The Body Farm

  “Mrs. Paulsson, we could tell if your daughter died of the flu,” Scarpetta says. “We could tell from her lungs.” She doesn’t want to go into graphic detail about how uniformly hard or consolidated and lumpy and inflamed Gilly’s lungs would have been had she died of acute bronchopneumonia. “Was your daughter on antibiotics?”

  “Oh yes. The first week she was.” She reaches for her coffee. “I really thought she was getting better. I just sort of thought she had a cold left, you know.”

  Marino pushes back his chair. “You mind if I let the two of you talk?” he asks. “I’d like to look around if that’s okay with you.”

  “I don’t know what there is to look at. But go ahead. You’re not the first one to come in here and want to look around. Her bedroom’s in the back.”

  “I’ll find it.” He walks off, his boots heavy on the old wooden floor.

  “Gilly was getting better,” Scarpetta says. “The examination of her lungs shows that.”

  “Well, she was still weak and puny.”

  “She didn’t die from the flu, Mrs. Paulsson,” Scarpetta tells her firmly. “It’s important you understand that. If she had died of the flu I wouldn’t need to be here. I’m trying to help and I need you to answer some questions for me.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

  “From Miami originally.”

  “Oh. And that’s where you still live, real near it anyway. I’ve always wanted to go to Miami. Especially when the weather’s like this, so gloomy and all.” She gets up to pour more coffee, and she moves with difficulty, her legs stiff as she walks across to the coffeemaker near the bottle of cough syrup. Scarpetta imagines Mrs. Paulsson restraining her daughter facedown on the bed and doesn’t rule it out as a possibility, but finds it an unlikely one. Mother doesn’t weigh much more than her daughter did, and whoever restrained Gilly was sufficiently heavy and strong to prevent her from struggling enough to suffer more injuries than she has. But Scarpetta doesn’t rule out that Mrs. Paulsson murdered Gilly. She can’t rule that out as much as she might like to.

  “I wish I could have taken Gilly to Miami or Los Angeles or someplace special,” Mrs. Paulsson is saying. “But I’m afraid to fly and I get carsick, so I never have gone much of anywhere. And now I wish I’d tried harder.”

  She slides out the coffeepot and it trembles in her small, slender hand. Scarpetta keeps looking at Mrs. Paulsson’s hands and wrists and any areas of exposed skin, checking for any evidence of old scratches or abrasions or other injuries, but two weeks have passed. She jots a note on her notepad to find out if Mrs. Paulsson might have had any injuries when the police responded to the scene and interviewed her.

  “I wish I had, because Gilly would have liked Miami, all those palm trees and pink flamingos,” Mrs. Paulsson says.

  At the table, she refills their cups, and coffee sloshes in the glass pot as she returns it to the drip coffeemaker, ramming it in a little too hard. “This summer she was going to travel with her father.” She sits down wearily in the straight-back oak chair. “Maybe just stay with him in Charleston, if nothing else. She’s never been to Charleston either.” She rests her elbows on the table. “Gilly’s never been to the beach, never seen the ocean except in pictures and now and then on TV, although I didn’t let her watch much TV. Can you blame me?”

  “Her father lives in Charleston?” Scarpetta asks, although she knows what she’s been told.

  “Moved back there last summer. He’s a doctor there, lives in a grand house right there on the water. He’s on the tour route, you know. People pay good money to walk in and look at his garden. Of course, he doesn’t do a thing to that garden, can’t be bothered with such things as that. He hires whoever he wants to help him with things he can’t be bothered with, like the funeral. He has lawyers screwing that all up, let me tell you. Just to get me, you know. ’Cause I want her here in Richmond and for that reason he wants her in Charleston.”

  “What kind of doctor is he?”

  “A little of everything, a general practitioner, and he’s a flight surgeon too. You know they have that big Air Force base in Charleston, and Frank has a line out his door every day, so he’s told me. Oh, he brags about it enough. All these pilots dropping by to get their flight physicals for seventy dollars each. So he does all right, Frank does,” she talks on, scarcely catching her breath between sentences and slightly rocking in her seat.

