Unnatural Exposure Page 10

  She nodded. “Let’s talk about your AOL profile.”

  “There’s nothing in it but my professional title, my office phone number and address,” I said. “I never entered personal details, such as marital status, date of birth, hobbies, et cetera. I have more sense than that.”

  “Have you checked out his profile?” she asked. “The one for deadoc?”

  “Frankly, it never occurred to me that he would have one,” I said.

  Depressed, I thought of saw marks I could not tell apart, and felt I had made yet one more mistake this day.

  “Oh, he’s got one, all right.” Lucy was typing again. “He wants you to know who he is. That’s why he wrote it.”

  She clicked to the Member Directory, and when she opened deadoc’s profile, I could not believe what was before my eyes. I scanned key words that could be searched by anyone interested in finding other users to whom they applied.

  Attorney, autopsy, chief, Chief Medical Examiner, Cornell, corpse, death, dismemberment, FBI, forensic, Georgetown, Italian, Johns Hopkins, judicial, killer, lawyer, medical, pathologist, physician, scuba, Virginia, woman.

  The list went on, the professional and personal information, the hobbies, all describing me.

  “It’s like deadoc’s saying he’s you,” Lucy said.

  I was dumbfounded and suddenly felt very cold. “This is crazy.”

  Lucy pushed back her chair and looked at me. “He’s got your profile. In cyberspace, on the World Wide Web, you’re both the same person with two different screen names.”

  “We are not the same person. I can’t believe you said that.” I looked at her, shocked.

  “The photographs are yours and you sent them to yourself. It was easy. You simply scanned them into your computer. No big deal. You can get portable color scanners for four, five hundred bucks. Attach the file to the message ten, which you send to KSCARPETTA, send to yourself, in other words . . .”

  “Lucy,” I cut her off, “for God’s sake, that’s enough.”

  She was silent, her face without expression.

  “This is outrageous. I can’t believe what you’re saying.” I got up from the chair in disgust.

  “If your fingerprints were on the murder weapon,” she replied, “wouldn’t you want me to tell you?”

  “My fingerprints aren’t on anything.”

  “Aunt Kay, I’m just making the point that someone out there is stalking you, impersonating you, on the Internet. Of course you didn’t do anything. But what I’m trying to impress upon you is every time someone does a search by subject because they need help from an expert like you, they’re going to get deadoc’s name, too.”

  “How could he have known all this information about me?” I went on. “It’s not in my profile. I don’t have anything in there about where I went to law school, medical school, that my heritage is Italian.”

  “Maybe from things written about you over the years.”

  “I suppose.” I felt as if I were coming down with something. “Would you like a nightcap? I’m very tired.”

  But she was lost again in the dark space of the UNIX environment with its strange symbols and commands like cat, :q! and vi.

  “Aunt Kay, what’s your password in AOL?” she asked.

  “The same one I use for everything else,” I confessed, knowing she would be annoyed again.

  “Shit. Don’t tell me you’re still using Sinbad.” She looked up at me.

  “My mother’s rotten cat has never been mentioned in anything ever written about me,” I defended myself.

  I watched as she typed the command password and entered Sinbad.

  “Do you do password aging?” she asked as if everyone should know what that meant.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Where you change your password at least once a month.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Who else knows your password?”

  “Rose knows it. And of course, now you do,” I said. “There’s no way deadoc could.”

  “There’s always a way. He could use a UNIX password-encryption program to encrypt every word in a dictionary. Then compare every encrypted word to your password . . .”

  “It wasn’t that complicated,” I said with conviction. “I bet whoever did this doesn’t know a thing about UNIX.”

  Lucy closed what she was doing, and looked curiously at me, swiveling the chair around. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he could have washed the body first so trace evidence didn’t adhere to blood. He shouldn’t have given us a photo of her hands. Now we may have her prints.” I was leaning against the door frame, holding my aching head. “He’s not that smart.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t think her prints will ever matter,” she said, getting up. “And by the way,” she said as she walked by. “Almost any computer book’s going to tell you it’s stupid to choose a password that’s the name of your significant other or your cat.”

  “Sinbad’s not my cat. I wouldn’t have a miserable Siamese that always gives me the fisheye and stalks me whenever I walk into my mother’s house.”

  “Well, you must like him a little bit or you wouldn’t have wanted to think of him every time you log on to your computer,” she said from down the hall.

  “I don’t like him in the least,” I said.

  The next morning, the air was crisp and clean like a fall apple, stars were out, traffic mostly truckers in the midst of long hauls. I turned off on 64 East, just beyond the state fairgrounds, and minutes later was prowling rows in short-term parking at the Richmond International Airport. I chose a space in S because I knew it would be easy for me to remember, and was reminded of my password again, of other obvious acts of carelessness caused by overload.

  As I was getting my bag out of the trunk, I heard footsteps behind me and instantly wheeled around.

  “Don’t shoot.” Marino held up his hands. It was cool enough out that I could see his breath.

  “I wish you’d whistle or something when you walk up on me in the dark,” I said, slamming shut the trunk.

