Cause of Death

  "Should I go home?" I quietly asked.

  "Naw. I think she's in some kind of mood and is blowing things off. At least she's got no car to drive."

  I took a deep breath.

  "Point is, I think she's safe at the moment. But I thought you should know, Doc."

  "Thank you," I grimly said.

  I had hoped my niece's proclivity to abuse alcohol was a problem she had left behind, for I had seen no worrisome signs since those early self-destructive days when she had driven drunk and almost died. If nothing else, her odd behavior at the house this morning in addition to what Marino had just revealed made me know that something was very wrong. I wasn't certain what to do.

  "One other thing," he added as he got up. "You don't want her going back to the Academy like this."

  "No," I said. "Of course not."

  He left, and for a while I stayed behind shut doors, depressed, my thoughts like the sluggish river behind my house. I did not know if I was angry or frightened, but as I thought of the times I had offered wine to Lucy or gotten her a beer, I felt betrayed. Then I was almost desperate as I considered the magnitude of what she had accomplished, and what she had to lose, and suddenly other images came to me, too. I envisioned terrible scenes penned by a man who wanted to be a deity, and I knew that my niece with all her brilliance did not understand the darkness of that power. She did not understand malignancy the way I did.

  I put my coat and gloves on, because I knew where I should go. I was about to let the front office know I was leaving, when my phone rang, and I picked it up in the ent it might be Lucy. But it was the Chesapeake police

  chief, who told me his name was Steels and that he had just moved here from Chicago.

  "I'm sorry this is the way we have to meet," he said, and he sounded sincere. "But I need to talk to you about a detective of mine named Roche."

  "I need to talk to you about him, too," I said. "Maybe you can explain to me exactly what his problem is."

  "According to him, the problem's you," he said.

  "That's ridiculous," I said, unable to restrain my anger.

  "To cut to the chase, Chief Steels, your detective is inappropriate, unprofessional and an obstruction in this investigation. He is banned from my morgue."

  "You realize Internal Affairs is going to have to thoroughly investigate this," he said, "and I'm probably going to need you to come in at some point so we can talk to you., I

  "Exactly what is the accusation?"

  "Sexual harassment."

  "That's certainly popular these days," I ironically said.

  "However, I wasn't aware I had power over him, since he works for you, not me, and by definition, sexual harassment is about the abuse of power. But it's all moot since the roles are reversed in this case. Your detective is the one who made sexual advances toward me, and when they were not reciprocated, he's the one who became abusive."

  Steels said after a pause, "Then it sounds to me like it's your word against his."

  "No, what it sounds like is a lot of bullshit. And if he touches me one more time, I will get a warrant and have him arrested."

  He was silent.

  "Chief Steels," I went on, "I think what should be of glaring importance right now is a very frightening situation that is going on in your jurisdiction. Might we talk about Ted Eddings for a moment?"

  He cleared his throat. "Certainly."

  "You're familiar with the case?"

  "Absolutely. I've been thoroughly briefed and am very familiar with it."

  "Good. Then I'm sure you'll agree that we should investigate it to our fullest capacity."

  "Well, I think we should look hard at everybody who dies, but in the Eddings case the answer's pretty plain to me."

  I listened as I got only more furious.

  "You may or may not know that he was into Civil War stuff-had a collection, and all. Apparently, there were some battles not so far from where he went diving, and it may be he was looking for artifacts like cannonballs."

  I realized that Roche must have talked to Mrs. Eddings, or perhaps the chief had seen some of the newspaper articles Eddings supposedly had written about his underwater treasure hunts. I was no historian, but I knew enough to see the obvious problem with what was becoming a ridiculous theory.

  I said to Steels, "The biggest battle on or near water in your area was between the Merrimac and the Monitor. And that was miles away in Hampton Roads. I have never heard of any battles in or near the part of the Elizabeth River where the shipyard is located."

  "But Dr. Scarpetta, we really just don't know, do we?"

  he thoughtfully said. "Could be anything that was fired, any garbage dumped and anybody killed at any place back then. It's not like there were television cameras or millions of reporters all over. Just Mathew Brady, and by the way, I'm a big fan of history and have read a lot about the Civil War. I'm personally of the belief that this guy, Eddings.

  went down in that shipyard so he could comb the river bottom for relics. He inhaled noxious gases from his machine and died, and whatever he had in his hands-like a metal detector-got lost in the silt."

  "I am working this case as a possible homicide," I firmly said.

  "And I don't agree with you, based on what I've been told.

  "I expect the prosecutor will agree with me when I speak to her."

  The chief said nothing to that.

