Four Scarpetta Novels (27 page)

“Again, you sound resentful of him.”

“Let's talk about the White Cave. We have to assume this killer makes symbolic associations,” Benton says.

“The deeper levels of consciousness,” Dr. Maroni says. “Buried childhood memories. Suppressed memories of trauma and pain. We might interpret the exploration of a cave as his mythological journey into the secrets of his own neuroses and psychoses, his fears. Something terrible happened to him, and it probably predates what he thinks is the terrible thing that happened to him.”

“What do you remember about his physical description? Did people who claimed to have seen him with the victim in the disco, the cave, or elsewhere give a physical description?”

“Young, wearing a cap,” Dr. Maroni tells him. “That's it.”

“That's it? Race?”

“In both the disco and the cave, it was very dark.”

“In your patient notes—right here, I'm looking at them—your patient mentioned meeting a Canadian woman in a disco. He said this the day after her body was found. Then you never heard from him again. What was his race?”

“He's white.”

“You say in your notes he indicated he had, and I quote, ‘left the girl on the roadside in Bari.'”

“At that time, it wasn't known that she was Canadian. She was unidentified. It was assumed she was a prostitute, as I said.”

“When you found out she was a Canadian tourist, you didn't make a connection?”

“Naturally, I was worried. But I had no proof.”

“Yes, Paulo, protect the patient. Nobody gave a shit about protecting the Canadian tourist, whose only crime was to have a little too much fun at a disco and meet someone she obviously liked and thought she could trust. Her vacation in southern Italy ends with an autopsy in a cemetery. She's lucky she wasn't buried in a pauper's grave.”

“You are very impatient and upset,” Dr. Maroni says to him.

“Maybe now that you have your notes in front of you, Paulo, your memory will be jogged.”

“I didn't release these notes to you. I can't imagine how you got them.” He has to say that repeatedly, and Benton has to play along.

“If you store patient notes in an electronic format on the hospital server, you might want to leave the file-sharing function off,” Benton says over the line. “Because if someone figures out what hard disk these very confidential files are on, they can be accessed.”

“The Internet is a treacherous place.”

“The Canadian tourist was murdered almost a year ago,” Benton says. “Same type of mutilation. Tell me how it is you didn't think of that case—didn't think of your patient—after what was done to Drew Martin? Chunks of flesh cut from the same area of the body. Nude, dumped in a place where it will be discovered quickly and shockingly. And no evidence.”

“It doesn't appear he rapes them.”

“We don't know what he does. Especially if he forces them to sit in a tub of cold water for God knows how long. I'd like to get Kay on the line. I called her right before I called you. Hopefully, she's at least glanced at what I sent.”

Dr. Maroni waits. He stares at the image on his screen as rain falls hard beyond his apartment and the canal rises. He opens the shutters far enough to see that the water is more than a foot deep on the sidewalks. He's grateful he has no need to go out today. Flooding is not the adventure for him that it seems to be for the tourists.

“Paulo?” Benton is back. “Kay?”

“I'm here.”

“She has the files,” Benton says to Dr. Maroni. “You're looking at the two photographs?” he says to Scarpetta. “And the other files?”

“What he did to Drew Martin's eyes,” she says right off. “No evidence of this with the woman murdered near Bari. I'm looking at her autopsy report. In Italian. I'm making out what I can. And I'm wondering why you have the autopsy report included in the file of this patient, the Sandman, I presume?”

“Clearly, he calls himself that,” Dr. Maroni says. “Based on Dr. Self's e-mails. And you've looked at some of them?”

“I'm looking now.”

“Why the autopsy report was in your patient's file,” Benton reminds him. “The Sandman's file.”

“Because I was concerned. But I had no proof.”

“Asphyxia?” Scarpetta questions. “Based on petechiae, and an absence of other findings.”

“Possible she could have been a drowning?” Dr. Maroni asks, the files Benton forwarded to him printed and on his lap. “Possible Drew was, too?”

“No, Drew absolutely wasn't. She was strangled with a ligature.”

