Depraved Heart

by Patricia Cornwell

  My compulsive talking chief of staff for whom so much ends in question marks is well known for his malapropisms. I have a diplomatic way of correcting him that he never notices. I simply repeat what he said and do a word substitution or two.

  “I appreciate your holding down the fort,” I say to him. “While you’re at it I’d like the CFC security recordings checked for anybody who might have been in our parking lot tampering with the truck or anything else.”

  “But how would they get over the fence or through the gate?”

  “Good question but where else would the tampering have been done? What day did you say the vehicles were washed and detailed?”

  “Let me think. Today’s Friday. So day before yesterday. Wednesday.”

  “I think we can safely conclude that the damage was done during or after the truck was washed. Otherwise a chrome mount barely attached by one screw would have been noticed. What did Anne receipt to Ernie? Did she find something important?”

  “I can’t wait to dash to his lab and ask.”

  I end the call and say to Marino, “We don’t get dust bunnies inside our trucks.” I climb out and it’s like walking into a waterfall. “You know better than anybody how meticulously we wash and decon them inside and out. It’s not possible for dust bunnies, dust balls, cobwebs or any such thing to form inside any of our vehicles.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he asks, and the taillight’s chrome mount, gasket, outer lens, foam seal and housing are all the way off but still connected to the pigtail harness.

  “Did you hear what I just told Bryce?”

  “I can’t hear a damn thing out here. I feel like I’m in a washing machine. This definitely has been messed with and for the obvious reason of planting something inside the truck. So the person had to have mechanical know-how and be familiar with trucks like this.”

  “Or specifically with this one.” It’s as if I’m standing under a shower.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. When you want a big transport vehicle that you use as a mobile office and command post it’s always going to be forty-four-ten.” He refers to the last four numbers of the truck’s license tag. “Assuming it’s available for deployment and in good repair with plenty of gas. Anyone who knows much about you knows that your first choice is forty-four-ten if you’re driving yourself to a complicated scene.”

  “And I specifically requested this truck this morning because I knew Chanel Gilbert would be an involved time-consuming case. Even if it was nothing more than a random accident we have a bloody scene with a lot of questions. We have a high-profile victim and a high-profile neighborhood in Cambridge. We have potential political complications.”

  “It was a safe bet that this was the vehicle to tamper with,” Marino says, and I step closer to him.

  I’m up to my bootlaces in a puddle as I examine the rectangular outline on the white metal chassis where the mount was attached. I look at the hole with the plastic-coated wires threaded through it, and he’s right. The arrow would have fit with room to spare.

  “If this is the point of entry and I believe it is,” I decide, “that’s important because it suggests that whoever is responsible …”

  “We know who.” Marino blurts it out. “Why not just act like we know it’s her. Who else would it be?”

  “I’m trying to be objective.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “What I was about to say is she didn’t necessarily access the inside of the truck. So she didn’t need a key.”

  “Exactly. What she did was remove the lens and the entire housing, exposing the hole in the cab and the grommet the wiring runs through,” he explains. “Now you have a breach, a way to get something inside the truck without opening it up. That made it a cinch when it was time to drop the arrow in. All she had to do was move the housing, swivel it to one side until the hole was exposed, drop the arrow in and straighten the mount again.” He demonstrates. “It would take all of three seconds.”

  “And this was done while we were parked on Lucy’s driveway.”

  “I’m thinking the taillight was sabotaged earlier, maybe when the truck was in the CFC parking lot. But I doubt the arrow was put in there at the same time or we would have heard it rolling around. We’ve been riding in this damn thing since we met at your office early this morning. We didn’t hear anything clanking until we were headed back here a few minutes ago.”

  “You want to package this now?” I ask.

