he asked in a tone that told me he had no interest in venturing an inch farther into this gothic wasteland.
"I think we've had enough for one day."
I waded out of the kudzu as quickly as possible, my flesh crawling. The mention of snakes had done me in. I was on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack.
It was almost five, the woods gloomy with shadows as we headed back to the car. Every time a twig snapped beneath Marino's feet, my heart jumped. Squirrels scampering up trees and birds flying off branches were startling intrusions upon the eerie silence.
"I'll drop this off at the lab first thing in the morning," he said. "Then I gotta be in court. Great way to spend your day off."
"Which case?"
"The case of Bubba shot by his friend named Bubba, the only witness was another drone named Bubba."
"You're not serious."
"Hey," he said, unlocking the car doors, "I'm as serious as a sawed-off shotgun."
Starting the engine, he muttered, "I'm starting to hate this job, Doc. I swear, I really am."
"At the moment you hate the whole world, Marino."
"No, I don't," he said, and he actually laughed. "I like you all right."
The last day of January began when the morning's mail brought an official communication from Pat Harvey. Brief and to the point, it stated that if copies of her daughter's autopsy and toxicology reports were not received by the end of the following week, she would get a court order. A copy of the letter had been sent to my immediate boss, the Commissioner of Health and Human Services, whose secretary was on the phone within the hour summoning me to his office.
While autopsies awaited me downstairs, I left the building and made the short walk along Franklin to Main Street Station, which had been vacant for years, then converted into a short-lived shopping mall before the state had purchased it. In a sense, the historic red building with its clock tower and red tile roof had become a train station again, a temporary stop for state employees forced to relocate while the Madison Building was stripped of asbestos and renovated. The Governor hod appointed Dr. Paul Sessions commissioner two years before, and though face-to-face meetings with my new boss were infrequent, they were pleasant enough. I had a feeling today might prove a different story. His secretary had sounded apologetic em the phone, as if she knew I were being called in to be gaffed.
The commissioner resided in a suite of offices on the second level, accessible by a marble stairway worn smooth by travelers scuffing; up and down steps in an era long past. The spaces the commissioner had appropriated had once been a sporting goods store and a boutique selling colorful kites and wind socks. Walls had been knocked out, plate glass windows filled in with brick, his offices carpeted, paneled, and arranged with handsome furnishings. Dr. Sessions was familiar enough with the sluggish workings of government to have settled into his temporary headquarters as if the relocation were permanent.
His secretary greeted me with a sympathetic smile that made me feel only worse as she swiveled around from her keyboard and reached for the phone.
She announced that I was here, and immediately the solid oak door across from her desk opened and Dr. Sessions invited me in.
An energetic man with thinning brown hair and large-framed glasses that swallowed his narrow face, he was living proof that marathon running was never intended for human beings. His chest was tubercular, body fat so low he rarely took his suit jacket off and frequently wore long sleeves in the summer because he was chronically cold. He still wore a splint on the left arm he had broken several months ago while running a race on the West Coast and getting tangled up in a coathanger that had eluded the feet of runners ahead of him and sent him crashing to the street. He was, perhaps, the only contender not to finish the race and end up in the newspapers anyway.
He seated himself behind his desk, the letter from Pat Harvey centered on the blotter, his face unusually stern.
"I assume you've already seen this?"
He tapped the letter with an index finger.
"Yes," I said. "Understandably, Pat Harvey is very interested in the results of her daughter's examination."
"Deborah Harvey's body was found eleven days ago. Am I to conclude you don't yet know what killed her or Fred Cheney?"
"I know what killed her. His cause of death is still, undetermined."
He looked puzzled. "Dr. Scarpetta, would you care to explain to me why this information has not been released to the Harvey's or to Fred Cheney's father?"
"My explanation is simple," I said. "Their cases are still pending as further special studies are conducted. And the FBI has asked me to withhold releasing anything to anyone."
"I see."
He gazed at the wall as if it contained a window to look out of, which it did not.
"If you direct me to release my reports, I will do so, Dr. Sessions. In fact, I would be relieved if you would order me to meet Pat Harvey's request."
"Why?"
He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear what I had to say.
"Because Mrs. Harvey and her husband have a right to know what happened to their daughter," I said. "Bruce Cheney has a right to hear what we do or don't know about his son. The wait is anguish for them."
"Have you talked to Mrs. Harvey?"
"Not recently."
"Have you talked to her since the bodies were found, Dr. Scarpetta?"
He was fidgeting with his sling.
"I called her when the identifications were confirmed, but I haven't talked with her since."
"Has she tried to reach you?"
"She has."
"And you have refused to talk to her?"
"I've already explained why I'm not talking to her," I said. "And I don't believe it would be polite for me to get on the phone and tell her that the FBI doesn't want me to release information to her."
"You haven't mentioned the FBI's directive to anyone, then."
"I just mentioned it to you."
He recrossed his legs. "And I appreciate that. But it would be inappropriate to mention this business to anybody else. Especially reporters."
"I've been doing my best to avoid reporters."
"The Washington Post called me this morning."
"Who from the Post?"
He began sorting through message slips as I waited uneasily. I did not want to believe that Abby would go behind my back and over my head.
"Someone named Clifford Ring."
He glanced up. "Actually, it's not the first time he's called, nor am I the only person he's attempted to milk for information. He's also been badgering my secretary and other members of my staff, including my deputy and the Secretary of Human Resources. I assume he's called you as well, which was why he finally resorted to administration, because, as he put it, - the medical examiner won't talk to me" "A lot of reporters have called. I don't remember most of their names."
"Well, Mr. Ring seems to think there's some sort of cover-up going on, something conspiratorial, and based on the direction of his questioning, he seems to have information that buttresses this."
Strange, I thought. It didn't sound to me as if the Post was holding off on investigating these cases, as Abby had stated so emphatically.
"He's under the impression," the commissioner continued, "that your office is stonewalling, and that it's therefore part of this so-called conspiracy."
"And I suppose we are."
I worked hard to keep the annoyance out of my voice. "And that leaves me caught in the middle. Either I defy Pat Harvey or the justice Department, and frankly, given a choice, I would prefer to accommodate Mrs. Harvey. Eventually, I will have to answer to her. She is Deborah's mother. I don't have to answer to the FBI."
"I'm not interested in antagonizing the justice Department," Dr. Sessions said.