The Bone Bed ks-20

by Patricia Cornwell

  “And where did you get the training to examine dead bodies and also the occasional living one? Where did you go to school? Let’s start with college.”

  “I went to Cornell University, and after graduation attended Johns Hopkins Medical School, then I attended Georgetown Law and after that returned to Hopkins to complete my residency in pathology. This was followed by a year’s forensic pathology fellowship at the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office in Miami, Florida.”

  It goes on. It is endless. For the better part of half an hour, Jill Donoghue interrogates me about every nuance of my education and training. Tedious questions about my time spent with the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology are followed by what I did while stationed at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., in the late eighties, before I was appointed chief medical examiner of Virginia and moved to Richmond. Then she digs into my more active involvement with the Department of Defense after 9-11, which ultimately led to my spending six months at Dover Air Force Base, where I learned computer tomography, or CT scans, to assist in autopsies.

  Dan Steward doesn’t stir until she brings up Benton in a confrontational way, wanting to know if it’s true we met when I was the new chief medical examiner of Virginia and he was the chief of what then was called the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI Academy in Quantico. She asks if it’s true that I was divorced at the time while he was married with three children.

  “I object,” Steward finally says.

  I can’t help myself. I turn to look. He’s on his feet, his chair shoved back from the prosecution’s table, directly to the right of the lectern, where I see Donoghue leaning quite comfortably, quite casually, quite confidently.

  “Details about Dr. Scarpetta’s personal life are beyond the scope of what qualifies her as an expert medical examiner,” says Dan Steward, perhaps one of the most pathetic attorneys I’ve ever worked with, I decide.

  “Your Honor,” Donoghue addresses Judge Conry. “I respectfully offer that if it can be shown to the court that a witness has engaged in criminal or immoral or deceitful behavior, it absolutely is within the scope of what qualifies him or her to testify to alleged facts that could result in a defendant going to prison.”

  “Overruled. Ms. Donoghue, you may proceed.”

  It’s now I know for a fact that this god who is judge has decided to consign me to his personal hell.

  They’re having an affair, or want to.

  I refrain from looking in his direction.

  “Isn’t it true, Dr. Scarpetta, that you started an intimate relationship with Benton Wesley while he was still married to someone else?” Jill Donoghue asks, and I have no choice but to answer.

  I am alone.

  I look at the faces of the men and women on the jury and say, “If by intimate you mean we fell in love with each other. Yes, we did. We’ve been together the better part of twenty years now, and are married.”

  The woman juror in dark red nods, and Donoghue says, “So it would be fair to say that truth is whatever you decide it is.”

  “It would not be fair to say that.”

  “It would be fair to say that if someone is married, so what.”

  “That’s your opinion, not mine,” I reply, because Steward isn’t going to do a damn thing.

  “It would be fair to say you don’t honor the law but do as you please.”

  “It most assuredly would not be fair to say that,” I reply.

  “But Benton Wesley was married.”

  “He was.”

  “And you took him from his wife and three daughters.”

  “He divorced his wife. I did not take him from her or anyone.”

  “Dr. Scarpetta? Would it be accurate to say that truth is what you decide it is?” She tries again.

  “It would not be accurate to say that,” I repeat.

  “Was it accurate when you stated in an e-mail to Dan Steward that Channing Lott’s wife has turned into a bar of soap?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “I’m sorry. Then what did you say?”

  “On which occasion?”

  “Well, let me produce the e-mail,” she replies.

  It appears on the flat screens around the room, the e-mail addresses in it blacked out, redacted, and she asks me if I recognize what I’m seeing, and I do, and then she reads it out loud:

  Dan—

  To answer your question in general and by no means specifically about Mildred Lott. If a body were dumped in the ocean near Gloucester in March and remained submerged in cold water for months, hydrolysis and hydrogenation of the fatty cells that compose subcutaneous fat tissues would result in the formation of bacterial-resistant adipocere, a postmortem artifact that basically turns a body into soap.

  “Do you remember e-mailing that to Dan Steward, Dr. Scarpetta?”

  “I don’t remember those exact words.”

  “What do you remember, then?”

  “I remember telling Mr. Steward that if a body remains submerged in cold water for a period of weeks or months, the result would be a process of decomposition known as saponification.”

  “Turning into soap,” she emphasizes.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Not in a manner of speaking, Dr. Scarpetta. That’s what you said in this e-mail, correct?”

  “I believe I said ‘basically turns into soap.’”

  “Just to clarify, can a dead human body literally turn into soap under any circumstances?” she asks.

  “Hydrolysis of fats and oils in the human body can indeed yield a crude soap. Also known as grave wax because of the way it looks.”

  “And the formation of this soap, or grave wax or adipocere, doesn’t happen overnight, correct?” she asks.

  “That’s correct. It can take weeks or months, depending on the temperature and other conditions.”

  “Which leads me to what’s been all over the news today.” Of course she was going to get to that. “The body you recovered from the water almost in view of where we are sitting? Indeed, if you walk outside this courtroom and look through those huge windows you can almost see where you were on the Coast Guard boat but a few hours ago, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do you know the identity of this dead woman whose body you pulled out of the water several hours ago?”

