Текст книги "Postmortem"

Автор книги: Патрисия Корнуэлл

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When she was gone, Boltz said to no one in particular, "We all know the cops occasionally have a problem with kiss and tell. Norm and I have had a few words with the brass. No one seems to know exactly where the leaks are coming from."

I restrained myself. What did they expect? One of the majors is in tight with Abby Turnbull or whoever and this guy's going to confess, "Yeah, sorry about that. I squawked"? Amburgey flipped a page in his legal pad. "So far a leak cited as 'a medical source' has been quoted seventeen times in the papers since the first murder, Dr. Scarpetta. This makes me a little uneasy. Clearly, the most sensational details, such as the ligatures, the evidence of sexual assault, how the killer got in, where the bodies were found, and the fact DNA testing is in the works have been attributed to this medical source."

He glanced up at me. "Am I to assume the details are accurate?"

"Not entirely. There were a few minor discrepancies."

"Such as?"

I didn't want to tell him. I didn't want to talk about these cases at all with him. But he had the right to the furniture inside my office if he wanted it. I reported to him. He reported to no one but the governor.

"For example," I replied, "in the first case, the news reported there was a tan cloth belt tied around Brenda Steppe's neck. The ligature was actually a pair of pantyhose."

Amburgey was writing this down. "What else?"

"In Cecile Tyler's case, it was reported her face was bleeding, that the bedspread was covered with blood. An exaggeration, at best. She had no lacerations, no injuries of this nature. There was a little bloody fluid coming out of her nose and mouth. A postmortem artifact."

"These details," Amburgey asked as he continued to write, "were they mentioned in the CME-I reports?"

I had to take a moment to compose myself. It was becoming clear what was going through his mind. The CME-1's were the medical examiner's initial report of investigation. The responding ME simply wrote down what he saw at the scene and learned from the police. The details were not always completely accurate because the ME on call was surrounded by confusion, and the autopsy hadn't been performed yet.

In addition, ME's were not forensic pathologists. They were physicians in private practice, virtual volunteers who got paid fifty dollars a case to be jerked out of bed in the middle of the night or have their weekends wrecked by car crashes, suicides and homicides. These men and women provided a public service; they were the troops. Their primary job was to determine whether the case merited an autopsy, to write everything down and take a lot of photographs. Even if one of my ME's had confused a pair of pantyhose with a tan belt, it wasn't relevant. My ME's didn't talk to the press.

Amburgey persisted, "The bit about the tan cloth belt, the bloody bedspread. I'm wondering if these were mentioned in the CME-1's."

"In the manner the press made reference to the details," I firmly replied, "no."

Tanner drolly remarked, "We all know what the press does. Takes a mustard seed and turns it into a mountain."

"Listen," I said, looking around at the three men, "if your point is that one of my medical examiners is leaking details about these cases, I can tell you with certainty you're way off base. It isn't happening. I know both of the ME's who responded to the first two scenes. They've been ME's in Richmond for years and have always been unimpeachable. I myself responded to the third and fourth scenes. The information is not coming from my office. The details, all of them, could have been divulged by anyone who was there. Members of the rescue squads who responded, for example."

Leather quietly creaked as Amburgey shifted in his chair. "I've looked into that. Three different squads responded. No one paramedic was present at all four scenes."

I said levelly, "Anonymous sources are often a blend of numerous sources. A medical source could have been a combination of what a squad member said, what a police officer said, and what the reporter overheard or saw while waiting around outside the residence where the body was found."

"True." Amburgey nodded. "And I don't believe any of us really think the leaks are coming from the Medical Examiner's Office – at least not intentionally -"

"Intentionally?" I broke out. "Are you implying the leaks may be coming from my office unintentionally?" just as I was about to retort self-righteously what a lot of nonsense this was, I was suddenly struck silent.

A flush began creeping up my neck as it came back to me with swift simplicity. My office data base. It had been violated by an outsider. Was this what Amburgey was alluding to? How could he possibly know about it? Amburgey went on as if he hadn't heard me, "People talk, employees talk. They tell their family, their friends, and they don't intend any harm in most instances. But you never know where the buck stops-maybe on a reporter's desk. These things happen. We're objectively looking into the matter, turning over every stone. We have to. As you must realize, some of what's been leaked has the potential of doing serious damage to the investigation."