  Marino says yes. There will be tool marks. We should have Ernie make comparisons of them with ones we found on other gifts from Carrie. Copper bullets. Cartridge cases. Pennies she polished in a tumbler and left in my yard on my birthday, June 12. The spears she shot the police divers and me with three days later. I climb back up on the tailgate, back into the truck. I put on clean gloves and Marino hands the taillight components to me. I tear off more sections of white butcher paper from the roll on a counter as I drip water on the floor.

  “You probably wouldn’t notice there’s only one screw left unless you thought to look.” He talks loudly as I begin wrapping. “But the mount would have come off soon enough if you hit a bad enough bump or pothole. Jesus!” He looks up at the swirling dark sky, at the blowing sheets of water spattering his face. “This is the kind of weather chickens drown in.”

  CHAPTER 32

  I SLAM SHUT THE DOUBLE DOORS AND RELOCK THEM. I look around the rain-swept property as I walk through the downpour to the cab of the truck.

  In the distance cars move slowly along Brattle Street. Their headlights burn through the fog. I watch for the tactical team. It will be here any minute. But everything seems like an endless wait as hard rain boils on brick. The wind shrieks and groans around the house and through the trees as if we’ve violated a spirit world, and Marino and I climb back into the truck’s cab. Both of us are so drenched it no longer matters and I’m not reassured because a backup is on the way. I don’t feel safe.

  I don’t care who or what is on the way—patrol units or SWAT. Nothing would give me peace of mind right now because we don’t seem to be in charge. We’re not the ones making choices. Even when we think something is our idea we discover maybe it’s not. We’re being outmaneuvered and outsmarted, and Marino is feeling the same way. Since I told him about the videos he’s accepted that when we got up this morning we didn’t know the day belonged to Carrie Grethen. But it does and she must be getting high on her diabolical drama.

  “How’s this for screwed up,” Marino says as we shut our doors and the downpour beats the metal roof. “We can’t go anywhere including inside the house. We can’t wait out on the driveway unless we want to drown or be a sitting duck. So we’re stuck inside your damn truck. We’ve been stuck inside your truck the whole damn day. I feel we’re going to be stuck inside it the rest of our lives.”

  “She must have placed the arrow inside before the storm hit. With the FBI right there?” I’m not interested in hearing him complain.

  I’m interested in how what I just suggested is possible. What did she do? Is she invisible? Is it what Lucy suggested and Carrie has new tricks she’s learned since she almost murdered me in Florida?

  “Exactly. With the friggin’ FBI right there.” Marino lights a cigarette, and I crank the engine so he can open his window a little. “But no one could do that on Lucy’s property without being picked up by the cameras.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true if one knew exactly where the cameras are and how much they cover. Or if the person has a way of hacking into the system and foiling it somehow. Or maybe there’s some other explanation.” I think of the metamaterial again.

  “Well I guess the way you parked might have partially blocked the view of the back of the truck because that asshole FBI agent’s SUV was in the way,” Marino says. “But we’ll have to ask Lucy and see if she can help us. Or Janet.”

  “Supposedly yesterday and today the motion sensors detected something but the cameras didn’t,” I inform him.
“Lucy says this was at around four o’clock both mornings.”

  “Maybe a squirrel, a rabbit, something low to the ground.” He flicks an ash out the top of the window.

  “That wouldn’t set off the motion sensors. Something was there but wasn’t. She says she can’t figure it out.”

  “I never believe it when Lucy says she can’t figure something out. Erin Loria should know if anything’s been picked up by the cameras.”

  “I’m sure she may know quite a lot.” I feel a rush of hostility and realize how much I resent and blame her.

  “You can bet she’s been watching the monitors and looking at the recordings,” he says as I turn on the defog and wipers to clear the glass. “Maybe she saw something that could help us.”

  “I’m not asking her a damn thing.” I wonder how much he remembers from Lucy’s FBI Academy days, and I prod him. “At one point she was a new agent in Lucy’s dorm,” I remind him. “Washington Dorm and they were on the same floor.”

