Body of Evidence ks-2

by Patricia Cornwell

  "You want my opinion?"

  Marino said, cleaning his gun as well. "What you need at home's a shotgun."

  I said nothing as I returned the Ruger to its carrying case.

  "You know, something like an autoloading Remington, three-inch magnum double-aught buck. Be like hitting the fool with fifteen thirty-two-caliber bullets-three times that you hit him with all three rounds. We're talking forty-five friggin' pieces of lead. He ain't gonna come back for more."

  "Marino," I said quietly. "I'm fine, all right? I really don't need an arsenal."

  He looked up to me, his eyes hard. "You got any idea what it's like to shoot a guy and he keeps on coming?"

  "No, I don't," I said.

  "Well, I do. Back in New York I emptied my gun on this animal who's freaked out on PCP. Hit the bastard four times in the upper body and it didn't even slow him down. It was like something out of Stephen King, the guy coming at me like the friggin' living dead."

  I found some tissues in the pockets of my lab coat and began wiping gun oil and solvent off my hands.

  "The squirrel who was chasing Beryl through her house, Doc, he was like that, like that lunatic I'm telling you about. Whatever his gig is, he ain't gonna slow down once he's in gear."

  "The man in New York," I ventured, "did he die?"

  "Oh, yeah, hi the ER. We both rode to the hospital in the back of the same ambulance. That was a trip."

  "You were badly hurt?"

  Marino's face was unreadable as he replied, "Naw. Seventy-eight stitches. Flesh wounds. You've never seen me with my shirt off. The guy had a knife."

  "How awful," I muttered.

  "I don't like knives, Doc."

  "I don't either," I agreed.

  We headed out. I felt grimy with gun oil and gunshot residue. Shooting is much dirtier than most people might imagine.

  Marino was reaching back for his wallet as we walked. Next he was handing me a small white card.

  "I didn't fill out an application," I said, staring, rather dazed, at the license authorizing me to carry a concealed weapon.

  "Yeah, well, Judge Reinhard owed me a favor."

  "Thank you, Marino," I said.

  He smiled as he held open the door for me.

  Despite the directives of Wesley and Marino and my own good sense, I stayed inside my building until it was dark out, the parking lot empty. I had given up on my desk, and a glance at my calendar had about done me in.

  Rose had been systematically reorganizing my life. Appointments had been pushed weeks ahead or canceled, and lectures and demonstration autopsies had been rerouted to Fielding. The health commissioner, my immediate boss, had tried to reach me three times, finally inquiring if I were ill.

  Fielding was becoming quite adept at filling in for me. Rose was typing his autopsy protocols and micro-dictations. She was doing his work instead of mine. The sun continued to rise and set, and the office was running without a hitch because I had selected and trained my staff very well. I wondered how God had felt after He created a world that thought it did not need Him.

  I did not go home right away, but drove to Chamberlayne Farms. The same outdated notices were still taped to the elevator walls. I rode up with an emaciated little woman who never took her lonely eyes off me as she clutched her walker like a bird clinging to its branch.

  I had not told Mrs. McTigue I was coming. When the door to 378 finally opened after several loud knocks, she peered quizzically out from her lair of crowded furniture and loud television noise.

  "Mrs. McTigue?" I introduced myself again, not at all sure she would remember me.

  The door opened wider as her face lit up. "Yes. Why, of course! How grand of you to stop by. Won't you please come in?"

  She was dressed in a pink quilted housecoat and matching slippers, and when I followed her into the living room Burned off the television set and removed a lap robe from the couch, where she evidently had been sitting as she snacked on nutbread and juice and watched the evening news.

  "Please forgive me," I said. "I've interrupted your dinner."

  "Oh, no. I was just nibbling. May I offer you some refreshment?" she was quick to say.

  I politely declined, seating myself while she moved about, tidying up. My heart was tugged by memories of my own grandmother, whose humor was unflagging even as she watched her flesh fall to ruin around her ears. I would never forget her visit to Miami the summer before she died when I took her shopping, and her improvised "diaper" of men's briefs and Kotex pads sprung a safety pin and ended up around her knees in the middle of Wool-worth's. She held herself together as we hurried off to find a ladies' room, both of us laughing so hard I nearly lost control of my bladder, too.

