Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(13)

“DOCTOR SCARPETTA, CAN YOU tell us why you’ve been called to this townhome in the heart of Old Town’s waterfront?” Dana says into her microphone.

She and her umbrella-holding crew are in pursuit.

“Is it connected to the murder from Friday night? Is the victim Gwen Hainey? The thirty-three-year-old scientist who recently moved here from Boston . . . ?”

My answer is to duck under the yellow-tape perimeter, disgusted by what just happened on live television. I hope that Gwen’s family, friends, her allegedly abusive ex don’t find out in such a callous fashion. But there’s nothing I can do, and I follow the walkway past police in rain gear setting up a pup tent.

“Hey, stop right there!” an officer shouts, and then he’s next to me, an Alexandria crime scene investigator probably half my age. “Who are you?”

I pull out my badge-wallet, showing him my credentials. He looks embarrassed, apologizing, all of it caught on camera.

“Investigator Ryan asked that I come.” I explain why I’m here.

“I believe he’s in the manager’s office right now. They’re reviewing security videos.”

“Are we good for me to go inside?” I inquire.

“Everything’s been photographed. We’re just waiting for you guys to do your thing,” the officer says as I head to the door.

It’s slightly ajar, a female officer standing guard on the other side. The name on her uniform is B. FRUGE, and she directs me to step onto the white sticky mats covering most of the entryway, and that was smart. The police are making sure nothing is tracked inside.

In addition, any trace evidence already on the floor such as hairs or fibers will stick to the adhesive. All will go to the labs, and hopefully nothing will be lost.

“Kay Scarpetta, the new chief M.E.,” I introduce myself.

Showing her my creds, I push my rain-dampened hair out of my face, no doubt looking like something the cat dragged in. At least there’s plenty of PPE, and a 3-D scanner has been set up on a tripod, a box of evidence markers and scene cases nearby.

“I know who you are.” Officer Fruge shuts the front door.

Every sound is amplified by the emptiness, and from where I stand I don’t see a stick of furniture. There are no rugs or wall-to-wall carpet, nothing to absorb noise except for velvet draperies that likely were here when Gwen moved in.

“I for one am glad you’re back,” Officer Fruge adds, as if there are plenty of people who aren’t.

“Thank you, and I may have worked with your mother years ago. Greta Fruge?” My wet boots leave dirty tread-prints on the mats as I walk back and forth.

“Yep, I heard about it enough when I was coming along, that’s for sure. You two worked that big case on Tangier Island, the crazy scientist who tried to poison everyone with free samples they got in the mail.”

“I remember your mother very well.” The last thing I’m interested in at the moment is strolling down her morbid memory lane.

“I’m Blaise, but if you call me that nobody will know who you’re talking about,” she says, and I’m guessing she’s Lucy’s age, short and strongly built, with spiky hair and plenty of attitude. “Everybody just calls me Fruge.”

She goes on to inform me that her mother is retired from the state. She now works in the private industry, and Fruge tells me the name of the biotech company in Richmond.

“It’s perfect because she can do a lot of the work in her lab at home.” She continues filling me in about someone I’ve had my share of problems with in the past. “Which gives her more time for her horses, all her crazy hobbies. I don’t know if you heard that she moved to an old farm in Goochland County.”

“Sounds like a good place to be during a pandemic. Please give her my best,” I reply from a sticky mat, looking around, getting my bearings.

“Funny what happens in life.” Fruge’s dark eyes are riveted to me. “Mom worked with you when you were the brand-new chief. Now here you are back in Virginia and starting all over again, only with me this time. Talk about going full circle.”

“The media knows that the missing person is Gwen Hainey.” I stay focused on the grim business before us. “Dana Diletti just announced it on the air.”

“I was waiting for that. I’m willing to bet she got it from the manager. The guy who unlocked the door for me is a real chatterbox and way too curious,” she says as if she’s not. “First name is Cliff, last name Sallow. I had to tell him to stay clear of this place.”

“When he unlocked the door for you, did he come inside?” I’m making notes.

“He wanted to badly enough, had his phone out ready to take pictures if you can believe that. No way I was letting him,” she says. “He drives a red Prius, so be on high alert if you see it because he wants to know what’s going on something awful. And I can sure as heck see why.”

What’s happened on Cliff Sallow’s watch won’t be good for his career, Fruge predicts. He could end up fired.

“When’s the last time he saw Gwen or heard from her? Did he say?” I ask from my sticky mat.

“The day after Thanksgiving. He told me he saw her jogging early Friday morning, that she usually was out the door at sunrise. Apparently, she was a big runner, and would pick up the Mount Vernon Trail and go for miles.”