Patricia Cornwell - The Bone Bed

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

I tell him to weigh the gastric contents and place some of it in formalin so we can process it histologically.

“An iodine test for starch, napthol for sugar, Oil Red O for lipids. Hopefully we can pick out identifiable food particles on the stereomicroscope.” I explain the special stains I’ll want used.

We are working side by side, our backs to the door.

“So I’m going to make evidence rounds to tox, to histology, to trace, with special instructions,” Luke goes down the list. “What about SEM?”

“Maybe for botanicals.” I’m vaguely aware of a shift in the air behind me. “For stomatal comparisons. For example, is it napa cabbage? Is it Chinese broccoli? Is it bok choy? Is there any evidence of arthropods such as shrimp? Are there cellular structures that might be oats? Are there cereal grains that might be wheat?”

Luke turns around, and then I do.

“I’m wondering how much longer,” Benton says, from the open door he holds.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” Luke replies, as if making a point.

“We’re actually finishing up now.” I meet Benton’s eyes, and his are wary.

“Find anything helpful?” He stands in the doorway.

“The long answer is undetermined for now, pending toxicology and further studies.” I untie my gown in back. “The short answer is I don’t know.”

“Not even a guess?” Benton stares at what’s on the table, and the reason he doesn’t come closer isn’t because of the odor or the ugliness.

He isn’t bothered by such things. He’s bothered by something else.

“I’m not going to guess about what killed her.” I toss my gloves and shoe covers into a biohazard can. “But I can give you a long list of what didn’t.”

twenty-two

HEAVY RAINS HAVE TURNED TORRENTIAL, THE VIOLENT storm unseasonable for fall, with high winds stripping trees of any leaves left and thunder cracking like a war going on. Water sprays the undercarriage of the SUV and splashes the glass, and Benton seems miles from me as I drive through the dark puddled streets of mid-Cambridge.

“It’s common sense that he can’t be involved,” he says from the passenger’s seat, where he’s alert to his surroundings and not looking at me.

“Whose common sense?” I try not to sound tense.

“Do you want him leaving his DNA inside her house?”

“Hopefully he wouldn’t, but of course not.” I try to sound reasonable.

Benton’s phone glows in the dark, and he types something on it.

“After he’s possibly already transferred his DNA to her personal effects, to her clothing?” He returns the phone to his lap. “Because I’m betting he handled all sorts of things.”

Wipers thud and the defrost blasts.

“I don’t care what protective shit he had on,” Benton then says. “These days you can get DNA from air.”

“Not quite,” I reply. “But he shouldn’t search her house.” I agree with that. “Although there’s no proof he knew her, ever met her, or had a clue someone stole her identity on Twitter. There’s no shred of evidence he’s done anything wrong.”

“It doesn’t look good.”

“It looks like what it is.” My anger glints. “Someone intended to implicate him.”

“We shouldn’t do anything to make it look worse.”

“So I lose my chief investigator because he got set up and made a fool of by whoever’s involved?” I’m frustrated, on the verge of furious, that the FBI suddenly assumes it has a say in how I run my office.

I’m angered by the suggestion that investigators I train leave their DNA everywhere.

“He was set up because he was an intended target,” I add.

“He needs to stay out of this case. He needs to stay away from the CFC for a while.”

“That’s what you think or what your colleagues think?” Lightning flashes and the sky looks bruised.

“It’s not for me to decide how Marino should be handled. It’s not appropriate for me to decide, in light of personal connections. In light of our history.” Benton doesn’t look at me, and I know when he’s wounded.

“It seems if anyone should decide, it’s the one who knows him best.”

“Yes, I know him,” he says.

“You certainly do. And your colleagues don’t.”

“Not the way I know him. You’re right about that. And maybe you should think about what I know.”

“I should think about what you know of Marino’s flaws.” It’s obvious what he’s alluding to, and I can’t stop this from where it’s going.

“Flaws. Christ,” he says.

“Don’t do this, Benton.”

“Yes, flaws,” he says.

“Goddammit, stop.”

“What a way to put it,” he says, in the voice of anger, of hurt.

“You’re finally paying him back?” I ask.

“Nothing more than a flaw or two.”

“You’re going to pay him back at last for a night when he was drunk and on medication?” I go ahead and say it. “When he was out of his mind?”

“The oldest excuse in the history of the world. Blame it on pills. Blame it on booze.”

“This isn’t helpful.”

“Plead insanity when you sexually assault someone.”

“Please don’t tell me what happened then has a bearing on decisions you’re making now,” I say to him. “I know you wouldn’t throw him to the wolves for a mistake he made years ago. One he couldn’t be sorrier for.”

“Marino throws himself to the wolves. He’s his own wolf.”

I drive past a construction site where bulldozers parked in muddy rivers of rainwater remind me of prehistoric creatures stranded, of floods, of life swept away. My every thought is dark and morbid and honed by the fear that Benton stood silently inside the doorway of the decomp room to send me a message. I fear the flaws he’s really talking about aren’t Marino’s. They’re mine.

“Please don’t punish him because of me,” I say quietly. “He’s not a predator. He’s not a rapist.”

Benton doesn’t respond.

“He’s certainly not a murderer.”

Benton is silent.

“Marino’s been framed; if nothing else he’s been discredited, been humiliated by Peggy Stanton’s killer.” I look at Benton as he stares straight ahead. “Please don’t use it as an opportunity to punish.” I mean as an opportunity to punish me.

The SUV splashes through water that has pooled in low-lying areas, broken branches littering the street, as neither of us speak, and the silence convinces me of what I suspect. The space between us is vast and empty, as rain billows in sheets and dead leaves dart and swarm in the dark like bats.

“He was set up, yes. That much I believe,” Benton finally says, almost wearily. “God knows why anyone would bother. He’s perfectly capable of setting himself up. He doesn’t fucking need help.”

“Where is he? I hope he’s not alone right now.”

“With Lucy. He’s managed to make his compromised position much worse because of his rude defensive behavior.”

I glance in the mirrors, my eyes watering in glaring headlights as cars go past.

“Acting like a defiant, uncooperative total jerk,” Benton continues, and his tone has changed, as if he let me know what he wants me to know, and it’s enough.

“I’m not surprised he’s beside himself,” I hear myself say, as I’m realizing something else entirely.

The observation windows that overlook the autopsy rooms didn’t enter my mind at the time.

“I can only imagine his embarrassment and anger,” I add, but that’s not what’s got my attention.

I didn’t think of the teaching labs. It never occurred to me that anybody might be in them with the lights turned off.

“He certainly can be his own worst enemy.” I keep talking while my thoughts course along a different track.