Point of Origin

by Patricia Cornwell

  “And what about the body?” I asked. “Where would that have been during all this?”

  Lucy grabbed a legal pad off the top of a box and clicked open a pen. She drew the outline of a room with a tub and shower and, in the middle of the floor, a tall narrow fire that was impinging upon the ceiling.

  “If the fire was energetic enough to project flames to the ceiling, then we’re talking about a high radiant flux. The body was going to be severely damaged unless there was a barrier between it and the fire. Something that absorbed radiant heat and energy—the tub and shower door—which would have protected areas of the body. I also think the body was at least some small distance from the point of origin. We could be talking feet, maybe a yard or two.”

  “I don’t see any other way it could have happened,” I agreed. “Clearly something protected much of it.”

  “Right.”

  “How the hell do you set off a torch like that without some sort of accelerant?” Marino asked.

  “All we can hope is that something turns up in the labs,” my niece said. “You know, since the fuel load can’t account for the observed fire pattern, then something was added or modified, indicating arson.”

  “And you guys are working on a financial audit,” Marino said to her.

  “Naturally almost all of Sparkes’s records burned up in the fire. But his financial people and accountant have been pretty helpful, to give the guy credit. So far there’s no indication that money was a problem.”

  I was relieved to hear it. Everything I knew about this case so far argued against Kenneth Sparkes being anything but a victim. But this was not an opinion that was shared by most, I felt sure.

  “Lucy,” I said as she finished her gyro pita. “I think we’re all in agreement that the MO of this crime is distinctive.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Let’s just suppose,” I went on, “for the sake of argument, that something similar has happened before, somewhere else. That Warrenton is simply part of a pattern of fires used to disguise homicides that are being committed by the same individual.”

  “It’s certainly possible,” Lucy said. “Anything is.”

  “Can we do a search?” I then asked. “Is there any database that might connect similar MOs in fires?”

  She got up and threw food containers in a large trash bag in the kitchen.

  “You want to, we can,” she said. “With the Arson Incident System, or AXIS.”

  I was well acquainted with it and the new supersonic ATF wide area computer network called ESA, which was an acronym for Enterprise System Architecture, the result of ATF being mandated by Congress to create a national arson and explosive repository. Two hundred and twenty sites were hooked up to ESA, and any agent, no matter where he was, could access the central database, could pipe himself into AXIS with his laptop as long as he had a modem or a secure cellular line. This included my niece.

  She led us back to her tiny bedroom, which was now depressingly bare save for cobwebs in corners and dust balls on the scuffed hardwood floor. The box springs were empty, the mattress still made with wrinkled peach sheets and upended against a wall, and rolled up in a corner was the colorful silk rug that I had given her for her last birthday. Empty dresser drawers were stacked on the floor. Her office was a Panasonic laptop on top of a cardboard box. The portable computer was in a shark-gray steel and magnesium case that met military specifications for being ruggedized, meaning it was vapor-proof and dust-proof and everything-proof and supposedly could be dropped and run over by a Humvee.

  Lucy sat before it on the floor, Indian style, as if she were about to worship the great god of technology. She hit the enter key to turn the screen saver off, and ESA lit up rows of pixels at a time in electric blue, flashing a map of the United States on the next vivid screen. At a prompt, she typed in her user name and password, answered other secure prompts to work her way into the system, invisibly cruising through secret gateways on the Web, passing through one level at a time. When she had logged on to the case repository, she motioned for me to sit next to her.

  “I can get you a chair if you want,” she said.

  “No, this is fine.”

  The floor was hard and unkind to my lower lumbar spine. But I was a good sport. A prompt asked her to enter a word or words or phrases that she wished the system to search for throughout the database.

  “Don’t worry about the format,” Lucy said. “The text search engines can handle complete stream of consciousness. We can try everything from the size of the fire hose used to the materials the house was made of—all that fire safety info and stuff that’s in your set forms fire departments fill out. Or you can go with your own key queries.”

  “Let’s try death, homicide, suspected arson,” I said.

  “Female,” Marino added. “And wealth.”

  “Cut, incision, hemorrhage, fast, hot,” I continued thinking.

  “What about unidentified,” Lucy said as she typed.

  “Good,” I said. “And bathroom, I suppose.”

  “Hell, put horses in there,” Marino said.

  “Let’s go ahead and give it a shot,” Lucy proposed. “We can always try more words as we think of them.”

  She executed a search and then stretched her legs out and rolled her neck. I could hear Janet in the kitchen washing dishes, and in less than a minute, the computer came back with 11,873 records searched and 453 keywords found.

  “That’s since 1988,” Lucy let us know. “And it also includes any cases from overseas in which ATF was called in to assist.”

  “Can we print out the four hundred and fifty-three records?” I asked.

  “You know, the printer’s packed, Aunt Kay.” Lucy looked up apologetically at me.

  “Then how about downloading the records to my computer,” I said.

  She looked uncertain.

  “I guess that’s all right,” she said, “as long as you make sure . . . Oh, never mind.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m used to confidential information. I’ll make sure no one else gets hold of them.”

