Patricia Cornwell - Cause Of Death

"Shit. You think it was random?"

"No, I do not," I said.

I took the elevator up to the next floor and unlocked my office and the sight of Eddings' Christmas pepper surprised me like a blow. I could not leave it on the credenza, so I picked it up and then did not know where to move it. For a moment, I walked around, confused and upset, until I finally put it back where it had been, because I could not throw it out or subject some other member of my staff to its memories.

Looking through Rose's adjoining doorway, I was not surprised that she wasn't here. My secretary was advancing in years and did not like to drive downtown even on the nicest days. Hanging up my coat, I carefully looked around, satisfied that all seemed in order except for the cleaning job done by the custodial crew that came in after hours. But then, none of the sanitation engineers, as they were called by the state, wanted to work in this building. Few lasted long and none would go downstairs.

I had inherited my quarters from the previous chief, but beyond the paneling, nothing was as it had been back in those cigar-smoky days when forensic pathologists like Cagney nipped bourbon with cops and funeral home directors, and touched bodies with bare hands. My predecessor had not worried much about alternate light sources and DNA.

I remembered the first time I had been shown his space after he had died and I was being interviewed for his position. I had surveyed macho mementos he had proudly displayed, and when one of them turned out to be a silicone breast implant from a woman who had been raped and murdered, I had been tempted to stay in Miami.

I did not think the former chief would like his office now, for it was nonsmoking, and disrespect and sophomoric behavior were left outside the door. The oak furniture was not the state's but my own, and I had hidden the tile floor with a Sarouk prayer rug that was machine-made but bright.

There were corn plants and a ficus tree, but I did not bother with art, because like a psychiatrist, I wanted nothing provocative on my walls, and frankly, I needed all the space I could find for filing cabinets and books. As for trophies, Cagney would not have been impressed with the toy cars, trucks and trains I used to help investigators reconstruct accidents.

I took several minutes to look through my in-basket, which was full of red-bordered death certificates for medical examiner cases and green-bordered ones for those that were not. Other reports also awaited my initialing, and a message on my computer screen told me I needed to check my electronic mail. All that could wait, I thought, and I walked back out into the hall to see who else was here.

Only Cleta was, I discovered, when I reached the front office, but she was just who I needed to see.

"Dr. Scarpetta," she said, startled. "I didn't know you were here."

"I thought it was a good idea for me to return to Richmond right now," I said, pulling a chair close to her desk.

"Dr. Fielding and I are going to try to cover Tidewater from here."

Cleta was from Florence, South Carolina, and wore a lot of makeup and her skirts too short because she believed that happiness was being pretty, which was something she would never be. In the midst of sorting grim photographs by case number, she sat straight in her chair, a magnifying glass in hand, bifocals on. Nearby was a sausage biscuit on a napkin that she probably had gotten from the cafeteria next door, and she was drinking Tab.

"Well, I think the roads are starting to melt," she let me know.

"Good." I smiled. "I'm glad you're here."

She seemed very pleased as she plucked more photographs out of the shallow box.

"Cleta," I said, "you remember Ted Eddings, don't you?"

"Oh yes, ma'am." She suddenly looked as if she might cry. "He was always so nice when he would come in here. I still can't believe it." She bit her lower lip.

"Dr. Fielding says Eddings called down here the end of last week," I said. "I'm wondering if you might remember that."

She nodded. "Yes, ma'am, I sure do. In fact, I can't stop thinking about it."

"Did he talk to you?"

"Yes."

"Can you remember what he said?"

"Well, he wanted to speak to Dr. Fielding, but his line was busy. So I asked if I could take a message, and we kidded around some. You know how he was." Her eyes got bright and her voice wavered. "He asked me if I was still eating so much maple syrup because I had to be eating plenty of it to talk like this. And he asked me out."

I listened as her cheeks turned red.

"Of course, he didn't mean it. He was always saying, you know. "When are we going out on that date? He didn't mean it," she said again.

"It's all right if he did," I kindly told her.

"Well, he already had a girlfriend."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"He said he was going to bring her by sometime, and I got the impression he was pretty serious about her. I believe her name is Loren, but I don't know anything else about her."

I thought of Eddings engaging in personal conversations like this with my staff, and was even less surprised that he had seemed to gain access to me more easily than most reporters who called. I could not help but wonder if this same talent had led to his death, and I suspected it had.

"Did he ever mention to you what he wanted to talk to Dr. Fielding about?" I said as I got up.

She thought hard for a moment, absently rummaging through pictures the world should never see. "Wait a minute. Oh, I know. It was something about radiation. About hat the findings would be if someone died from that."

"What kind of radiations" I said.

"Well, I was thinking he was doing some sort of story on X-ray machines. You know, there's been a lot in the news lately because of all the people afraid of things like letter bombs."

I did not recall seeing anything in Eddings' house that might indicate he was researching such a story. I returned to my office and started on paperwork and began returning telephone calls. Hours later, I was eating a late lunch at my desk when Marino walked in.

"What's it doing out there?" I said, surprised to see him.

"Would you like half a tuna fish sandwich?"

Shutting both doors, he sat with his coat still on, and the look on his face frightened me. "Have you talked to Lucy?" he said.

"Not since I left the house." I put the sandwich down. "Why?"

"She called me-he glanced at his watch-"roughly an hour ago. Wanted to know how to get in touch with Danny so she could call him about her car. And she sounded drunk."

I was silent for a moment, my eyes on his. I looked away.

I did not ask him if he were certain because Marino knew about such matters, and Lucy's past was quite familiar to him.

"Should I go home?" I quietly asked.

"Naw. I think she's in some kind of mood and is blowing things off. At least she's got no car to drive."

I took a deep breath.

"Point is, I think she's safe at the moment. But I thought you should know, Doc."

"Thank you," I grimly said.

I had hoped my niece's proclivity to abuse alcohol was a problem she had left behind, for I had seen no worrisome signs since those early self-destructive days when she had driven drunk and almost died. If nothing else, her odd behavior at the house this morning in addition to what Marino had just revealed made me know that something was very wrong. I wasn't certain what to do.

"One other thing," he added as he got up. "You don't want her going back to the Academy like this."

"No," I said. "Of course not."

He left, and for a while I stayed behind shut doors, depressed, my thoughts like the sluggish river behind my house. I did not know if I was angry or frightened, but as I thought of the times I had offered wine to Lucy or gotten her a beer, I felt betrayed. Then I was almost desperate as I considered the magnitude of what she had accomplished, and what she had to lose, and suddenly other images came to me, too. I envisioned terrible scenes penned by a man who wanted to be a deity, and I knew that my niece with all her brilliance did not understand the darkness of that power. She did not understand malignancy the way I did.