Tanner laconically added, "The city manager, the mayor, they aren't pleased with this type of exposure. The homicide rate's already given Richmond a black eye. Sensational national news accounts of a serial murderer are the last thing the city needs. All these new hotels going up are dependent on big conferences, visitors. People don't want to come to a city where they fear for their lives."

"No, they don't," I coldly agreed. "Nor would people want to think the city's major concern over these murders is they're an inconvenience, an embarrassment, a potential obstruction to the tourist trade."

"Kay," Boltz quietly reasoned, "nobody's implying anything outrageous like that."

"Of course not," Amburgey was quick to add. "But we have to face certain hard realities, and the fact is there's a lot simmering beneath the surface. If we don't handle the matter with extreme care, I'm afraid we're in for a major eruption."

"Eruption? Over what?" I warily asked, and automatically looked at Boltz.

His face was tight, his eyes hard with restrained emotion. Reluctantly he said, "This last murder's a powder keg. There are certain things about Lori Petersen's case no one's talking about. Things that, thank God, the reporters don't know yet. But it's just a matter of time. Someone's going to find out, and if we haven't handled the problem first, sensibly and behind the scenes, the situation's going to blow sky-high."

Tanner took over, his long, lantern-shaped face very grim, "The city is at risk for, well, litigation."

He glanced at Amburgey, who signaled him with a nod to proceed.

"A very unfortunate thing happened, you see. Apparently Lori Petersen called the police shortly after she got home from the hospital early Saturday morning. We learned this from one of the dispatchers on duty at the time. At eleven minutes before one A.M., a 911 operator got a call. The Petersen residence came up on the computer screen but the line was immediately disconnected."

Boltz said to me, "As you may recall from the scene, there was a telephone on the bedside table, the cord ripped out of the wall. Our conjecture is Dr. Petersen woke up when the killer was inside her house. She reached for the phone and got as far as dialing 911 before he stopped her. Her address came up on the computer screen. That was it. No one said anything. Nine one-one calls of this nature are dispatched to the patrolmen. Nine times out of ten they're cranks, kids playing with the phone. But we can't ever be sure of that. Can't be sure the person isn't suffering a heart attack, a seizure. In mortal danger. Therefore, the operator's supposed to give the call a high priority. Then the dispatcher broadcasts it to the units on the street without delay, prompting an officer to drive past the residence and at least check to make sure everything's all right. This wasn't done. A certain 911 operator, who even as we speak is suspended from duty, gave the call a priority four."

Tanner interjected, "There was a lot of action on the street that night. A lot of radio traffic. The more calls there are, the easier it is to rank something lower in importance than you maybe otherwise would. Problem is, once something's been given a number, there's no going back. The dispatcher's looking at the numbers on his screen. He's not privy to the nature of the calls until he gets to them. He's not going to get to a four anytime soon when he's got a backlog of ones and twos and threes to send out to the men on the street."

"No question the operator dropped the ball," Amburgey mildly said. "But I think one can see how such a thing could have happened."

I was sitting so rigidly I was barely breathing.

Boltz resumed in the same dull tone, "It was some forty-five minutes later when a patrol car finally cruised past the Petersen residence. The officer says he shone his spotlight over the front of the house. The lights were out, everything looked, quote, 'secure.'

He gets a call of a domestic fight in progress, speeds off. It wasn't long after this Mr. Petersen apparently came home and found his wife's body."

The men continued to talk, to explain. References were made to Howard Beach, to a stabbing in Brooklyn, in which the police were negligent in responding and people died.

"Courts in D.C., New York, have ruled a government can't be held liable for failing to protect people from crime."

"Makes no difference what the police do or don't do."

"Doesn't matter. We win the suit, if there is one, we still lose because of the publicity."

I was scarcely hearing a word of it. Horrible images were playing crazily inside my mind. The 911 call, the fact it was aborted, made me see it.

I knew what happened.