  "They say we may get snow tonight," Mrs. McTigue commented when she seated herself.

  "It's very damp out," I replied abstractedly. "And it certainly feels cold enough to snow."

  "I don't believe they're predicting any accumulation, though."

  "I don't like driving in the snow." I said, my mind working on weighty, unpleasant things.

  "Perhaps we'll have a white Christmas this year. Wouldn't that be special?"

  "It would be special." I was looking in vain for any evidence of a typewriter in the apartment.

  "I can't remember the last time we had a white Christmas."

  Her nervous conversation tried to overcome her uneasiness. She knew I had come to see her for a reason and sensed it wasn't good news.

  "Are you quite sure I can't get you something? A glass of port?"

  "No, thank you," I said.

  Silence.

  "Mrs. McTigue," I ventured. Her eyes were as vulnerable and uncertain as a child's. "I wonder if I might see that photograph again? The one you showed me last time I was here."

  She blinked several times, her smile thin and pale like a scar.

  "The one of Beryl Madison," I added.

  "Why, certainly," she said, slowly getting up, an air of resignation about her as she went to the secretary to fetch it. Fear, or maybe it was merely confusion, registered on her face when she handed me the photograph and I also asked to see the envelope and sheet of creamy folded paper.

  I knew instantly by the feel of it that the paper was twenty-pound weight, and when I tilted it toward the lamp I saw the Crane's watermark, translucent in the high-quality rag. I briefly glanced at the photograph, and by now Mrs. McTigue looked thoroughly bewildered.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I know you must be wondering what on earth I'm doing."

  She was at a loss for words.

  "I'm curious. The photograph looks much older than the stationery."

  "It is," she replied, her frightened eyes not leaving me. "I found the photograph among Joe's papers and tucked it in the envelope for safekeeping."

  "This is your stationery?"

  I asked as benignly as possible.

  "Oh, no."

  She reached for her juice and carefully sipped. "It was my husband's, but I did pick it out for him. A very nice engraved stationery for his business, you see. After he passed on, I kept only the blank second sheets and envelopes. I have more than I'll ever use."

  There was no way to ask her without being direct.

  "Mrs. McTigue, did your husband have a typewriter?"

  "Why, yes. I gave it to my daughter. She lives in Falls Church. I always write my letters out in longhand. Not so many anymore, because of my arthritis."

  "What kind of typewriter?"

  "Dear me. I don't recall except that it's electric and fairly new," she stammered. "Joe would trade it in on a new one every few years. You know, even when these computers came out, he insisted on handling his correspondence the way he always had. Burt-that was his office manager-urged foe for years to start using the computer, but Joe always had to have his typewriter."

  "At home or in his office?" I asked.

  "Why, both. He often stayed up late working on things in his office at home."

  "Did he correspond with the Harpers,
Mrs. McTigue?"

  She had slipped a tissue out of a pocket of her robe and was twisting it in her fingers.

  "I'm sorry to ask you so many questions," I persisted gently.

  She stared down at her gnarled, thin-skinned hands and said nothing.

  "Please," I said quietly. "It's important or I wouldn't ask."

  "It's about her, isn't it?"

  The tissue was shredding and she wouldn't look up.

  "Sterling Harper."

  "Yes."

  "Please tell me, Mrs. McTigue."

  "She was very lovely. And so gracious. A very fine lady," Mrs. McTigue said.

  "Did your husband correspond with Miss Harper?"

  I asked.

  "I'm quite sure he did."

  "What makes you think that?"

  "I came in on him once or twice when he was writing a letter. He always said it was business."

  I said nothing.

  "Yes. My Joe."

  She smiled, her eyes dead. "Such a ladies' man. You know, he always kissed a lady's hand and made her feel the queen."

  "Did Miss Harper write to him as well?" I asked hesitantly, for I did not enjoy irritating an old wound.

  "Not that I'm aware."

