It is easy to monitor the big dope’s office line, to secretly activate his speakerphone so it is like having an open mic in the room. Marino dictates everything, including his hell scenes, and Rose types them up because he can’t spell, has terrible grammar, rarely reads and is practically illiterate.
Joe feels a rush of euphoria as he taps cigar ash into a Coke can and logs into the PBX system. He accesses Marino’s office line, activates the speakerphone to see if he is in and up to something.
23
When Scarpetta agreed to serve as the consulting forensic pathologist for PREDATOR, she wasn’t enthusiastic about it.
She warnedBenton, tried to talk him out of it, repeatedly reminded him that the subjects of the research study don’t care if someone is a physician or a psychologist or a Harvard professor.
They’ll break your neck or smash your head against a wall just like they will anybody else, she said. There’s no such thing as sovereign immunity.
I’ve been around these people most of my life, he replied. That’s what I do, Kay.
You’ve never done it in this type of setting. Not at an Ivy League-affiliated psychiatric hospital that has historically never dealt with convicted murderers. You’re not only staring into the abyss, you’re installing lights and an elevator in it,Benton.
She hears Rose talking on the other side of the wall in her office.
“Where on earth have you been?” Rose is saying.
“So when am I taking you for that ride?” Marino replies loudly.
“I told you, I’m not getting on the back of that thing. I think there’s something wrong with your phone.”
“I’ve always had this fantasy of seeing you in black leather.”
“I went looking for you, and you weren’t in your office. Or, at least, you didn’t answer the door…”
“I ain’t been in there all morning.”
“But your line’s lit up.”
“No it ain’t.”
“It was a few minutes ago.”
“You checking on me again? I think you’re sweet on me, Rose.”
Marino goes on in his boisterous voice as Scarpetta reviews an e-mail she just got fromBenton, another recruitment ad that is to run in The Boston Globe and on the Internet.
HARVARDMEDICALSCHOOL-AFFILIATED RESEARCHERS ARE CURRENTLY STUDYING BRAIN STRUCTURE AND FUNCTION IN HEALTHY ADULTS AT THEMCLEANHOSPITALBRAINIMAGINGCENTER INBELMONT, MA.
“Go on now. Dr. Scarpetta’s waiting and you’re late again.” She hears Rose chastise Marino in her firm but affectionate way. “You need to quit the disappearing acts.”
YOU MAY QUALIFY FOR THE STUDY IF YOU:
* ARE AVAILABLE TO COME TOMCLEANHOSPITAL FOR FIVE VISITS
* HAVE NO HISTORY OF HEAD TRAUMA OR DRUG ABUSE
* HAVE NEVER BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH SCHIZOPHRENIA OR BIPOLAR DISORDER
Scarpetta scrolls through the rest of the ad, getting to the good part, a P.S. fromBenton.
You’d be amazed how many people think they’re normal. I wish the damn snow would stop. I love you.
Marino’s big presence fills the doorway.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Please shut the door,” Scarpetta says as she reaches for the phone.
He pulls it shut, takes a chair, not directly across from her but at an angle so he doesn’t have to look at her straight on as she sits at her big desk in her big leather chair. She knows about his tricks. She knows all about his gauche manipulations. He doesn’t like dealing with her from the other side of her big desk, but would prefer they were seated with nothing between them, like equals. She knows about office psychology, knows a lot more about it than he does.
“Just give me a minute,” she says.
BONG-BONG-BONG-BONG-BONG-BONG, the rapid sounds of a radio frequency pulse causing a magnetic field to excite protons.
In the MRI lab, the structure of another so-called normal’s brain is being scanned.
“Just how bad is the weather up there?” Scarpetta is saying over the phone.
Dr. Lane pushes the intercom button. “Are you all right?” she asks their latest research study subject for PREDATOR.
He claims to be normal. He probably isn’t. He has no idea the point is to compare his brain to a killer’s.
“I don’t know,” the normal’s unnerved voice answers.
“It’s okay,”Bentonis saying to Scarpetta over the phone. “If you don’t get delayed again. But tomorrow night it’s supposed to get bad…”
BWAWWH… BWAWWH… BWAWH… BWAWH…
“I can’t hear a damn thing,” he says in exasperation.
The reception is bad. Sometimes his cell phone doesn’t even ring in here, and he is distracted, frustrated, tired. The scan isn’t going well. Nothing has gone well today. Dr. Lane is dejected. Josh sits in front of his screen, bored.
“I don’t feel hopeful,” Dr. Lane says toBenton, a resigned look on her face. “Even with earplugs.”
Twice today, normal control subjects have refused to be scanned because they’re claustrophobic, a detail they failed to mention when they were accepted into the study. Now this control subject is complaining about the noise, says it sounds like electric bass guitars being played in hell. At least he’s creative.
“I’ll call before I take off,” Scarpetta is saying over the phone. “The ad looks fine, as fine as any of them look.”
“Thanks for the enthusiasm. We’re going to need a big response. The casualties are mounting. Must be something phobic in the air. Add to that, about one out of three normal subjects isn’t.”
“I’m not sure what’s normal anymore.”
Bentoncovers his other ear, walks around, trying to hear, trying to get a better signal. “I’m afraid a big case has come in, Kay. It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“How are we doing in there?” Dr. Lane asks over the intercom.
“Not good,” the subject’s voice comes back.
“They always do when we’re about to get together,” Scarpetta is saying above what now sounds like a hammer rapidly striking wood. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
“I’m really starting to freak out,” the normal subject’s voice says.
“This isn’t going to work.”Bentonlooks through the Plexiglas at the normal on the far side of the magnet.
He is moving his taped-down head.
“Susan?”Bentonlooks at her.
“I know,” Dr. Lane says. “I’m going to need to reposition him.”
“Good luck. I think he’s done,”Bentonsays.
“He’s destroyed the landmark,” Josh looks up and says.
“Okay,” Dr. Lane tells the normal control subject. “We’re going to stop. I’m coming in to get you out.”
“I’m sorry, man, I can’t take this,” the subject’s stressed voice sounds.
“Sorry. Another one bites the dust,”Bentonsays to Scarpetta over the phone as he watches Dr. Lane open the magnet room and head in to free their latest failure. “I just spent two hours evaluating this guy and bye-bye. He’s out. Josh?”Bentonsays. “Call someone to get him a taxi.”
Black leather creaks as Marino makes himself comfortable in his Harley gear. He goes out of his way to show how relaxed he is, slumped back in the chair, his legs spread.
“What ad?” he asks when Scarpetta hangs up.
“Just another research study he’s involved in up there.”
“Huh. What kind of study?” He says it as if he is suspicious of something.
“A neuropsychological study. How different types of people process different types of information, that sort of thing.”