Four Scarpetta Novels

  “Please explain what you mean by, ‘It was difficult to slow her down.’”

  “She began to grab for me. Between my legs, trying to get my pants off, and I wasn’t ready. I still had much to do.”

  “Much to do? What else did you have to do, sir?”

  “I wasn’t ready for it to end.”

  “What do you mean by end? For sex to end? For what to end?”

  For her life to end, I think.

  “For making love to end,” he replies.

  I hate this. I can’t stomach listening to his fantasies, especially when I consider that he might know I am listening to them, that he is subjecting me to them just as he is subjecting Berger to them, and that Talley is listening, sitting right there, watching. Talley isn’t so different from Chandonne. Both of them secretly hate women, no matter how much they lust for them. I didn’t realize the truth about Talley until it was too late, until he was in my bed in my hotel room in Paris. I imagine him close to Berger in the small interview room at the hospital. I can almost see what is in his mind as Chandonne gives us an account of an erotic night he has probably never lived even once in his entire existence.

  “She had a very lovely body and I wanted to enjoy it for a while, but she was most insistent. She couldn’t wait.” Chandonne relishes each word. “So we went back to the bedroom. We got on her bed and took our clothes off and made love.”

  “Did she take her own clothes off or did you do all of it? Beyond helping with the snaps?” she asks with a hint of her underlying and overwhelming disbelief of his veracity.

  “I took all her clothes off. And she took mine off,” he says.

  “Did she make any comment about your body?” Berger asks. “Had you shaved your entire body?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she didn’t notice?”

  “I was very smooth. She didn’t notice. You must understand, a lot has happened to me since then, because of them.”

  “What has happened?”

  “I have been pursued and persecuted and beaten. I was jumped by some men months after the night with Susan. They beat my face very badly. Split my lip, crushed bones in my face here.” He touches his glasses, indicating his orbits. “I had many dental problems as a child because of my condition and had much work done as a result. Crowns on my front teeth so they would look more normal.”

  “This couple you say you stayed with paid for cosmetic dental work?”

  “My family helped them with money.”

  “Did you shave before you went to the dentist?”

  “I would shave those areas that would show. Such as my face. Always, if I was going out during the day. When I was beaten, my front teeth were broken, my crowns were broken, and eventually, well, you can see what my teeth look like now.”

  “Where did this beating occur?”

  “I was still in New York.”

  “Did you receive medical treatment or report this assault to the police?” Berger asks him.

  “Oh, that would have been impossible. The top law enforcement people are all in this together, of course. They are the ones who did it to me. I could report nothing. I received no medical treatment. I became a nomad, always hiding. Ruined.”

  “What about the name of your dentist?”

  “Oh, that was very long ago. I doubt he’s still alive. His name was Corps. Maurice Corps. His office was on rue Cabanis, I believe.”

  “Corps as in corpse?” I comment to Berger. “And is Cabanis a play on cannabis, or marijuana?” I am shaking my head in disgust and amazement.

  “So you and Susan had sex in her bedroom.” Berger gets back to that on the tape. “Please continue. How long were the two of you in bed?”

  “I would say until three o’clock in the morning. Then she told me I had to leave because she needed to get ready for work. So I got dressed and we made arrangements to see each other that night again. We said we would meet at seven at L’Absinthe, a nice French bistro in the neighborhood.”

  “You say you got dressed. What about her? Was she dressed when you left her?”

  “She had a pair of black satin pajamas. She put those on and kissed me at the door.”

  “So you went downstairs? Did you see anyone?”

  “Juan, the doorman. I went out and walked for a while. I found a cafe and had breakfast. I was very hungry.” He pauses. “Neil’s. That’s the name. It is right across the street from Lumi.”

  “Do you remember what you ate?”

  “Espresso.”

  “You were very hungry but all you had was espresso?” Berger lets him know she picks up on the word “hunger” and realizes he is mocking her, jerking her around, fucking with her. Chandonne’s hunger wasn’t for breakfast. He was enjoying the afterglow of violence, of destroying flesh and blood because he had just left behind a woman he had beaten to death and bitten. No matter what he says, that is what he did. The bastard. The goddamn lying bastard.

  “Sir, when did you first learn that Susan was murdered?” Berger asks him.

  “She didn’t show up for dinner that night.”

  “Well, I guess not.”

  “Then the next day . . .”

  “Would this be December fifth or the sixth?” Berger asks, and she is stepping up the tempo, indicating to him that she’s had it with his games.

  “The sixth,” he says. “I read about her in the paper the morning after she was supposed to meet me at L’Absinthe.” He now puts on the act of feeling sad about it. “I was shocked.” He sniffs.

  “Obviously, she didn’t show up at L’Absinthe the night before. But you’re saying you did?”

  “I had a glass of wine in the bar and waited. Finally, I left.”

  “Did you mention to anyone in the restaurant that you were waiting for her?”

  “Yes. I asked the maître d’ if she had been by and perhaps left a message for me. They knew who she was because of her being on TV.”