  “At this time I don’t,” I answer, and of course Dan Steward is letting her get away with it.

  “Do you know how old she is?”

  “No.”

  “Can you estimate?”

  “I haven’t examined her yet.”

  “But you’ve obviously seen the body,” Donoghue continues. “You must have an opinion.”

  “I haven’t formed any opinions yet.”

  “The body is that of an adult female, correct?” She keeps going because Steward isn’t stopping her.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Older than sixteen? Older than eighteen?”

  “It’s safe to say the body is that of a mature adult female,” I reply.

  “Possibly in her fifties?”

  “I don’t know her age at this time.”

  “I repeat the word possible. Is it possible she’s in her late forties, in her fifties.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “With long white or platinum-blond hair.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Dr. Scarpetta, are you aware that Mildred Lott is fifty and has long, very platinum-blond hair?”

  Speaking of her in the present tense, as if she’s not dead. If she’s not dead, then her husband couldn’t have had anything to do with murdering her.

  “I’m vaguely aware of her age and that her hair has been described as platinum blond,” I reply.

  “With the court’s permission, at this time I’d like to play footage from Fox News that shows Dr. Scarpetta pulling this body out of the Massachusetts Bay earlier today.”

  If jurors even consider the body is Mildred Lo
tt, they won’t believe she could have been murdered more than six months ago.

  “I’d like to access this Fox News footage on the Internet and play it on the flat screens in the courtroom so everybody can see what I’m talking about.”

  Dan Steward’s case is cooked.

  “Your Honor, I object,” Steward says.

  I glance back at him, and he is on his feet again and looks more bewildered than angry.

  “On what grounds, Mr. Steward?” The judge’s face is stony, and he sounds annoyed.

  “On the grounds that playing such news footage is irrelevant and immaterial.”

  “Your Honor, quite to the contrary,” Donoghue argues. “The footage absolutely is relevant.”

  “I’m also very much bothered by the fact that a segment of Fox News, or any televised news, is edited,” Steward says to the judge. “And not edited by police but by a television network or show.”

  “And you know for a fact what Ms. Donoghue wants to show the court was edited?” the judge asks.

  “My assumption is it would have to have been edited, Your Honor. News programs aren’t in the habit of showing raw uncut footage. I’m asking that you prohibit this videotaped footage and any such footage during this trial.”

  Could you be any weaker? I think, with frustration.

  “Generally, TV shows aren’t admissible.” The judge sounds bored. “What is your point, Ms. Donoghue?”

  “My point is very simple, Your Honor. The footage edited or otherwise shows very clearly the dead body of what appears to be an older woman who had been submerged in cold water and certainly didn’t, quote, turn into soap.”

  “Your Honor, this is ridiculous. This is a stunt,” Steward protests in his irritating voice.

  “May I continue, Your Honor?” Donoghue asks.

  “If you must.”

  “So either Dr. Scarpetta’s statement about what happens to a dead body after it’s been submerged in cold water is incorrect or the dead body she just recovered from the bay earlier today is some older woman who hasn’t been dead and submerged in the water for an extended period of time. Your Honor, let’s just be blunt. How do we know this dead body that’s just turned up isn’t Mildred Lott? And if it might be Mildred Lott, then my client certainly couldn’t have killed her, since he’s been in jail for the last five months, held without bond, because Mr. Steward unfairly convinced the court that Channing Lott is a flight risk because of his wealth.”

  “Your Honor, she’s turning this trial into a carnival!” Steward exclaims.

  “The video clip is less than half a minute long, Your Honor. I’m only interested in showing a close-up of the dead body as Dr. Scarpetta is swimming with it to the Coast Guard boat.”

  “I’m going to overrule your objection, Mr. Steward,” the judge says. “Let’s watch the video and try to move on so we’re not here until midnight.”

  nineteen

  IT’S CLOSE TO SIX P.M. WHEN WE REACH THE LONGFELLOW Bridge in pouring rain and solid traffic, returning to Cambridge after one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had in court.

  “I don’t care what anybody says, there’s something suspicious about why he let her get away with that,” Marino hammers the same point, making me crazy with his speculations and theories of plots and plans and possible conspiracies. “It’s one thing for the judge to be an ass because you pissed him off, and I warned you about being late.”

  I don’t want to hear another word about it.

  “As you’ve pointed out more than once? Since that Supreme Court ruling we’re going to be jerked around more than ever, hauled into court all the time for nothing. But you can’t just show up when you decide.”

  I’m in no mood to be lectured.

  “But irregardless”—he uses a non-word of his that drives me mad—“the assistant U.S. attorney’s supposed to be on your side.” He turns up the windshield wipers full tilt, his reading glasses on the tip of his nose, as if they somehow will help him see in a downpour.

  “I was a defense witness, not a prosecution witness,” I remind him.

  “And that’s suspicious, too. Why didn’t Steward subpoena you? He had to know you were a sitting duck because of that e-mail about Mildred Lott turning into soap, so he should have beaten Donoghue to the draw. Then you would have been his witness. He would have qualified you as an expert instead of her doing it, and you wouldn’t have been put through the mill with all these personal questions that sure as hell didn’t make you look good.”