Lori Petersen was exhausted after her ER shift, and her husband had told her he would be in later than usual that night. So she went to bed, perhaps planning to sleep just awhile, until he got home – as I used to do when I was a resident and waiting for Tony to come home from the law library at Georgetown. She woke up at the sound of someone inside the house, perhaps the quiet sound of this person's footsteps coming down the hallway toward the bedroom. Confused, she called out the name of her husband.

No one answered.

In that instant of dark silence that must have seemed an eternity, she realized there was someone inside the house and it wasn't Matt.

Panicking, she flicked on the bedside lamp so she could see to dial the phone.

By the time she'd stabbed out 911, the killer had gotten to her. He jerked the phone line from the wall before she had a chance to cry out for help.

Maybe he grabbed the receiver out of her hand. Maybe he yelled at her or she began to plead with him. He'd been interrupted, momentarily knocked off guard.

He was enraged. He may have struck her. This may be when he fractured her ribs, and as she cowered in stunned pain he wildly looked around. The lamp was on. He could see everything inside the bedroom. He could see the survival knife on her desk.

Her murder was preventable. It could have been stopped! Had the call been given a priority one, had it immediately been dispatched over the air, an officer would have responded within minutes. He would have noticed the bedroom light was on-the killer couldn't see to cut cords and tie up his victim in the dark. The officer might have gotten out of his car and heard something. If nothing else, had he taken the time to shine his light over the back of her house, the removed window screen, the picnic bench, the open window would have been noticed. The killer's ritual took time. The police might have been able to get inside before he killed her! My mouth was so dry I had to take several sips of coffee before I could ask, "How many people know this?"

Boltz replied, "No one's talking about it, Kay. Not even Sergeant Marino knows. Or at least it's doubtful he does. He wasn't on duty when the call was broadcast. He was contacted at home after a uniform man had already arrived at the scene. The word's out in the department. Those cops aware of what happened are not to discuss the matter with anyone."

I knew what that meant. Loose lips would send the guy back to traffic or stick him behind a desk in the uniform room.

"The only reason we're apprising you of this unfortunate situation" – Amburgey carefully chose his words – "is because you need the background in order to understand the steps we feel compelled to take."

I sat tensely, looking hard at him. The point of all this was about to be made.

"I had a conversation with Dr. Spiro Fortosis last night, the forensic psychiatrist who has been good enough to share his insights with us. I've discussed the cases with the FBI. It's the opinion of the people who are experts in profiling this type of killer that publicity exacerbates the problem. This type of killer gets off on it. He gets excited, hyper, when he reads about what he's done. It pushes him into overdrive."

"We can't curtail the freedom of the press," I bluntly reminded him. "We have no control over what reporters print."

"We do." Amburgey was gazing out the window. "They can't print much if we don't give them much. Unfortunately, we've given them a lot." A pause. "Or at least someone has."

I wasn't sure where Amburgey was going but the road signs definitely pointed in my direction.

He continued, "The sensational details – the leaks – we've already discussed have resulted in graphic, grisly stories, banner headlines. It's the expert opinion of Dr. Fortosis this may be what prompted the killer to strike again so soon. The publicity excites him, puts him under incredible stress. The urge peaks again and he has to find release in selecting another victim. As you know, there was only a week between the slayings of Cecile Tyler and Lori Petersen-"

"Have you talked to Benton Wesley about this?" I interrupted.

"Didn't have to. Talked to Susling, one of his colleagues at the Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico. He's well known in the field, has published quite a lot on the subject."

Thank God. I couldn't endure knowing Wesley had just been sitting in my conference room several hours before and had made no mention of what I was now being told. He would be just as incensed as I was, I thought. The commissioner was wedging his foot in the investigation. He was going around me, around Wesley, around Marino, and taking matters into his own hands.

"The probability that sensational publicity, which has been ignited by loose talk, by leaks," Amburgey went on, "the fact the city may be liable because of the 911 mishap, means we have to take serious measures, Dr. Scarpetta. All information dispensed to the public, from this point forward, will be channeled through Norm or Bill, as far as the police end of it goes. And nothing will be coming from your office unless it is released by me. Are we clear?"

There had never been a problem with my office before, and he knew it. We had never solicited publicity, and I'd always been circumspect when releasing information to the press.

