Predator

by Patricia Cornwell

  “He wasn’t at the scene. What the hell does he know?”

  “Not half as much as he thinks. He’s in here all the time, drives me insane. I hope Dr. Scarpetta doesn’t intend to hire him after he finishes his fellowship. She does, I might just go to work at Wal-Mart. Here.”

  He offers Marino the pistol.

  “No thanks. The only thing I feel like shooting right now is him.”

  “What do you mean, something’s missing.”

  “We’ve got a shotgun missing from the reference collection, Vince.”

  “Not possible,” he says, shaking his head.

  They climb down from the platform, and Vince sets the pistol on top of an evidence table that is covered with other tagged firearms, boxes of ammunition, an array of targets with test powder patterns to determine distance and a shattered window of tempered automobile glass.

  “Mossberg 835 Ulti-Mag pump,” Marino says. “Used in a robbery-homicide down here two years ago. The case was exceptionally cleared when the guy behind the counter blew the suspect away.”

  “Weird you would mention that,” he says, perplexed. “Dr. Amos called me not five minutes ago and asked if he could come down and check something on the computer.”

  Vince moves to a counter arranged with comparison microscopes, a digital trigger-pull gauge and a computer. He taps the keyboard with his index finger, brings up a menu and selects reference collection. He enters the shotgun in question.

  “I said no, as a matter of fact he couldn’t. I was doing some test-fires and he couldn’t come in. I asked what he wanted to check and he said never mind.”

  “I don’t know how he could be onto this,” Marino says. “How could he know about this? A buddy of mine at the Hollywood PD knows, he’d never say a word. Only other people I’ve told are the Doc and now you.”

  “Camo stock, twenty-four-inch barrel, tritium ghost ring sights,” Vince reads. “You’re right. Used in a homicide. Suspect dead. A donation from Hollywood police, March of last year.” He glances up at Marino. “As I recall, it was one of ten or twelve firearms they were clearing out of their inventory, their usual generous selves. Providing we give them free training and consultation, beer and door prizes. Let’s see.” He scrolls down the screen. “According to this, it’s only been checked out twice since we got it. Once by me last April eighth—on the remote-firing platform to make sure there was nothing wrong with it.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Marino says, reading over his shoulder.

  “And Dr. Amos checked it out the second time this last June twenty-eighth at three fifteen in the afternoon.”

  “What for?”

  “Maybe test-firing it in ordnance gelatin. Last summer was when Dr. Scarpetta started giving him cooking lessons. He’s in and out of here so much, unfortunately, it’s hard for me to remember. Says here he used it June twenty-eighth and returned it to the collection that same day, at five fifteen. And if I look up that date on the computer, there’s the entry. What that means is I did get it out of the vault and put it back.”

  “Then how come it’s out on the street and killing people?”

  “Unless this record is somehow wrong,” Vince considers, frowning.

  “Maybe that’s why he wanted to check the computer. Son of a bitch. Who maintains the log? You or the user? Anybody touch this computer besides you?”

  “Electronically, I do. You make your request in writing in the book over there”—Vince indicates a spiral ledger book by the phone—“then you sign it out and sign it back in, all in your own handwriting and initialed. After the fact, I enter the information in the computer to verify that you used the gun and it was returned to the vault. Guess you’ve never played with guns up here.”

  “I’m not a firearms examiner. I let you do that. Damn son of a bitch.”

  “In the request, you write in what type of firearm you want and when you’d like to reserve the range or the water tank. I can show you.”

  He retrieves the ledger and opens it to the last page filled in.

  “Here’s Dr. Amos again,” he says. “Ordnance gelatin test-fires with a Taurus PT-145 two weeks ago. At least this time he bothered to log it. He was in here the other day and didn’t.”

  “How did he get into the vault?”

  “He brought his own pistol. He collects guns, is a real yahoo.”

