The Body Farm

  Marino looked baffled. “She doesn’t have a head. How can you say that?”

  “I can say it because there’s blood in her airway.”

  They got closer to see what I was talking about.

  “One way that could have happened,” I went on, “is if she had a basilar skull fracture and blood dripped down the back of her throat, and she aspirated it into her airway.”

  Wesley looked carefully at the body with the demeanor of one who has seen mutilation and death a million times. He stared at the space where the head should be, as if he could imagine it.

  “She has hemorrhage in muscle tissue.” I paused to let this sink in. “She was still alive when the dismemberment began.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Marino exclaimed in disgust as he lit a cigarette. “Don’t tell me that.”

  “I’m not saying she was conscious,” I added. “Most likely this was at or about the time of death. But she still had a blood pressure, feeble as it might have been. This was true around the neck, anyway. But not the arms and legs.”

  “Then he severed her head first,” Wesley said to me.

  “Yes.”

  He was scanning X rays on the walls.

  “This doesn’t fit with his victimology,” he said. “Not at all.”

  “Everything about this case doesn’t fit,” I replied. “Except that once again, a saw was used. I’ve also found some cuts on bone that are consistent with a knife.”

  “What else can you tell us about her?” Wesley said, and I could feel his eyes on me as I dropped another section of organ into the stock jar of formalin.

  “She has some sort of eruptions that might be shingles, and two scars of the right kidney that would indicate pyelonephritis, or kidney infection. Cervix is elongated and stellate, which could suggest she’s had children. Her myocardium, or heart muscle, is soft.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Toxins do that. Toxins produced by microorganisms.” I looked up at him. “As I’ve mentioned, she was sick.”

  Marino was walking around, looking at the torso from different angles. “Do you have any idea with what?”

  “Based on secretions in her lungs, I know she had bronchitis. At the moment, I don’t know what else, except her liver’s in pretty grim shape.”

  “From drinking,” Wesley said.

  “Yellowish, nodular. Yes,” I said. “And I would say that at one time she smoked.”

  “She’s skin and bones,” Marino said.

  “She wasn’t eating,” I said. “Her stomach is tubular, empty and clean.” I showed them.

  Wesley moved to a nearby desk and pulled out a chair. He stared off in thought as I yanked a cord down from an overhead reel and plugged in the Stryker saw. Marino, who liked this part of the procedure the least, stepped back from the table. No one spoke as I sawed off the ends of arms and legs, a bony dust drifting on the air, the electric whir louder than a dentist’s drill. I placed each section into a labeled carton, and said what I thought.

  “I don’t think we’re dealing with the same killer this time.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Marino said. “But we got two big things in common. A torso, and it was dumped in central Virginia.”

  “He’s had a varied victimology all along,” said Wesley, wearing his surgical mask loose around his neck. “One black, two whites, all female, and one black male. The five in Dublin were mixed, as well. But again, all were young.”

  “So would you now expect him to choose an old woman?” I asked him.

  “Frankly, I wouldn’t. But these people aren’t an exact science, Kay. This is somebody who does whatever the hell he feels like whenever he feels like it.”

  “The dismemberment isn’t the same, it’s not through the joints,” I reminded them. “And I think she was clothed or wrapped in something.”

  “This one may have bothered him more,” Wesley said, taking the mask off altogether and dropping it on top of the desk. “His urge to kill again may have been overwhelming, and she may have been easy.” He looked at the torso. “So he strikes, but his M.O. shifts because the victimology has suddenly shifted, and he doesn’t really like it. He leaves her at least partially dressed or covered because raping and killing an old woman aren’t what turn him on. And he cuts off her head first so he doesn’t have to look at her.”

  “You see any sign of rape?” Marino asked me.

  “You rarely do,” I said. “I’m about to finish up here. She’ll go in the freezer like the other ones in the hope we eventually get an identification. I’ve got muscle tissue and marrow for DNA, hoping that we’ll eventually have a missing person to compare it with.”

  I was discouraged, and it showed. Wesley collected his coat from the back of a door, leaving a small puddle on the floor.

  “I’d like to see the photograph sent to you over AOL,” he said to me.

  “That doesn’t fit the M.O., either, by the way,” I said as I began suturing the Y-incision. “I wasn’t sent anything in the earlier cases.”

  Marino was in a hurry, as if he had somewhere else to go. “I’m heading out to Sussex,” he said, walking to the door. “Gotta meet Lone Ranger Ring so he can give me lessons in how to investigate homicides.”

  He abruptly left, and I knew the real reason why. Despite his preaching to me about marriage, my relationship with Wesley secretly bothered Marino. A part of him would always be jealous.

  “Rose can show you the photograph,” I said to Wesley as I washed the body with hose and sponge. “She knows how to get into my e-mail.”

  Disappointment glinted in his eyes before he could mask it. I carried the cartons of bone ends to a distant counter where they would be boiled in a weak solution of bleach, to completely deflesh and degrease them. He stayed where he was, waiting and watching until I got back. I did not want him to go, but I did not know what to do with him anymore.