What would the reporters – what would anybody – think when they were told they were being referred to the commissioner for information that historically had come from my agency? In the forty-two-year history of the Virginia medical examiner system, this had never happened. By gagging me it would appear I'd been relieved of my authority because I couldn't be trusted.

I looked around. No one would meet my eyes. Boltz's jaw was firmly set as he absently studied his coffee cup. He refused to grant me so much as a reassuring smile.

Amburgey began perusing his notes again. "The worst offender is Abby Turnbull, which isn't anything new. She doesn't win prizes for being passive."

This to me: "Are you two acquainted?"

"She rarely gets past my secretary."

"I see."

He casually flipped another page.

"She's dangerous," Tanner volunteered. "The Times is part of one of the biggest chains in the country. They have their own wire service."

"Well, there's no question that Miss Turnbull is the one doing the damage. All the other reporters are simply reprinting her scoops and kicking the stuff around on the air," Boltz slowly commented. "What we've got to find out is where the hell she's getting the goods."

This to me: "We'd be wise to consider all channels. Who else, for example, has access to your records, Kay?"

"Copies are sent to the CA and to the police," I replied evenly-he and Tanner were the CA and the police.

"What about the families of the victims?"

"So far I've gotten no requests from the women's families, and in cases such as these I most likely would refer the relative to your office."

"What about insurance companies?"

"If requested. But after the second homicide I instructed my clerks to refrain from sending out any reports, except to your office and to the police. The reports are provisional. I've been stalling for as long as possible to keep them out of circulation."

Tanner asked, "Anybody else? What about Vital Statistics? Didn't they used to keep your data on their mainframe, requiring you to send them copies of all your CME-1's and autopsy reports?"

Startled, I didn't respond right away. Tanner certainly had done his homework. There was no reason he should have been privy to such a mundane housekeeping concern.

"We stopped sending VS any paper reports after we became computerized," I told him. "They'll get data from us eventually. When they begin working on their annual report-" Tanner interrupted with a suggestion that had the impact of a pointed gun.

"Well, that leaves your computer."

He began idly swirling the coffee in his Styrofoam cup. "I assume you have very restricted access to the data base."

"That was my next question," Amburgey muttered.

The timing was terrible.

I almost wished Margaret hadn't told me about the computer violation.

I was desperately trying to think what to say as I was seized by panic. Was it possible the killer might have been caught earlier and this gifted young surgeon might still be alive had these leaks not occurred? Was it possible the anonymous "medical source" wasn't a person after all, but my office computer? I think it was one of the worst moments in my life when I had no choice but to admit, "Despite all precautions, it appears someone has gotten into our data. Today we discovered evidence that someone tried to pull up Lori Petersen's case. It was a fruitless attempt because she hasn't been entered into the computer yet."

No one spoke for a few moments.

I lit a cigarette. Amburgey stared angrily at it, then said, "But the first three cases are in there."

"Yes."

"You're sure it wasn't a member of your staff, or perhaps one of your deputy chiefs from one of the districts?"

"I'm reasonably sure."

Silence again. Then he asked, "Could it be whoever this infiltrator is, he may have gotten in before?"

"1 can't be sure it hasn't happened before. We routinely leave the computer in answer mode so either Margaret or I can dial in after hours. We have no idea how an outsider gained access to the password."

"How did you discover the violation?"

Tanner looked confused. "You discovered it today. Seems like you would have discovered it in the past if it's happened before."

"My computer analyst discovered it because the echo was inadvertently left on. The commands were on the screen. Otherwise we would never have known."

Something flickered in Amburgey's eyes and his face was turning an angry red. Idly picking up a cloisonne letter opener, he ran his thumb along the blunt edge for what seemed a long moment. "Well," he decided, "I suppose we'd better take a look at your screens. See what sort of data this individual might have looked at. It may not have anything to do with what's been in the papers. I'm sure this's what we'll discover. I also want to review the four strangling cases, Dr. Scarpetta. I'm getting asked a lot of questions. I need to know exactly what we're dealing with."

