Four Scarpetta Novels

by Patricia Cornwell

  “But the water sample is important.”

  “Why?”

  “Anything that happened reveals more to me about the defendant and possibly leads to motive. More importantly, to identity and intent.”

  Identity and intent. Those words roar through my mind like a train. I am a lawyer. I know what those words mean.

  “Why did you take the water sample? Do you routinely go around collecting evidence that isn’t directly associated with a body? Collecting water samples really isn’t your jurisdiction, in other words, especially in a foreign country. Why did you go to France to begin with? Isn’t that a little out of the ordinary for a medical examiner?”

  “Interpol summoned me. You just pointed that out yourself.”

  “Jay Talley summoned you, more specifically.”

  “He represents Interpol. He’s the ATF liaison.”

  “I’m wondering why he really orchestrated your going there.” She pauses to allow that chilly fear to touch my brain. It occurs to me that Jay may have manipulated me for reasons I am not sure I can bear to entertain. “Talley has many layers,” Berger adds cryptically. “If Jean-Baptiste was tried here, I fear Talley would more likely be used by the defense than by the prosecution. Possibly to discredit you as a witness.”

  Heat crawls up my neck. My face burns. Fear rips through me like shrapnel, tearing apart any hope I have had that something like this would not happen. “Let me ask you something.” My outrage is complete. It is all I can do to steady my voice. “Is there anything you don’t know about my life?”

  “Quite a bit.”

  “Why is it I feel that I’m the one about to get indicted, Ms. Berger?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you feel that way?”

  “I’m trying not to take any of this personally. But it’s getting harder by the minute.”

  Berger doesn’t smile. Resolve turns her eyes to flint and hardens her tone. “It’s going to get very personal. I highly recommend you don’t take it that way. You of all people know how it works. The actual commission of a crime is incidental to the real damage its ripples do. Jean-Baptiste Chandonne didn’t inflict a single blow on you at the time he broke into your house. It’s now he begins to hurt you. He has hurt you. He will hurt you. Even though he’s locked up, he will inflict blows on you daily. He has started a deadly, cruel process, the violation of Kay Scarpetta. It’s begun. I’m sorry. It’s a fact of life that you know all too well.”

  I silently return her stare. My mouth is dry. My heart seems to beat out of rhythm.

  “It isn’t fair, is it?” she says with the sharp edge of a prosecutor who knows how to dismantle human beings as completely as I do. “But then, I’m sure your patients wouldn’t enjoy being naked on your table and under your knife, to have their pockets and orifices explored, if they knew. And yes, there’s a hell of a lot I don’t know about your life. And yes, you aren’t going to like my probing. And yes, you will cooperate if you’re the person I’ve heard you are. And yes, goddamn it, I desperately need your help or this case is fucked to the moon.”

  “Because you’re going to try to drag in his other bad acts, aren’t you?” I am out with it. “A Molineux application.”

  She hesitates. Her eyes linger on me and light up for an instant, as if I have just said something that fills her with happiness or maybe a new respect. Then just as quickly, those eyes shut me out again, and she says, “I’m not sure what I’ll do yet.”

  I don’t believe her. I am the only living witness. The only one. She fully intends to suck me into it—to put every one of Chandonne’s crimes on trial, all magnificently showcased within the small context of one poor woman he murdered in Manhattan two years ago. Chandonne is smart. But he may have made a fatal mistake on videotape. He gave Berger the two weapons she needs to shoot for a Molineux: identity and intent. I can identify Chandonne. I know goddamn well what his intent was when he forced his way into my house. I am the only living person who can counter his lies.

  “So now we hammer at my credibility.” The tasteless pun is deliberate. She is swinging at me just as Chandonne did, but for a very different reason, of course. She doesn’t want to destroy me. She wants to make sure I am not destroyed.

  “Why did you sleep with Jay Talley?” She is at it again.

  “Because he was there, damn it,” I retort.

