Patricia Cornwell - Point of Origin

I hurried back through the store with half a dozen of the magnesium starters in hand, and in my haste got tangled up in one section, then another. I wound through bowling balls and shoes, and baseball gloves, and ended up in swimming, where I was instantly captivated by a display of neon-colored swimming caps. One of them was hot pink. I thought of the residue found in Claire Rawley's hair. I had believed from the start that she had been wearing something on her head when she was murdered, or at least when the fire reached her.

A shower cap had been considered but briefly, for its thin, plastic material wouldn't have lasted five seconds in the heat. What had never entered my mind was a swimming cap, and as I quickly riffled through racks of them, I discovered that all were made of Lycra or latex or silicone.

The pink one was silicone, which I knew would hold up in extreme temperatures far better than the others. I purchased several of them. I drove back to my office and was lucky I didn't get a ticket because I was passing people, no matter the lane. Images seized my mind, and they were too painful and horrific to entertain. This was one time I hoped my theory was wrong. I was speeding back to the labs because I had to know.

'Oh Benton,' I muttered as if he were near me. 'Please don't let this be so.'

IT WAS ONE-THIRTY when I parked inside the bay again and got out of my car. I walked quickly to the elevator and keyed myself back up to the third floor. I was looking for Jerri Garmon, who had examined the pink residue in the beginning and reported to me that it was silicone.

Ducking into doorways, I located her inside a room housing the latest instrumentation used in analyzing organic substances, ranging from heroin to paint binders. She was using a syringe to inject a sample into a heated chamber of the gas chromatograph and did not notice me until I spoke.

'Jerri,' I said, and I was out of breath. 'I hate to disturb you but I've got something I think you'll want to look at.'

I held up the pink swimming cap. Her reaction was completely blank.

'Silicone,' I said.

Her eyes lit up.

'Wow! A swimming cap? Boy howdy. Who would have thought that?' she said. 'Just goes to show you, there's too much to keep up with these days.'

'Can we burn it?' I asked.

'This has got to run for a while anyway. Come on. Now you've got me curious, too.'

The actual trace evidence labs, where evidence was processed before it was routed through complicated instruments such as the SEM and mass spectrometer, was spacious but already running out of room. Scores of airtight aluminum paint cans used in the collection of fire debris and flammable residues were in pyramids on shelves, and there were big jars of granular blue Drierite, and petri dishes, beakers, charcoal tubes, and the usual brown paper bags of evidence. The test I had in mind was easy and quick.

The muffle furnace was in a corner and looked rather much like a small beige ceramic crematorium, the size of a hotel mini-bar, to be exact, that could heat up to as much as twenty-five-hundred degrees Fahrenheit. She turned it on, and a gauge very soon began registering its warming up. Jerri placed the cap inside a white porcelain dish not so different from a cereal bowl, and opened a drawer to get out a thick asbestos glove that would protect her up to her elbow. She stood poised with tongs while the temperature crept to a hundred degrees. At two hundred and fifty, she checked on our cap. It wasn't the least bit affected.

'I can tell you right now that at this temperature latex and Lycra would be smoking up a storm and beginning to melt,' Jerri let me know. 'But this stuff's not even getting tacky yet and the color hasn't changed.'

The silicone cap did not begin to smoke until five hundred degrees. At seven hundred and fifty, it was turning gray at the edges. It was getting tacky and beginning to melt. At not quite one thousand degrees, it was flaming and Jerri had to find a thicker glove.

'This is amazing,' Jerri said.

'Guess we can see why silicone's used for insulation,' I marveled, too.

'Better stand back.'

'Don't worry.'

I moved far out of harm's way as she pulled the bowl forward with tongs and carried our flaming experiment in her asbestos-covered hand. The exposure to fresh air fueled the fire more, and by the time she had placed it under a chemical hood and turned on the exhaust, the outer surface of the cap was blazing out of control, forcing Jerri to cover it with a lid.

Eventually, flames were suffocated, and she took off the lid to see what was left. My heart thudded as I noted papery white ash and areas of spared silicone that were still visibly pink. The swimming cap had not turned gooey or become a liquid at all. It simply had disintegrated until either cooling temperatures or an absence of oxygen or perhaps even a dousing with water had thwarted the process. The end result of our experiment was completely consistent with what I had recovered from Claire Rawley's long blond hair.

The image of her body in the bathtub, a pink swimming cap on her head, was ghastly, and its implication was almost more than I could comprehend. When the bathroom had gone to flashover, the shower door had caved in. Sections of glass and the sides of the tub had protected the body as flames shot up from the point of origin, engaging the ceiling. The temperature in the tub had never climbed above one thousand degrees, and a small telltale part of the silicone swimming cap had been preserved for the simple freakish reason that the shower door was old and made of a single thick sheet of solid glass.

As I drove home, rush hour traffic hemmed me in and seemed more aggressive the greater my hurry. Several times I almost reached for the phone, desperate to call Benton and tell him what I had discovered. Then I saw water and debris in the back corner of a burned-out grocery store in Philadelphia. I saw what was left of a stainless steel watch I had given to him for Christmas. I saw what was left of him. I imagined the wire that had confined his ankles, and handcuffs that had been locked with a key. I now knew what had happened and why. Benton had been killed like the others, but this time it was for spite, for revenge, to satisfy Carrie's diabolical lust to make him her trophy.

Tears blinded me as I pulled into my driveway. I ran, primitive sounds welling up in me as I slammed the front door behind me. Lucy emerged from the kitchen. She was dressed in khaki range pants and a black T-shirt, and holding a bottle of salad dressing.

'Aunt Kay!' she exclaimed, hurrying to me. 'What is it, Aunt Kay? Where's Marino? My God, is he all right?'

'It's not Marino,' I said chokily.

She slipped an arm around me and helped me to the couch in my great room.

'Benton,' I said. 'Like the others,' I moaned. 'Like Claire Rawley. A swimcap to keep her hair out of the way. The bathtub. Like surgery.'

'What?' Lucy was dazed.

'They wanted her face!'

I sprang up from the couch.

'Don't you understand?' I yelled at her. 'The nicks to bone at the temple, at the jaw. Like a scalping, only worse! He doesn't build fires to disguise homicide! He burns everything because he doesn't want us to know what he's done to them! He steals their beauty, everything beautiful about them, by removing their faces.'

Lucy's lips were parted in shock.

Then she stuttered, 'But Carrie? Now she's doing that?'

'Oh no,' I said. 'Not entirely.'

I was pacing and wringing my hands.

'It's like Gault,' I said. 'She likes to watch. Maybe she helps. Maybe she fucked things up with Kellie Shephard, or maybe Kellie simply resisted her because Carrie was a woman. Then there was a fight, the slashing and stabbing until Carrie's partner intervened and finally cut Kellie's throat, which is where the magnesium shavings were found. From his knife, not Carrie's. He's the torch, the fire builder, not Carrie. And he didn't take Kellie's face because it had been cut, ruined, during the struggle.'