  “Oh. And bad people don’t whistle. Only good guys like me do.” He grabbed my suitcase. “You want me to get that, too?”

  He reached for the hard, black Pelican case I was taking with me to Memphis today, where it already had been numerous times before. Inside were human vertebrae and bone, evidence that could not leave me.

  “This stays handcuffed to me,” I said, grabbing it and my briefcase. “I’m really sorry to put you out like this, Marino. Are you sure it’s necessary for you to come along?”

  We had discussed this several times now, and I did not think he should accompany me. I did not see the point.

  “Like I told you, some squirrel’s playing games with you,” he said. “Me, Wesley, Lucy, the entire friggin’ Bureau think I should come along. For one thing, you’ve made this exact same trip in every case, so it’s gotten predictable. And it’s been in the papers that you use this guy at UT.”

  Parking lots were well lit and full of cars, and I could not help but notice people slowly driving past, looking for a place that wasn’t miles from the terminal. I wondered what else deadoc knew about me, and wished I had worn more than a trench coat. I was cold and had forgotten my gloves.

  “Besides,” Marino added, “I’ve never been to Graceland.”

  At first, I thought he was joking.

  “It’s on my list,” he went on.

  “What list?”

  “The one I’ve had since I was a kid. Alaska, Las Vegas and the Grand Ole Opry,” he said as if the thought filled him with joy. “Don’t you have some place you would go if you could do anything you want?”

  We were at the terminal now, and he held the door.

  “Yes,” I said. “My own bed in my own home.”

  I headed for the Delta desk, picked up our tickets and went upstairs. Typical for this hour, nothing was open except security. When I placed my hard case on the X-ray bel
t, I knew what was going to happen.

  “Ma’am, you’re going to have to open that,” said the female guard.

  I unlocked it and unsnapped the clasps. Inside, nestled in foam rubber, were labeled plastic bags containing the bones. The guard’s eyes widened.

  “I’ve been through here before with this,” I patiently explained.

  She started to reach for one of the plastic bags.

  “Please don’t touch anything,” I warned. “This is evidence in a homicide.”

  There were several other travelers behind me, now, and they were listening to every word I said.

  “Well, I have to look at it.”

  “You can’t.” I got out my brass medical examiner’s shield and showed it to her. “You touch anything here, and I’ll have to include you in the chain of evidence when this eventually goes to court. You’ll be subpoenaed.”

  That was as much of an explanation as she needed, and she let me go.

  “Dumb as a bag of hammers,” Marino mumbled as we walked.

  “She’s just doing her job,” I replied.

  “Look,” he said. “We don’t fly back until tomorrow morning, meaning unless you spend the whole damn day looking at bones, we should have some time.”

  “You can go to Graceland by yourself. I’ve got plenty of work to do in my room. I’m also sitting in nonsmoking.” I chose a seat at our gate. “So if you want to smoke, you’ll have to go over there.” I pointed.

  He scanned other passengers waiting, like us, to board. Then he looked at me.

  “You know what, Doc?” he said. “The problem is you hate to have fun.”

  I got the morning paper out of my briefcase, shook it open.

  He sat next to me. “I’ll bet you’ve never even listened to Elvis.”

  “How could I not listen to Elvis? He’s on the radio, on TV, in elevators.”

  “He’s the king.”

  I eyed Marino over the top of the paper.

  “His voice, everything about him. There’s never been anyone like him,” Marino went on as if he had a crush. “I mean, it’s like classical music and those painters you like so much. I think people like that only come along every couple hundred years.”

  “So now you’re comparing him with Mozart and Monet.” I turned a page, bored with local politics and business.

  “Sometimes you’re a friggin’ snob.” He got up, grumpy. “And maybe just once in your life you might think of going some place I want to go. You ever seen me bowl?” He glared down at me, getting out his cigarettes. “You ever said anything nice about my truck? You ever gone fishing with me? You ever eat at my house? No, I gotta go to yours because you live in the right part of town.”

  “You cook for me, I’ll come over,” I said as I read.

  He angrily stalked off, and I could feel the eyes of strangers on us. I supposed they assumed that Marino and I were an item, and had not gotten along in years. Smiling to myself, I turned a page. Not only would I go to Graceland with him, I planned to buy him barbecue tonight.

  Since it seemed that one could not fly direct from Richmond to anywhere except Charlotte, we were routed to Cincinnati first, where we changed planes. We arrived in Memphis by noon and checked into the Peabody Hotel. I had gotten us a government rate of seventy-three dollars per night, and Marino looked around, gawking at a grand lobby of stained glass and a fountain of mallard ducks.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “I’ve never seen a joint that has live ducks. They’re everywhere.”

  We were walking into the restaurant, which was appropriately named Mallards, and displayed behind glass were duck objets d’art. There were paintings of ducks on walls, and ducks were on the staff’s green vests and ties.

  “They have a duck palace on the roof,” I said. “And roll out a red carpet for them twice a day when they come and go to John Philip Sousa.”

  “No way.”

  I told the hostess that we would like a table for two. “In nonsmoking,” I added.

