Patricia Cornwell - Red Mist

“A strange one, I’ll give you that,” he says. “But don’t ask me to be going down the road of cruel and unusual. I know what Berger’s spin on that one is, too, and how it’s all a nice neat puzzle she’s piecing together. Not nice, what am I saying? Meant to shock and repulse. It’s like she’s already rehearsing for the press conference, thinking of the inflammatory points she might make about how the condemned are tortured to death in Georgia.”

“It’s uncommon for someone awaiting execution to die suddenly in the holding cell outside the death chamber,” I remind him. “Especially since the person is supposed to be under surveillance every second.”

“And let’s be honest, Kay, she probably wasn’t watched every second,” he says. “I’m guessing she started feeling bad after eating. Maybe it was assumed to be indigestion at first, when in fact she was suffering the classic symptoms of a heart attack. And by the time the guards were sufficiently alarmed to call for medical assistance, it was too late.”

“This occurred very close to the time when she was supposed to be brought into the death chamber and prepped,” I reply. “Seems there would have been medical personnel on hand, including the physician who was to assist in the execution. One might expect that a doctor or at least someone from the death squad trained in CPR would have been nearby and able to respond quickly.”

“That might very well have been the irony of the century. A member of the death squad or the executioner himself resuscitates her long enough to kill her.” Colin gets up from his desk and hands me the box of lozenges. “In case you want more. I buy them by the truckload.”

“I assume it’s all right if Marino looks.”

“He works with you and you trust him, I got no problem. You’ll have one of my path techs with you at all times.”

Colin has to have someone in the room with me, not only for his protection but also for mine. He must be able to swear under oath that I couldn’t have planted a document in a file or taken something away with me.

“I’m also interested in clothing that you and the GBI might still have,” I add, as he walks me back down the hall, past offices of other forensic pathologists, the forensic anthropology and histology labs, past the break room, restrooms, and then the conference room is to our right.

“I assume you’re referring to the clothing Lola Daggette was washing in her bathroom at her halfway house? Or what the victims had on when they were murdered?”

“All of it,” I answer.

“Including what was submitted as evidence in the trial.”

“Everything.”

“I suppose I could take you to the house if you wanted.”

“I’ve seen it from the outside.”

“Possibly it could be arranged for you to go through it. I don’t know who lives there, and I doubt they’d be thrilled.”

“Not necessary at the moment, but I’ll let you know after I go through the cases.”

“I can set up a scope if you want to look at the original slides. Actually, Mandy can take care of that, Mandy O’Toole, who will be in there with you. Or we can do recuts, create a second set of slides, because, of course, I still have the tissue sections. If we do recuts, however, we’re creating new evidence. But whatever answers any questions you have.”

“Let me see what they are first.”

“The clothing is stored in various places. But most is in our labs. I don’t let anything get very far from my sight.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

“Don’t know if the two of you have met,” he says, as I notice a woman in blue scrubs and a lab coat just inside the conference-room doorway.

Mandy O’Toole steps out and shakes my hand. Around forty, I estimate, she’s tall and all legs like a colt and has long black hair tied back. She is attractive in an unusual way, her features asymmetrical, her eyes cobalt blue, giving her an appearance that is off-putting but compelling. Colin salutes me with his index finger and leaves me alone with her inside a modest-size room with a cherry-finish table surrounded by eight black leather chairs with tufted cushions. Abnormally thick windows set in sturdy aluminum frames overlook a parking lot enclosed by a tall chain-link fence, and beyond, a dark green pine forest stretches endlessly into the pale sky.

Jaime Berger’s not with you?” Mandy O’Toole moves to the far end of the table and takes a chair where there are a Vitaminwater and a BlackBerry with earphones.

“I believe she may be coming in later,” I reply.

“Now, that’s somebody with no off switch, and I guess that’s good if you do what she does. You know, everybody’s fair game.” Colin’s pathology technician begins talking about Jaime, as if I asked. “I ran into her in the ladies’ room when she came here a couple weeks ago and I’m washing my hands and she starts in about Barrie Lou Rivers’s adrenaline level. Did I notice anything histologically that might hint at a surge of adrenaline indicating stress and panic, like if she was being abused the night of her execution. And I said histology wouldn’t show something like that, because you can’t see adrenaline microscopically. That would require a special biochemical study.”

“Which was probably ordered, knowing Colin,” I comment.

“That’s him all right. No stone unturned. Blood, vitreous, cerebrospinal fluid, and I think that was the lab result Ms. Berger might have come across. Barrie Lou Rivers did have a moderately elevated level of adrenaline. But people are way too quick to read something into findings like that, don’t you agree?”

“People often are quick to read all sorts of things into findings that don’t necessarily mean what they assume they do,” I reply.

“Well, if someone’s suffering a catastrophic event like a heart attack or they’re choking on food, they certainly might panic and dump a lot of adrenaline antemortem,” she says, her blue stare unwavering. “I mean, if I was choking to death, I’m sure I’d have a lot of adrenaline pumping. Nothing to make a person more panic-stricken than not being able to breathe. Gee, it’s an awful thought.”

“Yes, it is.”

I wonder again what Jaime Berger has been circulating about me. She told Colin I visited Kathleen Lawler at the GPFW yesterday. What else has Jaime been saying? Why is Mandy O’Toole looking so intently at me?

“I used to watch you when you had that show on CNN,” she then says, and I realize the possible explanation for her interest. “I’m sorry you quit, because I thought it was really good. At least you offered some common sense about forensics and not all this screaming and sensationalism like some of the other shows. It must be cool to have your own show. If you ever have another one and need someone to talk about histology …”

“That’s very kind, but what I’m doing these days isn’t necessarily compatible with having a TV show.”

“Well, I’d jump at it if I was asked. But nobody wants to watch tissue processing. I guess the coolest part is removing the specimens from the body, you know what you get to do. Although finding the perfect fixative and knowing which one to use with what is kind of exciting.”

“How long have you worked with Colin?”

“Since 2003. The same year the GBI started becoming paperless. So you’re lucky or not with the Jordan cases, depending on how you look at it. Everything now is electronic, but it wasn’t back then in January 2002. I don’t know about you, but I still like paper. There’s always that one thing someone decided not to scan, except when it’s Colin. He’s crazy obsessive-compulsive. He doesn’t care if it’s a paper napkin that got mixed in with the paperwork, it goes into the file. He’s always saying the devil’s in the details.”