Scarpetta makes notes as the captain recounts in detail his long interview with the gold-painted mime, who has what appears to be an infallible alibi: He was still performing in his same spot at the base of the Spanish Steps until late afternoon — long after Drew’s friends returned to look for her. He claimed to vaguely remember the girl, but he had no idea who she was, thought she was drunk, and then she wandered off. In summary, he paid little attention to her, he said. He is a mime, he said. He acted like a mime at all times, he said. When he’s not a mime, he works at night as a doorman at the Hotel Hassler, where Benton and Scarpetta are staying. At the top of the Spanish Steps, the Hassler is one of the finest hotels in Rome, and Benton insisted on staying there in its penthouse for reasons he has yet to explain.
Scarpetta has barely touched her fish. She continues to look at the photographs as if for the first time. She doesn’t contribute to Benton and Captain Poma’s argument about why some killers grotesquely display their victims. She adds nothing to Benton’s talk of the excitement these sexual predators derive from the headline news or, even better, from lurking nearby or in the crowd, watching the drama of the discovery and the panic that follows. She studies Drew’s mauled naked body, on its side, legs together, knees and elbows bent, hands tucked under the chin.
Almost as if she’s sleeping.
“I’m not sure it’s contempt,” she says.
Benton and Captain Poma stop talking.
“If you look at this”—she slides a photograph closer to Benton—“without the usual assumption in mind that this is a sexually degrading display, you might wonder if there’s something different. Not about religion, either. Not praying to Saint Agnes. But the way she’s positioned.” She continues to say things as they come to her. “Something almost tender about it.”
“Tender? You’re joking,” Captain Poma says.
“As in sleeping,” Scarpetta says. “It doesn’t strike me that she’s displayed in a sexually degrading way — victim on her back, her arms, her legs spread, et cetera. The more I look, I don’t think so.”
“Maybe,” Benton says, picking up the photograph.
“But nude for everyone to see,” Captain Poma disagrees.
“Take a good look at her position. I could be wrong, of course, just trying to open my mind to other interpretations, putting aside my prejudices, my angry assumptions that this killer is filled with hate. It’s just a feeling I’m getting. The suggestion of a different possibility, that maybe he wanted her found but his intention wasn’t to sexually degrade,” she says.
“You don’t see contempt? Rage?” Captain Poma is surprised, seems genuinely incredulous.
“I think what he did made him feel powerful. He had a need to overpower her. He has other needs that at this moment we can’t possibly know,” she says. “And I’m certainly not suggesting there’s no sexual component. I’m not saying there isn’t rage. I just don’t think these are what drive him.”
“Charleston must feel very lucky to have you,” he says.
“I’m not sure Charleston feels anything of the sort,” she says. “At least, the local coroner most likely doesn’t.”
The drunk Americans are getting louder. Benton seems distracted by what they’re saying.
“An expert like yourself right there. Very lucky is how I would consider it if I were the coroner. And he doesn’t avail himself of your talents?” Captain Poma says, brushing against her as he reaches for a photograph he doesn’t need to look at again.
“He sends his cases to the Medical University of South Carolina, has never had to contend with a private pathology practice before. Not in Charleston or anywhere. My contracts are with some of the coroners from outlying jurisdictions where there’s no access to medical examiner facilities and labs,” she explains, distracted by Benton.
He indicates for her to pay attention to what the drunk Americans are saying.
“…I just think when it’s undisclosed this and undisclosed that, it’s fishy,” one of them pontificates.
“Why would she want anybody to know? I don’t blame her. It’s like Oprah or Anna Nicole Smith. People find out where they are, they show up in droves.”
“How sickening. Imagine being in the hospital…”
“Or in Anna Nicole Smith’s case, in the morgue. Or in the damn ground…”
“…And mobs of people out there on the sidewalk, yelling out your name.”
“Can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen, is what I say. Price you pay for being rich and famous.”
“What’s going on?” Scarpetta asks Benton.
“It would seem our old friend Dr. Self had some sort of emergency earlier today and is going to be off the air for a while,” he replies.
Captain Poma turns around and looks at the table of noisy Americans. “Do you know her?” he asks.
Benton says, “We’ve had our run-ins with her. Mainly, Kay has.”
“I believe I read something about that when I was researching you. A sensational, very brutal homicide case in Florida that involved all of you.”
“I’m glad to know you researched us,” Benton says. “That was very thorough.”
“Only to make myself familiar before you came here.” Captain Poma meets Scarpetta’s eyes. “A very beautiful woman I know watches Dr. Self regularly,” he says, “and she tells me she saw her on the show last fall. It had something to do with her winning that very big tournament in New York. I admit I don’t pay much attention to tennis.”
“The U.S. Open,” Scarpetta says.
“I’m not aware Drew was on her show,” Benton says, frowning as if he doesn’t believe him.
“She was. I’ve checked. This is very interesting. Suddenly, Dr. Self has a family emergency. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her, and she has yet to respond to my inquiries. Perhaps you could intercede?” he says to Scarpetta.
“I seriously doubt that would be helpful,” she says. “Dr. Self hates me.”
They walk back, following Via Due Macelli in the dark.
She imagines Drew Martin walking these streets. She wonders who she encountered. What does he look like? How old is he? What did he do to inspire her trust? Had they met before? It was daylight, plenty of people out, but so far no witnesses have come forward with convincing information that they saw anybody who fit her description at any time after she left the mime. How can that be possible? She was one of the most famous athletes in the world, and not one person recognized her on the streets of Rome?
“Was what happened random? Like a lightning strike? That’s the question we seem no closer to answering,” Scarpetta says as she and Benton walk through the balmy night, their shadows moving over old stone. “She’s by herself and intoxicated, perhaps lost on some deserted side street, and he sees her? And what? Offers to show her the way and leads her where he can gain complete control of her? Perhaps where he lives? Or to his car? If so, he must speak at least a little English. How could no one have seen her? Not one person.”
Benton says nothing, their shoes scuffing on the sidewalk, the street noisy with people emerging from restaurants and bars, very loud, with motor scooters and cars that come close to running them over.
“Drew didn’t speak Italian, scarcely a word of it, so we’re told,” Scarpetta adds.
The stars are out, the moon soft on Casina Rossa, the stucco house where Keats died of tuberculosis at age twenty-five.
“Or he stalked her,” she goes on. “Or perhaps he was acquainted with her. We don’t know and probably never will unless he does it again and is caught. Are you going to talk to me, Benton? Or shall I continue my rather fragmented, redundant monologue?”
“I don’t know what the hell’s going on between the two of you, unless this is your way of punishing me,” he says.