  “Can you tell when the entry for the Mossberg was entered into the computer?” Marino asks. “You know, like when you look at a file and can see the time and date when it was saved last? What I’m wondering is if there’s some way Joe might have altered the computer after the fact, entered the shotgun to make it look like you gave it to him and then returned it to the vault.”

  “It’s just a word-processing file called Log. So I’m going to close it now without saving it, take a look at the last time stamp.” He looks hard at it, shocked. “Says here it was last saved twenty-three minutes ago. I can’t believe it!”

  “This thing not password-protected?”

  “Of course it is. I’m the only person who can get into it. Except, of course, Lucy. So I wonder why Dr. Amos called and said he wanted to come down and check the computer. If he somehow altered the computer log, why bother to call me?”

  “That’s an easy one. If you opened the file for him and you saved it when you closed it, then that would explain the new date and time.”

  “Then he’s pretty damn smart.”

  “We’ll see how smart he is.”

  “This is very upsetting. If he did that, he’s got my password.”

  “Is it written down anywhere?”

  “No. I’m very careful.”

  “Who besides you has access to the vault combination? I’m going to get him this time. One way or other.”

  “Lucy. She can get into anything. Come on. Let’s look.”

  The vault is a fireproof room with a steel door that requires a code to unlock it. Inside are file drawers housing thousands of known bullet and cartridge case specimens, and in racks and hanging on pegboards are hundreds of rifles, shotguns and handguns, all tagged with accession numbers.

  “Quite a candy store,” Marino says, looking around.

  “You’ve never been in here?”

  “I’m not a gun freak. I’ve had some bad experiences with them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like having to use them.”

  Vince scans racks of shoulder firearms, picks up each shotgun and checks the tag. He does it twice. He and Marino move from rack to rack, checking for the Mossberg. It isn’t inside the vault.

  Scarpetta points out the livor mortis pattern, a reddish-purple discoloration caused by noncirculating blood settling due to gravity. Pale areas or blanching of the dead woman’s right cheek, breasts, belly, thighs and the inside of her forearms were caused by those areas of her body pressing against some firm surface, perhaps a floor.

  “She was facedown for some time,” Scarpetta is saying. “Hours at least, her head turned to the left, which is why there’s blanching of the right cheek—it would have been against the floor or whatever flat surface she was on.”

  She pulls up another photograph on the computer screen, this one showing the dead woman facedown on the autopsy table after she was washed, her body and hair wet, the red handprints bright and intact, obviously waterproof. She goes back to a photograph she just looked at, back and forth through a number of them, trying to piece together the artifacts of this woman’s death.

  “So, after he killed her,” Benton says, “maybe he turned her facedown to paint the handprints on her back, worked on her for hours. Her blood settled and lividity began to form, and that’s why we have this pattern.”

  “I have another scenario in mind,” Scarpetta says. “He painted her face-up first, then turned her over and worked on her back, and this was the position he left her in. Certainly he didn’t do all this outside in the cold dark. Someplace where there was no risk anyone would hear the shotgun blast or see him trying to ge
t the body into a vehicle. In fact, maybe he did all this in the vehicle he transported her in, a van, an SUV, a truck. Shot her, painted her, transported her.”

  “One-stop shopping.”

  “Well, that would have reduced the risk, wouldn’t it. Abduct her, drive her to a remote area, and kill her inside the vehicle—as long as it’s a vehicle with sufficient room in back—then dump the body,” she says, clicking through more photographs, stopping on one she’s already looked at.

  She sees it differently this time, the photograph of the woman’s brain, what’s left of it, on a cutting board. The tough, fibrous membrane that lines the inside of the cranium, the dura mater, is supposed to be creamy white. In this photograph, it is stained a yellowish-orange, and she envisions the two sisters, Ev and Kristin, with their hiking sticks, squinting in the sun, the photograph on the dresser in their bedroom. She recalls the somewhat jaundiced complexion of one of them and clicks back to the autopsy report, checks on what it says about the dead woman’s sclera, the whites of her eyes. They’re normal.