  "I should assume you don't intend to invite the Bureau's Criminal Investigative Analysis people into this," I added.

  "Since you have decided we're dealing with an accident."

  "At this point, I see no reason in the world to bother the FBI. And I've told them that."

  "Well, I see every reason," I answered, and it was all I COuld do not to hang up on him.

  "Damn, damn, damn!" I muttered as I angrily grabbed my belongings and marched out the door.

  Downstairs in the morgue office, I removed a set of keys from the wall, and I went outside to the parking lot and unlocked the driver's door of the dark-blue station wagon we sometimes used to transport bodies. It was not as obvious as a hearse, but it wasn't what one might expect to see in a neighbor's driveway, either. Oversized, it had tinted windows obscured with blinds similar to those used by funeral homes, and in lieu of seats in back, the floor was covered with plywood fitted with fasteners to keep stretchers from sliding during transport. My morgue supervisor had hung several air fresheners from the rearview mirror, and the scent of cedar was cloying.

  I opened my window part of the way and drove onto Main Street, grateful that by now roads were only wet, and rush hour traffic not too bad. Damp, cold air felt good on my face, and I knew what I must do. It had been a while since I had stopped at church on my way home, for I thought to do this only when I was in crisis, when life had pushed me as far as I could go. At Three Chopt Road and Grove Avenue, I turned into the parking lot of Saint Bridget's, which was built of brick and slate and no longer kept its doors unlocked at night, because of what the world had become. But Alcoholics Anonymous met at this hour, and I always knew when I could get in and not be bothered.

  Entering through a side door, I blessed myself with holy water as I walked into the sanctuary with its statues of saints guarding the cross, and crucifixion scenes in brilliant stained glass. I chose the last row of pews, and I wished for candles to light, but that ritual had stopped here with Vatican 11. Kneeling on the bench, I prayed for Ted Eddings and his mother. I prayed for Marino and Wesley. In my private, dark space, I prayed for my niece. Then I sat in silence with my eyes shut, and I felt my tension begin to ease.

  At almost six P.m., I was about to leave when I paused in the narthex and saw the lighted doorway of the library down a hall. I wasn't certain why I was guided in that direction, but it did occur to me that an evil book might be countered by one that was holy, and a few moments with the catechism might be what the priest would prescribe.

  When I walked in, I found an older woman inside, returning books to shelves.
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  "Dr. Scarpetta?" she asked, and she seemed both surprised and pleased.

  "Good evening." I was ashamed I did not remember her name.

  "I'm Mrs. Edwards."

  I remembered she was in charge of social services at the church, and trained converts in Catholicism, which some days I thought should include me since it was so rare I went to Mass. Small and slightly plump, she had never seen a convent but still inspired the same guilt in me that the good nuns had when I was young.

  "I don't often see you here at this hour," she said.

  "I just stopped by," I answered. "After work. I'm afraid I missed evening prayer."

  "That was on Sunday."

  "Of course."

  "Well, I'm so glad I happened to see you on my way out." Her eyes lingered on my face and I knew she sensed my need.

  I scanned bookcases.

  "Might I help you find something?" she asked.

  "A copy of the catechism," I said.

  She crossed the room and pulled one off a shelf, and handed it to me. It was a large volume and I wondered if I had made a good decision, for I was very tired right now and I doubted Lucy was in a condition to read.

  "Perhaps there is something I might help you with?"

  Her voice was kind.

  "Maybe if I could speak to the priest for a few moments, that would be good," I said.

  "Father O'Connor is making hospital visits." Her eyes continued searching. "Might I help you in some way?"

  "Maybe you can."

  "We can sit right here," she suggested.

  We pulled chairs out from a plain wooden table reminiscent of ones I had sat at in parochial school when I was a girl in Miami. I suddenly remembered the wonder of what had awaited me on the pages of those books, for learning was what I loved, and any mental escape from home had been a blessing. Mrs. Edwards and I faced each other like friends, but the words were hard to say because it was rare I talked this frankly.

  "I can't go into much detail because my difficulty relates to a case I am working," I began.

  "I understand." She nodded.

  "But suffice it to say that I have become exposed to a satanic-type bible. Not devil worship, per se, but something evil."

  She did not react but continued to look me in the eye.

  "And Lucy was, as well. My twenty-three-year-old niece. She also read this manuscript."

  "And you're having problems as a result?" Mrs. Edwards asked.

  I took a deep breath and felt foolish. "I know this sounds rather weird."

  "Of course it doesn't," she said. "We must never underestimate the power of evil, and we should avoid brushing up against it whenever we can."

