"We already have big problems," he said as if this were the shot he'd been waiting to fire.
I began the incision.
"You just don't know it," he added.
"Then why don't you tell me what these big problems are, Chuck?" I said. I reflected back the dead man's skin, down to the subcutaneous layer. Ruffin watched me clamp cut edges together to keep the skin taut. I stopped what I was doing and looked across the table at him.
"Go on," I said. "Tell me:' "I don't think it's my place to tell you;' Ruffin said, and I saw something in his eyes that unnerved me. "Look, Dr. Scarpetta. I know I haven't been Johnny-on-the-spot. I know I've slipped off to go to job interviews and maybe just haven't been accountable like I should be. And I don't get along with Marino. I admit all of it. But I'll tell you what everyone else won't if you promise not to punish me for it."
"I don't punish people for being honest," I said, angry that he would even suggest such a thing.
He shrugged, and I caught a glint of self-satisfaction because he had rattled me and he knew it.
"I don't punish, period," I said. "I simply expect people to do what's right, and if they don't, they punish themselves. If you don't last in this job, it's your fault."
"Maybe I used the wrong word;" he replied, moving back to the counter and leaning against it, arms crossed. "I don't express myself as good as you do, that's for sure. I just don't want you to get upset with me for shooting straight with you. Okay?"
I didn't answer him.
"Well, everybody's sorry about what happened last year," he began his opening argument. "No one can imagine how you've dealt with it. Really. I mean, if someone did that to my wife, I don't know what I would do, especially if it was something like what happened to Special Agent Wesley."
Ruffin had always referred to Benton as "special agent;" which I'd always thought was rather silly. If anyone had been unpretentious, if not embarrassed by the title, it was Benton. But as I pondered Marino's derisive remarks about Ruffin's infatuation with law enforcement, I gained more understanding. My wispy, weak morgue supervisor had probably been in awe of a veteran FBI agent, especially one who was a psychological profiler, and it occurred to me that Ruffin's good behavior in those earlier days might have had more to do with Benton than me.
"It affected all of us, too," Ruffin was saying. "He used to come down here, you know, and order deli trays, pizza, joke around with us and shoot the breeze. A big, important guy like him not having any kind of attitude.. It blew my mind."
The pieces of Ruffin's past slipped into place, too. His father had died in an automobile accident when Ruffin was a child. He had been raised by his mother, a formidable, intelligent woman who taught school. His wife was very strong, too, and now he worked for me. I always found it fascinating that so many people returned to the scenes of their childhood crimes, repeatedly seeking out the same villain, which in this case was a female authority figure like me.
"Everybody's been treating you like we're walking on eggshells," Ruffin kept on making his case. "So no one's said anything when you don't pay attention, and all kinds of things are going on that you don't have a clue about."
"Like what?" I asked as I carefully turned a corner with the scalpel.
"Well, for one thing, we got a damn thief in the building," he retorted. "And I'm betting it's someone on our staff. It's been going on for weeks and you haven't done a thing about it."
"I didn't know about it until recently."
"Proving my point."
"That's ridiculous. Rose doesn't withhold information from me, " I said.
"People treat her with kid gloves, too. Face it, Dr. Scarpetta. To the office, she's your snitch. People don't confide in her."
I willed myself to concentrate as his words stung my feelings and my pride. I continued reflecting back tissue, careful not to buttonhole it or cut through it. Ruffin waited for my reaction. I met his eyes.
"I don't have a snitch," I said. "I don't need one. Every member of my staff has always known he can come into my office and discuss anything with me."
His silence seemed a gloating indictment. He continued his defiant, smug pose, enjoying this immensely. I rested my wrists on the steel table.
"I don't think it's going to be necessary to plead my case to anyone, Chuck," I said. "I think you're the only one on my staff who has a problem with me. Of course, I can understand why you might feel at odds with a woman boss when it appears that all of the power figures in your life have been women."
The gleam in his eyes blinked out at the touch of his switch. Then anger hardened his face. I resumed reflecting back slippery, fragile tissue.
"But I appreciate your expressing your thoughts," I said in a cool, calm way.
"It's not just my thoughts," he replied, rudely. "Fact is, everyone thinks you're on your way out."
"I'm glad you seem to know what everybody thinks," I replied without showing the fury I felt.
"It's not hard. I'm not the only one who's noticed how you don't do things the way you used to. And you know you don't. You've got to admit that."
"Tell me what I should admit."
He seemed to have a list all ready.
"Out-of-character things. Like working yourself into the ground and going to scenes you don't need to, so you're tired all the time and don't notice what's going on in the office. And then upset people call and you don't take time to talk to them like you used to."
"What upset people?" My self-control was about to snap. "I always talk to families, to anyone who asks, as long as the individual has a right to the information."
"Maybe you should check with Dr. Fielding and ask him how many of your calls he's taken, how many families of your cases he's dealt with, how much he's covered up for you. And then your thing on the Internet. That's what's really gone too far. It's sort of the last straw."
I-was baffled.
"What thing on the Internet?" I demanded.
"Your chats or whatever it is you do. To be honest, since I don't have a home computer and don't use AOL or anything, I haven't seen it for myself."
Bizarre, angry thoughts flew through my mind like a thousand starlings and overshadowed every perception I'd ever had about my life. A myriad of ugly, dark thoughts clung to my reason and dug in with their claws.
"I didn't mean to make you feel bad," Chuck said. "And I hope you know I understand how everything could get like this. After what you've been through."
I didn't want to hear another goddamn word about what I'd been through.
"Thank you for your understanding, Chuck," I said, my eyes piercing his until he looked away.
"We've got that case coming in from Powhatбn, and it should have been here by now, if you want me to check on it," he said, anxious to leave the room.
"Do that, and then get this body back in the fridge."
"Sure thing," he said.
The doors shut behind him, returning silence to the room. I reflected back the last of the tissue and placed it on the cutting board as frigid paranoia and self-doubt seeped under the heavy door of my self-confidence. I began anchoring the tissue with hatpins, stretching it and measuring and stretching. I set the corkboard inside the surgical pan and covered it with a green cloth and placed it inside the refrigerator.
I showered and changed in the locker room, and cleared my thoughts of phobias and indignation. I took a long enough break to drink a cup of coffee; it was so old, the bottom of the pot was black. I started a new coffee fund by giving my office administrator twenty dollars.
"Jean, have you been reading these chat sessions that I'm supposedly having on the Internet?" I asked her.
She shook her head but looked uncomfortable. I tried Cleta and Polly next and asked the same question.