I sat helplessly. There was nothing I could do. Amburgey was usurping me, opening the private, sensitive business carried on in my office to bureaucratic scrutiny. The thought of him going through these cases, of him staring at the photographs of these brutalized, murdered women made me tremble with rage.

"You may review the cases across the street. They are not to be photocopied, nor are they to leave my office." I added coldly, "For security reasons, of course."

"We'll take a look at them now."

Glancing around. "Bill, Norm?"

The three men got up. As we filed out, Amburgey told his receptionist he would not be back today. Her gaze longingly followed Boltz out the door.

Chapter 7

We waited in the bright sun for a break in rush-hour traffic and hurried across the street. No one talked, and I walked several paces ahead of them, leading them around to the back of the building. The front doors would be chained by now.

Leaving them inside the conference room, I went to collect the files from a locked drawer in my desk. I could hear Rose shuffling paper next door. It was after five and she was still here. This comforted me a little. She was lingering because she sensed something bad was going on for me to have been summoned to Amburgey's office.

When I returned to the conference room, the three men had pulled their chairs close together. I sat across from them, quietly smoking and silently daring Amburgey to ask me to leave. He didn't. So I sat.

Another hour went by.

There was the sound of pages turning, of reports being riffled through, of comments and observations made in low voices. Photographs were fanned out on the table like playing cards. Amburgey was busily taking notes in his niggling, fussy scrawl. At one point several case files slid off Boltz's lap and splashed on the carpet.

"I'll pick it up."

Tanner unenthusiastically scooted his chair to one side.

"I've got it."

Boltz seemed disgusted as he began to collect the paperwork scattered under and around the table. He and Tanner were considerate enough to sort everything by the proper case numbers while I numbly looked on. Amburgey, meanwhile, continued to write as if nothing had happened.

The minutes took hours to go by, and I sat.

Sometimes I was asked a question. Mostly, the men just looked and talked among themselves as if I were not there.

At half past six we moved into Margaret's office. Seating myself before the computer, I deactivated answer mode, and momentarily the case screen was before us, a pleasing orange and blue construction of Margaret's design. Amburgey glanced at his notes and read me the case number of Brenda Steppe, the first victim.

Entering it, I hit the query key. Almost instantly, her case was up.

The case screen actually comprised more than half a dozen tables which were joined. The men began scanning the data filling the orange fields, glancing at me each time they were ready for me to page-down.

Two pages later, we all saw it at the same time.

In the field called "Clothing, Personal Effects, etc." was a description of what came in with Brenda Steppe's body, including the ligatures. Written in black letters as big as life was "tan fabric belt around neck."

Amburgey leaned over me and silently ran his finger across the screen.

I opened Brenda Steppe's case file and pointed out that this was not what I had dictated in the autopsy protocol, that typed in my paper record was "a pair of nude pantyhose around her neck."

"Yes," Amburgey jogged my memory, "but take a look at the rescue squad's report. A tan cloth belt is listed, is it not?"

I quickly found the squad sheet and scanned it. He was right. The paramedic, in describing what he had seen, mentioned the victim was bound with electrical cords around the wrists and ankles, and a "tannish cloth belt-like article" was around her neck.

Boltz suggested, as if trying to be helpful, "Perhaps one of your clerks was going through this record as she typed it, and she saw the squad sheet and mistakenly typed in the bit about the belt in other words, she didn't notice this was inconsistent with what you dictated in the autopsy report."

"It's not likely," I objected. "My clerks know to get the data only from the autopsy and lab reports and the death certificate."

"But it's possible," Amburgey said, "because this belt is mentioned. It's in the record."

"Of course it's possible."

"Then it's also possible," Tanner decided, "the source of this tan belt, which was cited in the paper, came from your computer. That maybe a reporter has been getting into your data base, or has been getting someone else to get into it for him. He printed inaccurate information because he read an inaccuracy in your office's data."

"Or he got the information from the paramedic who listed the belt in his squad report," I countered.

Amburgey backed away from the computer. He said coldly, "I'll trust you to do something to ensure the confidentiality of your office records. Get the girl who looks after your computer to change the password. Whatever it takes, Dr. Scarpetta. And I'll expect a written statement from you pertaining to the matter."