  The restaurant was crowded with men and women wearing big name tags for some real estate convention they were attending at the hotel. We sat so close to other people that I could read reports they were perusing and hear their affairs. I ordered a fresh fruit plate and coffee, while Marino got his usual grilled hamburger platter.

  “Medium rare,” he told the waiter.

  “Medium.” I gave Marino a look.

  “Yeah, yeah, okay.” He shrugged.

  “Enterohemorrhagic E. coli,” I said to him as the waiter walked off. “Trust me. Not worth it.”

  “Don’t you ever want to do things bad for you?” he said.

  He looked depressed and suddenly old as he sat across from me in this beautiful place where people were well dressed and better paid than a police captain from Richmond. Marino’s hair had thinned to an unruly fringe circling the top of his ears like a tarnished silver halo shoved low. He had not lost an ounce since I had known him, his belly rising from his belt and touching the edge of the table. Not a day went by that I did not fear for him. I could not imagine his not working with me forever.

  At half past one, we left the hotel in the rental car. He drove because he would never have it any other way, and we got on Madison Avenue and followed it east, away from the Mississippi River. The brick university was so close we could have walked it, the Regional Forensic Center across the street from a tire store and the Life Blood Donor Center. Marino parked in back, near the public entrance of the medical examiner’s office.

  The facility was funded by the county and about the size of my central district office in Richmond. There were three forensic pathologists, and also two forensic anthropologists, which was very unusual and enviable, for I would have loved to have someone like Dr. David Canter on my staff. Memphis had yet another distinction that was decidedly not a happy one. The chief had been involved in perhaps two of the most infamous cases in the country. He had performed the autopsy of Martin Luther King and had witnessed the one of Elvis.

  “If it’s all the same to you,” Marino said as we got out of the car, “I think I’ll make phone calls while you do your thing.”

  “Fine. I’m sure they can find an office for you to use.”

  He squinted up at an autumn blue sky, then looked around as we walked. “I can’t believe I’m here,” he said. “This is where he was posted.”

  “No,” I said, because I knew exactly who he was talking about. “Elvis Presley was posted at Baptist Memorial Hospital. He never came here, even though he should have.”

  “How come?”

  “He was treated like a natural death,” I replied.

  “Well, he was. He died of a heart attack.”

  “It’s true his heart was terrible,” I said. “But that’s not what killed him. His death was due to his polydrug abuse.”

  “His death was due to Colonel Parker,” Marino muttered as if he wanted to kill the man.

  I glanced at him as we entered the office. “Elvis had ten drugs on board. He should have been signed out an accident. It’s sad.”

  “And we know it was really him,” he then said.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Marino!”

  “What? You’ve seen the photos? You know it for a fact?” he went on.

  “I’ve seen them. And yes, I know,” I said as I stopped at the receptionist’s desk.

  “Then what’s in them?” He would not stop.

  A young woman named Shirley, who had taken care of me before, waited for Marino and me to quit disagreeing.

  “That is none of your business,” I sweetly said to him. “Shirley, how are you?”

  “Back again?” She smiled.

  “With no good news, I’m sorry to say,” I replied.

  Marino began trimming his fingernails with a pocketknife, glancing around like Elvis might walk in any minute.

  “Dr. Canter’s expecting you,” she said. “Come on. I’ll take you back.”

  While Marino ambled off to make phone calls somewhere down th
e hall, I was shown into the modest office of a man I had known since his residency days at the University of Tennessee. Canter had been as young as Lucy when I had met him for the first time.

  A devotee of forensic anthropologist Dr. Bass, who had begun the decay research facility in Knoxville known as The Body Farm, Canter had been mentored by most of the greats. He was considered the world’s foremost expert in saw marks, and I wasn’t quite sure what it was about this state famous for the Vols and Daniel Boone. Tennessee seemed to corner the market on experts in time of death and human bones.

  “Kay.” Canter rose, extending his hand.

  “Dave, you’re always so good to see me on such short notice.” I took a chair across from his desk.

  “Well, I hate what you’re going through.”

  He had dark hair combed straight back from his brow, so that whenever he looked down it fell in his way. He was constantly shoving it out of his way but did not seem aware of it. His face was youthful and interestingly angular, with closely set eyes and a strong jaw and nose.

  “How are Jill and the kids?” I inquired.

  “Great. We’re expecting again.”

  “Congratulations. That makes three?”

  “Four.” His smile got bigger.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” I said sincerely.

  “Doing it’s the easy part. What goodies have you brought me?”

  Setting the hard case on the edge of his desk, I opened it and got out the plastic-enclosed sections of bone. I handed them to him and he took out the left femur first. He studied it under a lamp with his lens, slowly turning it end over end.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “So you didn’t notch the end you cut.” He glanced at me.

  He wasn’t chastising, just reminding, and I felt angry with myself again. Usually, I was so careful. If anything, I was known for being cautious to the point of obsession.

  “I made an assumption, and I was wrong,” I said. “I did not expect to discover that the killer used a saw with characteristics very similar to mine.”

  “They usually don’t use autopsy saws.” He pushed back his chair and got up. “I’ve never had a case, really, just studied that type of saw mark in theory, here in the lab.”