  She erupts in a sudden salvo of laughter, deep throaty laughs that push her back in her chair.

  I am not trying to be funny. I am disgusted, if anything. “That’s the banal truth, Ms. Berger,” I add.

  “Please call me Jaime.” She sighs.

  “I don’t always know the answers even to things I should. Such as why I had my moment with Jay. But I’m ashamed of it. Up until a few minutes ago, I felt guilty about it, so afraid I used him, hurt him. But at least I didn’t kiss and tell.”

  To this she has no response.

  “I should have known he’s still in the locker room,” I go on as my indignation unfurls brightly before our eyes. “No better than those teenaged boys gawking at my niece in the mall the other night. Walking hormones. So Jay has bragged about it, I’m sure, told everyone, including you. And let me add . . .” I pause. I swallow. Anger is a lump in my throat. “Let me add that some details aren’t your business and will never be your business. I ask you, Ms. Berger, as a matter of professional courtesy, not to go places where you don’t belong.”

  “If only others would abide by that.”

  I make a point of looking at my watch again. But I can’t leave, not before I ask her the most important question. “You believe he attacked me?” She knows I am referring to Chandonne this time.

  “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t believe that?”

  “Obviously, my eyewitness account turns everything else he’s said to the bullshit it is,” I reply. “It wasn’t them. There was no them. Only that goddamn son of a bitch pretending to be the police and coming after me with a hammer. I’d like to know how the hell he can explain that. Did you ask him why there were two chipping hammers at my house? I can prove from the hardware store receipt that I bought only one.” I push that point again. “So where did the other one come from?”

  “Let me ask you a question instead.” She avoids answering me again. “Is there any possibility you only assumed he was attacking you? That you saw him and panicked? You’re positive he had a chipping hammer and was coming after you with it?”

  I stare at her. “Assumed he was attacking me? What possible explanation could there be for him being inside my house?”

  “Well, you opened the door. That much we know, right?”

  “You aren’t asking me if he was an invited guest, are you?” I stare defiantly at her, the inside of my mouth sticky. My hands are trembling. I push back my chair when she doesn’t answer me. “I don’t have to sit here and take this. It’s gone from the ridiculous to the sublimely ridiculous!”

  “Dr. Scarpetta, how would it make you feel if it was publicly suggested that you, in fact, did invite Chandonne into your home and assaulted him? For no reason, except perhaps you panicked? Or worse. That you are part of his conspiracy as he has stated on tape—you and Jay Talley. Which also helps explain why you went to Paris and slept with Talley and then met Dr. Stvan and took evidence from the morgue.”

  “How would that make me feel? I don’t know what else to say.”

  “You’re the only witness, the only living person who knows that what Chandonne is saying is lies and more lies. If you’re telling the truth, then this case is completely up to you.”

  “I’m not a witness in your case,” I remind her. “I had nothing to do with the Susan Pless murder investigation.”

  “I need your help. It’s going to be very, very time-consuming.”

  “I won’t help you. Not if you’re going to start questioning my veracity or state of mind.”

  “Actually, I don’t question either. But the defense will. Seriously. Excruciatingly.” She is cautiously working h
er way around the edges of a reality she has yet to share with me. Opposing counsel. I suspect she knows who. She knows exactly who is going to finish what Chandonne started: the dismantling, the humiliation of me for all the world to see. My heart beats in sick thuds. I feel dead. My life has just ended right before my eyes.

  “I will need you to come to New York at some point,” Berger is saying. “Sooner rather than later. And by the way, let me caution you to be very, very careful who you talk to right now. I don’t recommend, for example, that you talk to anyone about these cases without conferring with me first.” She begins packing up her paperwork and books. “I caution you about having any contact with Jay Talley.” Her eyes flick mine as she snaps shut her briefcase. “Unfortunately, I think we’re all going to get a Christmas present we’re not going to like.” We get up from our chairs and face each other.