  “When I saw her this morning she wasn’t familiar, and I’m also not sure why I would have run into her back then,” he says. “The only time I really came to Quantico was if we were working a case or I was meeting you. Why would I have known Erin Loria?”

  “You wouldn’t have necessarily. But based on what I saw in the videos she may have been romantically involved with Carrie.” I go on to say that Carrie and Lucy had one of their worst fights and may have broken up because of the former beauty queen from Tennessee who has just raided Lucy’s property and is now married to a federal judge.

  “Agents climbing all over the place and with a chopper up?” Marino is busy picking off dirt and bits of wet grass and leaves stuck to his bare wet lower legs. “And we were walking around too? And she puts a possible murder weapon inside your crime scene truck?” He’s not talking about Erin Loria anymore. He’s talking about Carrie. “What for? To help us out? To help us work some other scene we don’t even know about yet?”

  “Even if she figured that I might be driving this today? We have to ask what scene might she have known about in advance.” I shove the gearshift into reverse and check my mirrors. “And I’m voting for this one.”

  I back up and pull forward, maneuvering as far off the driveway as I can without running over shrubs or hitting trees. I suggest we should consider that she has planned and concocted everything we’re experiencing including the homicide scene we’re on right now. She knew I’d respond to it personally and which vehicle I’d choose.

  “I’m in town,” I continue to explain. “Anybody watching me would know that I’m not traveling. I’m here. I’m back to working cases like usual and that wouldn’t have been true even a couple of weeks ago.”

  “She’d know all that if she’s hacked into the CFC computer.”

  “Lucy says she hasn’t.”

  “I don’t care what Lucy says. That doesn’t mean it’s true. Not when you consider who we’re talking about.”

  “If the CFC database has been hacked and the hacker is Carrie?” I reply. “Then yes. She could know everything about where I am and when and why.”

  “Your calendar, everything is electronic.”

  “That’s right. But Lucy says the CFC database is safe.” I check the mirrors and am startled by the blacked-out Suburban with glass tinted as dark as Darth Vader.

  It seems the ominous SUV has appeared out of nowhere and is parked behind us with no lights or siren on. Its engine is drowned out by the storm and the diesel rumble of my truck.

  “I’m going to have to let them in the house and you need to stay put,” Marino says to me as the Suburban’s doors open simultaneously.

  He opens his door and holds the cigarette out in the rain to extinguish it. He drops the wet butt into the water bottle.

  “I’m not sitting in here by myself.” I open my door too. “I’m not staying out here alone while you’re inside.”

  “No wandering off anywhere,” Marino says.

  He climbs out to greet four SWAT operators in full tactical gear. Their binocular night vision goggles are flipped up from battlewear helmets. Slung across their chests are M-4 assault rifles fitted with green lasers that are visible only in the infrared spectral range of light.

  “Stick with me at all times,” Marino tosses back at me.

  The team leader nicknamed Ajax is young and massively built. He’s attractive in a scary way, square jawed with cool gray eyes and short dark hair. I recognize the roundish patch on his right cheek, a healed penetrating wound possibly from frag or a bullet. He hardly looks at me as he hands Marino a black trash bag that has something thick inside it. There are none of the usual quips, none of the typical teasing and banter.

  No one is smiling and the plan is simple. His team will clear the house making sure it’s safe while we hang back. This should take fifteen minutes depending on what they find, and we follow them to the entrance. We step over the single ribbon of yellow crime scene tape, and on the front porch Marino digs into a pocket for a key tagged as evidence. The security system begins to beep the instant he opens the door.

  “That’s good at least,” he comments as the foul odor welcomes us back. “It doesn’t appear someone entered the house since we were last here unless the person has the alarm code.”

  He shuts the front door behind us and it echoes solidly in a cool stillness punctuated by the tick tock of clocks. The four officers are nimble and light on their booted feet as they head down the central hallway and up the staircase, spreading out in pairs with weapons tucked in close and at the ready, leaving Marino and me alone. He sets down our scene cases. He opens the black plastic trash bag. He slides out folded tactical clothing that he stacks on the floor.

