Kay Scarpet - Cruel And Unusual Part 2

"He wants me to look at unusual injuries, possible mutilation."

"Christ. I hate it when itas kids."

Marino pushed back his chair and rubbed his temples. "d.a.m.n. Every time you get rid of one toad thereas another to take his place."

After Marino left, I sat on the hearth in the living room watching coals shift in the fireplace. I was weary and felt a dull, implacable sadness that I did not have the strength to chase away. Markas death had left a tear in my soul. I had come to realize, incredibly, just how much of my ident.i.ty had been tied to my love for him.

The last time I saw him was on the day he flew to London, and we managed a quick lunch downtown before he headed to Duller Airport. What I remembered most clearly about our last hour together was both of us glancing at our watches as storm clouds gathered and rain began to spit against the window beside our booth. He had a nick on his jaw from where head cut himself while shaving, and later, when I would see his face my mind, I would envision that small injury and fork some reason be undone by it.

He died in February while the war was ending in the Persian Gulf, and determined to put the pain behind me I had sold my house and moved to a new neighborhood. What I accomplished was to uproot myself without really going anywhere, and the familiar plants and neighbors that once had given me comfort were gone, Redecorating my new home or redesigning the yard only added to my stress. Everything I did provided distractions for which I had no time, and I could imagine Mark shaking his head.

"For someone so logicala" he would smile and say.

"And what would you do?" I would tell him in my thoughts some nights when I could not sleep. "Just what the h.e.l.l would you do if you were still here instead me?"

Returning to the kitchen, I rinsed out my gla.s.s and went into my study to see what awaited me on my answering machine. Several reporters had called, so had. my mother and Lucy, my niece. Three other messages, were hang ups.

I would have loved an unlisted number but it was not possible. The police, Commonwealthas Attorneys, the four hundred or so appointed medical examiners statewide had legitimate reasons to reach me after hours. To counter the loss of privacy, I used my answering machine to screen calls, and anyone who left threatening or obscene messages ran the risk of being tracked by Caller ID.

Pressing the review b.u.t.ton on the ID box, I began scrolling through the numbers materializing on the narrow screen. When I found the three calls I was looking for, I was perplexed and unsettled. The number was curiously familiar by now. It had been appearing on my screen several times a week of late when the caller would hang up without leaving a message. Once, I had tried dialing the number back to see who answered and had gotten the high-pitched tone of what sounded like a fax machine or a computer modem. For whatever reason, this individual or thing had called my number three times between ten-twenty and eleven P.M., while I was at the morgue waiting for Waddellas body. That didnat make sense. Computerized telephone solicitations should not occur so frequently and at such a late hour, and if one modem trying to dial another was getting me instead, shouldnat someone have figured out by now that his computer was dialing a wrong number?

I woke up several times during the few hours left of the early morning. Every creak or shift of sound in the house made my pulse pick up. Red lights on the burglar alarmas control panel across from the bed glowed ominously, and when I turned or rearranged the covers, motion sensors I did not arm while I was home watched me silently with flashing red eyes. My dreams were strange. At five-thirty I turned on lamps and got dressed. It was dark out and there was very little traffic as I drove to the office. The parking lot behind the bay was deserted and littered with dozens of small beeswax can dies that brought to mind Moravian love feasts and other religious celebrations. But these candles had been used to protest. They had been used as weapons hours before. Upstairs, I fixed coffee and began going through the paperwork Fielding had left for me, curious about, the contents of the envelope Iad found in Waddellas back pocket. I was expecting a poem, perhaps another meditation or a letter from his minister.

Instead, I discovered that what Waddell had considered "extremely confidential" and had wanted buried with him were cash register receipts. Inexplicably, five were for tolls; three others were for meals, including a fried chicken dinner ordered at a Shoneyas two weeks earlier.

2.

Detective Joe Trent would have looked quite youthful were it not for a beard and receding blond hair that was turning gray. He was trim and tall, a crisp trench coat belted tightly around his waist, his shoes perfectly shined. He blinked nervously as we shook hands and introduced ourselves on the sidewalk in front of Henrico Doctoras Emergency Center. I could tell he was upset by Eddie Heathas case.

"You donat mind if we talk out here a minute," he said, his breath turning white. "For privacy reasons."

Shivering, I tucked my elbows close to my sides as a Medflight helicopter made a terrific noise taking off from the helipad on a gra.s.sy rise not far from where we stood. The moon was a shaving of ice melting in the slate-gray sky, cars in the parking lots dirty from road salt and frigid winter rains. The early morning was stark and without color, the wind sharp like a slap, and I observed all this more keenly because of the nature of my business here. Had the temperature suddenly risen forty degrees and the sun begun to blaze I do not think I could have felt warm.

"What we got here is real bad, Dr. Scarpetta."

He blinked. "I think youall agree we donat want the details getting out."