  “Mrs. Paulsson, tell me about Thursday, December fourth. Start with your getting up that morning.” Scarpetta can see where this will go if she doesn’t do something about it. Mrs. Paulsson will talk in convolutions forever, sidewinding her way around questions and details that really matter and obsessing about her estranged husband. “What time did you get up that morning?”

  “I’m always up at six. So I was up at six, don’t even need an alarm clock because I’ve got one built in.” She touches her head. “You know I was born at exactly six A.M. and that’s why I wake up at six A.M., I’m sure of that…”

  “And then what?” Scarpetta hates to interrupt, but if she doesn’t, this woman will talk in tangled digressions the rest of the day. “Did you get out of bed?”

  “Why, of course I got out of bed. I always do, come right here in the kitchen, fix my coffee. Then I go back to my bedroom and read the Bible for a while. If Gilly has school, I have her out the door by seven-fifteen with her little lunch packed and all the rest, and one of her friends gives her a ride. For that I’m lucky. She has a friend whose mother doesn’t mind driving every morning.”

  “Thursday, December fourth, two weeks ago,” Scarpetta steers her back where she needs her. “You got up at six, made coffee, and returned to your room to read your Bible? Then what?” she asks as Mrs. Paulsson nods affirmatively. “You sat in your bed and read the Bible? For how long?”

  “A good half hour.”

  “Did you check on Gilly?”

  “I prayed for her first, just let her sleep in while I prayed for her. Then around quarter of seven I went in, and she was lying in bed all wadded up in the covers, just sleeping to beat the band.” She starts crying. “I said, ‘Gilly? My little baby Gilly? Wake up and let’s get you some hot Cream of Wheat.’ And she opened those pretty blue eyes of hers and said, ‘Mama, I was coughing so much last night, my chest hurts.’ That’s when I realized we were out of cough syrup.” She stops suddenly, staring with wide runny eyes. “Funny thing about it is the dog was barking and barking. I don’t know why I never thought of that until now.”

  “What dog? Do you have a dog?” Scarpetta makes notes but doesn’t make a big production out of it. She knows how to look and listen and lightly jot a few words in a scrawl that few people can read.

  “That’s the other thing,” Mrs. Paulsson says, and her voice jumps and her lips tremble as she cries harder. “Sweetie ran off! Dear God in Heaven.” She cries harder and rocks harder in her seat. “Little Sweetie was out in the yard when I was in talking to Gilly, and then later she was gone. The police or ambulance didn’t shut the gate. As if it wasn’t bad enough. As if everything wasn’t bad enough.”

  Scarpetta slowly closes the leather notebook and sets it and the pen on the table. She looks at Mrs. Paulsson. “What kind of dog is Sweetie?”

  “She was Frank’s and he couldn’t be bothered. He walked out, you know, not even six months ago on my birthday. How’s that for a fine thing to do to another human being? And he said, ‘You keep Sweetie unless you want her to end up at the Humane Society.’”

  “What kind of dog is Sweetie?”

  “He never cared for that dog, and you know why? Because he doesn’t care about anybody but himself, that’s why. Now Gilly loves that dog, oh my, does she. If she knew…” Tears run down her cheeks and her tongue is small and pink as it rolls out and licks her lips. “If she knew, it would just break her little heart.”

  “Mrs. Paulsson, what kind of dog is Sweetie and have you reported her missing?”

  “Reported?
” She blinks, her eyes focusing for an instant and she almost laughs when she blurts out, “To who? To the police who let her out? Well, I don’t know that you’d call it reporting exactly, but I did tell one of them, I can’t say who, one of them, anyway. I said, My dog’s missing!”

  “When was the last time you saw Sweetie? And, Mrs. Paulsson, I know how upset you are, I really do. But if you could please try to answer my questions.”

  “What’s my dog got to do with you anyway? Seems like a missing dog isn’t any of your concern unless maybe it’s dead, and even then, I don’t think doctors the type you are do much about dead dogs.”

  “I’m concerned about everything. I want to hear everything you can tell me.”