  WATER SLOWLY DRIPS. Puddles begin to form around my sopping wet boots as I hover near the shut door. When we were here this morning I didn’t hear the clocks.

  TICK TOCK TICK TOCK

  I scan the upright stepladder, the dark dried blood we mapped with orange evidence flags that flutter slightly in chilled air blowing through vents. I listen to the dull patter of rain on the slate roof. I’m keenly aware of the clocks.

  TICK TOCK TICK TOCK

  They’re loud and disconcerting. I scan the shards of glass from the lightbulbs and antique crystal fixture we’re supposed to believe Chanel Gilbert broke when she lost her balance and fell. That’s what we’re meant to accept. Or is it really? Are we supposed to be tricked? Are we supposed to figure out that we’re being tricked? Possibly the answer is both. It’s all of the above and nothing, and I look up at the silver base of the chandelier with its two empty light sockets. I’m reminded of the bulb missing from my truck’s taillight. I’m reminded of Carrie. It’s as if I’ve been infected by her. As if she’s taken over my life. And my pulse kicks up another notch. I listen to the clocks.

  TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK

  Glassy splinters glitter, and the spooky blue glow of the reagent I sprayed this morning has faded entirely. The area of white marble is blank again as if nothing is there. Marino turned on the air-conditioning before we left this morning, and I’m cold on the way to shivering in my soaking wet clothes. I begin to pace and almost don’t recognize myself in the Baroque mirror to the right of the front door. I look at the woman looking back at me in the corroded silvered glass in its chipped gilt frame of acanthus leaves.

  I stare at my reflection as if it’s someone I don’t know, my short blond hair dripping wet and plastered to my head making my strong features seem more pronounced and dominant than I imagine them. My eyes are a deeper blue, a bruised blue that hints of my dark intense mood, and I can see the tension in muscles of my forehead and around my firmly set mouth. My navy blue field clothes with their embroidered CFC crest are dripping wet and clinging to me. I look like a waif, like an apparition, and I move away from the mirror.

  My attention wanders past the staircase and into the living room, and I see what Marino meant when he was talking about Chanel Gilbert or someone having unusual
interests. On both sides of a deep stone fireplace are antique spinning wheels, three-legged with wooden seats, and I spot another one next to the couch. I notice the hourglasses and thick candles on the mantel and tables, and I count the clocks. At least six of them. Wall clocks, tall case clocks, shelf clocks. From where I stand near the door I can see that their pale moon faces and ornate hands all show the same time of 1:20.

  “Did you notice the clocks this morning?” I ask Marino as I listen for other sounds in the house.

  I don’t hear the tactical team. The men are so quiet it’s as if they aren’t here. All I detect is blowing air and the clocks.

  TICK TOCK TICK TOCK

  “Did you notice them?” I persist. “Because I didn’t and I would have.”

  “I don’t remember. But there was a lot going on.” Marino has stationed himself between the staircase and the door under it that leads down into the cellar.

  “I’m quite certain I would have noticed. I’m surprised you didn’t.”

  Marino’s answer is to look up at the ceiling, his head cocked as he listens, his right hand by his gun. I can tell he’s thinking what I am. Ajax and his team are quiet. They’re too quiet. If something has happened we’ll be next. I feel a certain resignation about it, a deeply stored feeling I don’t pull out and look at often. But it’s there. It’s familiar. It’s not an acutely sad or unpleasant feeling but more of an acquiescence, a tacit consent that I can hold fate in my hands like a skull and unflinchingly look it in the eye.

  You can’t destroy me if I don’t care.

  This day could be our last and if it’s in the cards then so be it. I’ll prevent any bad thing I can. That’s my life’s mission. I also know how to accept finality, to give myself up to what I can’t begin to change. I don’t want to die. But I refuse to fear it. I wait for it without dread because there’s no logic in living a tragedy before it’s happened.