Five Scarpetta Novels (42 page)

Lucy pushed back her chair and looked at me. “He's got your profile. In cyberspace, on the World Wide Web, you're both the same person with two different screen names.”

“We are not the same person. I can't believe you said that.” I looked at her, shocked.

“The photographs are yours and you sent them to yourself. It was easy. You simply scanned them into your computer. No big deal. You can get portable color scanners for four, five hundred bucks. Attach the file to the message
ten
, which you send to KSCARPETTA, send to yourself, in other words . . .”

“Lucy,” I cut her off, “for God's sake, that's enough.”

She was silent, her face without expression.

“This is outrageous. I can't believe what you're saying.” I got up from the chair in disgust.

“If your fingerprints were on the murder weapon,” she replied, “wouldn't you want me to tell you?”

“My fingerprints aren't on anything.”

“Aunt Kay, I'm just making the point that someone out there is stalking you, impersonating you, on the Internet. Of course you didn't do anything. But what I'm trying to impress upon you is every time someone does a search by subject because they need help from an expert like you, they're going to get deadoc's name, too.”

“How could he have known all this information about me?” I went on. “It's not in my profile. I don't have anything in there about where I went to law school, medical school, that my heritage is Italian.”

“Maybe from things written about you over the years.”

“I suppose.” I felt as if I were coming down with something. “Would you like a nightcap? I'm very tired.”

But she was lost again in the dark space of the UNIX environment with its strange symbols and commands like
cat, :q!
and
vi
.

“Aunt Kay, what's your password in AOL?” she asked.

“The same one I use for everything else,” I confessed, knowing she would be annoyed again.

“Shit. Don't tell me you're still using
Sinbad
.” She looked up at me.

“My mother's rotten cat has never been mentioned in anything ever written about me,” I defended myself.

I watched as she typed the command
password
and entered
Sinbad
.

“Do you do password aging?” she asked as if everyone should know what that meant.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Where you change your password at least once a month.”

“No,” I said.

“Who else knows your password?”

“Rose knows it. And of course, now you do,” I said. “There's no way deadoc could.”

“There's always a way. He could use a UNIX password-encryption program to encrypt every word in a dictionary. Then compare every encrypted word to your password . . .”

“It wasn't that complicated,” I said with conviction. “I bet whoever did this doesn't know a thing about UNIX.”

Lucy closed what she was doing, and looked curiously at me, swiveling the chair around. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he could have washed the body first so trace evidence didn't adhere to blood. He shouldn't have given us a photo of her hands. Now we may have her prints.” I was leaning against the door frame, holding my aching head. “He's not that smart.”

“Maybe he doesn't think her prints will ever matter,” she said, getting up. “And by the way,” she said as she walked by. “Almost any computer book's going to tell you it's stupid to choose a password that's the name of your significant other or your cat.”

“Sinbad's not my cat. I wouldn't have a miserable
Siamese that always gives me the fisheye and stalks me whenever I walk into my mother's house.”

“Well, you must like him a little bit or you wouldn't have wanted to think of him every time you log on to your computer,” she said from down the hall.

“I don't like him in the least,” I said.

 

The next morning, the air was crisp and clean like a fall apple, stars were out, traffic mostly truckers in the midst of long hauls. I turned off on 64 East, just beyond the state fairgrounds, and minutes later was prowling rows in short-term parking at the Richmond International Airport. I chose a space in
S
because I knew it would be easy for me to remember, and was reminded of my password again, of other obvious acts of carelessness caused by overload.

As I was getting my bag out of the trunk, I heard footsteps behind me and instantly wheeled around.

“Don't shoot.” Marino held up his hands. It was cool enough out that I could see his breath.

“I wish you'd whistle or something when you walk up on me in the dark,” I said, slamming shut the trunk.

“Oh. And bad people don't whistle. Only good guys like me do.” He grabbed my suitcase. “You want me to get that, too?”

He reached for the hard, black Pelican case I was taking with me to Memphis today, where it already had been numerous times before. Inside were human vertebrae and bone, evidence that could not leave me.

“This stays handcuffed to me,” I said, grabbing it and
my briefcase. “I'm really sorry to put you out like this, Marino. Are you sure it's necessary for you to come along?”

We had discussed this several times now, and I did not think he should accompany me. I did not see the point.

“Like I told you, some squirrel's playing games with you,” he said. “Me, Wesley, Lucy, the entire friggin' Bureau think I should come along. For one thing, you've made this exact same trip in every case, so it's gotten predictable. And it's been in the papers that you use this guy at UT.”

Parking lots were well lit and full of cars, and I could not help but notice people slowly driving past, looking for a place that wasn't miles from the terminal. I wondered what else deadoc knew about me, and wished I had worn more than a trench coat. I was cold and had forgotten my gloves.

“Besides,” Marino added, “I've never been to Graceland.”

At first, I thought he was joking.

“It's on my list,” he went on.

“What list?”

“The one I've had since I was a kid. Alaska, Las Vegas and the Grand Ole Opry,” he said as if the thought filled him with joy. “Don't you have some place you would go if you could do anything you want?”

We were at the terminal now, and he held the door.

“Yes,” I said. “My own bed in my own home.”