  I knew it was stupid when I said it. Lucy stared longingly into the computer screen.

  “This whole thing’s UNIX-based SQL.” She seemed to be talking to no one. “Makes me crazy.”

  “Well, if they had a brain in their head, they’d have you here doing their computer shit,” Marino said.

  “I haven’t made an issue of it,” Lucy replied. “I’m trying to pay my dues. I’ll ship those files to you, Aunt Kay.”

  She walked out of the room. We followed her into the kitchen, where Janet was rolling glasses in newspaper and carefully packing them into a Stor-All box.

  “Before I head out,” I said to my niece, “could we maybe go for a walk around the block or something? And just catch up?”

  She gave me a look that was something less than trustful.

  “What?” she said.

  “I may not see you again for a while,” I said.

  “We can sit out on the porch.”

  “That would be fine.”

  We chose white plastic chairs in the open air above the street, and I shut the sliders behind us and watched crowds come alive at night. Taxis were not stopping, and the fireplace in the window of The Flame danced behind glass while men drank in the dark with each other.

  “I just want to know how you are,” I said to her. “I don’t feel like you talk to me much.”

  “Ditto.”

  She stared out with a wry smile, her profile striking and strong.

  “I’m all right, Lucy. As all right as I ever am, I guess. Too much work. What else has changed?”

  “You always worry about me.”

  “I have since you were born.”

  “Why?”

  “Because somebody should.”

  “Did I tell you Mother’s getting a facelift?”

  Just the thought of my only sibling made my heart turn hard.

  “She had half her teeth crowned last year,
now this,” Lucy went on. “Her current boyfriend, Bo, has hung in there for almost a year and a half. How ’bout that? How many times can you screw before you need something else nipped and tucked?”

  “Lucy.”

  “Oh, don’t be self-righteous, Aunt Kay. You feel the same way about her that I do. How did I end up with such a piece of shit for a mother?”

  “This isn’t helping you in the least,” I quietly said. “Don’t hate her, Lucy.”

  “She hasn’t said one fucking word about my moving to Philadelphia. She never asks about Janet, or you, for that matter. I’m getting a beer. Do you want one?”

  “Help yourself.”

  I waited for her in the growing dark, watching the shapes of people flow by, some loud and holding on to each other, while others moved with purpose alone. I wanted to ask Lucy about what Janet had told me, but I was afraid to bring it up. Lucy should tell me on her own, I reminded myself, as my physician’s voice ordered that I should take control. Lucy popped open a bottle of Miller Lite as she returned to the balcony.

  “So let’s talk about Carrie just long enough for you to put your mind at ease,” Lucy matter-of-factly stated, taking a swallow. “I have a Browning High-Power, and my Sig from ATF, and a shotgun—twelve gauge, seven rounds. You name it, I can get it. But you know? I think my bare hands would be enough if she dared to come around. I’ve had enough, you know?”

  She lifted the bottle again. “Eventually you just make a decision and move on.”

  “What sort of decision?” I asked.

  She shrugged.

  “You decide you can’t give someone any more power than you already have. You can’t spend your days in fear of them or hating them,” she explained her mindset. “So you give it up, in a sense. You go about your business, knowing that if the monster ever steps into your path, she’d better be ready for life or death.”

  “I think that’s a pretty good attitude,” I said. “Maybe the only attitude. I’m just not sure you really feel that way, but I hope so.”

  She stared up at an irregular moon, and I thought she was blinking back tears, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “The truth is, Aunt Kay, I could do all their computer stuff with one arm. You know?”

  “You could probably do all the Pentagon’s computer stuff with one arm,” I gently said as my heart hurt more.

  “I just don’t want to push it.”

  I did not know how to answer her.

  “I pissed off enough people because I can fly a helicopter and . . . Well, you know.”

  “I know all the things you can do, and that the list will probably only grow longer, Lucy. It’s very lonely being you.”

  “Have you ever felt like that?” she whispered.

  “Only all my life,” I whispered back. “And now you know why I’ve always loved you the way I do. Maybe I get it.”

  She looked over at me. She reached out and sweetly touched my wrist.

  “You’d better go,” she said. “I don’t want you driving when you’re tired.”

  10

  IT WAS ALMOST midnight when I slowed at the guard booth in my neighborhood, and the security officer on duty stepped out to stop me. This was highly unusual, and I feared he would tell me that my burglar alarm had been going half the night or yet one more oddball had tried to drive through to see if I was at home. Marino had been dozing for the past hour and a half, and he came to as I rolled down my window.

  “Good evening,” I said to the guard. “How are you doing, Tom?”

  “I’m fine, Dr. Scarpetta,” he said, leaning close to my car. “But you’ve had a few unusual events within the past hour or so, and I figured something wasn’t right when I kept trying to reach you and you weren’t home.”

  “What sort of events?” I asked as I began to imagine any number of threatening things.

  “Two pizza delivery guys showed up at almost the same time. Then three taxis came to take you to the airport, one right after the other. And someone tried to deliver a construction Dumpster to your yard. When I couldn’t get hold of you, I turned every one of them around. They all said you had called them.”

