Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(72)

“You alerted him about the body on Daingerfield Island,” I outright accuse her, and she doesn’t admit or deny it.

Instead she says that she advised him just as she always had, and my thoughts keep circling back to August Ryan.

“What caused you to single out this particular case?” I ask.

“I don’t know what you think it is you’re trying to accomplish but it won’t change anything except to make your life more difficult here,” she says, and now she’s threatening me.

“Why did you interrupt him while he was out to dinner with his wife? I need answers, Maggie.” I’m not going to give her a pass. “As long as you’d worked for him, you certainly knew what he would think is important. And you’re well aware that he doesn’t show up at scenes. He’ll barely touch a scalpel.”

“I should think it’s obvious.” Anger flashes in her eyes. “I wanted to be sure he was aware there was a death in a public park that might cause potential complications and problems.” She explains what’s probably getting close to the truth. “He agreed it was important to drop by, to see what was going on.”

“To show the flag while making sure he controlled the narrative.” I’m not going to sugarcoat it. “That’s why he really showed up, now isn’t it? To nip any potential problems in the bud. A murder in a popular national park would be most inconvenient. Thank goodness it was an illegal,” I add with a bite. “Somebody unimportant that maybe nobody would ask questions about . . .”

“Why must you insist on poking a stick at things that are best left alone?” Maggie glares at me. “That was your reputation when you were getting started, always making a mountain out of a molehill. And here we go again when the news is bad enough as is. Why must you throw petrol on the fire?”





CHAPTER 29


SHE COMPLAINS THAT THE media has been ringing the phone off the hook about Gwen Hainey, and God only knows what will show up next in the news. Today has been a train wreck, and much of it is my fault since I was missing in action.

To hear Maggie talk, I was a no-show. I had bigger fish to fry, was too busy hobnobbing with important people, and I keep thinking about the White House takeout trash I tossed inside the bay. It wouldn’t surprise me if Fabian informed her where I might have been today. Assuming Elvin Reddy didn’t do it first, and it turns my stomach as I envision him sitting inside the Mess Hall.

“And now you’re going to remind us of another disturbing death as if you’re connecting them,” Maggie is saying. “No doubt the next big serial murder case that splashes you all over the news again just like back in your Richmond days. That was a lovely historic city too until you came along and ruined it.”

We don’t want the public thinking it’s unsafe living in Old Town, she goes on and on, sounding like a politician. How unfortunate if it’s no longer recommended that people stay in Alexandria while on business in the greater Washington, D.C., area. The value of real estate would go down. Everything would, she continues painting the picture.

“Tourism isn’t something this office takes into account when trying to find out what killed someone,” is my response.

“You’re making a big mistake,” she says before walking out for the night, shutting the door behind her.

I decide to wait a few minutes, giving her a head start, and by now I’ve had quite enough of Maggie Cutbush. I don’t know how I’m supposed to work with someone so haughty and stubborn, and I call Marino.

“Was just about to send you a text,” he answers grumpily without saying hello, and I can tell he’s driving. “I’ve got to check the air in my tires, pretty sure it’s just a bad sensor. Another one, and this is getting old.”

He’s headed to a service station, and should be here in thirty minutes depending on traffic. I give him the upshot of what we need to do, realizing it’s likely a futile scavenger hunt, apologizing upfront.

“But if I don’t look, I’ll have no peace of mind.” I pick up my briefcase, my coat.

“Look with what? A metal detector?” His voice is skeptical. “Because it’s going to ping on the iron rails and put your ears out.”

“I have another idea.” I explain what it is.

“Sure, it’s worth a try,” he says. “We should look around anyway, see what we notice after dark when there’s no one around.”

We end the call, and I have just enough time to have a chat with firearms examiner Faye Hanaday if I can find her. Locking up, I roll my scene case along the corridor, saying good night to people waiting for the elevator. I take the stairs, heading up instead of down, and Faye usually works late but no point in calling to check. It’s not her habit to answer the phone.

On the second floor, I roll my scene case, greeting scientists I pass. Many I’ve yet to introduce myself to, and I don’t know when I’ve ever hated being new on the job as much as I do right now. It’s always been routine for me to make evidence rounds, stopping in at various labs, checking on my cases. But I’ve not been doing that much my first frenetic month as the new chief.

The corridor dead-ends at the tool marks and firearms suite of labs, and the light is green outside the firing range’s thick steel door. I don’t hear the muffled thud of rounds being test-fired inside a long narrow space of thick concrete. There’s a steel bullet trap in back, and the floor is capable of bearing the weight of the water recovery tank.