  Berger questions him closely about the maître d’, asking his name, what Chandonne was wearing that night, how much he had paid for the wine and was it in cash, and when he inquired after Susan, did he give his name. Of course not. She spends five minutes on all this. She mentions to me that the police had been contacted by the bistro and were told that a man had come in and said he was waiting for Susan Pless. All of it was painstakingly checked out back then. It is true. The description of the way the man was dressed is identical to Chandonne’s description of how he was dressed that night. This man did order a glass of red wine at the bar and ask if Susan had been by or had left a message, and he did not give his name. This man also fit the description of the man who had been in Lumi with Susan the night before.

  “And did you tell anyone you had been with her the night of her murder?” Berger says on tape.

  “No. Once I knew what happened, I could say nothing.”

  “And what was it that you knew had happened?”

  “They did it. They did that to her. To set me up again.”

  “Again?”

  “I had women in Paris before all this. They did it to them, too.”

  “These women were before Susan’s death?”

  “Maybe one or two before. Then some afterwards, as well. The same thing happened to all of them because I was followed. This is why I went more and more into hiding, and the stress and hardships made my condition so much worse. It has been a nightmare and I’ve said nothing. Who would believe me?”

  “Good question,” Berger says sharply. “Because you know what? I, for one, don’t believe you, sir. You murdered Susan, didn’t you, sir?”

  “No.”

  “You raped her, didn’t you, sir?”

  “No.”

  “You beat her and bit her, didn’t you, sir?”

  “No. This is why I’ve told nothing to anybody. Who would believe me? Who would believe people are trying to destroy me all because they think my father is a criminal, a godfather?”

  “You never told the police or anyone that y
ou may have been the last person to see Susan alive because you murdered her, didn’t you, sir?”

  “I told no one. If I had, I would have been blamed for her death, just as you are blaming me. I returned to Paris. I wandered. I hoped they would forget me, but they haven’t. You can see they haven’t.”

  “Sir, are you aware that Susan was covered with bite marks and that your saliva was found on those bite marks and the DNA testing on them and on the seminal fluid found in her vagina matches your DNA?”

  He just fixes those black glasses on Berger.

  “You know what DNA is, don’t you?”

  “I would expect my DNA to come up.”

  “Because you bit her.”

  “I never bit her. But I am very oral. I . . .” He stops.

  “You what? What did you do that might explain your saliva being on bite marks you say you didn’t inflict?”

  “I’m very oral,” he says again. “I suck and lick. All over the body.”

  “Where specifically? Do you literally mean every inch of the body?”

  “Yes. All of it. I love a woman’s body. Every inch of it. Perhaps because I don’t have . . . Perhaps because it is so beautiful, and beauty is something I can never have for myself, you see. So I worship them. My women. Their flesh.”

  “You lick and kiss their feet, for example?”

  “Yes.”

  “The bottoms of their feet?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “Have you ever bitten a woman’s breasts?”

  “No. She had very beautiful breasts.”

  “But you sucked them, licked them?”

  “Obsessively.”

  “Are breasts important to you?”

  “Oh yes. Very much—I am honest about it.”

  “You seek out big-breasted women?”

  “I have a type I like.”

  “What exactly is your type?”

  “Very full.” He cups his hands at his chest and sexual tension shines in his face as he describes the type of woman who arouses him. Maybe it is my imagination, but his eyes gleam behind the black Solar Shields. “But not fat. I don’t like fat women, no, no. Slender through the waist and hips, but very full.” He cups his hands again, as if he is gripping volleyballs, and veins rope through his arms and his muscles flex.

  “And Susan was your type?” Berger is completely unflappable.

  “The instant I spotted her in the restaurant, I was attracted,” he replies.

  “In Lumi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hairs were also found on her body,” Berger then says. “Are you aware that unusual long, baby-fine hair consistent with your unusual baby-fine hair was found on her body? How can that be if you’d shaved? Didn’t you just tell me you shaved your entire body?”

  “They plant things. I’m sure of it.”

  “These same people who are out to get you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where would they get your hair?”

  “There was a period, in Paris some five years ago, when I started getting the sense someone was after me,” he says. “I had a feeling I was being watched, being followed. I had no idea why. But when I was younger I didn’t shave my body always. My back, you can imagine. It is very hard to reach, hard to shave my back, impossible really, so sometimes many, many months would go by, and you see, when I was younger, I was more shy with women and rarely approached them. So I didn’t think about shaving as much, would just hide beneath long pants and sleeves and only shave my hands and neck and face.” He touches his cheek. “One day I came home to the apartment where my foster parents lived . . .”

  “Your foster parents are still alive at this point? The couple you’ve mentioned? Who lived near the prison?” she adds with a trace of irony.

  “No. But I still was able to live there for a while. It was not expensive and I had work, odd jobs. I come home and I can tell someone has been inside. It was strange. Nothing was missing except the covers on my bed. I think, well, that’s not so bad. At least whoever it was took only that. Then it happened again several more times. I realize now it was them. They wanted my hair. That’s why they took my bedcovers. Because I lose a lot of hair, you see?” He touches tangles of hair on top of his head. “It is always falling out if I don’t shave. It gets caught on things when it’s so long.” He holds out an arm to show her, and long hair wafts weightlessly on the air.

