Scarpetta Read online

  “Let me confirm what they gave me when I got here,” she said. “You’re thirty-four, your middle name is Lawrence. You’re right-handed, according to this,” and she got as far as his date of birth and address in the city before he interrupted her.

  “Aren’t you going to ask why I want you here? Why I demanded it? Why I made sure Jaime Berger was informed I wouldn’t cooperate unless you came? Screw her.” His eyes were watering and his voice wavered. “Terri would still be here if it wasn’t for her.”

  He turned his head to the right and looked at the wall.

  “Are you having trouble hearing me, Oscar?” Scarpetta asked.

  “My right ear,” he said in a voice that intermittently shook and changed octaves.

  “But you can hear with your left ear?”

  “Chronic ear infections when I was a boy. I’m deaf in my right ear.”

  “Do you know Jaime Berger?”

  “She’s cold-blooded, doesn’t give a shit about anybody. You’re nothing like her. You care about victims. I’m a victim. I need you to care about me. You’re all I’ve got.”

  “In what way are you a victim?” Scarpetta labeled envelopes.

  “My life’s been ruined. The person who means most to me is gone. I’ll never see her again. She’s gone. I have nothing left. I don’t care if I die. I know who you are and what you do. I would even if you weren’t famous. Famous or not, I would know who and what you are. I had to think fast, very fast. After finding . . . after finding Terri . . .” His voice cracked, and he blinked back tears. “I told the police to bring me here. Where I’d be safe.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “I said I might be a danger to myself. And they asked, ‘What about to others?’ And I said no, only to myself. I requested solitary confinement on the prison ward because I can’t be in general population. They’re calling me the Midget Murderer up here. Laughing at me. The police have no probable cause to arrest me, but they think I’m deranged and don’t want me disappearing, and I do have money and a passport, because I come from a good family in Connecticut, although my parents aren’t very kind. I don’t care if I die. In the minds of the police and Jaime Berger, I’m guilty.”

  “They’re doing what they can to accommodate you. You’re here. You met with Dr. Wesley. Now I’m here,” Scarpetta reminded him.

  “They’re just using you. They don’t care about me.”

  “I promise not to let anybody use me.”

  “They already are. To cover their asses. They’ve already convicted me, aren’t looking for anybody else. The real killer’s out there somewhere. He knows who I am. Someone will be next. Whoever did this will do it again. They have a motive, a cause, and I was warned but I didn’t think they meant Terri. It never occurred to me they intended to hurt Terri.”

  “Warned?”

  “They communicate with me. I have these communications.”

  “Did you tell the police this?”

  “If you don’t know who they are, you have to be careful who you tell. I tried to warn Jaime Berger a month ago about how unsafe it was for me to come forward with what I know. But I never imagined I was putting Terri at risk. They never communicated with me about Terri. So I didn’t know about that, about the danger to her.”

  He wiped tears with the backs of his hands, and his chains clanked.

  “How did you warn Jaime Berger? Or try to warn her?”

  “I called her office. She’ll tell you. Get her to tell you what a cold-blooded human being she is. Get her to tell you how much she cares. She doesn’t.” Tears rolled down his face. “And now Terri’s gone. I knew something bad was going to happen, but I didn’t know it would be to her. And you’re wondering why. Well, I don’t know. Maybe they hate little people, want to wipe us off the planet. Like the Nazis did to the Jews, the homosexuals and gypsies, the handicapped, the mentally ill. Whoever threatened Hitler’s Master Race ended up in the ovens. Somehow they’ve stolen my identity and my thoughts, and they know everything about me. I reported it but Berger didn’t care. I demanded to have mind justice, but she wouldn’t even get on the phone with me.”

  “Tell me about mind justice.”

  “When your mind is stolen. Justice is getting it back. It’s her fault. She could have stopped it. I don’t have my mind back. I don’t have Terri. All I have is you. Please help me.”

  Scarpetta slipped her gloved hands into the pockets of her lab coat and felt herself slipping deeper into trouble. She didn’t want to be Oscar Bane’s physician. She should tell him right now she wanted no further relationship with him. She should open that beige-painted steel door and never look back.