He moved to the doorway, hesitating long enough to toss back at me, "Copies will be given to the appropriate parties, and then it remains to be seen if any further measures will have to be taken."

With that he was gone, Tanner at his heels.

When all else fails, I cook.

Some people go out after a god-awful day and slam a tennis ball around or jog their joints to pieces on a fitness course. I had a friend in Coral Gables who would escape to the beach with her folding chair and burn off her stress with sun and a slightly pornographic romance she wouldn't have been caught dead reading in her professional world she was a district court judge. Many of the cops I know wash away their miseries with beer at the FOP lounge.

I've never been particularly athletic, and there wasn't a decent beach within reasonable driving distance. Getting drunk never solved anything. Cooking was an indulgence I didn't have time for most days, and though Italian cuisine isn't my only love, it has always been what I do best.

"Use the finest side of the grater," I was saying to Lucy over the noise of water running in the sink.

"But it's so hard," she complained, blowing in frustration.

"Aged parmigiano-reggiano is hard. And watch your knuckles, okay?"

I finished rinsing green peppers, mushrooms and onions, patted them dry and placed them on the cutting board. Simmering on the stove was sauce made last summer from fresh Hanover tomatoes, basil, oregano and several cloves of crushed garlic. I always kept a good supply in the freezer for times like these. Luganega sausage was draining on paper towels near other towels of browned lean beef. High-gluten dough was on the counter rising beneath a damp dish towel, and crumbled in a bowl was whole-milk mozzarella imported from New York and still packed in its brine when I'd bought it at my favorite deli on West Avenue. At room temperature the cheese is soft like butter, when melted is wonderfully stringy.

"Mom always gets the boxed kind and adds a bunch of junk to it," Lucy said breathlessly. "Or she buys the kind already made in the grocery store."

"That's deplorable," I retorted, and I meant it. "How can she eat such a thing?" I began to chop. "Your grandmother would have let us starve first."

My sister has never liked cooking. I've never understood why. Some of the happiest times when we were growing up were spent around the dinner table. When our father was well, he would sit at the head of the table and ceremoniously serve our plates with great mounds of steaming spaghetti or fettuccine or-on Fridays-frittata. No matter how poor we were, there was always plenty of food and wine, and it was always a joy when I came home from school and was greeted by delicious smells and promising sounds coming from the kitchen.

It was sad and a violation of tradition that Lucy knew nothing of these things. I assumed when she came home from school most days she walked into a quiet, indifferent house where dinner was a drudgery to be put off until the last minute. My sister should never have been a mother. My sister should never have been Italian.

Greasing my hands with olive oil, I began to knead the dough, working it hard until the small muscles in my arms hurt.

"Can you twirl it like they do on TV?" Lucy stopped what she was doing, staring wide-eyed at me.

I gave her a demonstration.

"Wow!"

"It's not so hard."

I smiled as the dough slowly spread out over my fists. "The trick is to keep your fingers tucked in so you don't poke holes in it."

"Let me do it."

"You haven't finished grating the cheese," I said with mock severity.

"Please…"

She got down from her footstool and came over to me. Taking her hands in mine, I bathed them with olive oil and folded them into fists. It surprised me that her hands were almost the size of mine. When she was a baby her fists were no bigger than walnuts. I remembered the way she would reach out to me when I was visiting back then, the way she would grab my index finger and smile while a strange and wonderful warmth spread through my breast. Draping the dough over Lucy's fists, I helped her flop it around awkwardly.

"It gets bigger and bigger," she exclaimed. "This is neat!"

"The dough spreads out because of the centrifugal force similar to the way people used to make glass. You know, you've seen the old glass windows with ripples in them?"

Nodding.

"The glass was spun into a large, flat disk-"

We both looked up as gravel crunched beneath tires in the drive. A white Audi was pulling in and Lucy's mood immediately began to sink.

"Oh," she said unhappily. "He's here."

Bill Boltz was getting out of the car and collecting two bottles of wine from the passenger's seat.

"You'll like him very much."

I was deftly laying the dough in the deep pan. "He very much wants to meet you, Lucy."

"He's your boyfriend."