  “Then you’re saying you didn’t have long hair when you met Susan? Not even on your back?”

  “Not at all. If you found long hairs on her body, then they were put there, you see what I am saying? All the same, I accept that her murder is my fault.”

  CHAPTER 15

  WHY IS IT your fault?” Berger asks Chandonne. “Why would you say that Susan’s murder is your fault?”

  “Because they followed me,” he answers her. “They must have come in just after I left, and then they did that to her.”

  “And did they follow you to Richmond, too, sir? Why did you come here?”

  “I came because of my brother.”

  “Explain that to me,” Berger replies.

  “I heard about the body at the port, and I was convinced it was my brother, Thomas.”

  “What did your brother do for a living?”

  “He was in the shipping business with my father. He was a few years older. Thomas was good to me. I didn’t see him much, but he would give me his clothes when he no longer wanted them, and other things, as I’ve told you. And money. I know the last time I saw him, maybe two months ago in Paris, he was frightened something bad was going to happen to him.”

  “Where in Paris was this meeting with Thomas?”

  “Faubourg Saint Antoine. He loved to go where the young artists and nightclubs are, and we met in a stone alleyway. Cour des Trois Frères, where the artisans are, you know, not too far from Sans Sanz and the Balanjo and, of course, the Bar Américain, where girls can be paid to keep you company. He gave me money and said he was going to Belgium, to Antwerp, and then on to this country. I never heard from him again, and next the news came out about the body.”

  “And where did you hear this news?”

  “I told you I get many newspapers. I pick up what people throw away. And many tourists who don’t speak French read the international version of USA Today. There was a small story in it about the body found here, and I knew right away it was my brother. I was sure. For this reason, I came to Richmond. I had to know.”

  “How did you get here?”

  Chandonne sighs. He looks fatigued again. He touches the inflamed, raw skin around his nose. “I don’t want to say,” he replies.

  “Why don’t you want to say?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll use it against me.”

  “Sir, I need you to be truthful with me.”

  “I’m a pickpocket. I took a wallet from a man who had his coat draped over a monument in Père-Lachaise, the most famous cemetery in Paris, where some of my family is buried. A concession à perpétuité,” he says proudly. “Stupid man. An American. It was a big wallet, the sort people keep passports and plane tickets in. I’ve done this many times, I regret to tell you. It’s part of living on the street, and I’ve lived on the street more and more since they started after me.”

  “These same people again. Federal agents.”

  “Yes, yes. Agents, magistrates, everyone. I immediately took the plane because I didn’t want to give the man time to report his wallet missing and then have someone stop me at the gate in the airport. It was a return ticket, coach, to New York.”

  “You flew out of what airport and when?”

  “De Gaulle. That would have been last Thursday.”

  “December sixteenth?”

  “Yes. I got in early that morning and took a train to Richmond. I had seven hundred dollars because of what I took from the man.”

  “Do you still have the wallet and passport?”

  “No, never. That would be stupid. I threw them in the trash.”
/>
  “Where in the trash?”

  “At the train station in New York. I can’t tell you exactly where. I got on the train. . . .”

  “And during your travels, nobody looked at you? You weren’t shaven, sir? No one stared at you or reacted to you?”

  “I had my hair in a net under a hat. I wore long sleeves and a high collar.” He hesitates. “I have another thing I do when I look like this, when I have not cleaned off the hair. I wear a mask. The type of mask people put over their nose and mouth if they have severe allergies. And I wear black cotton gloves and large tinted glasses.”

  “This is what you wore on the plane and the train?”

  “Yes. It works very well. People move away from me and I, in this instance, had an entire row of seats to myself. So I slept.”

  “Do you still have the mask, hat, gloves and glasses?”

  He stops to think before answering. She has thrown him a curveball and he is uncertain. “I can possibly find them,” he hedges.

  “What did you do when you got to Richmond?” Berger asks him.

  “I got off the train.”

  She questions him about this for several minutes. Where is the train station? Did he take a taxi next? How did he get around? Just what did he think he would do about his brother? His answers are lucid. Everything he describes makes it seem plausible that he might have been where he claims to have been, such as the Amtrak station on Staples Mill Road and in a blue taxicab that let him off at a dump of a motel on Chamberlayne Avenue, where he paid twenty dollars for a room, again using an assumed name and paying cash. From here, he states that he called my office to get information about the unidentified body he says is his brother. “I asked to speak to the doctor but no one would help me,” he is telling Berger.

  “Who did you talk to?” she asks him.

  “It was a woman. Maybe a clerk.”

  “Did this clerk tell you who the doctor is?”

  “Yes. A Dr. Scarpetta. So then I asked to speak to him, and the clerk tells me Dr. Scarpetta is a woman. So I say, okay. May I speak to her? And she is busy. I don’t leave my name and number, of course, because I must continue to be careful. Maybe I’m followed again. How do I know? And then I get a newspaper and read about a murder here, a lady in a store killed a week earlier, and I’m shocked—frightened. They are here.”