  “Who?” I go ahead and ask her in a tired voice. “You know who’s going to represent him, don’t you? That’s why you stayed up all night with him. You wanted to get to him before his counsel slams the door shut.”

  “All true,” she replies with a hint of irritation. “The question is whether I was suckered into it.” We look at each other across the shiny expanse of the wooden table. “I find it a little too coincidental that within an hour of my last interview with Chandonne, I get word that he’s retained counsel,” she adds. “I suspect he already knew who his counsel was and may, in fact, have already retained him. But Chandonne and the dirtbag he’s hooked up with would believe that this tape”—she pats her briefcase—“would only hurt us and help him.”

  “Because jurors either believe him or think he’s paranoid and crazy,” I summarize.

  She nods. “Oh sure. They’ll go for insanity, if all else fails. And we don’t want Mister Chandonne at Kirby, now do we?”

  Kirby is a notorious forensic psychiatric hospital in New York. It is where Carrie Grethen was incarcerated before she escaped and murdered Benton. Berger has just touched another part of my painful history. “You know about Carrie Grethen, then,” I say in a defeated way as we walk out of a conference room that I will never feel the same about again. It, too, has become a crime scene. My entire world is turning into one.

  “I’ve done some research on you,” Berger says almost apologetically. “And you’re right, I do know who’s going to represent Chandonne, and it’s not good news. In fact, it’s pretty damn awful.” She puts on her mink coat as we walk out into the hallway. “Have you ever met Marino’s son?”

  I stop and stare at her, dumbfounded. “I don’t know anyone who has ever met his son,” I reply.

  “Come on, let’s get you to your party. I’ll explain as we walk out.” Berger cradles her books and files, walking slowly over quiet carpet. “Rocco Marino, affectionately known as ‘Rocky,’ is an exceptionally sleazy criminal defense attorney who has an affinity for representing the mob and others who make it worth his while to get them off the hook by any means. He’s flashy. Loves publicity.” She glances over at me. “Most of all, he loves to hurt people. That’s his power trip.”

  I flip off the hallway lights, throwing us briefly into darkness as we approach the first set of stainless steel doors.

  “Some years ago—in law school, I’m told,” she continues, “Rocky changed his last name to Caggiano. A final rejection of the father he despises, I suppose.”

  I hesitate, facing her in deep shadows. I don’t want her to see the expression on my face, to detect my sense of utter undoing. I have always known that Marino hates his son. I have entertained many theories about why. Maybe Rocky is gay or a drug addict or simply a loser. Certainly it has been clear that Rocky is something of an anathema to his father, and now I know. I am struck by the bitter irony, the shame of it all. My God. “Rocky so-called Caggiano heard about the case and volunteered?” I ask.

  “Could be. Could also be that the Chandonne family’s organized crime ties have led him to their son, or hell, maybe Rocky is already connected to them. It may be a combination—personal and Rocky’s own connections. But it does smack a little of throwing father and son into the Colosseum. Patricide in front of the world, albeit indirectly. Marino won’t necessarily be testifying in Chandonne’s trial in New York, but it could happen, depending on how this all unfolds.”

  I know how it will unfold. It is all so clear to me. Berger came to Richmond fully intending to insert these cases into the one in New York. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t somehow manage to get the Paris cases included, as well.

  “But regardless,” she says, “Chandonne will always feel like Marino’s case. Cops like him care what happens. And Rocky’s representing Chandonne puts me in an unfortunate position. If the case were in Richmond, I would go marching up to the judge ex parte and point out the very obvious conflict of interest. Probably get thrown out of his chambers and reprimanded. But at the very least, I might be able to get the His or Her Honor to request a co-counselor on the defendant’s legal team so son doesn’t actually cross-examine father.”

  I push a button and more steel doors open.

  “But I would create a storm of protest,” she goes on. “And maybe the court would rule in my favor, or if nothing else, I’d use the situation to get sympathy from the jury, show what bad guys Chandonne and his counsel are.”