  “Can’t we talk, Kay?” he finally said. “I’ve hardly seen you. Not in months. I know we’re both busy, and this isn’t a good time. But . . .”

  “Benton,” I interrupted with feeling. “Not here.”

  “Of course not. I’m not suggesting we talk here.”

  “It will just be more of the same.”

  “I promise it won’t.” He checked the clock on the wall. “Look, it’s already late. Why don’t I just stay in town. We’ll have dinner.”

  I hesitated, ambivalence bouncing from one end of my brain to the other. I was afraid to see him and afraid not to see him.

  “All right,” I said. “My house at seven. I’ll throw together something. Don’t expect much.”

  “I can take you out. I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  “The last place I want to be right now is out in public,” I said.

  His eyes lingered on me a little longer as I labeled tags and tubes and various types of containers. The strike of his heels was sharp on tile as he left, and I heard him speak to someone as elevator doors opened in the hall. Seconds later, Wingo walked in.

  “I would have got here sooner.” He went to a cart and began putting on new shoe covers, mask and gloves. “But it’s a zoo upstairs.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, untying my gown in back as he slipped into a fresh one.

  “Reporters.” He put on a face shield and looked at me through clear plastic. “In the lobby. Casing the building in their television vans.” He looked tensely at me. “Hate to tell you, but now Channel Eight’s got you blocked in. Their van’s right behind your car so you can’t get out, and nobody’s in it.”

  Anger rose like heat. “Call the police and get them towed,” I said from the locker room. “You finish up here. I’m going upstairs to take care of this.”

  Slamming my balled-up gown into the laundry bin, I pulled off gloves, shoe covers and cap. I vigorously scrubbed with antibacterial soap and yanked open my locker, my hands suddenly clumsy. I was very upset, this case, the press, Wesley, everything was getting to me.

&n
bsp; “Dr. Scarpetta?”

  Wingo was suddenly in the doorway as I fumbled with buttons on my blouse, and his walking in on me while I was dressing was nothing new. It never bothered either of us, for I was as comfortable with him as I would be with a woman.

  “I was wondering if you had time . . .” He hesitated. “Well, I know you’re busy today.”

  I tossed bloody Reeboks into my locker and slipped on the shoes I had worn to work. Then I put on my lab coat.

  “Actually, Wingo”—I checked my anger so I did not take it out on him—“I’d like to talk to you, too. When you finish down here, come see me in my office.”

  He did not have to tell me. I had a feeling I knew. I rode the elevator upstairs, my mood darkened like a storm about to strike. Wesley was still in my office, studying what was on my computer screen, and I walked past in the hallway without slowing my stride. It was Rose I wanted to find. When I got to the front office, clerks were frantically answering phones that would not stop, while my secretary and administrator were before a window overlooking the front parking lot.

  The rain had not relented, and this had not seemed to deter a single journalist, cameraman or photographer in this town. They seemed crazed, as if the story must be huge for everyone else to be braving a downpour.

  “Where are Fielding and Grant?” I asked about my deputy chief and this year’s fellow.

  My administrator was a retired sheriff who loved cologne and snappy suits. He stepped away from the window, while Rose continued to look out.

  “Dr. Fielding’s in court,” he said. “Dr. Grant had to leave because his basement’s flooding.”

  Rose turned around with the demeanor of one ready to fight, as if her nest had been invaded. “I put Jess in the filing room,” she said of the receptionist.

  “So there’s no one out front.” I looked toward the lobby.

  “Oh, there are plenty of people, all right,” my secretary angrily said as phones rang and rang. “I didn’t want anybody sitting out there with all those vultures. I don’t care if there is bulletproof glass.”

  “How many reporters are in the lobby?”

  “Fifteen, maybe twenty, last I checked,” my administrator answered. “I went out there once and asked them to leave. They said they weren’t going until they had a statement from you. So I thought we could write something up and . . .”

  “I’ll give them a statement, all right,” I snapped.

  Rose put her hand on my arm. “Dr. Scarpetta, I’m not sure it’s a good idea . . .”

  I interrupted her, too. “Leave this to me.”

  The lobby was small, and the thick glass partition made it impossible for any unauthorized person to get in. When I rounded the corner, I could not believe how many people were crammed into the room, the floor filthy with footprints and dirty puddles. As soon as they saw me, camera lights blazed. Reporters began shouting, shoving microphones and tape recorders close as flash guns went off in my face.

  I raised my voice above all of them. “Please! Quiet!”

  “Dr. Scarpetta . . .”

  “Quiet!” I said more loudly, as I blindly stared out at aggressive people I could not make out. “Now, I am going to ask you politely to leave,” I said.

  “Is it the Butcher again?” A woman raised her voice above the rest.

  “Everything is pending further investigation,” I said.

  “Dr. Scarpetta.”

  I could just barely make out the television reporter as Patty Denver, whose pretty face was on billboards all over the city.

  “Sources say you’re working this as another victim in these serial killings,” she said. “Can you verify that?”

  I did not respond.

  “Is it true the victim is Asian, probably prepubescent, and came off a truck that is local?” she went on, to my dismay. “And are we to assume that the killer may now be in Virginia?”

