Patricia Cornwell - The Scarpetta Factor

“I’m not going to help you with this.”

“Fucking Carley. She’s so damn competitive, so damn jealous of Nancy Grace, Bill Kurtis, Dominick Dunne. She’d better have something to back up what she just said, because people are flying all over us. I can’t imagine what tomorrow will be like. Interestingly enough, though, the yellow cab connection? Neither denied nor confirmed by NYPD. So, what do you make of that?”

“I’m not going to make anything of it,” Scarpetta said. “My job as a forensic analyst isn’t to help you work cases on the air.”

“It would have been better if we’d had B roll of the mechanical sniffer.” Alex shoved his fingers through his hair.

“I didn’t know the subject was going to come up. I’d been promised Hannah Starr wouldn’t come up. It was never a question that Toni Darien would. Good God. You know she’s an OCME case, was at my office this morning. You promised me, Alex. What happened to contracts?”

“I’m trying to envision what it looks like. Rather hard to take it seriously, some crime-busting tool called a sniffer. But then I suppose most police departments don’t have access to cadaver dogs.”

“You can’t bring in experts who are actively working criminal cases and allow this sort of thing to happen.”

“If you had explained cadaver dogs. That would have been amazing.”

“I would have been happy to go into detail about that, but not the other. You agreed the Starr case was off-limits. You know damn well the Toni Darien case is off-limits.”

“Look. You were great tonight, okay?” He met her eyes and sighed. “I know you don’t think so and you’re upset. I know you’re pissed, understandably. So am I.”

Scarpetta dropped her coat in a makeup chair and sat. “I probably should have resigned months ago, a year ago. Never done it to begin with. I promised Dr. Edison I would never discuss active cases, and he took me at my word. You’ve put me in jeopardy.”

“I didn’t. Carley did.”

“No, I did. I put myself in jeopardy when I of all people know better. I’m sure you can find some forensic pathologist or criminal ist who’d love to do this and would be happy to voice sensational opinions and speculations instead of being cautiously theoretical and objective the way I am.”

“Kay…”

“I can’t be a Carley. That’s not who I am.”

“Kay, The Crispin Report is in the toilet. Not just the ratings, but she’s being blasted by reviewers, by bloggers, and I’m getting complaints from the top, have been getting them for a while. Carley used to be a decent journalist, but no longer, that’s for damn sure. She wasn’t my idea, and in all fairness to the network, she’s known from the start this is an audition.”

“Whose idea was she, then? You’re the executive producer. What audition?”

“A former White House press secretary, she used to be a huge deal. I don’t know what’s happened. It was a mistake, and in all fairness, she knew the show was a trial run. For one thing, she promised to use her legitimate connections to get outstanding guests like you.”

“She’s gotten me because three times now you’ve put a gun to my head about it.”

“Trying to salvage what isn’t salvageable. I’ve tried. You’ve tried. We’ve given her every opportunity. Doesn’t matter whose idea, none of it matters, and her guests, other than you, suck, are bottom of the barrel, because who wants to go on with her? That fossil of a forensic psychiatrist Dr. Agee, if I have to listen to another second of his pedantic monologues. Bottom line in this business, one season that’s not so hot and maybe you try again. Two seasons and you’re out. In her case, the answer’s obvious. She belongs on some local news broadcast in a small town somewhere. Maybe doing weather or a cooking show or Ripley’s Believe It or Not! She sure as hell doesn’t belong on CNN.”

“I assume what you’re getting at is you’re canceling her,” Scarpetta said. “Not good news, especially this time of year and in this economy. Does she know?”

“Not yet. Please don’t mention anything. Look, I’ll get right to it.” He leaned against the edge of the makeup counter, dug his hands into his pockets. “We want you to take her place.”

“I hope you’re joking. I couldn’t possibly. And it’s not really what you want, anyway. I’m not a good fit for this sort of theater.”

“It’s theater, all right. Theater of the absurd,” Alex said. “That’s what she’s turned it into. Took her less than a year to completely fuck it up. We’re not at all interested in you doing the same sort of show, doing Carley’s bullshit show, hell, no. A crime show in the same time slot, but that’s where the similarities end. What we’ve got in mind is completely different. It’s been in discussion for a while now, actually, and all of us here feel the same way. You should have your own show, something perfectly suited to who and what you are.”

“Something suited to who and what I am would be a beach house and a good book, or my office on a Saturday morning when no one is around. I don’t want a show. I told you I would help out as an analyst only-and only if it didn’t interfere with my real life or do harm.”

“What we do is real life.”

“Remember our early discussions?” Scarpetta said. “We agreed that as long as it didn’t interfere with my responsibilities as a practicing forensic pathologist. After tonight, there can be no doubt it’s interfering.”

“You read the blogs, the e-mails. The response to you is phenomenal.”

“I don’t read them.”

“The Scarpetta Factor,” Bachta said. “A great name for your new show.”

“What you’re suggesting is the very thing I’m trying to get away from.”

“Why get away from it? It’s become a household word, a cliché.”

“Which is what I sure as hell don’t want to become,” she said, trying not to sound as offended as she felt.

“What I mean is, it’s the buzz. Whenever something seems unsolvable, people want the Scarpetta Factor.”

“Because you started the so-called buzz by having your people say it on the air. By introducing me that way. By introducing what I have to say that way. It’s embarrassing and misleading.”

“I’m sending a proposal over to your apartment,” Alex said. “Take a look and we’ll talk.”

Lights flickered in New Jersey like a million small flames, and planes looked like supernovas, some of them suspended in black space, perfectly still. An illusion, reminding Benton of what Lucy always said: When an aircraft seems motionless, it’s either heading directly toward you or directly away. Better know which it is or you’re dead.

He leaned forward tensely in his favorite oak chair in front of windows overlooking Broadway and left Scarpetta another message. “Kay, do not walk home alone. Please call me and I’ll meet you.”

It was the third time he’d tried her phone. She wasn’t answering and should have been home an hour ago. His impulse was to grab his shoes, his coat, and run out the door. But that wouldn’t be smart. The Time Warner Center and the entire area of Columbus Circle were vast. It was unlikely Benton would find her, and she’d get worried when she came in and discovered him gone. Better to stay put. He got out of his chair and looked south where CNN was headquartered, its gunmetal-gray glass towers checkered with soft white light.

Carley Crispin had betrayed Scarpetta, and city officials were going to be in an uproar. Maybe Harvey Fahley had contacted CNN, had decided to be an iReporter or whatever those people who became self-appointed television journalists were called. Maybe someone else claimed to have witnessed something, to have information, just as Benton had feared and predicted. But the details about decomposing head hairs found in a taxi wouldn’t have come from Fahley unless he’d made it up, was outright spinning lies. Who would say something like that? Hannah Starr’s hair hadn’t been found anywhere.