Patricia Cornwell - Cause Of Death

I put my coat and gloves on, because I knew where I should go. I was about to let the front office know I was leaving, when my phone rang, and I picked it up in the ent it might be Lucy. But it was the Chesapeake police

chief, who told me his name was Steels and that he had just moved here from Chicago.

"I'm sorry this is the way we have to meet," he said, and he sounded sincere. "But I need to talk to you about a detective of mine named Roche."

"I need to talk to you about him, too," I said. "Maybe you can explain to me exactly what his problem is."

"According to him, the problem's you," he said.

"That's ridiculous," I said, unable to restrain my anger.

"To cut to the chase, Chief Steels, your detective is inappropriate, unprofessional and an obstruction in this investigation. He is banned from my morgue."

"You realize Internal Affairs is going to have to thoroughly investigate this," he said, "and I'm probably going to need you to come in at some point so we can talk to you., I

"Exactly what is the accusation?"

"Sexual harassment."

"That's certainly popular these days," I ironically said.

"However, I wasn't aware I had power over him, since he works for you, not me, and by definition, sexual harassment is about the abuse of power. But it's all moot since the roles are reversed in this case. Your detective is the one who made sexual advances toward me, and when they were not reciprocated, he's the one who became abusive."

Steels said after a pause, "Then it sounds to me like it's your word against his."

"No, what it sounds like is a lot of bullshit. And if he touches me one more time, I will get a warrant and have him arrested."

He was silent.

"Chief Steels," I went on, "I think what should be of glaring importance right now is a very frightening situation that is going on in your jurisdiction. Might we talk about Ted Eddings for a moment?"

He cleared his throat. "Certainly."

"You're familiar with the case?"

"Absolutely. I've been thoroughly briefed and am very familiar with it."

"Good. Then I'm sure you'll agree that we should investigate it to our fullest capacity."

"Well, I think we should look hard at everybody who dies, but in the Eddings case the answer's pretty plain to me."

I listened as I got only more furious.

"You may or may not know that he was into Civil War stuff-had a collection, and all. Apparently, there were some battles not so far from where he went diving, and it may be he was looking for artifacts like cannonballs."

I realized that Roche must have talked to Mrs. Eddings, or perhaps the chief had seen some of the newspaper articles Eddings supposedly had written about his underwater treasure hunts. I was no historian, but I knew enough to see the obvious problem with what was becoming a ridiculous theory.

I said to Steels, "The biggest battle on or near water in your area was between the Merrimac and the Monitor. And that was miles away in Hampton Roads. I have never heard of any battles in or near the part of the Elizabeth River where the shipyard is located."

"But Dr. Scarpetta, we really just don't know, do we?"

he thoughtfully said. "Could be anything that was fired, any garbage dumped and anybody killed at any place back then. It's not like there were television cameras or millions of reporters all over. Just Mathew Brady, and by the way, I'm a big fan of history and have read a lot about the Civil War. I'm personally of the belief that this guy, Eddings.

went down in that shipyard so he could comb the river bottom for relics. He inhaled noxious gases from his machine and died, and whatever he had in his hands-like a metal detector-got lost in the silt."

"I am working this case as a possible homicide," I firmly said.

"And I don't agree with you, based on what I've been told.

"I expect the prosecutor will agree with me when I speak to her."

The chief said nothing to that.

"I should assume you don't intend to invite the Bureau's Criminal Investigative Analysis people into this," I added.

"Since you have decided we're dealing with an accident."

"At this point, I see no reason in the world to bother the FBI. And I've told them that."

"Well, I see every reason," I answered, and it was all I COuld do not to hang up on him.

"Damn, damn, damn!" I muttered as I angrily grabbed my belongings and marched out the door.

Downstairs in the morgue office, I removed a set of keys from the wall, and I went outside to the parking lot and unlocked the driver's door of the dark-blue station wagon we sometimes used to transport bodies. It was not as obvious as a hearse, but it wasn't what one might expect to see in a neighbor's driveway, either. Oversized, it had tinted windows obscured with blinds similar to those used by funeral homes, and in lieu of seats in back, the floor was covered with plywood fitted with fasteners to keep stretchers from sliding during transport. My morgue supervisor had hung several air fresheners from the rearview mirror, and the scent of cedar was cloying.

I opened my window part of the way and drove onto Main Street, grateful that by now roads were only wet, and rush hour traffic not too bad. Damp, cold air felt good on my face, and I knew what I must do. It had been a while since I had stopped at church on my way home, for I thought to do this only when I was in crisis, when life had pushed me as far as I could go. At Three Chopt Road and Grove Avenue, I turned into the parking lot of Saint Bridget's, which was built of brick and slate and no longer kept its doors unlocked at night, because of what the world had become. But Alcoholics Anonymous met at this hour, and I always knew when I could get in and not be bothered.

Entering through a side door, I blessed myself with holy water as I walked into the sanctuary with its statues of saints guarding the cross, and crucifixion scenes in brilliant stained glass. I chose the last row of pews, and I wished for candles to light, but that ritual had stopped here with Vatican 11. Kneeling on the bench, I prayed for Ted Eddings and his mother. I prayed for Marino and Wesley. In my private, dark space, I prayed for my niece. Then I sat in silence with my eyes shut, and I felt my tension begin to ease.

At almost six P.m., I was about to leave when I paused in the narthex and saw the lighted doorway of the library down a hall. I wasn't certain why I was guided in that direction, but it did occur to me that an evil book might be countered by one that was holy, and a few moments with the catechism might be what the priest would prescribe.

When I walked in, I found an older woman inside, returning books to shelves.

"Dr. Scarpetta?" she asked, and she seemed both surprised and pleased.

"Good evening." I was ashamed I did not remember her name.

"I'm Mrs. Edwards."

I remembered she was in charge of social services at the church, and trained converts in Catholicism, which some days I thought should include me since it was so rare I went to Mass. Small and slightly plump, she had never seen a convent but still inspired the same guilt in me that the good nuns had when I was young.

"I don't often see you here at this hour," she said.

"I just stopped by," I answered. "After work. I'm afraid I missed evening prayer."

"That was on Sunday."

"Of course."

"Well, I'm so glad I happened to see you on my way out." Her eyes lingered on my face and I knew she sensed my need.

I scanned bookcases.

"Might I help you find something?" she asked.

"A copy of the catechism," I said.

She crossed the room and pulled one off a shelf, and handed it to me. It was a large volume and I wondered if I had made a good decision, for I was very tired right now and I doubted Lucy was in a condition to read.