  Just then, Marino is in the kitchen doorway. Scarpetta didn’t hear his heavy feet. She is startled that he can carry his formidable mass on those big-booted feet and she doesn’t hear a thing. “Marino,” she says, looking right at him. “You know anything about their dog? Their dog’s missing. Sweetie. She’s a…What kind is she?” She looks to Mrs. Paulsson for help.

  “A basset hound, just a baby,” she sobs.

  “Doc, I need you for a minute,” Marino says.

  16.

  LUCY LOOKS AROUND at the expensive weight machines and at the windows in the third-floor gym. Her neighbor Kate has all she needs to stay fit while she enjoys a spectacular view of the Intracoastal Waterway, the Coast Guard station and lighthouse, and the ocean beyond, and much of Lucy’s private property.

  The window in the gym’s southern exposure overlooks the back of Lucy’s house, and it is more than a little unnerving to realize that Kate can see just about everything that might go on inside Lucy’s kitchen, dining area, and living room, and also on the patio, in the pool, and along the seawall. Lucy looks down at the narrow path that runs along the low wall between the two houses, and it is this cedar-chip-covered passageway that she believes he, the beast, followed to get into the door off the pool, the door Henri left unlocked. Either that, or he arrived by boat. She doesn’t believe he did, but has to consider it. The ladder on the seawall is folded up and locked, but if someone was determined to dock at her wall and climb onto her property, certainly it was possible. The locked ladder is deterrent enough for normal people, but not for stalkers, burglars, rapists, or killers. For those people, there are guns.

  On a table next to the elliptical machine is a cordless phone that plugs into a jack in the wall. Next to the jack is a standard wall socket, and Lucy unzips her fanny pack and removes a transmitter that is disguised as a plug adapter. She plugs it into the wall socket. The small, innocuous piece of spy equipment is off-white, the same bland color as the wall socket, and not something Kate is likely to notice or care about if she does. Should she decide to plug something into the adapter, that is fine. It is functional when connected to AC power. She stands still for an instant, then walks back out of the gym, listening. Kate must still be in the kitchen or somewhere down on the first floor.

  In the south wing is the master bedroom, an enormous space with a huge canopied bed, and a massive flat-screen TV on the wall opposite the bed. The walls overlooking the water are glass. From this perch, Kate has a perfect view of the back of Lucy’s house and also into Lucy’s upstairs windows. This isn’t good, she thinks, as she looks around and notices an empty champagne bottle on the floor next to a bedside table where there is a dirty champagne flute, a phone, and a romance novel. Her rich, nosy neighbor can see far too much of what might go on at Lucy’s house, assuming the shades are open, and usually they’re not. Thank God, usually they’re not.

  She thinks about the morning Henri was almost murdered and tries to remember whether the shades were open or shut, and she spots the telephone jack beneath the bedside table and wonders if she has time to unscrew the plate and replace it. She listens for the elevator, for footsteps on the stairs, and hears not a sound. She gets down on the floor as she pulls a small screwdriver out of the fanny pack. The screws in the plate aren’t tight and there are only two of them, and she has them off in seconds as she listens for Kate. She replaces the generic beige wall plate with one that looks just like it but is a miniature transmitter that will allow her to monitor any telephone conversations that take place over this dedicated line. A few more seconds and she plugs the phone cord back in and is on her feet and walking out of the bedroom just as the elevator door opens and Kate appears holding two crystal champagne flutes filled almost to the top with a pale orange liquid.

  “This place is something,” Lucy says.

  “Your place must be something,” Kate says, handing her a glass.

  You should know, Lucy thinks. You spy on it enough.

  “You’ll have to give me a tour sometime,” Kate says.

  “Anytime. But I travel a lot.” The pungent smell of champagne assaults Lucy’s senses. She doesn’t drink anymore. She learned the hard way about drinking and no longer touches the stuff.

  Kate’s eyes are brighter and she is looser than she was not even fifteen minutes earlier. She has left the station and is halfway to drunk. While she was downstairs, she probably threw back several flutes of whatever she concocted, and Lucy suspects that while there may be champagne in the glass she holds, Kate probably has vodka in hers. The elixir in Kate’s glass is more diluted, and she is quite limber and lubricated.