  She recalls the raw vegetables, the nineteen bags of carrots in the refrigerator at Ev and Kristin’s house, and thinks of the white linen pants the dead woman was wearing like a diaper, clothing consistent with a warm climate.

  Benton is looking curiously at her.

  “Xanthochromia of the skin,” Scarpetta says. “A yellow discoloration that doesn’t affect the sclera. Possibly caused by carotenemia. We may know who she is.”

  55

  Dr. Bronson is in his office, moving a slide around on the stage of his compound microscope. Marino knocks on the open door.

  Dr. Bronson is smart and competent, always neat in a starchy white lab coat. He’s been a decent chief. But he can’t dislodge himself from the past. The way things were done is how he still does them, and that would include how he evaluates other people. Marino doubts Dr. Bronson bothers with background checks or any other sort of intense scrutiny that should be standard practice in today’s world.

  He knocks again, this time louder, and Dr. Bronson looks up from the microscope.

  “Do come in,” he says, smiling. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  He is a man of the old world, polite and charming, with a perfectly bald head and vague, gray eyes. A briar-wood pipe is cold in the ashtray on his neatly arranged desk, and the faint aroma of aromatic tobacco always lingers.

  “Least down here in the sunny south they still let you smoke indoors,” Marino says, pulling a chair close.

  “Well, I shouldn’t,” Dr. Bronson says. “My wife keeps telling me I’m going to get cancer of the throat or tongue. I tell her if I do, at least I won’t complain much on my way out.”

  Marino remembers he didn’t shut the door. He gets up, shuts it and sits back down.

  “If they cut my tongue or vocal cords out, then I guess I won’t be griping much,” Dr. Bronson says as if Marino didn’t get the joke.

  “I need a couple of things,” Marino says. “First, we’d like to run a sample of Johnny Swift’s DNA. Dr. Scarpetta says there should be several DNA cards in his case file.”

  “She ought to take my place, you know. I wouldn’t mind if she was the one who took my place,” he says, and the way he says it makes Marino realize that Dr. Bronson probably knows all too well what people think.

  Everyone wants him to retire. They wanted him to retire years ago.

  “I built this place, you know,” he goes on. “Can’t just let any Tom, Dick or Harry come in and muck up everything. Not fair to the public. Certainly not fair to my staff.” He picks up the phone and presses a button. “Polly? How about pulling the Johnny Swift case for me and bringing it in. We’ll need all the appropriate paperwork.” He listens, then, “Because we need to receipt a DNA card to Pete. They’re going to do something with it over at the labs.”

  He hangs up, takes off his glasses and cleans them with a handkerchief.

  “So, am I to assume there’s some new development?” he asks.

  “It’s beginning to look that way,” Marino replies. “When it’s a certainty, you’ll be the first to know. But put it like this, some things have come up that make it pretty damn likely Johnny Swift was murdered.”

  “Happy to change the manner if you can show that. Never was all that comfortable about the case. But I have to go with the evidence and there just hasn’t been anything significant in the investigation to make me sure about anything. Mostly, I’ve suspected suicide.”

  “Except for the shotgun missing from the scene,” Marino can’t help but remind him.

  “You know, a lot of strange things happen, Pete. Can’t tell you how many times I show up and find the family’s completely mucked up the scene to protect the dignity of their loved one. Especially in autoerotic asphyxiations. I get there and there’s not a pornographic magazine or bondage accouterment in sight. Same with suicides. Families don’t want anyone to know or want to collect the insurance money, so they hide the gun or knife. They do all kinds of things.”

  “We need to talk about Joe Amos,” Marino says.

  “A disappointment,” he says, his normally pleasant expression fading. “Truth is, I’m sorry I recommended him for your fine institution. I’m especially sorry because Kay deserves a heck of a lot better than the likes of that arrogant little bastard.”

  “That’s what I’m getting at. Based on what? You recommended him because of what?”

  “His impressive education and references. He has quite a pedigree.”

