The Last Precinct - Cornwell Patricia (читаем книги онлайн TXT) 📗
"Chief Medical Examiner Suspected in Grisly Slaying," Marino reads the banner headline on the front page. "It's got a picture of you, too," he adds. "Looks like one maybe that bitch took out in front of your house. The lady that fell on the ice, remember? It shows you climbing in my truck. Pretty good of my truck. Not so hot of you…"
"Just tell me what it says," I interrupt him.
He reads the highlights as I hug the hard curves of Cherokee Road. A Richmond special grand jury is investigating me in the murder of Deputy Police Chief Diane Bray, the newspaper says. The revelation is described as shocking and bizarre and has local law enforcement reeling. Although Common- wealth's Attorney Buford Righter refused comment, unnamed sources say Righter instigated the investigation with great heartache after witnesses came forth with statements and police produced evidence that was impossible to ignore. Additional unnamed sources claim I was in a heated clash with Bray, who believed I was incompetent and no longer fit to be chief medical examiner of Virginia. Bray was trying to have me removed from office and told people before her murder that I had confronted her on several occasions and had bullied and threatened her. Sources say there are indicators pointing to the possibility that I staged Bray's murder to look like the brutal murder of Kim Luong and on and on and on.
By now I am on Huguenot Road in the thick of rush-hour traffic. I tell Marino to stop. I have heard quite enough.
"It goes on forever," he says.
"I'm sure it does."
"They must have been working on it all during the holidays 'cause it's got all kinds of shit about you and your background." I hear pages turning. "Even stuff about Benton and his death, and Lucy. There's this big sidebar with all your vital statistics, where you went to school. Cornell, Georgetown, Hopkins. The pictures on the inside are good. Even one of you and me together at a crime scene. Oh shit, it's Bray's crime scene."
"What about Lucy?" I ask.
But Marino is bewitched by publicity, by what must be huge photographs that include him and me working together. "I ain't never seen anything like this." More pages turning. "It just goes on and on, Doc. So far I've counted five bylines. They must've had the entire fucking news staff working this thing without our having a clue. Including an aerial shot of your house…"
"What about Lucy?" I ask with more force. "What does it say about Lucy?"
"Well, I'll be damned, there's even a photo of you and Bray out in the parking lot at Luong's scene, at the convenience store. Both of you look like you hate each other's guts…"
"Marino!" I raise my voice. It is all I can do to concentrate on my driving. "Okay, enough!"
A pause, then, "I'm sorry, Doc. Jesus, I know it's awful, but I didn't get a chance to look at much beyond the front page before I got hold of you. I had no idea. I'm sorry. I just never seen nothing like this unless somebody really famous suddenly dies."
Tears smart. I don't point out the irony of what he just said. I feel as if I have died.
"Let me look at this Lucy stuff," Marino is saying. "Pretty much what you'd expect. She's your niece but you've always been more like her mother, uh, graduated all-that-laude-shit from UVA, her DUI car wreck, fact she's gay, flies a helicopter, FBI, ATF, yeah, yeah, yeah. And that she almost shot Chandonne in your front yard. I guess that's the fucking point." Marino returns to his irritated self. As much as he picks on Lucy, he doesn't like it one bit if anybody else does. "Don't say she's on admin leave or that you're hiding out at Anna's house. Least there's something those assholes haven't dug up."
I inch closer to West Gary Street. "Where are you?" I ask him.
"HQ. About to head your way," he replies. "Because you're gonna have quite a welcome party." He means the press. "Thought you might like a little company. Plus, I got some stuff to go over with you. Also thought we might try a little trick, Doc. I'll get to your office first and ditch my car. You pull in front on Jackson Street instead of going around to the back lot off Fourth, hop out and go in and I'll park your car. Word from the troops_there's about thirty reporters, photographers, TV guys camping out at your parking place, waiting for you to show up."
I start to agree with him and then have second thoughts. No, I say. I am not about to start the charade of hiding, ducking and holding up files or my coat to hide my face from cameras as if I am a crime boss. Absolutely not. I tell Marino I will see him at my office, but I will park as usual and deal with the media. For one thing, my stubbornness has kicked in. For another, I don't see what I have to lose by going about my business as usual and simply telling the truth, and the damn truth is I didn't kill Diane Bray. I never even thought about it, although I certainly disliked her more than anyone else I have ever met in my life.
On 9th Street I stop at a red light and put on my suit jacket. I check myself in the rearview mirror to make sure I look reasonably glued together. I put on a dab of lipstick and comb my fingers through my hair. I turn on the radio, bracing myself for the first news spot. I anticipate that local stations will interrupt their programs frequently to remind everybody that I am the first scandal of the new millennium.
"… So, I gotta say this, Jim. I mean, talk about someone who could get away with the perfect murder…"
"No kidding. You know, I interviewed her once…"
I switch to a different station and then another one as I am mocked and degraded or simply reported on because someone has leaked to the media what is supposed to be the most secret and sacred of all legal proceedings. I wonder who violated his code of silence, and what is even sadder, several names come to mind. I don't trust Righter. I don't trust anyone he has contacted for telephone or bank records. But I have another suspect in mind_Jay Talley_and I am betting that he has been subpoenaed, too. I compose myself as I pull into my parking lot and see the television and radio vans lining 4th Street and the dozens of people waiting for me with cameras, microphones and notepads.
NOT ONE OF THE REPORTERS NOTICES MY DARK BLUE
Explorer because they aren't expecting it, and this is when I realize I have made a serious tactical error. I have been driving a rental car for days and it didn't occur to me until this moment that I might be asked why. I turn into my reserved space by the front door and am sighted. The pack moves toward me like hunters after big game, and I will myself to go into my role. I am the chief. I am reserved, poised and unafraid. I have done nothing wrong. I climb out and take my time gathering my briefcase and a stack of folders out of the backseat. My elbow aches beneath layers of elasticized wrappings, and cameras click and microphones point at me like guns cocking and finding their mark.
"Dr. Scarpetta? Can you comment about…?"
"Dr. Scarpetta…?"
"When did you find out a special grand jury is investigating you?"
"Isn't it true you and Diane Bray were at odds…?"
"Where's your car?"
"Can you confirm that you've basically been run out of your home and don't even have your own car right now?"
"Will you resign?"
I face them on the sidewalk. I am silent but steady as I wait for them to get quiet. When they realize I intend to address their questions I catch surprised looks and their aggression quickly settles down. I recognize many faces but can't remember names. I am not sure I have ever known the names of the media's real troops who gather the news behind the scenes. I remind myself they are simply doing their jobs and there is no reason for me to take any of this personally. That's right, nothing personal. Rude, inhumane, inappropriate, insensitive and largely inaccurate, but not personal. "I've no prepared statement," I start to say.