"What can you tell me about this boy?" I asked.

"Iave talked to his family and several other people who know him. As best I can ascertain, Eddie Heath is just your average kid - likes sports and has a paper route, has never gotten into any trouble with the police. His father works for the phone company and his mother sews for people out of the home. Apparently, last night, Mrs. Heath needed a can of cream of mushroom soup for a ca.s.serole she was fixing for dinner and asked Eddie to run over to the Lucky Convenience Store to get it.a "The store is how far from their house?" I asked.

"A couple of blocks, and Eddies been there any number of times. The people working the counter know him by name."

"He was last seen at what time?"

"Around five-thirty P.M. He was in the store a few minutes and left."

"It would have been dark out," I said.

"Yes, it was."

Trent stared off at the helicopter transfigured by distance into a white dragonfly softly thudding through clouds. "At approximately eight-thirty, an officer on routine patrol was checking the back of buildings along Pattersom and saw the kid propped up against the Dumpster."

"Do you have photographs?"

"No, maaam. When the officer realized the boy was alive, his first priority was getting help. We donat have pictures. But Iave got a pretty detailed description based on the officeras observations. The boy was nude, and he was propped up, with his legs straight out and arms by his sides and head bent forward. His clothing was in a moderately neat pile on the pavement, along with a small bag containing a can of cream of mushroom soup and a Snickers bar. It was twenty-eight degrees out. Weare thinking he may have been left there anywhere from minutes to half an hour before he was found."

An ambulance halted near us. Doors slammed and metal grated as attendants quickly lowered the legs of a stretcher to the ground and wheeled an old man through opening gla.s.s doors. We followed and in silence walked through a bright, antiseptic corridor busy with medical personnel and patients dazed by the misfortunes that had brought them here. As we rode the elevator up to the third floor, I wondered what trace evidence had been scrubbed away and tossed in the trash.

"What about his clothes? Was a bullet recovered?" I asked Trent as the elevator doors parted.

"Iave got his clothes in my car and will drop them and his PERK off at the lab this afternoon. The bulletas still in his brain. They havenat gone in there yet. I hope like h.e.l.l they swabbed him good."

The pediatric intensive care unit was at the end of a polished hallway, panes of gla.s.s in the double wooden doors covered with friendly dinosaur paper. Inside, rainbows decorated sky blue walls, and animal mobiles were suspended over hydraulic beds in the eight rooms arranged in a semicircle around the nursesa station. Three young women worked behind monitors, one of them typing on a keyboard and another talking on the phone. A slender brunette dressed in a red corduroy jumper and turtleneck sweater identified herself as the head nurse after Trent explained why we were here.

"The attending physicianas not in yet," she apologized.

"We just need to look at Eddies injuries. It wonat take long," Trent said. "His family still in there?"

"They stayed with him all night."

We followed her through soft artificial light, past code carts and green tanks of oxygen that would not be parked outside the rooms of little boys and girls were the world the way it ought to be. When we reached Eddies room, the nurse went inside and shut the door most of the way..

"Just for a few minutes," I overheard her say to the Heaths. "While we do the exam."

"What kind of specialist is it this time?" the father asked in an unsteady voice.

"A doctor who knows a lot about injuries. Sheas sort of like a police surgeon."

The nurse diplomatically refrained from saying I was a medical examiner, or worse, a coroner.

After a pause, the father quietly said, "Oh. This is for evidence."

"Yes. How about some coffee? Maybe something to eat?"

Eddie Heathas parents emerged from the room, both of them considerably overweight, their clothes badly wrinkled from having been slept in. They had the bewildered look of innocent, simple people who have been told the world is about to end, and when they glanced at us with exhausted eyes I wished there were something I could say that would make it not so or at least a little better. Words of comfort died in my throat as the couple slowly walked off.

Eddie Heath did not stir on top of the bed, his head wrapped in bandages, a ventilator breathing air into his lungs while fluids dripped into his veins. His complexion was milky and hairless, the thin membrane of his eyelids a faint bruised blue in the low light. I surmised the color of his hair by his strawberry blond eyebrows. He had not yet emerged from that fragile prep.u.b.escent stage when boys are full-tipped and beautiful and sing more sweetly than their sisters. His forearms were slender, the body beneath the sheet small. Only the disproportionately large, still hands tethered by intravenous lines were true to his fledgling gender. He did not look thirteen.

"She needs to see the areas on his shoulder and leg," Trent told the nurse in a low voice.

She got two packet of gloves, one for her and one forme, and we put them on. The boy was naked beneath the sheet, his skin grimy in creases and fingernails dirty. Patients who are unstable cannot be thoroughly bathed.

Trent tensed as the nurse removed the wet-to-dry dressings from the wounds. "Christ," he said under his breath. "It looks even worse than it did last night. Jesus."

He shook his head and backed up a step.

