more attention, she thinks, and her stomach is sour from the coffee. I didn't do as much as I could have. She slowly scans Pogue's medical records. I should have bought a grinder, she thinks, and she looks for the address Pogue gave Dr. Philpott. According to Pogue's records, he lived in Ginter Park, on the north side of the city, until 1996, then his address changed to a post office box. Nowhere in his record is there a mention of where he has lived since 1996, and she wonders if that is when he moved into the house behind the Paulssons' back fence, Mrs. Arnette's house. Maybe he killed her too and became a squatter.

A titmouse lands on the feeder outside the window, and she watches it, her hands quiet on top of Pogue's medical records. Sunlight touches the left side of her face and is warm but not hot, just a winter warmth touching her as she watches the small gray bird peck at seeds, its eyes bright, its tail flicking. Scarpetta knows what some people say about her. Throughout her career she has run from the comments ignorant people make about doctors whose patients are dead. She is morbid. She is peculiar and can't get along with living people. Forensic pathologists are antisocial and odd and cold-blooded and utterly lacking in compassion. They choose this subspecialty in medicine because they are failed doctors, failed fathers, failed mothers, failed lovers, failed human beings.