Five Scarpetta Novels (60 page)

“That's old. Eight years, I bet,” said Marino, who knew about such things.

“What would it take to tow it?” I asked as we put on our suits.

“A pickup,” he said. “Maybe a van. This doesn't need nothing with a lot of horsepower. What are we supposed to do? Put these over everything else we already got on?”

“Yes,” I said, zipping up. “What I'd like to know is what happened to the vehicle that hauled this thing here.”

“Good question,” he said, huffing as he struggled. “And where's the license plate?”

I had just turned on my air when a young man emerged from trees in a green uniform and smoky hat. He seemed rather dazed as he looked at all of us in our orange hoods and suits, and I sensed his fear. He did not get close to us as he introduced himself as the night shift park ranger.

Marino spoke to him first. “You ever see the person staying in there?”

“No,” the ranger said.

“What about guys on the other shifts.”

“No one remembers seeing anyone, just lights on at night sometimes. Hard to say. As you can see, it's parked pretty far from the station. You could go out to the showers or whatever and not necessarily be noticed.”

“No other campers here?” I asked over the rush of air inside my hood.

“Not now. There were maybe three other people when I found the body, but I encouraged them to leave because there might be some kind of disease.”

“Did you question them first?” Marino asked, and I could see he was irritated by this young ranger who had just chased off all of our witnesses.

“Nobody knew a thing, except one person did think he ran into him.” He nodded at the camper. “Evening before last. In the bathroom. Big grubby guy with dark hair and a beard.”

“Taking a shower?” I asked.

“No, ma'am.” He hesitated. “Taking a leak.”

“Doesn't the camper have a bathroom?”

“I really don't know.” He hesitated again. “To tell you the truth, I didn't stay in there. Minute I saw that. Well, whatever it was. I was gone like a second.”

“And you don't know what towed this thing?” Marino then asked.

The ranger was looking very uncomfortable now. “This time of year it's usually quiet out here, and dark. I had no reason to notice what vehicle it was hooked up to, and in fact don't recall there even being one.”

“But you got a plate number.” Marino's stare was unfriendly through his hood.

“Sure do.” Relieved, the ranger pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Got his registration right here.” He opened it. “Ken A. Perley, Norfolk, Virginia.”

He handed the paper to Marino, who sarcastically said, “Oh good. The name the asshole stole off a credit card. So I'm sure the plate number you got is accurate, too. How did he pay?”

“Cashier's check.”

“He gave this to someone in person?” Marino asked.

“No. He made the reservation by mail. No one ever saw anything except the paperwork in your hand. Like I said, we never saw him.”

“What about the envelope this thing came in?” Marino said. “Did you save it so maybe we got a postmark?”

The ranger shook his head. He nervously glanced at suited scientists, who were listening to his every word. He stared at the trailer and wet his lips.

“You mind my asking what's in there. And what's going to happen to me 'cause I went in?” His voice cracked and he looked like he might cry.

“It could be contaminated with a virus,” I said to him. “But we don't know that for sure. Everybody here is going to take care of you.”

“They said they were going to lock me up in some room, like solitary confinement.” Fear erupted, his eyes wild, voice loud. “I want to know exactly what's in there that I might have got!”

“You'll be in exactly the same thing I was last week,” I assured him. “A nice room with nice nurses. For a few days of observation. That's all.”

“Think of it as a vacation. It really ain't that big of a deal. Just because people are in these suits, don't go getting hinky,” Marino said as if he were one to talk.

He went on as if he were the great expert in infectious diseases, and I left the two of them and approached the camper alone. For a moment, I stood within feet of it and looked around. To my left were acres of trees, then the river where our boats were moored. Right of me, through more trees, I could hear the sounds of a highway. The camper was parked on a soft floor of pine needles, and what I noticed first was the scraped area on the white-painted tongue.

Getting close, I squatted and rubbed gloved fingers over deep gouges and scrapes in aluminum in an area where the Vehicle Identification Number, or VIN, should have been. Near the roof, I noticed a patch of vinyl had been scorched, and decided someone had taken a propane torch
to the second VIN. I walked around to the other side.

The door was unlocked and not quite shut because it had been pried open by some sort of tool, and my nerves began to sing. My head cleared and I became completely focused, the way I got when evidence was screaming a different story than witnesses claimed. Mounting metal steps, I walked inside and stood very still as I looked around at a scene that might mean nothing to most, but to me confirmed a nightmare. This was deadoc's factory.

First, the heat was up as high as it would go, and I turned it off, startled when a pathetic white creature suddenly hopped across my feet. I jumped and gasped as it stupidly ran into a wall, and then sat, quivering and panting. The pitiful laboratory rabbit had been shaved in patches and scarified with infection, his eruptions horrible and dark. I noticed his wire cage, and that it seemed to have been knocked off a table, the door wide open.

“Come here.” Squatting, I held out my hand as he watched me with pink-rimmed eyes, long ears twitching.

Carefully, I inched my way closer because I could not leave him out. He was a living source of propagating disease.

“Come on, you poor little thing,” I said to the ranger's monster. “I promise I won't hurt you.”

Then I gently had him in my hands, his heart beating staccato as he violently trembled. I returned him to his cage, then went to the rear of the camper. The doorway I stepped through was small, the body inside practically
filling the bedroom. The man was facedown on gold shag carpet that was stained dark from blood. His hair was curly and dark, and when I turned him over, rigor mortis had come and already passed. He reminded me of a lumberjack in a filthy pea coat and trousers. His hands were huge with dirty nails, his beard and mustache unkempt.

