“Damaged by, let’s say insects, for example.” Carley tapped the pencil loudly. “Sources have informed me that hair found in the Hannah Starr case shows evidence of damage, the sort of damage you see after death.” To the camera, “And this hasn’t been released to the public yet. We’re discussing it for the first time right here, right now, on my show.”
“Insect damage doesn’t necessarily mean the person who shed hair is dead.” Scarpetta answered the question, avoiding the topic of Hannah Starr. “If you naturally shed hair in your home, in your car, in your garage, the hair can be and in fact likely will be damaged by insects.”
“Maybe you can explain to our viewers how insects damage hair.”
“They eat it. Microscopically, you can see the bite marks. If you find hair with evidence of this type of damage, you generally assume the hair wasn’t shed recently.”
“And you assume the person is dead.” Carley pointed the pencil at her.
“Based on that finding alone, no, you couldn’t draw that conclusion.”
In the monitors: microscopic images of two human head hairs magnified 50X.
“Okay, Dr. Scarpetta, we have pictures you asked us to show our viewers,” Carley announced. “Tell us exactly what we’re looking at.”
“Postmortem root banding,” Scarpetta explained. “Or, in the words of the eminent trace evidence examiner Nick Petraco, an opaque ellipsoidal band which appears to be composed of a collection of parallel elongated air spaces along the hair shaft nearest the scalp.”
“Whew, let’s translate for the viewers, how ’bout it.”
“In the photos you’re looking at, it’s the dark area at the bulb-shaped root. See the dark banding? Suffice it to say, this phenomenon doesn’t occur in living people.”
“And these are Hannah Starr’s hairs we’re looking at,” Carley said.
“No, they’re certainly not.” If she walked off the set, it would only make matters worse. Just get through this, Scarpetta told herself.
“No?” A dramatic pause. “Then whose are they?”
“I’m simply showing examples of what the microscopic analysis of hair can tell us,” Scarpetta answered, as if the question was reasonable, when it absolutely wasn’t. Carley knew damn well the hair wasn’t from the Hannah Starr case. She knew damn well the image was generic, was from a PowerPoint presentation Scarpetta routinely gave at medicolegal death investigation schools.
“They’re not Hannah’s hairs, and they’re not related to her disappearance?”
“They’re an example.”
“Well, I guess this is what they mean by ‘the Scarpetta Factor.’ You pull some trick out of your hat to support your theory, which clearly is that Hannah’s dead, which is why you’re showing us hairs shed by a dead person. Well, I agree, Dr. Scarpetta,” Carley said slowly and emphatically. “I believe Hannah Starr is dead. And I believe it’s possible what happened to her is connected to the jogger who was just brutally murdered in Central Park, Toni Darien.”
In the monitors: a photograph of Toni Darien in tight pants and a skimpy blouse, bowling lanes in the background; another photograph-this one of her body at the crime scene.
Where the hell did that come from? Scarpetta didn’t show her shock. How did Carley get her hands on a scene photograph?
“As we know,” Carley Crispin said to the camera, “I have my sources and can’t always go into detail about who they are, but I can verify the information. Suffice it to say, I have information that at least one witness has reported to the NYPD that Toni Darien’s body was seen being dragged out of a yellow cab early this morning, that apparently a taxi driver was pulling her body out of his yellow cab. Are you aware of this, Dr. Scarpetta?” To the slow tempo of pencil tap-taps.
“I’m not going to talk about the Toni Darien investigation, either.” Scarpetta tried not to get distracted by the scene photograph. It looked like one of the photos taken by an OCME medicolegal investigator this morning.
“What you’re saying is there’s something to talk about,” Carley said.
“I’m not saying that.”
“Let me remind everyone that Hannah Starr was last seen getting into a yellow taxi after she had dinner with friends in Greenwich Village the day before Thanksgiving. Dr. Scarpetta, you’re not going to talk about it, I know. But let me ask you something you should be able to answer. Isn’t part of the medical examiner’s mission prevention? Aren’t you supposed to figure out why somebody died so maybe you can prevent the same thing from happening to someone else?”
“Prevention, absolutely,” Scarpetta said. “And prevention sometimes requires that those of us responsible for public health and public safety exercise extreme caution about the information we release.”
“Well, let me ask you this. Why wouldn’t it be in the best interest of the public to know there might be a serial killer who’s driving a yellow cab in New York City, looking for his next victim? If you had access to a tip like that, shouldn’t you publicize it, Dr. Scarpetta?”
“If information is verifiable and would protect the public, yes, I agree with you. It should be released.”
“Then why hasn’t it been?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily know whether such information has or hasn’t been, or if it’s factual.”
“How is it possible you wouldn’t know? You get a dead body in your morgue and hear from the police or a credible witness that a yellow taxi might be involved, and you don’t think it’s your responsibility to pass along the tip to the public so some other poor innocent woman doesn’t get brutally raped and murdered?”
“You’re straying into an area that is beyond my direct knowledge and jurisdiction,” Scarpetta replied. “The function of the medical examiner is to determine cause and manner of death, to supply objective information to those whose job it is to enforce the law. It’s not an expectation that the medical examiner should act as an officer of the court or release so-called tips based on information or possibly rumors gathered and generated by others.”
The teleprompter was letting Carley know she had a caller on hold. Scarpetta suspected the producer, Alex Bachta, might be trying to derail what was happening, was alerting Carley to quit while she was ahead. Scarpetta’s contract had just been about as violated as it could get.
“Well, we have a lot to talk about,” Carley said to her viewers. “But first let’s take a call from Dottie in Detroit. Dottie, you’re on the air. How are things in Michigan? You folks glad the election’s over and we’ve finally been told we’re in a recession, in case you didn’t know?”
“I voted for McCain and my husband just got laid off from Chrysler and my name’s not-” A quiet, breathy voice sounded in Scarpetta’s earpiece.
“What’s your question?”
“My question’s for Kay. You know, I feel close to you, Kay. I just wish you could drop by and have coffee, because I know we’d be good friends and I’d love to offer you spiritual guidance you’re not going to get from any lab-”
“What’s your question?” Carley cut in.
“What kind of tests they might do to see if a body has begun decomposing. I believe they can test air these days with some kind of robot-”
“I haven’t heard anything about a robot,” Carley interrupted again.
“I wasn’t asking you, Carley. I don’t know what to believe anymore except forensic science certainly isn’t solving what’s wrong with the world. The other morning I was reading an article by Dr. Benton Wesley, who is Kay’s highly respected forensic psychologist husband, and according to him, the clearance rate for homicides has dropped thirty percent in the past twenty years and is expected to continue to plummet. Meanwhile, one out of every thirty adults or about that is in prison in this country, so imagine if we caught everybody else who deserves it. Where are we going to put them and how can we afford it? I wanted to know, Kay, if it’s true about the robot.”