Page 6 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)
“… I cleaned and disinfected it and other jewelry. Also, scraps of soggy holiday wrapping paper and ribbon, four credit cards, a driver’s license, keys on a keychain attached to the silver metal figure of a runner. Inside the wallet was two hundred and ninety-eight dollars…”
I add that the cause of death is a “myocardial infarct due to hypertensive cardiovascular disease and atherosclerosis.”
I’m not sure of the manner yet. Maybe natural causes. But I don’t know. There are too many questions.
“… For now, it’s pending further investigation.
This provisional report was recorded by me on December twenty-fourth at five-fifteen p.m. I attest that all statements and conclusions are factual to the best of my knowledge.
Doctor Kay Scarpetta, chief medical examiner, the Commonwealth of Virginia. ”
I email the audio file to Shannon for transcription, and get up from my desk, shutting down the computer. I turn off the TV as the news shows images of the pier where Rowdy O’Leary was fishing, and then the stretch of the Potomac River where his body was found.
I’m working the thick plastic cover over my microscope when my fired former secretary Maggie Cutbush fills my doorway.
“Brilliant that you’re still here,” she says in her posh British accent.
Her designer briefcase is in one hand, and in the other a small package wrapped in gold paper and a black satin bow.
I can smell her expensive perfume as she walks into my office, her dyed blond hair short and stylish.
Her once pretty face is haughty and harsh, her arched eyebrows unnaturally dark, her lips fishlike from filler.
She’s quite the fashion statement in her shorn mink coat, and black rubber boots and pocketbook with the Chanel interlocking C’s logo emblazoned in front. I hear she’s often seen prowling the designer outlets in Tysons Corner.
“I’m on my way out before the weather gets any worse,” I let her know. “And you’d be wise to do the same.”
“Oh, no worries there,” she says with an imperious smile. “Elvin’s giving me a lift. His Porsche SUV has no trouble with snow.”
I walk to my conference table, my coat draped over a chair.
“I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, Kay,” Maggie adds, and that’s not why she’s here.
“What’s on your mind?” I make no pretense at being friendly.
“Before you leave the country, we need to discuss a few of your cases. Starting with Rowdy O’Leary. Let’s talk about what really happened to him,” she says as if in possession of information I don’t have.
“And why might we need to talk about him?” I begin putting on my coat, signaling it will be a quick conversation.
“I understand he was shooting his gun like a maniac, drinking while looking at pornography on his phone. All this while supposedly fishing on an old pier at night in the middle of winter, and that all by itself strikes me as a clear sign of mental illness.”
“What’s your interest in him, Maggie?”
“Well, clearly, this is someone who was very unstable,” she says with saccharine pity. “And no big surprise that he fell into the water and drowned. I mean, obviously he’s a drowning.”
“Where did you hear that he was looking at pornography?” I’m not giving her details.
“It’s my mission to gather information,” she says with her usual self-importance. “I happen to know what the police found on his phone. Most likely, Rowdy O’Leary’s death is simply and very tragically an accident.”
“It’s not for you to decide,” I reply.
“Do you have reason to suspect foul play?” she presses.
“You’ll have to ask the police that,” I tell her.
When they arrived at the pier after Rowdy O’Leary’s wife reported him missing, they found his truck and belongings undisturbed.
His fishing pole was in the rod holder, the line in the water, the small croaker on the hook likely caught postmortem.
It appears he polished off a six-pack of beer, the empties in his cooler.
There would be nothing suspicious about his death were it not for his .38 revolver and the two spent rounds in the cylinder. But I’m not going to bring that up to Maggie. None of this is any of her affair.
“I think of his poor family. Haven’t they been through enough?” she goes on with phony empathy. “Even the governor’s office is concerned.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m good friends with the chief of staff,” Maggie reminds me whenever she can. “Laverne has made it clear that the governor doesn’t want it to seem that the powers that be bully and harass decent citizens, especially those grieving. Especially this time of year.”
“Just spell it out, Maggie. What are you telling me?”
“That the governor expects you to close the O’Leary case, and let the family have what little peace they can.”
“I don’t understand why the governor would expect that.” I’m buttoning my coat.
“It’s not for you to understand, Doctor Scarpetta. Your job is to close the case. Instead of making a big thing of it like you usually do.”
“Not happening until I know more,” I reply. “For now, his manner of death is pending.”
“And you see, that’s the problem with you.” Maggie narrows her eyes. “You open something to speculation when you don’t make a swift and absolute decision. And next thing we know, the police and everyone else are on a wild-goose chase that causes a world of trouble.”
“Unlike some people, facts matter to me.” I look at her.
“Conspiracies are fueled by your inability to decide a case.”
“I don’t answer to you, Maggie.”
“Well, you do answer to the governor,” she replies sharply.
“Not when it comes to my findings.”
“Have it your way, then. But for all things there are consequences. I expect you to copy me on information.” She stares at me like a cobra. “Elvin and I need to see Rowdy O’Leary’s records, whatever you have.”
“You’re welcome to ask the police for any information they choose to share with DEP.” I make a point of using her bogus department’s vapid acronym.
Maggie drifts closer to my desk, eyeing stacks of case files on top of it.
“Please, stay away.” I’m not nice about it.
“It’s also been brought to my attention that old bones from that cemetery on Mercy Island have a disturbing story to tell.” Maggie brazenly stares at everything on my desk.
I step closer.
“Some poor young woman brutally killed,” she goes on. “Probably a patient from long ago. But we don’t really know since there’s no record of her. Terribly sad.”
“Yes, I understand you were quizzing Doctor Kingston in the anthropology lab,” I reply.
“Dana Diletti is doing a big story on Mercy Island, which is most unfortunate,” Maggie says, and I had no idea. “I happened to be talking to the director of Mercy Psychiatric Hospital, Graden Crowley. I believe you two are acquainted.”
“Not in a good way.” I tell her what she already knows.
“Graden mentioned that Dana Diletti’s producer has been calling, and he’s very unhappy,” Maggie explains. “Imagine what this could do to the hospital’s reputation.”
“Who leaked information about our cases to Dana Diletti?”
“Nothing we can do about it, of course. Freedom of the press.” Maggie won’t answer my question directly. “Some people are going to grandstand whenever possible. Especially if it makes them appear a crime crusader. All to win votes.”
She’s implying that Bose Flagler is the source, and that wouldn’t surprise me. Marino recently spotted him and Dana Diletti having dinner at the Old Hat Bar in Old Town Alexandria.
It’s Flagler’s modus operandi to insert himself into high-profile cases. He’ll do anything for publicity and would love a scandalous story about old murders on Mercy Island.
“Maggie, I’ve got to go.” I tie a silk scarf around my neck.
She comes closer, handing me the small gift-wrapped box. “A little something for the holidays.” She offers another condescending smile.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you.” I’m just as disingenuous.
I didn’t give her olive oil from Sicily when she showed up uninvited to my office Christmas luncheon. I have nothing for Elvin Reddy either, not even a card. Their Department of Emergency Prevention occupies the top floor of my building, and I never visit.
“How nice that you and Benton are off to England and France,” Maggie adds in her loaded way. “The advantages of marrying somebody with means. I imagine you’ll be staying in lovely hotels, everything top-drawer.”
She’s not going to leave until I open her gift. I rip the paper with impatient fingers while trying not to seem openly hostile. I don’t visibly react to the small French phrasebook while anger simmers beneath my skin.
“How thoughtful.” I smile, balling up the gift paper, free throwing into the nearest trash can.
“I know you speak Italian. But French is quite tricky.” Maggie’s eyes fasten on me triumphantly. “I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself.”