  “No matter how your case unfolds in New York, Marino won’t be a fact witness.” I see where she is going with this. “Not in the Susan Pless murder. So you aren’t going to have any luck getting rid of Rocky.”

  “Exactly right. No conflict. Nothing I can do about it. And Rocky’s poison.”

  Our conversation continues into the bay, where we stand in the cold by our cars. The starkness of the bare concrete around us seems a symbol of the realities I now face. Life has turned hard and unforgiving. There is no view, no way out. I can’t imagine how Marino will feel when he finds out that the very monster he has helped apprehend will be defended by Marino’s estranged son. “Clearly, Marino doesn’t know,” I say.

  “Maybe I’ve been remiss in not telling him yet,” she replies. “But he’s a big enough pain in the ass already. I thought I’d wait and drop this bomb tomorrow or the next day. You know he wasn’t happy about my interviewing Chandonne.” She adds this with a glint of triumph.

  “I could tell.”

  “I had a case with Rocky several years ago.” Berger unlocks her car door. She leans inside to start it and get the heat going. “A wealthy man on business in New York is accosted by a kid with a knife.” She straightens up and faces me. “The man struggles and manages to wrestle the kid to the ground, bangs the kid’s head on the pavement, knocking him out, but not before he stabs the man in the chest. The man dies. The kid is hospitalized for a while but recovers. Rocky tried to turn the case on self-defense but fortunately the jury didn’t buy it.”

  “I’m sure that made Mr. Caggiano a fan of yours for life.”

  “What I couldn’t prevent was him then representing the kid in a civil suit, asking ten million for alleged permanent emotional damage, yada, yada, yada. The murdered man’s family finally settled. Why? Because they just couldn’t take it anymore. There was a lot of shit happening behind the scenes—harassment, weird events. They were burglarized. One of their cars was stolen. Their Jack Russell puppy was poisoned. On and on, and all of it I’m convinced was orchestrated by Rocky Marino Caggiano. I just could never prove it.” She climbs up into her Mercedes sport utility vehicle. “His modus operandi is pretty simple. He gets away with anything he can and puts everybody on trial except the defendant. He is also a very poor loser.”

  I remember Marino telling me years ago he wished Rocky were dead. “Might that be part of his motivation then?” I ask. “Revenge. Not just getting the father, but getting you? And doing so very publicly.”

  “Might be,” Berger says to me from the high perch of her SUV. “Whatever his motive, I do want you to know I plan to protest anyway. Just can’t tell you how much good it will do since this re
ally doesn’t constitute an ethical violation. It’s up to the judge.” She reaches for her seat belt and pulls it across her chest. “How are you spending Christmas Eve, Kay?”

  So now I am Kay. I have to think for a minute. Christmas Eve is tomorrow. “I need to follow up on these cases, the ones with the burns,” I reply.

  She nods. “It’s important we go back to Chandonne’s crime scenes while they still exist.”

  Including my house, I think.

  “Might you find some time tomorrow afternoon?” she asks. “Any time you can give me. I’m working through the holidays. I don’t mean to ruin yours.”

  I have to smile at the irony. The holidays. Yes, Merry Christmas. Berger has given me a gift and doesn’t even know it. She has helped me make a decision, an important decision, maybe even the most important decision of my life. I am going to quit my job and the governor will be the first to know. “I’ll call you when I’m finished in James City County,” I tell Berger. “We can try for two o’clock.”

  “I’ll pick you up,” she says.

  CHAPTER 17

  IT IS ALMOST ten when I turn off 9th Street into Capitol Square, cruising past the up-lit statue of George Washington astride his horse, and winding around the south portico of the building Thomas Jefferson designed, where a thirty-foot lighted tree decorated with glass balls rises behind thick white columns. I recall that the governor’s party was a drop-in and not a dinner and am relieved at signs that his guests have left. I find not a single car in spaces designated for legislators and visitors.