  “Where’s his file? You still have it? The original?”

  “I sure do. I kept the original. A copy went to Kay.”

  “When you went over this fancy education and references, did you check them out to make sure they were authentic?” Marino hates to ask him. “People can fake a lot of things these days. Especially because of computer graphics, the Internet, you name it. That’s one reason identity theft’s becoming such a problem.”

  Dr. Bronson rolls his chair to a filing cabinet and opens a drawer. He walks his fingers through neatly labeled files and pulls out one with Joe Amos’s name on it. He hands it to Marino.

  “Help yourself,” he says.

  “Mind if I sit here for a minute?”

  “I don’t know what’s taking Polly so long,” Dr. Bronson says, rolling his chair back to the microscope. “You take all the time you want, Pete. I’ll just get back to my slides. A sad one. Poor woman found in the swimming pool.” He adjusts the focus, his head bent over the eyepiece. “Her ten-year-old little girl found her. Question’s whether she drowned or had some other fatal event like a myocardial infarct. She was bulimic.”

  Marino looks through letters that medical-school department heads and other pathologists wrote on Joe Amos’s behalf. He skims through a résumé that is five pages long.

  “Dr. Bronson? Did you ever call any of these people?” Marino asks.

  “About what.” He doesn’t look up. “No old scarring of her heart. Course, if she had an infarct and survived for hours, I’m not going to see anything. I asked if she might have purged earlier. That can really muck up your electrolytes.”

  “About Joe,” Marino says. “To make sure these big-shot doctors really know him.”

  “Of course they know him. They wrote me all those letters.”

  Marino holds a letter up to the light. He notices a watermark that looks like a crown with a sword through it. He holds up each of the other letters. They all have the same watermark. The letterheads are convincing, but since they aren’t engraved or embossed, they could have been scanned or reproduced with some sort of graphic software package. He picks a letter supposedly generated by the chief of pathology at Johns Hopkins and tries the number. A receptionist answers.

  “He’s out of town,” she tells him.

  “I’m calling about Dr. Joe Amos,” Marino says.

  “Who?”

  He explains. He asks her if she could check her files.

  “He wrote a letter on Joe Amos�
��s behalf a little over a year ago, on December seventh,” Marino tells her. “Says here on the bottom of the letter the person who typed it has the initials LFC.”

  “There’s nobody here with those initials. And I would have been the one who typed anything like that, and those certainly aren’t my initials. What is this about?”

  “Just a simple case of fraud,” Marino says.

  56

  Lucy rides one of her souped-up V-Rods north on A1A, hitting every red light on her way to Fred Quincy’s house.

  He runs his Web design business out of his Hollywood home. He isn’t expecting her, but she knows he’s in, or at least he was when she called half an hour ago to sell him a subscription to The Miami Herald. He was polite, far more polite than Lucy would be if some solicitor dared to get her on the phone. His address is two blocks west of the beach, and he must have money. His home is two stories of pale-green stucco and black wrought iron, and the driveway is gated. Lucy stops her bike at an intercom and presses the button.

  “May I help you?” a male voice answers.

  “Police,” Lucy says.

  “I didn’t call the police.”

  “I’m here to talk to you about your mother and sister.”

  “What police department?” The voice sounds suspicious.

  “Broward sheriff’s.”

  She slips out her wallet and holds up her bogus credentials, holds the wallet and its badge in front of the closed-circuit video camera. A tone sounds, and the wrought-iron gate begins to slide open. She kicks her bike in gear and bumps over granite pavers, parking in front of a big black door that opens the instant she turns off the engine.

  “That’s quite a bike,” the man she assumes is Fred says.

  He is of average height with narrow shoulders and a slender build. His hair is dark blond, his eyes bluish-gray. He is quite handsome in a delicate sort of way.

  “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a Harley quite like this,” he says, walking around her bike.

  “You ride?” she asks.

  “Nope. I leave the dangerous stuff to other people.”