  “Well, I certainly did not,” I said with feeling as my bewilderment grew. “All this since when?”

  “Well, I guess the truck with the Dumpster was here maybe around five this afternoon. Everything else since then.”

  Tom was an old man who probably wouldn’t have had a clue as to how to defend the neighborhood should true danger ever come around the bend. But he was courteous and considered himself a true officer of the law and in his mind was probably armed and experienced in combat. He was especially protective of me.

  “Did you get the names of any of these guys who showed up?” Marino loudly asked from the passenger seat.

  “Domino’s and Pizza Hut.”

  Tom’s animated face was shadowed beneath the brim of his baseball cap.

  “And the cabs were Colonial, Metro, and Yellow Cab. The construction company was Frick. Now I took the liberty to make a few calls. Every one of ’em had orders in your name, Dr. Scarpetta, including the times you called. I got it written down.”

  Tom could not hide how pleased he was when he slipped a square of notepaper from a back pocket and handed it to me. His role had been more than the usual this night, and he was almost intoxicated by it. I turned on the interior light and Marino and I scanned the list. The taxi and pizza orders had been placed between ten-ten and eleven, while the Dumpster order had been placed earlier in the afternoon with instructions for a late afternoon delivery.

  “I know at least Domino’s said it was a woman who called. I talked to the dispatcher myself. A young kid. According to him, you called and said to just bring a large thick crust pizza supreme to the gate and you’d get it from there. I got his name written down, too,” Tom reported with great pride. “So none of this came from you, Dr. Scarpetta?” He wanted to make sure.

  “No sir,” I answered. “And if anything else shows up tonight, I want you to call me right away.”

  “Yo, call me, too,” said Marino, and he jotted his home number on a business card. “I don’t give a shit what time it is.”

  I handed Marino’s card out my window and Tom looked carefully at it, even though Marino had passed through these gates more times than I could guess.

  “You got it, Captain,” Tom said with a deep nod. “Yes sir, anybody else shows up, I’m on the horn, and I can hold ’em till you get here, if you want me to.”

  “Don’t do that,” Marino said. “Some kid with a pizza’s not going to know a damn thing. And if it’s real trouble, I don’t want you tangling with whoever it is.”

  I knew right then that he was thinking about Carrie.

  “I’m pretty spry. But you got it, Captain.”

  “You did a great job, Tom,” I complimented him. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  He pointed his remote control and raised the arm to let us through.

  “I’m listening,” I said to Marino.

  “Some asshole harassing you,” he said, his face grim in the intermittent bath of street lamps. “Trying to upset you, scare you, piss you off. And doing a pretty damn good job, I might add.”

  “You don’t think Carrie . . .” I went ahead and started to say.

  “I don’t know,” Marino cut me off. “But it wouldn’t surprise me. Your neighborhood’s been in the news enough times.”

  “I guess what would be good to know is if the orders were placed locally,” I said.

  “Christ,” he said as I turned into my driveway and parked behind his car. “I sure as hell hope not. Unless it’s someone else who’s jerking you around.”

  “Take a number and stand in line.”

  I cut the engine.

  “I can sleep on your couch if you want me to,” Marino said as he opened his door.

  “Of course not,” I said. “I’ll be fine. As long as no construction Dumpsters show up.
That would be the last straw with my neighbors.”

  “I don’t know why you live here, anyway.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  He got out a cigarette and clearly did not want to go anywhere.

  “Right. The guard booth. Shit, talk about a placebo.”

  “If you don’t feel okay to drive, I’d be pleased to have you stay on my couch,” I said.

  “Who, me?”

  He fired his lighter and puffed smoke out the open car door.

  “It ain’t me I’m worried about, Doc.”

  I got out of my car and stood on the driveway, waiting for him. His shape was big and tired in the dark, and I suddenly was overwhelmed by sad affection for him. Marino was alone and probably felt like hell. He couldn’t have memories worth much, between violence on the job and bad relationships the rest of the time. I supposed I was the only constant in his life, and although I was usually polite, I wasn’t always warm. It simply wasn’t possible.

  “Come on,” I said. “I’ll fix you a toddy and you can crash here. You’re right. Maybe I don’t want to be alone and have five more pizza deliveries and cabs show up.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” he said with feigned cool professionalism.

  I unlocked my front door and turned off the alarm, and very shortly Marino was on the wrap-around couch in my great room, with a Booker’s bourbon on the rocks. I made his nest with sweet-smelling sheets and a baby-soft cotton blanket, and for a while we sat in the dark talking.

  “You ever think we might lose in the end?” he sleepily muttered.

  “Lose?” I asked.

  “You know, good guys always win. How realistic is that? Not so for other people, like that lady that burned up in Sparkes’s house. Good guys don’t always win. Uh uh, Doc. No fucking way.”

  He halfway sat up like a sick man, and took a swallow of bourbon and struggled for breath.

  “Carrie thinks she’s gonna win, too, in case that thought’s never entered your mind,” he added. “She’s had five fucking years at Kirby to think that.”