If someone had told me that the boy had been attacked by a shark, I might have gone along with it were it not for the neat edges of the wounds, which clearly had been inflicted by a sharp, linear instrument, such as a knife or razor. Sections of flesh the size of elbow patches had been excised from his right shoulder and right inner thigh. Opening my medical bag, I got out a ruler and measured the wounds without touching them, then took photographs.

"See the cuts and scratches at the edges?"

Trent pointed. "Thatas what I was telling you about. Itas like he cut some sort of pattern on the skin and then removed the whole thing."

"Did you find any a.n.a.l tearing?" I asked the nurse.

"When I did a rectal temperature I didnat notice any tears, and no one noticed anything unusual about his mouth or throat when he was intubated. I also checked for old fractures and bruises."

"What about tattoos?"

"Tattoos?" she asked as if shead never seen a tattoo.

"Tattoos, birthmarks, scars. Anything that someone may have removed for some reason," I said.

"I have no idea," the nurse said dubiously.

"Iall go ask his parents."

Trent wiped sweat from his forehead.

"They may have gone to the cafeteria."

"Iall find them," he said as he pa.s.sed through the doorway.

"What are his doctors saying?" I asked the nurse.

"Heas very critical and unresponsive."

She stated the obvious without emotion.

"May I see where the bullet went in?" I asked.

She loosened the edges of the bandage around his head and pushed the gauze up until I could see the tiny black hole, charred around the edges. The wound was through his right temple and slightly forward.

"Through the frontal lobe?"

I asked.

"Yes."

"Theyave done an angio?"

"Thereas no circulation to the brain, due to the swelling. Thereas no electroencephalic activity, and when we put cold water in his ears there was no caloric activity. It evoked no brain potentials."

She stood on the other side of the bed, gloved hands by her sides and expression dispa.s.sionate as she continued to relate the various tests conducted and maneuvers instigated to decrease intracranial pressure. I had paid my dues in ERs and ICUs and knew very well that it is easier to be clinical with a patient who has never been awake. And Eddie Heath would never be awake. His cortex was gone. That which made him human, made him think and feel, was gone and was never coming back. He had been left with vital functions, left with a brain stem. He was a breathing body with a beating heart maintained at the moment by machines.

I began looking for defense injuries. Concentrating on getting out of the way of his lines, I was unaware I was holding his hand until he startled me by squeezing mine. Such reflex movements are not uncommon in people who are cortically dead. It is the equivalent of a baby grabbing your finger, a reflex involving no thought process at all. I gently released his hand and took a deep breath, waiting for the ache in my heart to subside.

"Did you find anything?" the nurse asked.

"Itas hard to look with all these lines," I said.

She replaced his dressings and pulled the sheet up to his chin. I took off my gloves and dropped them in the trash as Detective Trent returned, his eyes a little wild.

"No tattoos," he said breathlessly, as if he had sprinted to the cafeteria and back. "No birthmarks or scars, either."

Moments later we were walking to the parking deck. The sun slipped in and out, and tiny snowflakes were blowing. I squinted as I stared into the wind at heavy traffic on Forest Avenue. A number of cars had Christmas wreaths affixed to their grilles.

"I think youad better prepare for the eventuality of his death," I said.

"If Iad known that, I wouldnat have bothered you to come out. d.a.m.n, itas cold."

"You did exactly the right thing. In several days his wounds would have changed."

"They say all of Decemberas going to be like this. Cold as h.e.l.l and a lot of snow."

He stared down at the pavement. "You have kids?"

"I have a niece," I said.

"Iave got two boys. One of aemas thirteen."

I got out my keys. "Iam over here," I said.

Trent nodded, following me. He watched in silence as I unlocked my gray Mercedes. His eyes took in the details of the leather interior as I got in and fastened my seat belt. He looked the car up and down as if appraising a gorgeous woman.

"What about the missing skin?" he asked. "You ever seen anything like that?"

"Itas possible weare dealing with someone predisposed to cannibalism," I said.

I returned to the office and checked my mailbox, initialed a stack of lab reports, filled a mug with the liquid tar left in the bottom of the coffeepot, and spoke to no one. Rose appeared so quietly as I seated myself behind my desk that I would not have noticed her immediately had she not placed a newspaper clipping on top of several others centering the blotter.

"You look tired," she said. "What time did you come in this morning? I got here and found coffee made and you had already gone out somewhere."

"Henricoas got a tough one," I said. "A boy who probably will be coming in."

aEddie Heath."

"Yes," I said, perplexed. "How did you know?"

"Heas in the paper, too," Rose replied, and I noticed that she had gotten new gla.s.ses that made her patrician face less haughty.

"I like your gla.s.ses," I said. "A big improvement over the Ben Franklin frames perched on the end of your nose. What did it say about him?"

"Not much. The article just said that he was found off Patterson and that he had been shot. If my son were still young, no way Iad let him have a paper route."