I headed for the Delta desk, picked up our tickets and went upstairs. Typical for this hour, nothing was open
except security. When I placed my hard case on the X-ray belt, I knew what was going to happen.

“Ma'am, you're going to have to open that,” said the female guard.

I unlocked it and unsnapped the clasps. Inside, nestled in foam rubber, were labeled plastic bags containing the bones. The guard's eyes widened.

“I've been through here before with this,” I patiently explained.

She started to reach for one of the plastic bags.

“Please don't touch anything,” I warned. “This is evidence in a homicide.”

There were several other travelers behind me, now, and they were listening to every word I said.

“Well, I have to look at it.”

“You can't.” I got out my brass medical examiner's shield and showed it to her. “You touch anything here, and I'll have to include you in the chain of evidence when this eventually goes to court. You'll be subpoenaed.”

That was as much of an explanation as she needed, and she let me go.

“Dumb as a bag of hammers,” Marino mumbled as we walked.

“She's just doing her job,” I replied.

“Look,” he said. “We don't fly back until tomorrow morning, meaning unless you spend the whole damn day looking at bones, we should have some time.”

“You can go to Graceland by yourself. I've got plenty of work to do in my room. I'm also sitting in
nonsmoking.” I chose a seat at our gate. “So if you want to smoke, you'll have to go over there.” I pointed.

He scanned other passengers waiting, like us, to board. Then he looked at me.

“You know what, Doc?” he said. “The problem is you hate to have fun.”

I got the morning paper out of my briefcase, shook it open.

He sat next to me. “I'll bet you've never even listened to Elvis.”

“How could I not listen to Elvis? He's on the radio, on TV, in elevators.”

“He's the king.”

I eyed Marino over the top of the paper.

“His voice, everything about him. There's never been anyone like him,” Marino went on as if he had a crush. “I mean, it's like classical music and those painters you like so much. I think people like that only come along every couple hundred years.”

“So now you're comparing him with Mozart and Monet.” I turned a page, bored with local politics and business.

“Sometimes you're a friggin' snob.” He got up, grumpy. “And maybe just once in your life you might think of going some place I want to go. You ever seen me bowl?” He glared down at me, getting out his cigarettes. “You ever said anything nice about my truck? You ever gone fishing with me? You ever eat at my house? No, I gotta go to yours because you live in the right part of town.”

“You cook for me, I'll come over,” I said as I read.

He angrily stalked off, and I could feel the eyes of strangers on us. I supposed they assumed that Marino and I were an item, and had not gotten along in years. Smiling to myself, I turned a page. Not only would I go to Graceland with him, I planned to buy him barbecue tonight.

Since it seemed that one could not fly direct from Richmond to anywhere except Charlotte, we were routed to Cincinnati first, where we changed planes. We arrived in Memphis by noon and checked into the Peabody Hotel. I had gotten us a government rate of seventy-three dollars per night, and Marino looked around, gawking at a grand lobby of stained glass and a fountain of mallard ducks.

“Holy shit,” he said. “I've never seen a joint that has live ducks. They're everywhere.”

We were walking into the restaurant, which was appropriately named Mallards, and displayed behind glass were duck objets d'art. There were paintings of ducks on walls, and ducks were on the staff's green vests and ties.

“They have a duck palace on the roof,” I said. “And roll out a red carpet for them twice a day when they come and go to John Philip Sousa.”

“No way.”

I told the hostess that we would like a table for two. “In nonsmoking,” I added.

The restaurant was crowded with men and women wearing big name tags for some real estate convention they were attending at the hotel. We sat so close to other people that I could read reports they were perusing and hear their affairs. I ordered a fresh fruit plate and coffee,
while Marino got his usual grilled hamburger platter.

“Medium rare,” he told the waiter.

“Medium.” I gave Marino a look.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He shrugged.

“Enterohemorrhagic E. coli,” I said to him as the waiter walked off. “Trust me. Not worth it.”

“Don't you ever want to do things bad for you?” he said.

He looked depressed and suddenly old as he sat across from me in this beautiful place where people were well dressed and better paid than a police captain from Richmond. Marino's hair had thinned to an unruly fringe circling the top of his ears like a tarnished silver halo shoved low. He had not lost an ounce since I had known him, his belly rising from his belt and touching the edge of the table. Not a day went by that I did not fear for him. I could not imagine his not working with me forever.

At half past one, we left the hotel in the rental car. He drove because he would never have it any other way, and we got on Madison Avenue and followed it east, away from the Mississippi River. The brick university was so close we could have walked it, the Regional Forensic Center across the street from a tire store and the Life Blood Donor Center. Marino parked in back, near the public entrance of the medical examiner's office.

The facility was funded by the county and about the size of my central district office in Richmond. There were three forensic pathologists, and also two forensic anthropologists, which was very unusual and enviable, for I would have loved to have someone like Dr. David Canter
on my staff. Memphis had yet another distinction that was decidedly not a happy one. The chief had been involved in perhaps two of the most infamous cases in the country. He had performed the autopsy of Martin Luther King and had witnessed the one of Elvis.

“If it's all the same to you,” Marino said as we got out of the car, “I think I'll make phone calls while you do your thing.”

“Fine. I'm sure they can find an office for you to use.”