I undressed him from the waist up to check the pattern of livormortis, or blood settling by gravity after death. Face and chest were reddish purple, with areas of blanching where his body had been against the floor. I saw no indication that he had been moved after death. He had been shot once in the chest at close range, possibly with the Remington double-barreled shotgun by his side, next to his left hand.

The spread of pellets was tight, forming a large hole with scalloped edges in the center of his chest. White plastic filler from the shotgun clung to clothing and skin, which again did not indicate a contact wound. Measuring the gun and his arms, I did not see how he could have reached the trigger. I saw nothing to indicate that he had rigged up anything to help him. Checking pockets, I found no wallet, no identification, only a Buck knife. The blade was scratched and bent.

I spent no more time with him but came outside, and the team from USAMRIID was restless, like people waiting to go somewhere and afraid they're going to miss their flight. They stared as I came down the steps, and Marino hung back. He was almost lost in trees, orange arms folded across his chest, the ranger standing beside him.

“This is a completely contaminated crime scene,” I
announced. “We have a dead white male with no identification. I need someone to help me get the body out. It needs to be contained.” I looked at the captain.

“It goes back with us,” he said.

I nodded. “Your guys can do the autopsy and maybe get someone from the Baltimore Medical Examiner's office to witness. The camper's another problem. It's got to go somewhere it can be worked up safely. Evidence needs to be collected and decontaminated. This, frankly, is out of my range. Unless you have a containment facility that can accommodate something this big, maybe we'd better get this to Utah.”

“To Dugway?” he said, dubiously.

“Yes,” I said. “Maybe Colonel Fujitsubo can help with that.”

Dugway Proving Ground was the Army's major range and test facility for chemical and biological defense. Unlike USAMRIID, which was in the heart of urban America, Dugway had the vast land of the Great Salt Lake desert for testing lasers, smart bombs, smoke obscurance or illumination. More to the point, it had the only test chamber in the United States capable of processing a vehicle as large as a battle tank.

The captain thought for a moment, his eyes going from me to the camper as he made up his mind and formalized a plan.

“Frank, get on the phone and let's get this mobilized ASAP,” he said to one of the scientists. “The colonel will have to work with the Air Force on transport, get something here fast because I don't want this thing sitting
out here all night. And we're going to need a flatbed truck, a pickup truck.”

“Should be able to get that around here, with all the seafood they ship,” Marino said. “I'll get on it.”

“Good,” the captain went on. “Somebody get me three body bags and the isolator.” Then he said to me, “I'll bet you need a hand.”

“I certainly do,” I said, and both of us began walking toward the camper.

I pulled open the bent aluminum door, and he followed me inside, and we did not linger as we passed through to the back. I could tell by Clark's eyes that he had never seen anything like this, but with his hood and air pack, at least he did not have to deal with the stench of decomposing human flesh. He knelt at one end and I at the other, the body heavy and the space impossibly cramped.

“Is it hot in here or is it just me?” he said loudly as we struggled with rubbery limbs.

“Someone turned the heat up as high as it would go.” I was already out of breath. “To hasten viral contamination, decomposition. A popular way to screw up a crime scene. All right. Let's zip him in. This is going to be tight, but I think we can do it.”

We started working him into a second pouch, our hands and suits slippery with blood. It took us almost thirty minutes to get the body inside the isolator, and my muscles were trembling as we carried it out. My heart was pounding and I was dripping sweat. Outside, we were thoroughly doused with a chemical rinse, as was the isolator, which was transported by truck back to
Crisfield. Then the team started work on the camper.

All of it, except for the wheels, was to be wrapped in heavy blue tinted vinyl that had a HEPA filter layer. I took off my suit with great relief, and retreated into the warm, well-lit rangers' station, where I scrubbed my hands and face. My nerves were jangled and I would have given anything to crawl into bed, down shots of NyQuil and sleep.

“If this ain't a mess,” Marino said as he came in with a lot of cold air.

“Please shut the door,” I said, shivering.

“What's eating you?” He sat on the other side of the room.

“Life.”

“I can't believe you're out here when you're sick. I think you've lost your friggin' mind.”

“Thank you for the words of comfort,” I said.

“Well, this ain't exactly a holiday for me, either. Stuck out here with people to interview, and I got no wheels.” He looked frayed.

“What are you going to do?”

“I'll find something. Rumor has it Lucy and Janet are in the area and have a ride.”

“Where?” I started to get up.

“Don't get excited. They're out trying to find people to interview, like I gotta do. God, I gotta smoke. It's been almost all day.”

“Not in here.” I pointed to a sign.

“People are dying of smallpox and you're bitching about cigarettes.”

I got out Motrin and popped three without water.

“So what will all these space cadets do now?” he asked.

“Some of them will stay in the area, tracking down any other people who may have been exposed either on Tangier or in the campground. They'll work in shifts with other team members. I guess you'll be in contact with them, too, in case you come across anyone who might have been exposed.”

“What? I'm supposed to walk around in an orange suit all week?” He yawned and cracked his neck. “Man, aren't they a bitch? Hot as hell except up in the hood.” He was secretly proud that he had worn one.

“No, you won't be wearing a plastic suit,” I said.

“And what happens if I find out someone I'm interviewing was exposed?”

“Just don't kiss him.”

“I don't think this is funny.” He stared at me.