“The reason I think of a drowning is the tub in Drew's case,” Dr. Maroni says. “And now this latest photograph of the woman in the copper tub. But I understand if I'm wrong.”

“You're wrong about Drew. But victims in tubs prior to death—or what we unfortunately assume is death—I agree. We have to consider drowning if we have no evidence otherwise. I will tell you with certainty,” Scarpetta repeats, “that Drew didn't drown. But this doesn't mean the victim from Bari didn't. And we can't know what's happened to this woman in the copper tub. We can't say she's even dead, although I'm afraid of it.”

“She looks drugged,” Benton says.

“I strongly suspect the three women in question have that in common,” Scarpetta says. “The victim in Bari was compromised, based on her alcohol level, which was three times the legal limit. Drew's was more than twice the legal limit.”

“Compromises them so he can control them,” Benton says. “So nothing would hint to you the victim in Bari was drowned? Nothing at all on the report? What about diatoms?”

“Diatoms?” Dr. Maroni asks.

“Microscopic algae,” Scarpetta says. “First, someone would have had to check, which isn't likely if drowning isn't suspected.”

“Why would it be? She was found alongside a road,” Dr. Maroni says.

“Second,” Scarpetta says, “diatoms are ubiquitous. They're in water. They're airborne. The only examination that might yield significant information is if bone marrow or internal organs are examined. And you're right, Dr. Maroni. Why would they have been? As for the victim in Bari, I'm suspicious she may have been a victim of opportunity. Perhaps the Sandman—from now on I'll refer to him as that…”

“We don't know how he referred to himself back then,” Dr. Maroni says. “My patient certainly never mentioned this name.”

“I'll call him the Sandman for the sake of clarity,” Scarpetta says. “Perhaps he was cruising bars, discos, tourist attractions, and it was her tragic misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Drew Martin, on the other hand, doesn't strike me as random.”

“We don't know that, either.” Dr. Maroni smokes his pipe.

“I think I do know that,” she says. “He began writing e-mails to Dr. Self about Drew Martin last fall.”

“Assuming he's the killer.”

“He sent Dr. Self the photograph of Drew in the tub that he took within hours of her murder,” Scarpetta says. “In my book, that makes him the killer.”

“Please tell me more about her eyes,” Dr. Maroni says to her.

“Based on this report, the killer didn't remove the Canadian victim's eyes. Drew's eyes were removed, the sockets filled with sand, the eyelids glued shut. Thankfully, based on what I know, it appears this was done postmortem.”

“Not sadism but symbolism,” Benton says.

“The Sandman sprinkles sand in your eyes and makes you go to sleep,” Scarpetta says.

“This is the mythology I point out,” Dr. Maroni says. “Freudian, Jungian, but relevant. We ignore the
depth psychology
of this case at our own peril.”

“I'm not ignoring anything. I wish you hadn't ignored what you knew about your patient. You worried he might have something to do with the tourist's murder and said nothing,” Benton says.

Debating. Hinting of mistakes and blame. The three-way conversation continues as the city of Venice floods. Then Scarpetta says she is in the middle of work at the labs, and if there is nothing more they need from her, she'll get off the phone. She does, and Dr. Maroni resumes his defense.

“That would have been a violation. I had no proof, no evidence whatsoever,” he says to Benton. “You know the rules. What if we ran to the police every time a patient makes violent allusions or references to violent acts that we have no reason to believe are true? We'd be reporting patients to the police daily.”

“I think your patient should have been reported, and I think you should have asked Dr. Self more about him.”

“I think you're not an FBI agent who can arrest people anymore, Benton. You're a forensic psychologist at a psychiatric hospital. You're on the faculty of Harvard Medical School. Your first loyalty is to the patient.”

“Maybe I'm not capable of that anymore. After two weeks of Dr. Self, I don't feel the same about anything. Including you, Paulo. You protected your patient, and now at least two other women are dead.”

“If he did it.”

“He did.”

“Tell me what Dr. Self did when you confronted her with these images. The one of Drew in the tub. The room looks Italian and old,” Dr. Maroni says.

“It would be in Rome or near Rome. It would have to be,” Benton says. “We can assume she was murdered in Rome.”