  "I can't always avoid that," I said. "It is evil that usually brings my patients to my door. But rarely do I have to look at documents like the one I'm talking about now. I've been having disturbing dreams, and my niece is acting erratically and has spent a lot of time with the Book. Mostly.

  I'm worried about her. That's why I'm here."

  "But continue thou in the things which thou hast learned and hast been assured of,' " she quoted to me. "It's really that simple." She smiled.

  "I'm not certain I understand," I replied.

  "Dr. Scarpetta, there is no cure for what you've just shared with me. I can't lay hands on you and push the darkness and bad dreams away. Father O'Connor can't, either. We have no ritual or ceremony that works. We can pray for you, and of course, we will. But what you and Lucy must do right now is return to your own faith. You need to do whatever it is that has given you strength in the past."

  "That's why I came here today," I said again.

  "Good. Tell Lucy to return to the religious community and pray. She should come to church."

  That would be the day, I thought as I drove toward home, and my fears only intensified when I walked through my front door. It was not quite seven P.m. and Lucy was in bed.

  "Are you asleep?" I sat next to her in the dark and placed my hand on her back. "Lucy?"

  She did not answer and I was grateful that our cars had not arrived. I was afraid she might have tried to drive back to Charlottesville. I was so afraid she was about to repeat every terrible mistake she had ever made.

  "Lucy?" I said again.

  She slowly rolled over. "What?" she said.

  "I'm just checking on you," I said in a hushed tone. I saw her wipe her eyes and realized she was not asleep but crying. "What is it?" I said.

  "Nothing."

  "I know it's something. And it's time we talk. You've not been yourself and I want to help."

  She would not answer.

  "Lucy, I will sit right here until you talk to me."

  She was quiet some more, and I could see her eye lids move as she stared up at the ceiling. "Janet told them," she said. "She told her mom and dad. They argued with her, as if they know more about her feelings than she does.

  As if somehow she is wrong about herself."

  Her voice was getting angrier and she worked her way up to a half-sitting position, stuffing pillows behind her back.

  "They want her to go to counseling," she added.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not sure I know what to say except that the problem lies with them and not with the two of you."

  "I don't know what she's going to do. It's bad enough that we have to worry about the Bureau finding out."

  "You have to be strong and true to who you are."

  "Whoever that is. Some days I don't know." She got more upset. "I hate this. It's so hard. It's so unfair." She leaned her head against my shoulder. "Why couldn't I have been like you? Why couldn't it have been easy?"

  "I'm not sure you want to be like me," I said. "And my life certainly isn't easy, and almost nothing that matters is easy. You and Janet can work things out if you are committed to do so. And if you truly love each other."

  She took a deep breath and slowly blew out air.

  "No more destructive behavior." I got up from her bed in the shadows of her room. "Where's the Book?"

  "On the desk," she said.

  "In my office?"

  "Yes. I put it there."

  We looked at each other, and her eyes shone. She sniffed loudly and blew her nose.

  "Do you understand why it's not good to dwell on something like that?" I asked.

  "Look what you have to dwell on all the time. It goes with the turf."

  "No," I said, "what goes with the turf is knowing where to step and where not to stand. You must respect an enemy's power as much as you despise it. Otherwise, you will lose, Lucy. You had better learn this now."

  "I understand," she quietly said as she reached for the catechism I had set on the foot of the bed. "What is this, and do I have to read it all tonight?"

  "Something I picked up for you at church. I thought you might like to look at it."

  "Forget church," she said.

  "Why?"

  "Because it's forgotten me. It thinks people like me are aberrant, as if I should go to hell or jail for the way I am.

  That's what I'm talking about. You don't know what it's like to be isolated."

  "Lucy, I've been isolated most of my life. You don't even know what discrimination is until you're one of only three women in your medical school class. Or in law school, the men won't share their notes if you're sick and miss class. That's why I don't get sick. That's why I don't get drunk and hide in bed." I sounded hard because I knew I needed to be.

  "This is different," she said.

  "I think you want to believe it's different so you can make excuses and feel sorry for yourself," I said. "It seems to me that the person doing all of the forgetting and rejecting here is you. It's not the church. It's not society. It's not even Janet's parents, who simply may not understand.

  I thought you were stronger than this."

  "I am strong."

  "Well, I've had enough," I said. "Don't you come to my house and get drunk and pull the covers over your head so that I worry about you all day. And then
when I try to help, you push me and everyone else away."

  She was silent as she stared at me. Finally she said, "Did you really go to church because of me?"

  "I went because of me," I said. "But you were the main topic of conversation."

  She threw the covers off. . "A person's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy God forever,' " she said as she got up.