Point of Origin

'I see that you are quite an investigator,' I said.

'Wouldn't you be if you were me?' he asked.

'Yes.'

Our eyes met and I read his pain. Tiny beads of sweat followed the line of his hair, and he talked as if his mouth were dry.

'Let's get back to the photos,' I said. 'Exactly why were these photos taken? Modeling for whom? Do you know?'

'Something local, as I vaguely recall it,' he said, staring past me out the window. 'I think she told me it might have been a Chamber of Commerce thing, something to help advertise the beach.'

'And she gave you all these for what reason?'

I continued slowly going through the pictures.

'Just because she liked you? Perhaps she wanted to impress you?'

He laughed ruefully.

'I wish those were the only reasons,' he replied. 'She knows I have influence, that I know people in the film industry and so on. And I'd like you to hang on to these photos, please.'

'So she was hoping you might help her career,' I said, looking up at him.

'Of course.'

'And did you?'

'Dr Scarpetta, it's a simple fact of life that I have to be careful of who and what I promote,' he stated candidly. 'And it would not have looked especially appropriate if I were handing around photos of my beautiful, young white lover in hopes that I might help her career. I tend to keep my relationships as private as possible.'

Indignation shone in his eyes as he fingered his coffee mug.

'It isn't me who broadcasts my personal life. Never has been. And I might add that you shouldn't believe everything you read.'

'I never do,' I said. 'I of all people know better than that, Kenneth. To be honest, I'm not as interested in your personal life as I am in knowing why you have chosen to give these photos to me instead of to Fauquier County investigators or ATF.'

He looked steadily at me, and then replied, 'For identification reasons I've already stated. But I also trust you, and that's the more important element in the equation. No matter our differences, I know you would not railroad anyone or falsely accuse.'

'I see.'

I was feeling more uncomfortable by the moment and frankly wished he would decide to leave so I didn't have to do it for him.

'You see, it would be far more convenient to blame everything on me. And there are plenty of people out there who have been after me for years, people who would love to see me ruined or locked up or dead.'

'None of the investigators I'm working with feel that way,' I said.

'It's not you or Marino or ATF I'm worried about,' he quickly replied. 'It's factions who have political power. White supremacists, militia types who are secretly in bed with people whose names you know. Trust me.'

He stared off, his jaw muscles knotting.

'The deck's stacked against me,' he went on. 'If someone doesn't get to the bottom of what happened here, my days are numbered. I know it. And anyone who can slaughter innocent, helpless horses can do anything.'

His mouth trembled and his eyes brightened with tears.

'Burning them alive!' he exclaimed. 'What kind of monster could do something like that!'

'A very terrible monster,' I said. 'And it seems there are many terrible monsters in the world these days. Can you tell me about the foal? The one I saw when I was at the scene? I assumed one of your horses somehow got away?'

'Windsong,' he verified what I expected as he wiped his eyes on his napkin. 'The beautiful little fella. He's actually a yearling, and he was born right on my farm, both parents were very valuable racehorses. They died in the fire.' He got choked up again. 'How Windsong got out I have no clue. It's just bizarre.'

'Unless Claire - if it is Claire - perhaps had him out and never got a chance to put him back in his stall?' I suggested. 'Perhaps she had met Windsong during one of her visits to your farm?'

Sparkes took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes. 'No, I don't think Windsong had been born yet. In fact, I remember Wind, his mother, was pregnant during Claire's visits.'

'Then Claire might have assumed that Windsong was Wind's yearling.'

'She might have figured that out.'

'Where is Windsong now?' I asked.

'Thankfully he was captured and is at Hootowl Farm, where he is safe and will be well taken care of.'

The subject of his horses was devastating to him, and I did not believe he was performing. Despite his skills as a public figure whose talent was to change polls and people, Sparkes could not be this good an actor. His self-control was about to collapse, and he was struggling mightily and about to succumb. He pushed back his chair and got up from my table.

'One other thing I should tell you,' he said as I walked him to the front door. 'If Claire were alive, I believe she would have tried to contact me, somehow. If nothing else, through a letter. Providing she knew about the fire, and I don't know how she couldn't have known about it. She was very sensitive and kind, no matter her difficulties.'

'When was the last time you saw her?' I opened the front door.

Sparkes looked into my eyes, and once again I found the intensity of his personality as compelling as it was disturbing. I could not abide the thought that he still somewhat intimidated me.

'I suppose a year ago or so.'

His silver Jeep Cherokee was in the drive, and I waited until he was inside it before I shut the door. I could not help but wonder what my neighbors might have thought had they recognized him in my driveway. On another occasion, I might have laughed, but I found nothing the least bit amusing about his visit. Why he had come in person instead of having the photographs delivered to me was my first important question.

But he had not been inappropriate in his curiosity about the case. He had not used his power and influence to try to manipulate me. He had not attempted to influence my opinions or even my feelings about him, at least not that I could tell.

11

I HEATED UP my coffee and returned to my study. For a while, I sat in my ergonomically correct chair and went through Claire Rawley's photographs again and again. If her murder was premeditated, then why did it just so happen to occur while she was somewhere she was not supposed to be?

Even if Sparkes's enemies were to blame, wasn't it a bit too coincidental for them to strike when she just happened to have showed up, uninvited, at his house? Would even the coldest racist burn horses alive, just to punish their owner?

There were no answers, and I began going through the ATF cases again, scanning page after page as hours sped by and my vision went in and out of focus. There were church burnings, residential and business fires, and a series of bowling alleys with the point of origin always the same lane. Apartments and distilleries and chemical companies and refineries had blazed into annihilation, and in all instances, the causes were suspicious even if arson could not be proven.

As for homicides, they were more unusual and usually perpetrated by the relatively unskilled robber or spouse who did not understand that when an entire family disappears and bone fragments turn up in a pit where trash is burned in the back, the police most likely will be called. Also, people already dead don't breathe CO or have bullets in them that show up on X-ray. By ten o'clock that evening, I had, however, come across two deaths that held my attention. One had happened this past March, the other six months before that. The more recent case had occurred in Baltimore, the victim a twenty-five-year-old male named Austin Hart who was a fourth-year medical student at Johns Hopkins when he died in a house fire not far off campus. He had been the only one home at the time because it was spring break.

According to the brief police narrative, the fire started on a Sunday evening and was fully involved by the time the fire department got there. Hart was so badly burned, he could be identified only by striking similarities of tooth root and trabecular alveolar bone points in antemortem and postmortem radiographs. The origin of fire was a bathroom on the first floor, and no electrical arcing, no accelerants were detected.