“What you’re referring to is a detector that’s been dubbed a mechanical sniffer or electronic nose, and yes, you’re right,” Scarpetta said. “There is such a thing, and it’s used in place of cadaver dogs to search for clandestine graves.”
“This question’s for you, Carley. It’s a pity you’re so banal and rude. Just look at how you disgrace yourself night after-”
“Not a question.” Carley disconnected the call. “And I’m afraid we’re out of time.” She stared into the camera and shuffled papers on the desk-papers that were nothing more than a prop. “Join me tomorrow night on The Crispin Report for more exclusive details about the shocking disappearance of Hannah Starr. Is she connected to the brutal murder of Toni Darien, whose brutalized body was found in Central Park this morning? Is the missing link a yellow taxi, and should the public be warned? Talking with me again will be former FBI forensic psychiatrist Warner Agee, who believes both women may have been murdered by a violent sexual psychopath who could be a cabdriver in New York City and that city officials may be withholding this information to protect tourism. That’s right. Tourism.”
“Carley, we’re off the air.” A cameraman’s voice.
“Did we get that last part about tourism? I should have hung up on that woman sooner,” Carley said to the dark set. “I’m assuming there were a hell of a lot of callers on hold.”
Silence. Then, “We got the part about tourism. A real cliff-hanger, Carley.”
“Well, that should get the phones ringing around here,” Carley said to Scarpetta. “Thanks so much. That was great. Didn’t you think it was great?”
“I thought we had an agreement.” Scarpetta removed her earpiece.
“I didn’t ask you about Hannah or Toni. I made statements. You can’t expect me to ignore credible information. You don’t have to answer anything you’re uncomfortable with, and you handled yourself perfectly. Why don’t you come back tomorrow night? I’ll have you and Warner on. I’m going to ask him to work up a profile of the cabdriver,” Carley said.
“Based on what?” Scarpetta said heatedly. “Some antiquated anecdotal theory of profiling that isn’t based on empirical research? If Warner Agee has something to do with the information you just released, you’ve got a problem. Ask yourself how he would know it. He’s not remotely involved in these cases. And for the record, he was never an FBI profiler.”
Scarpetta unclipped her mike, got up from the table, and stepped over cables, heading out of the studio alone. Emerging into a brightly lit long hallway, she passed poster-size photographs of Wolf Blitzer, Nancy Grace, Anderson Cooper, and Candy Crowley, and inside the makeup room she was surprised to discover Alex Bachta sitting on a high swivel chair. He was staring blankly at a TV with the sound turned low as he talked on the phone. She retrieved her coat from a hanger in the closet.
“… Not that there was any doubt, but I’d agree, yes, a fait ac compli. We can’t have this sort of… I know, I know,” Alex said to whoever was on the line. “Got to go.”
He looked serious and tired in his rumpled shirt and tie as he hung up. Scarpetta noticed how gray his neatly trimmed beard was getting, how creased his face was, and the bags under his eyes. Carley had that effect on people.
“Don’t ask me again,” Scarpetta said to him.
Alex motioned for her to shut the door as lights on the phone began to flash.
“I quit,” she added.
“Not so fast. Have a seat.”
“You violated my contract. More important, you violated my trust, Alex. Where did you get the scene photograph, for God’s sake?”
“Carley does her own research. I had nothing to do with it. CNN had nothing to do with it. We had no idea Carley was going to say a fucking thing about yellow cabs and hairs being found. Jesus Christ, I hope it’s true. Huge headlines, well, that’s great. But it damn well better be true.”
“You hope it’s true there’s a serial killer driving a yellow cab in the city?”
“Not what I mean. Jesus, Kay. A damn hornet’s nest, the phones are going crazy. The NYPD deputy commissioner of public information is denying it. Categorically denying it. He said the detail about Hannah Starr’s decomposing head hair being found is unfounded, complete crap. Is he right?”
“I’m not going to help you with this.”
“Fucking Carley. She’s so damn competitive, so damn jealous of Nancy Grace, Bill Kurtis, Dominick Dunne. She’d better have something to back up what she just said, because people are flying all over us. I can’t imagine what tomorrow will be like. Interestingly enough, though, the yellow cab connection? Neither denied nor confirmed by NYPD. So, what do you make of that?”
“I’m not going to make anything of it,” Scarpetta said. “My job as a forensic analyst isn’t to help you work cases on the air.”
“It would have been better if we’d had B roll of the mechanical sniffer.” Alex shoved his fingers through his hair.
“I didn’t know the subject was going to come up. I’d been promised Hannah Starr wouldn’t come up. It was never a question that Toni Darien would. Good God. You know she’s an OCME case, was at my office this morning. You promised me, Alex. What happened to contracts?”
“I’m trying to envision what it looks like. Rather hard to take it seriously, some crime-busting tool called a sniffer. But then I suppose most police departments don’t have access to cadaver dogs.”
“You can’t bring in experts who are actively working criminal cases and allow this sort of thing to happen.”
“If you had explained cadaver dogs. That would have been amazing.”
“I would have been happy to go into detail about that, but not the other. You agreed the Starr case was off-limits. You know damn well the Toni Darien case is off-limits.”
“Look. You were great tonight, okay?” He met her eyes and sighed. “I know you don’t think so and you’re upset. I know you’re pissed, understandably. So am I.”
Scarpetta dropped her coat in a makeup chair and sat. “I probably should have resigned months ago, a year ago. Never done it to begin with. I promised Dr. Edison I would never discuss active cases, and he took me at my word. You’ve put me in jeopardy.”
“I didn’t. Carley did.”
“No, I did. I put myself in jeopardy when I of all people know better. I’m sure you can find some forensic pathologist or criminal ist who’d love to do this and would be happy to voice sensational opinions and speculations instead of being cautiously theoretical and objective the way I am.”
“Kay…”
“I can’t be a Carley. That’s not who I am.”
“Kay, The Crispin Report is in the toilet. Not just the ratings, but she’s being blasted by reviewers, by bloggers, and I’m getting complaints from the top, have been getting them for a while. Carley used to be a decent journalist, but no longer, that’s for damn sure. She wasn’t my idea, and in all fairness to the network, she’s known from the start this is an audition.”
“Whose idea was she, then? You’re the executive producer. What audition?”
“A former White House press secretary, she used to be a huge deal. I don’t know what’s happened. It was a mistake, and in all fairness, she knew the show was a trial run. For one thing, she promised to use her legitimate connections to get outstanding guests like you.”
“She’s gotten me because three times now you’ve put a gun to my head about it.”
“Trying to salvage what isn’t salvageable. I’ve tried. You’ve tried. We’ve given her every opportunity. Doesn’t matter whose idea, none of it matters, and her guests, other than you, suck, are bottom of the barrel, because who wants to go on with her? That fossil of a forensic psychiatrist Dr. Agee, if I have to listen to another second of his pedantic monologues. Bottom line in this business, one season that’s not so hot and maybe you try again. Two seasons and you’re out. In her case, the answer’s obvious. She belongs on some local news broadcast in a small town somewhere. Maybe doing weather or a cooking show or Ripley’s Believe It or Not! She sure as hell doesn’t belong on CNN.”