  “I looked out your gym windows,” Lucy says, holding the flute while Kate sips. “You could have gotten a good look at anybody who might have come on my property.”

  “‘Could’ is the operative word, hon. The operative word.” She stretches her words the way people do when they’ve left the station and are happily on their way to drunk. “I don’t make it a habit to be snoopy. Have way too much else for that, can’t even keep up with my own life.”

  “Mind if I use your ladies’ room?” Lucy asks.

  “Help your little self. Right down there.” She points to the north wing, swaying a little on her widely planted feet.

  Lucy walks into a bathroom that includes a steam shower, a huge tub, his and her toilets and bidets, and a view. She pours half the drink down the toilet and flushes. She waits a few seconds and walks back out to the landing at the top of the stairs, where Kate stands, swaying slightly, sipping.

  “What’s your favorite champagne?” Lucy asks, thinking of the empty bottle by the bed.

  “Is there more than one, hon?” She laughs.

  “Yes, there are quite a few, depending on how much you want to spend.”

  “No kidding. Did I tell you about the time Jeff and I went crazy at the Ritz in Paris? No, of course I didn’t tell you. I don’t know you, really, now do I? But I feel we’re becoming friends fast,” she spits as she leans into Lucy and clutches her arm, then starts rubbing it as she spits some more. “We were…no, wait.” She takes another sip, rubbing Lucy’s arm, holding on to her. “It was the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, of course. You’ve been there?”

  “Drove my Enzo there once,” Lucy says untruthfully.

  “Now which one is that. The silver or the black one?”

  “The Enzo is red. It’s not here.” Lucy almost tells the truth. The Enzo isn’t here because she doesn’t own an Enzo.

  “Then you have been to Monte Carlo. To the Hôtel de Paris,” Kate says, rubbing Lucy’s arm. “Well, Jeff and I were in the casino.”

  Lucy nods, lifting her flute as if she might have a sip, but she won’t.

  “And I was just knocking around on the two Euro slot machines and got lucky, boy did I get lucky.” She drains her glass and rubs Lucy’s arm. “You are very strong, you know. So I said to Jeff, we should celebrate, honey, back then when I called him honey instead of asshole.” She laughs and glances at her empty crystal glass. “So we tottered back to our suite, the Winston Churchill Suite, I still remember. And guess what we ordered?”

  Lucy is trying to decide whether she should extricate herself now or wait until Kate does something worse than what she is already doing. Her cool, bony
fingers are digging into Lucy’s arm and she is pulling Lucy’s arm into her thin, pickled body. “Dom?” Lucy asks.

  “Oh honey. Not Dom Pérignon. Mais non! That’s soda pop, just a rich man’s soda pop, not that I don’t love it, mind you. But we were feeling very naughty and ordered the Cristal Rosé at five hundred and sixty-something euros. Of course, that was Hôtel de Paris prices. You’ve had it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Oh honey, you’d remember, trust me. Once you’ve had the rosé there’s nothing else. There’s only one champagne after that. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, we moved on from Cristal to the most divine Rouge du Château Margaux,” she says, pronouncing her French extremely well for one almost at her destination of drunk.

  “Would you like the rest of mine?” Lucy holds out her flute as Kate rubs and pulls on her. “Here, I’ll trade.” She exchanges her half-full glass for Kate’s empty one.

  17.

  HE REMEMBERS that time she came down to talk to his boss, meaning whatever she had on her mind was important enough for her to ride the freight elevator, and what a ghastly contraption that was.

  It was iron and rusty and the doors shut not from the sides like a normal elevator but from top and bottom, meeting in the middle like a closed jaw. Of course, there were stairs. Fire codes meant there were always stairs in state buildings, but no one took the stairs to the Anatomical Division, certainly not Edgar Allan Pogue. When he needed to go up and down between the morgue and where he worked below ground, he felt eaten alive like Jonah when he slammed shut those iron elevator doors with a yank of the long iron lever inside. Its floor was corrugated steel and covered with dust, the dust of human ashes and bones, and usually there was a gurney parked inside that claustrophobic old iron elevator because who cared what Pogue left in there?