Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(41)

She doesn’t answer my question. The Secret Service cyber investigator isn’t going to tell me anything else, my paranoia spiking.

She knows the stupid thing I’ve done.

I continue reminding myself that I’m probably not entirely logical at the moment. Why would Tron know about what happened last night? I’m not sure anyone does beyond my immediate circle, and of course Rex Bonetta, the toxicologist Marino woke up at oh-dark-hundred. No one called 911.

There’s no police report, nothing to be leaked to the media, and what a field day the likes of Dana Diletti would have with the latest. Just the idea makes me inwardly cringe as I remember dodging her, watching footage of it on national TV.

Shaking four Advil into my palm, I swallow them without water, glancing in the mirror. I’m not sure it’s possible to make myself presentable, and Tron goes on to inform me that Benton and I will be on a list at each checkpoint and guard shack.

“Stay safe, and I’ll be waiting for you at the entrance of the West Executive Gate.” Tron ends the call without further explanation, and I hear Benton on his phone, his voice drifting up the staircase.

I can’t make out what he’s saying but the fact that he’s still talking tells me plenty. Information is being shared and discussed with him and him alone. Then the sound fades until I can’t hear him anymore as he likely heads to the kitchen. Peeling off my scrubs, I drop them inside the hamper.

I inhale clouds of steam, tears flooding my eyes, everything catching up with me as I shower. Overwhelmed by misgivings about returning to Virginia, I’m gripped by the fear that I’ve been unrealistic and selfish. In the process I’ve dragged everyone here with me, and not because I asked them to move or even consider it. Because I didn’t. I wouldn’t.

They showed up anyway, and what was I thinking? Maybe I don’t want to face that each day the road behind me gets longer than the one ahead, and there’s no reversing the trajectory. Possibly when I was first approached about becoming the chief again, I deluded myself into believing we can go back to what we left.

Or more likely I was running away from what I didn’t want to face after losing Janet and Desi. Worst of all is knowing what it’s done to my niece. Death is the one thing I can’t defeat no matter how much I wish otherwise, and it would seem I’ve done nobody any favors by returning to where I got started.

On the job a little more than three short weeks, and things aren’t going very well. There’s no one to blame but myself. It’s time I do something about it besides just standing here and taking what comes while fretting constantly about offending someone.

You’re too nice.

How many times has Lucy said that when she hears what’s going on at work.

You can’t be afraid to show them who’s boss, Aunt Kay.

NOTHING WILL CHANGE IF all I do is worry about displeasing this one or another, and I feel the slow burn of an angry stubbornness setting in. I step out of the shower, drying off, and there’s no better cure for discouragement than getting back into the saddle.

Putting on my bathrobe, I call the DNA lab, unfamiliar with the clerk who cheerfully answers, “This is Candi,” as if she works in a nail salon. I announce myself, and when she doesn’t respond beyond a grunted “uh-huh,” I add, “Good morning.”

“Oh hi, good morning. Um, who are you looking for?” is her distracted reply, and technically she doesn’t answer to me.

But the lab director, her boss, does. I can get her in plenty of trouble if I’m sufficiently motivated.

“I realize we haven’t met. I’m the new chief medical examiner,” I add in case she hasn’t connected the dots.

“I know. I’ve seen you on the news when Dana Diletti’s tried to interview you. What’s she like in person?”

“I need Doctor Givens, please,” I reply, and Candi the clerk doesn’t see him at the moment, doesn’t know where he is.

“He’s probably tied up,” she figures as I imagine her yawning, looking bored. “Maybe you could try back later?”

“Candi?” I say her name in a way that gets her attention. “I don’t care what he’s in the middle of, I want him on the phone right now.”

“Oh. Yes, ma’am. Okay . . . Um, h-hold on,” she stammers, and in no time, molecular biologist Clark Givens is on the line.

“How’s it going?” I don’t have to tell him why I’m calling.

“We should have the answer within the hour,” he informs me as I stand in front of the sink, tearing off a piece of dental floss.

I tell him to text me when Gwen Hainey’s identification is confirmed, and make sure he notifies August Ryan at the same time so he can deal with the next of kin.

“Sadly, her family, those who knew her probably already heard what’s all over the news, and that should never happen.” I towel my hair some more.

“August has called here several times already. And the media’s out of control, hounding everyone from what I understand,” Clark lets me know. “When I got here a few hours ago, there was a TV truck on the street filming employees getting out of their cars, heading into the building.”

“Let me guess.” I open a drawer under the sink, finding the styling gel. “Dana Diletti again.”

“Her producer is one of the people who keeps calling.” Clark’s voice over speakerphone inside the master bathroom. “Apparently, she’s doing some big piece on the Railway Slayer, as she’s dubbed Gwen Hainey’s killer. And that’s sure to scare the bejesus out of everyone.”