“Remember the tag line? ‘The closer he gets, the better you look’? The Body Farm’s not like that, Amanda. We’re the opposite. The closer you get, the worse we look. And the worse we smell.”
“I get it, I get it,” she said. “But we have to find some way to accommodate this journalist. It’s a legitimate news story. It might be slanted, it might be unfair, it might be unfavorable—”
“No ‘might be’ about it,” I snapped. “It’s a total hatchet job. I wish I knew who put her onto this, and why.”
“I’ve done some asking around,” she said. “Sounds like it was a disgruntled employee at the VA Hospital. They weren’t even going after you — they wanted the hospital to do better by dead and dying vets. It was the reporter who made the story about us.”
“So why do we even have to cooperate?”
“Because now it is about us, Bill. And even if it’s bad news, it’s news, and we’ve got to make a good-faith effort to cooperate. Otherwise, the story snowballs — it’s no longer just about these four dead veterans, it’s about us, about our secrecy and skullduggery. What other dark deeds might be going on behind that fence? We need a solution. How can we meet her halfway — give her something, but not give away the store?”
I sighed, although I’d guessed she might say something of the sort. “Okay,” I said. “There’s a guy in the public relations office. Name’s Buck. He’s done a few press releases about us. About our research, about forensic cases we’ve helped the police solve. Buck used to work for WBIR, and he’s asked me a couple times about shooting footage at the Body Farm. Wants to make a science documentary, for the Learning Channel or National Geographic or some such. How ’bout I take Buck over, let him get some shots, and give the footage to the Channel Four folks?”
“Good idea. Nothing too graphic, though.”
“Lord no,” I assured her. “Very… tasteful.”
“Eating,” she reminded me.
“Sorry. Very discreet. I’m thinking a fresh body — freshest we’ve got, anyhow — and some bare bones. A nice white skeleton.”
“I don’t think we should muddy the water with race,” she said.
“Huh? With what?”
“Race. You said ‘a nice white skeleton.’ I wouldn’t bring up race.”
I laughed. “The bones,” I said, “not the donor. White bones. Bare bones. Sun-bleached bones.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right. I knew that.”
Chapter 19
An hour after my phone calls with the dean and the legal eagle, I crossed the river, looped past the medical center, and threaded through the hospital employees’ parking lot. The lot was nearly full; the only unclaimed spaces were in the farthest corner, beside the high wooden fence surrounding the Body Farm. Those spots were almost never taken; they were the last resorts of hospital workers too late to be choosy — especially on hot summer days like this one, when the research facility gave new meaning — literal, eye-watering meaning — to the phrase “body odor.”
A single vehicle was parked in the normally vacant spots. But it was not parked between the lines, nose to the fence. Instead, it was parked parallel to the fence, straddling three parking places. It was a white Chevy Blazer labeled EYEWITNESS 4 NEWS, and on top of the Blazer was a tripod, and on top of the tripod was a video camera, and peering through the viewfinder was the cameraman from Channel 4. Perched beside him, looking almost comically incongruous in her tailored suit and power pumps, was my nemesis, Athena Demopoulos.
I stopped fifty yards away. Taking out my phone, I scrolled through my contacts to the number of the medical center police and pressed “call.” “Dis-patch,” answered a woman with an East Tennessee twang.
“This is Dr. Brockton,” I said. “There’s a television news crew parked outside the Body Farm. They’re up on top of their car with a video camera.”
“Yes, sir,” said the dispatcher, and to my surprise, she chuckled. “Emmett said he’d be sleeping on the sofa for a week if his wife saw him helping that gal get up there.”
“Emmett? Who’s Emmett? What are you talking about?”
“Emmett. Officer Edmonds. He had to boost that lady reporter up. It took a push to the tush, if you know what I mean.”
“Wait,” I said. “You’re telling me that one of your officers has already seen them? And helped them?”
“Well, yes, sir,” she said, suddenly sounding nervous. “She — the lady — she said you were on your way. Told them to meet you here. She told him you’d got snagged on a phone call with the chancellor or some other muckety-muck, but you said to go ahead and get started, and you’d be right there.” She paused. “Are you… not there?”
“I am here,” I said. “Would you please radio Officer Friendly and ask him to come right back?”
“Sir?”
“I need Emmett to escort his new girlfriend off the premises.”
“But she said—”
“I don’t give a damn what she said,” I snapped. “It’s not true. I didn’t tell them to meet me here, and I certainly don’t want them looking over my fence with a TV camera.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll send him right away.”
“Thank you.”
I hung up and pulled forward, tucking in behind the Blazer. Athena Demopoulos glanced my way, then muttered to her cameraman, who kept his eye glued to the viewfinder. As I was getting out, I heard the wail of a siren, and a police cruiser lurched to a screeching stop beside the Blazer. The door opened and a stocky young officer got out, his face flaming, his brow beaded with sweat. “Dr. Brockton, I’m so sorry,” he said. “She told me—”
“I know what she told you. She told you a lie.”
He walked to the Blazer. “Ma’am? Sir?” He rapped the rear windshield with his knuckles. “I need you to get down off your vehicle and leave the premises.”
Athena Demopoulos looked down, feigning innocence and surprise. “Is there a problem, Officer?” She was clearly stalling for time, and the cameraman kept shooting.
“Yes, ma’am. The problem is, you don’t have permission to be here filming. I need you to turn off the camera and get down off of there. Right now, please.”
“We don’t need permission,” she said. “This is public property.” Her colleague swiveled the camera slightly and adjusted his focus.
“No, ma’am,” the officer replied. “Technically — legally — UT Medical Center is private property. I’ve asked you, as nice as I know how, to shut off that camera and get down from there. I’m going to ask you one last time, and if you don’t do it by the time I count to three, I’ll arrest you for trespassing. One…” She laid her hand lightly on the cameraman’s shoulder; he held up a just-a-second finger. “Two…” She gave the shoulder a squeeze. “Three.” The officer touched the radio transmitter on his shoulder. “This is Officer Edmonds,” he said, his head angled toward the mike. “We have a trespassing incident at the Body Farm. I need backup.”
The cameraman straightened up and raised his hands. “Hey, everything’s cool,” he said. “No worries. Just takes a minute to power this thing down. We’re leaving right now, aren’t we, Athena?”
“Absolutely,” she said. She looked at Edmonds coyly. “Help me down?” Edmonds folded his arms across his chest and glared. She turned to me, raising her eyebrows. I shook my head slightly. “I guess it’s true.” She sighed. “Chivalry really is dead.”
“That’s right,” I said. “It died right after journalistic integrity gave up the ghost.”