  "He wrote her but she never returned his letters?"

  "Joe was a man of letters. He always said he would write a book someday. He was always reading something, don't you know."

  "I can see why he would enjoy Gary Harper so much," I commented.

  "Quite often when Mr. Harper was frustrated, he would call. I suppose writer's block is the term. He would call Joe and they would talk about the most interesting things. Literature and whatnot."

  The tissue was little bits of twisted paper in her lap. "Joe's favorite was Faulkner, if you can imagine. He was also quite fond of Hemingway and Dostoyevski. When we were courting, I lived in Arlington and he was here. He would write me the most beautiful letters you can imagine."

  Letters like the ones he began to write his love in later life, I thought. Letters like the ones he began to write the gorgeous, unmarried Sterling Harper. Letters she was kind enough to burn before she committed suicide, because she did not wish to shatter the heart and memories of his widow.

  "You found them, then," she barely said.

  "Found letters to her?"

  "Yes. His letters."

  "No."

  It was, perhaps, the most merciful half truth I had ever told. "No, I can't say that we found anything like that, Mrs. McTigue. The police found no correspondence from your husband among the Harpers' personal effects, no stationery with your husband's letterhead, nothing of an intimate nature addressed to Sterling Harper."

  Her face relaxed as denial was blessedly reinforced.

  "Did you ever spend any time with the Harpers? Socially, for example?" I asked.

  "Why, yes. Twice that I remember. Once Mr. Harper came for a dinner party. And on one other occasion the Harpers and Beryl Madison were overnight guests."

  This piqued my interest. "When were they your overnight guests?"

  "Mere months before Joe passed on. I 'spect that would have been the first of the year, just a month or two after Beryl spoke to our group. In fact, I'm sure it was because the Christmas tree was still up. I remember that. It was such a treat to have her."

  "To have Beryl?"

  "Oh, yes! I was so pleased. It seems the three of them had been in New York on business. They were seeing Beryl's agent, I believe. They flew into Richmond on their way home and were generous enough to stay the night with us. Or at least the Harpers stayed the night. Beryl lived here, you see. Late in the evening Joe gave her a ride back to her home. Then he took the Harpers back to Williamsburg the following morning."

  "What do you remember about that night?" I asked.

  "Let me see… I remember I fixed leg of lamb and they were late coming in from the airport because the airline lost Mr. Harper's bags."

  Almost a year ago, I considered. This would have been before Beryl had begun receiving the threats-based on the information we had gotten.

  "They were rather tired from the trip," Mrs. McTigue continued. "But Joe was so good. He was the most charming host you'd ever want to meet."

  Could Mrs. McTigue tell? Did she know by the way her husband looked at Miss Harper that he was in love with her?

  I remembered the distant look in Mark's eyes during those final days so long ago when we were together. When I knew. It was instinct. I knew he was not thinking about me, and yet I would not believe he was in love with someone else until he finally told me.

  "Kay, I'm sorry," he said as we drank Irish coffee for the last time in our favorite bar in Georgetown while tiny flakes of snow spiraled down from gray skies and beautiful couples walked by bundled in winter coats and brightly knitted scarves. "You know I love you, Kay."

  "But not the same way I love you," I said, my heart gripped by the worst pain I ever remember feeling.

  He looked down at the table. "I never intended to hurt you."

  "Of course you didn't."

  "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  I knew he was. He really and truly was. And it didn't change a goddamn thing.

  I never knew her name because I did not want to know it, and she was not the woman he said he had later married. Janet, who had died. But then, maybe that was a lie, too.

  "… he had quite a temper."

  "Who did?" I asked, my eyes focusing on Mrs. McTigue again.

  "Mr. Harper," she replied, and she was beginning to look very tired. "He was so irritable about his luggage. Fortunately, it came in on the very next flight." She paused. "Goodness. That seems so long ago, and it really wasn't that long ago a'tall."

  "What about Beryl?" I asked. "What do you remember about her that night?"

  "All of them gone, now."

  Her hands went still in her lap as she faced that dark, empty mirror. Everyone was dead but her, the guests from that cherished and frightful dinner party, ghosts.

