Patricia Cornwell - Predator

“You have it. The instant the rain stopped, you got the look. Whatever you’re feeling is on your face, Pete,” she says with emphasis. “I’m wondering if the look doesn’t trace all the way back toNew Jersey. What do you think?”

“I think this is garbage. I came to see you originally because I couldn’t quit smoking and was eating and drinking a little bit too much. I didn’t come see you because I got some stupid look on my face. No one’s ever complained about some stupid look on my face. Now my wife, Doris, she complained about me being fat and smoking and drinking a little bit too much. She never complained about a look on my face. She didn’t walk out on me because of a look. None of my women did.”

“What about Dr. Scarpetta?”

He tenses, a part of him always retreating when the subject of Scarpetta comes up. It isn’t accidental that Dr. Self has waited until the session is almost over before introducing the subject of Scarpetta.

“I should be at the morgue right now,” he says.

“As long as you’re not in the morgue,” she says lightly.

“I ain’t got a sense of humor today. I work a case and get cut out of it. The story of my life these days.”

“Did Scarpetta exclude you?”

“She didn’t get a chance. I didn’t want a conflict of interest, so I stayed away from the autopsy in case somebody wants to accuse me of something. Besides, it’s pretty obvious what killed the lady.”

“Accuse you of what?”

“People are always accusing me of something.”

“Next week, we’ll talk about your paranoia. It all goes back to the look on your face, it really does. You don’t think Scarpetta’s ever noticed the look on your face? Because I’m betting she has. You should ask her.”

“This is fucking bullshit.”

“Remember what we said about profanity. Remember our agreement. Profanity is acting out. I want you to tell me about your feelings, not act them out.”

“I feel this is fucking bullshit.”

Dr. Self smiles at him as if he is a naughty boy who needs to be spanked.

“I didn’t come see you because of a look on my face, a look you think I have that I don’t.”

“Why don’t you ask Scarpetta about it?”

“I feel a fucking hell no coming over me.”

“Let’s talk it out, don’t act it out.”

It pleases her to hear herself say it. She thinks of the way her radio shows are promoted: Talk It Out with Dr. Self.

“What really happened today?” she asks Marino.

“Are you kidding me? I walked in on an old lady who had her head blown off. And guess who the detective is?”

“I would assume it’s you, Pete.”

“I’m not exactly in charge,” he retorts. “If it was the old days I sure as hell would be. I told you before. I can be the death investigator and help out the Doc. But I can’t be in charge of the entire case unless the jurisdiction involved hands it over to me and no way Reba’s going to do that. She don’t know shit but she’s got a thing about me.”

“As I recall it, you had a thing about her until she was disrespectful, tried to put you down, based on what you told me.”

“She shouldn’t be a damn detective,” he exclaims, his face turning red.

“Tell me about it.”

“I can’t talk about my work. Not even with you.”

“I’m not asking for details about cases or investigations, although you can tell me anything you like. What goes on in this room never leaves this room.”

“Unless you’re on the radio or that new TV show you’re doing.”

“We’re not on the radio or TV,” she says with another smile. “If you want to be on either, I can arrange that. You would be so much more interesting than Dr. Amos.”

“Star fucker. Monkey ass.”

“Pete?” she warns him-nicely, of course. “I’m well aware you don’t like him, either, have paranoiac thoughts about him, too. Right now, there is no microphone, no camera in this room, just you and me.”

He looks around as if he’s not sure he believes her, then says, “I didn’t like that she talked to him right in front of me.”

“Him beingBenton. She being Scarpetta.”

“She makes me have a meeting with her and then gets on the phone with me sitting right there.”

“Rather much the way you feel when my answering machine clicks.”

“She could have called him while I wasn’t there. She did it on purpose.”

“It’s a habit of hers, isn’t it,” Dr. Self says. “Introducing her lover into the mix right in front of you when she must know the way you feel about it, about your jealousy.”

“Jealous? Of fucking what? He’s a rich-boy has-been FBI fortune-cookie profiler.”

“That’s not true, now is it. He’s a forensic psychologist on the faculty at Harvard, comes from a distinguishedNew Englandfamily. Sounds pretty impressive to me.”

She hasn’t metBenton. She would like to, would love to have him on her show.

“He’s a has-been. People who are has-beens teach.”

“I believe he does more than teach.”

“He’s a goddamn has-been.”

“Seems like most people you know are has-beens. Including Scarpetta. You’ve said that about her as well.”

“I call it like I see it.”

“I’m wondering if you might feel like a has-been.”

“Who me? You kidding? I can bench-press more than twice my body weight now and was running on the treadmill the other day. First time in twenty damn years.”

“We’re almost out of time,” she reminds him again. “Let’s talk about your anger towards Scarpetta. It’s about trust, isn’t it.”

“It’s about respect. About her treating me like shit and lying.”

“You feel she doesn’t trust you anymore because of what happened last summer at that place inKnoxvillewhere they do all that research on dead bodies. What’s it called? The Decay Research something or other.”

“The Body Farm.”

“Oh, yes.”

What an intriguing topic for discussion on one of her shows: The Body Farm Isn’t a Health Spa. What is Death? Talk It Out with Dr. Self.

She has already composed the promo.

Marino looks at his watch, makes a big production of lifting his thick wrist to see what time it is, as if it doesn’t bother him that their time is about up, as if he is looking forward to its being up.

She isn’t fooled.

“Fear,” Dr. Self begins her summary. “An existential fear of not counting, of not mattering, of being left utterly alone. When the day ends, when the storm ends. When things end. It’s scary when things end, isn’t it? Money ends. Health ends. Youthfulness ends. Love ends. Maybe your relationship with Dr. Scarpetta will end? Maybe she’ll finally reject you?”

“There’s nothing to end except work and that will go on forever because people are shits and will keep killing each other long after I got my little angel wings. I’m not coming here anymore and listening to this bullshit. All you do is talk about the Doc. I think it’s pretty obvious my problem isn’t her.”

“We do have to stop now.”

She rises from her chair and smiles at him.

“I quit taking that medicine you prescribed. A couple weeks ago, forgot to tell you.”

He gets up and his big presence seems to fill the room.

“It didn’t do nothing, so why bother,” he says.

When he is on his feet, she is always a bit startled by what a big man he is. His sun-darkened hands reminded her of baseball mitts, of baked hams. She can imagine him crushing someone’s skull or neck, of smashing another person’s bones like potato chips.

“We’ll talk about the Effexor next week. I’m seeing you…” She picks up the appointment book from her desk. “Next Tuesday at five.”

Marino stares through the open doorway, scanning the small sunroom with its one table and two chairs and potted plants, several of them palms that are almost as high as the ceiling. There are no other patients waiting. There never are this time of day.