  “No matter who ordered me to court, I was going to end up there, and Donoghue would have asked whatever she wanted.”

  “You’re her witness and on her side, and still she does that to you?” he persists, and I can’t stand it when he gets this way, defending me after it’s too late, when he couldn’t have changed anything to begin with.

  “It’s not about taking sides.” My patience is almost shot.

  “Oh, yeah, it is. Everything’s about taking sides.” Marino leans on the horn and yells, “Move, butt munch!” He honks again at the taxi in front of us, and the rude noise goes through my brain like a spike. “Like, whose side is Steward really on? You were the last defense witness, and he didn’t bother to cross-examine you, just let that damn news clip hang in the air?”

  “There really wasn’t anything to ask me. I don’t know the identity of the body we recovered from the bay, and that was made clear.”

  “Huh. Well, the way he handled you makes me wonder if maybe he’s secretly in league with Donoghue, maybe getting paid under the table or has a promise of it if Channing Lott gets off. How do you know his billions of dollars aren’t what’s tipping the scales of justice in this case? Jesus! The asshole’s tapping his brakes on purpose, wanting me to rear-end him! Move it, fuckwad!” Marino opens his window and gives the taxi driver the finger. “Yeah, go ahead and stop and come over here, see what I do to you, piece of dog shit!”

  “For God’s sake, can we do without the road rage?” I ask. “Let’s just get there in one piece, please.”

  We’re only halfway across the bridge, going ten miles an hour, the Boston skyline smudges of blurry light. Beacons on top of the Prudential Building are completely blotted out by heavy rain and dense low clouds that moil and churn.

  “Why the hell didn’t he object more?” Marino rolls up his window and wipes his rain-spattered hand on his pants. “The one who got away with murder is Jill Donoghue.”

  “Maybe he’s just a lousy lawyer.” The high-speed dull thudding of the wipers is almost unbearable. “I don’t guess you could turn those down?”

  “As long as you don’t care if I can’t see.”

  “Never mind.” I can’t remember what I ate today, and then I realize the answer is nothing.

  Cuban coffee and an empty stomach. No wonder my head hurts and I can barely think.

  “Steward didn’t try hard enough to get that Fox segment excluded, hardly tried at all.”

  I never got around to the granola and Greek yogurt that are still in my refrigerator.

  “You ask me, he threw you and the case under the bus, and did it on purpose.”

  “Let’s hope that wasn’t his intention,” I say, and what bothers me most isn’t that a television news segment was ruled admissible and shown to the jury but that the video was filmed at all.

  For several seconds the dead woman’s gaunt leathery face was clearly visible as I was pulling her into the pouch-lined Stokes basket, and while it’s possible she’s no longer visually identifiable because of her severely dehydrated condition, I can’t be sure of that. Someone who knew her well, perhaps family or close friends, might have realized who she is, and that’s a terrible way to find out about a death. It should never happen.

  “He’ll get acquitted,” Marino decides.

  The wipers swipe and beat the glass, the hard, chilly rain drumming the roof and flooding the windshield as if we’re inside a car wash, and Channing Lott might be acquitted, and maybe he should be. I have
no idea. But if jurors witnessed what I did barely an hour ago, they must have been given a different picture of the formidable industrialist who seemed genuinely caught off guard by the video he watched in open court. He struck me as tragic and terrified, sincerely grief-stricken, as he seemed to anticipate what he was about to see. Afterward he shut his eyes, almost collapsing in his chair with what appeared to be immense relief.

  If he realized the dead woman isn’t his missing wife, then he shouldn’t have felt he was just granted a reprieve, not if he’s to blame for whatever’s happened to her. Finding his wife’s body right now would be the best thing for his case. It doesn’t matter what I might testify as to how long she’s been dead.

  A jury would find such postmortem artifacts confusing, would be baffled by the idea of an intact body showing up in the Massachusetts Bay some six months after the person allegedly was a murder for hire. I also accept the distinct possibility that Channing Lott is a consummate sociopath, a poseur and manipulator who knew all eyes were on him during that pivotal moment when the news footage began to play. Maybe he intended to look sympathetic to whoever was watching, and he did.

  “He may very well be acquitted, and if the jury has reasonable doubt, then that’s the right verdict,” I reply, and what I’d like to do this very minute is go home.

  I want Advil, a long hot bath, and Scotch on the rocks, and I want to talk to Benton. I want to hear what he has to say about what just transpired in federal court. What are the rumors about Judge Joseph Conry that might help explain his anger toward me and unwillingness to sustain a single objection Dan Steward raised, few that there were? Then again, maybe I don’t want to know. It won’t change anything that’s happened.

  “Well, no way in hell the jury’s going to convict him.” Marino leans forward, squinting, trying to see through billowing sheets of water, the lights of oncoming traffic blinding. “All Donoghue had to do was introduce the suggestion that Mildred Lott’s body just turned up now or might turn up later or maybe she’s not even dead. Showing that news clip was something, a picture worth a thousand words, even though it’s probably not her.”

  “It’s not. Unless her medical records are fabricated and her height has shrunk.”