  “Is the Butcher killing in Virginia now?”

  “Possible he deliberately wanted the other bodies dumped here?”

  I held up a hand to quiet them. “This is not the time for assumptions,” I said. “I can tell you only that we are treating this as a homicide. The victim is an unidentified white female. She is not prepubescent but an older adult, and we encourage people who might have information to call this office or the Sussex County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “What about the FBI?”

  “The FBI is involved,” I said.

  “Then you are treating this as the Butcher . . .”

  Turning around, I entered a code on a keypad and the lock clicked free. I ignored the demanding voices, shutting the door behind me, my nerves humming with tension as I walked quickly down the hall. When I entered my office, Wesley was gone, and I sat behind my desk. I dialed Marino’s pager number, and he called me right back.

  “For God’s sake, these leaks have got to stop!” I exclaimed over the line.

  “We know damn well who it is,” Marino irritably said.

  “Ring.” I had no doubt, but could not prove it.

  “The drone was supposed to meet me at the landfill. That was almost an hour ago,” Marino went on.

  “It doesn’t appear the press had any trouble finding him.”

  I told him what sources allegedly had divulged to a television crew.

  “Goddamn idiot!” he said.

  “Find him and tell him to keep his mouth shut,” I said. “Reporters have practically put us out of business today, and now the city’s going to believe there’s a serial killer in their midst.”

  “Yeah, well, unfortunately, that part could be true,” he said.

  “I can’t believe this.” I was only getting angrier. “I have to release information to correct misinformation. I can’t be put in this position, Marino.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of this and a whole lot more,” he promised. “I don’t guess you know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Rumor has it that Ring’s been seeing Patty Denver.”

  “I thought she was married,” I said as I envisioned her from a few moments earlier.

  “She is,” he said.

  I began dictating case 1930–97, trying to focus my attention on what I was saying and reading from my notes.

  “The body was received pouched and sealed,” I said into the tape recorder, rearranging paperwork smeared with blood from Wingo’s gloves. “The skin is doughy. The breasts are small, atrophic and wrinkled. There are skin folds over the abdomen suggestive of prior weight loss . . .”

  “Dr. Scarpetta?” Wingo was poking his head in the doorway. “Oops. Sorry,” he said when he realized what I was doing. “I guess now’s not a good time.”

  “Come in,” I said with a weary smile. “Why don’t you shut the door.”

  He did and closed the one between my office and Rose’s, too. Nervously, he pulled a chair close to my desk, and he was having a hard time meeting my eyes.

  “Before you start, let me.” I was firm but kind. “I’ve known you for many years, and your life is no secret to me. I don’t make judgments. I don’t label. In my mind, there are only two categories of people in this world. Those who are good. And those who aren’t. But I worry about you because your orientation places you at risk.”

  He nodded. “I know,” he said, eyes bright with tears.

  “If you’re immunosuppressed,” I went on, “you need to tell me. You probably shouldn’t be in the morgue, at least not for some cases.”

  “I’m HIV positive.” His voice trembled and he began to cry.

  I let him go for a while, his arms over his face, as if he could not bear for anyone to see him. His shoulders shook, tears spotting his greens as his nose ran. Getting up with a box of tissues, I went over to him.

  “Here.” I set the tissues nearby. “It’s all right.” I put my arm around him and let him weep. “Wingo, I want you to try to get hold of yourself so we can talk about this, okay?”

  He nodded, blowing his nose and wi
ping his eyes. For a moment he nuzzled his head against me, and I held him like a child. I gave him time before I faced him straight on, gripping his shoulders.

  “Now is the time for courage, Wingo,” I said. “Let’s see what we can do to fight this thing.”

  “I can’t tell my family,” he choked. “My father hates me anyway. And when my mother tries, he gets worse. To her. You know?”

  I moved a chair close. “What about your friend?”

  “We broke up.”

  “But he knows.”

  “I just found out a couple weeks ago.”

  “You’ve got to tell him and anybody else you’ve been intimate with,” I said. “It’s only fair. If someone had done that for you, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting here now, crying.”

  He was silent, staring down at his hands. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I’m going to die, aren’t I.”

  “We’re all going to die,” I gently told him.

  “Not like this.”

  “It could be like this,” I said. “Every physical I get, I’m tested for HIV. You know what I’m exposed to. What you’re going through could be me.”

  He looked up at me, his eyes and cheeks burning. “If I get AIDS, I’m going to kill myself.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said.

  He began to cry again. “Dr. Scarpetta, I can’t go through it! I don’t want to end up in one of those places, a hospice, the Fan Free Clinic, in a bed next to other dying people I don’t know!” Tears flowed, his face tragic and defiant. “I’ll be all alone just like I’ve always been.”

  “Listen.” I waited until he calmed down. “You will not go through this alone. You have me.”

  He dissolved in tears again, covering his face and making sounds so loud I was certain they could be heard in the hall.

  “I will take care of you,” I promised as I got up. “Now I want you to go home. I want you to do what’s right and tell your friends. Tomorrow, we’ll talk more and figure out the best way to handle this. I need the name of your doctor and permission to talk to him or her.”