  "We are talking about them, Mrs. McTigue. They are still with us."

  "I 'spect that's so," she said, her eyes bright with tears. "We need their help and they need ours."

  She nodded. "Tell me about that night," I said again. "About Beryl."

  "She was very quiet. I remember her watching the fire."

  "What else?"

  "Something happened."

  "What? What happened, Mrs. McTigue?"

  "She and Mr. Harper seemed to be unhappy with each other," she said.

  "Why? Did they have an argument?"

  "It was after the boy delivered the luggage. Mr. Harper opened one of the bags and pulled out an envelope that had papers in it. I don't really know. But he was drinking too much."

  "Then what happened?"

  "He exchanged some rather harsh words with his sister and Beryl. Then he took the papers and just flung them into the fire. He said, That's what I think of that! Trash, trash!' Or words to that effect."

  "Do you know what it was he burned? A contract, perhaps?"

  "I don't think so," she replied, staring off. "I remember getting the impression it was something Beryl had written. They looked like typed pages, and his anger seemed directed at her."

  The autobiography she was writing, I thought. Or perhaps it was an outline that Miss Harper, Beryl, and Sparacino had discussed in New York with an increasingly enraged and out-of-control Gary Harper.

  "Joe intervened," she said, lacing her misshapen fingers together, holding in her pain.

  "What did he do?"

  "He drove her home," she said. "He drove Beryl Madison home."

  She stopped, staring at me in abject fear. "It's why it happened. I know it."

  "It's why what happened?" I asked.

  "It's why they're dead," she said. "I know it. I had this feeling at the time. It was such a frightful feeling."

  "Describe it to me. Can you describe it?"

  "It's why they're dead," she repeated. '"There was so much hate in the roo
m that night."

  13

  Valhalla Hospital was situated on a rise in the genteel world of Albemarle County, where my faculty ties with the University of Virginia brought me periodically throughout the year. Though I had often noticed the formidable brick edifice rising from a distant foothill visible from the Interstate, I had never visited the hospital for either personal or professional reasons.

  Once a grand hotel frequented by the wealthy and well-known, it went bankrupt during the depression and was bought by three brothers who were psychiatrists. They systematically set about to turn Valhalla into a Freudian factory, a rich man's psychiatric resort where families with means could tuck away their genetic inconveniences and embarrassments, their senile elders and poorly programmed kids.

  It didn't really surprise me that Al Hunt had been farmed out here as a teenager. What did surprise me was that his psychiatrist seemed so reluctant to discuss him. Beneath Dr. Warner Masterson's professional cordiality was a bedrock of secrecy hard enough to break the drill bits of the most tenacious inquisitors. I knew he did not want to talk to me. He knew he had no choice.

  Parking in the gravel lot designated for visitors, I went into a lobby of Victorian furnishings, Oriental rugs, and heavy draperies with ornate cornices well along their way to being threadbare. I was about to announce myself to the receptionist when I heard someone behind me speak.

  "Dr. Scarpetta?"

  I turned to face a tall, slender black man dressed in a European-cut navy suit. His hair was a sandy sprinkle, his cheekbones and forehead aristocratically high.

  "I'm Warner Masterson," he said, and smiling broadly, he offered his hand.

  I was about to wonder if I had forgotten him from some former encounter when he explained that he recognized me from pictures he had seen in the papers and on the television news, reminders I could do without.

  "We'll go back to my office," he added pleasantly. "I trust your drive up wasn't too tiring? May I offer you something? Coffee? A soda?"

  All this as he continued to walk, and I did my best to keep up with his long strides. A significant portion of the human race has no idea what it is like to be attached to short legs, and I am forever finding myself indignantly pumping along like a handcar in a world of express trains. Dr. Masterson was at the other end of a long, carpeted corridor when he finally had the presence of mind to look around. Pausing at a doorway, he waited until I caught up with him, then ushered me inside. I helped myself to a chair while he took his position behind his desk and automatically began tamping tobacco into an expensive briar pipe.