“And then this second image?” He clicks on a second file that was in Dr. Self's e-mail. A woman in a tub, this one copper. She appears to be in her thirties, with long, dark hair. Her lips are swollen and bloody, her right eye swollen shut. “What did Dr. Self say when you showed her this most recent image that the Sandman sent to her?”

“When it was sent, she was in the magnet. When I showed it to her later, it was the first time she'd seen it. Her main concern was we hacked—her word—into her e-mail and that we'd violated her legal rights, and we'd violated HIPAA because Lucy was the hacker—Dr. Self's accusation—and that means outsiders knew Dr. Self was a patient at McLean. How did Lucy get blamed, by the way? I wonder.”

“Curious she would, without hesitation, be blamed. I agree.”

“Have you seen what Dr. Self posted on her website? Supposedly a confessional by Lucy, talking freely about her brain tumor. It's everywhere.”

“Lucy did that?” Dr. Maroni is surprised. This he didn't know.

“She most assuredly didn't. I can only assume Dr. Self somehow discovered that Lucy comes to McLean for regular scans, and as part of her insatiable appetite to harass, she contrived this confessional on her website.”

“How is Lucy?”

“How do you think?”

“What else did Dr. Self say about this second image? The woman in the copper tub. We have no idea who she is?”

“So someone must have planted in Dr. Self's mind that Lucy got into her e-mail. Very strange.”

“The woman in the copper tub,” Dr. Maroni says again. “What did Dr. Self say when you confronted her on the steps in the dark? That must have been something.” He waits. Relights his pipe.

“I never said she was on the steps.”

Dr. Maroni smiles and puffs smoke as the tobacco in the pipe's bowl glows. “Again, when you showed this to her, what did she say?”

“She asked if the image is real. I said we can't know without seeing the files on the computer of the person who sent it. But it looks genuine. I don't see the telltale signs of something that's been tampered with. A missing shadow. An error in perspective. Lighting or weather that doesn't make sense.”

“No, it doesn't look tampered with,” Dr. Maroni says, studying it on his screen as the rain falls beyond his shutters and canal water splashes against stucco. “As much as I know about such a thing.”

“She insisted it could be a sick ruse. A sick joke. I said Drew Martin's photo is real, and it was more than a sick joke. She's dead. I voiced my concern that the woman in this second photo is also dead. It seems someone is talking to Dr. Self indiscriminately, and not just about this case. I wonder who.”

“And she said?”

“And she said it wasn't her fault,” Benton says.

“And now that Lucy has gotten us this information, she might know…” Dr. Maroni starts to say, but Benton gets there first.

“Where they're sent from. Lucy's explained it. Having access to Dr. Self's e-mail made it possible to trace the IP address of the Sandman. Just more proof she doesn't care. She could have traced the IP address herself or gotten someone else to do it. But she didn't. It probably never entered her mind. It traces to a domain in Charleston, specifically, the port.”

“This is most interesting.”

“You're so wide open and effusive, Paulo.”

“I'm not sure what you mean by that. ‘Wide open and effusive'?”

“Lucy talked to the port's IT, the guy who manages all of the computers, the wireless network, and so on,” Benton says. “What's important, according to her, is the Sandman's IP doesn't correspond to any MAC at the port. That's the Machine Address Code. Whatever computer the Sandman is using to send his e-mails, it doesn't seem to be one at the port, meaning it's unlikely he's an employee there. Lucy has pointed out several possible scenarios. He could be someone in and out of the port—on a cruise ship, a cargo ship—and when he docks, he hijacks the port's network. If that's the case, he must work for a cruise ship or cargo vessel that's been in Charleston at the port whenever he's sent Dr. Self e-mails. Every one of his e-mails—all twenty-seven that Lucy found in Dr. Self's inbox—were sent from the port's wireless network. Including this one she just got. The woman in the copper tub.”

“Then he must be in Charleston now,” Dr. Maroni says. “I hope you have the port under surveillance. This may be the way to catch him.”

“We must be careful, whatever we do. Can't involve the police right now. He'll be scared off.”