  “They killed her. I know they did it,” Oscar said.

  “Who do you think they are?”

  “I don’t know who they are. They’ve been following me, some specialized group supporting some cause. I’m their target. It’s been going on for months, at least. How can she be gone? Maybe I am a danger to myself. Maybe I do want to die.”

  He began to cry.

  “I loved her more than anyone . . . ever in my life. I keep thinking I’ll wake up. It isn’t true. It can’t be true. I’m not really here. I hate Jaime Berger. Maybe they’ll kill someone she loves. See how that feels. Let her live that hell. I hope it happens. I hope someone murders whoever she loves most in her life.”

  “Do you wish you could kill someone she loves?” Scarpetta asked.

  She tucked several tissues into his cuffed hands. Tears fell, and his nose ran.

  He said, “I don’t know who they are. If I’m out there, they’ll follow me again. They know where I am right this minute. They try to control me through fear. Through harassment.”

  “How are they doing this? Do you have reason to believe someone is stalking you?”

  “Advanced electronics. There are countless unclassified devices you can order off the Internet. Microwave-transmitted voice to skull. Silent sound. Through-the-wall radar. I have every reason to believe I’ve been selected as a mind-control target, and if you don’t think things like this happen, think back to the human radiation experiments conducted by the government after World War Two. Those people were secretly fed radioactive materials, injected with plutonium for purposes of nuclear warfare research. I’m not making this up.”

  “I’m aware of the radiation experiments,” Scarpetta said. “There’s no denying that happened.”

  “I don’t know what they want from me,” he said. “It’s Berger’s fault. All of it’s her fault.”

  “Explain that to me.”

  “The DA’s office investigates identity theft, stalking, harassment, and I called and asked to talk to her, and they wouldn’t let me. I told you. They put me on the phone with this asshole cop. He thought I was a lunatic, of course, and nobody did anything. There was no investigation. No one cares. I trust you. I know you care about people. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Please help me. Please. I’m completely unprotected. I have no shields here. No protections.”

  She checked shallow abrasions on the left side of his neck, noting that the stage of scab formation looked relatively fresh.

  “Why would you trust me?” she asked.

  “I can’t believe you’d say that. What manipulation are you trying?”

  “I don’t manipulate people. I have no intention of manipulating you.”

  He studied her face as she studied more abrasions.

  “Okay,” he said. “I understand you have to be careful what you say. It doesn’t matter. I respected you before all that. You don’t know who they are, either. You have to be careful.”

  “Before all what?”

  “You were brave to discuss Bhutto’s assassination. Terri and I watched you on CNN. You had a long day and night on CNN, talking about it, were so compassionate and respectful about that terrible tragedy. And brave and matter-of-fact, but I could tell what you felt in your heart. I could tell you were as devastated as we were. You were devastated, and it wasn’t for show. You
worked hard to hide it. I knew I could trust you. I understood. Terri did, too, of course. But it was disappointing. I told her she had to think of it from your perspective. Because I knew I could trust you.”

  “I’m not sure why seeing me on TV would make you think you could trust me.”

  She retrieved a camera from her crime scene case.

  When he didn’t answer her, she said, “Tell me why Terri was disappointed.”

  “You know why, and it was completely understandable. You respect people,” Oscar said. “You care about them. You help them. I stay away from doctors unless I have no choice. I can’t stand pain. I tell them to put me under, give me an injection of Demerol, do anything if it’s going to hurt. I admit it. I’m afraid of doctors. I’m afraid of pain. I can’t look at a needle if I’m injected. I can’t see it or I’ll faint. I’ll tell them to cover my eyes or inject me where I can’t see it. You aren’t going to hurt me, are you? Or give me a shot?”

  “No. Nothing I do should be painful,” she said as she checked abrasions under his left ear.

  They were shallow, with no sign of epithelial regeneration at the edges. Again, the scabbing was fresh. Oscar seemed reassured by what she said, and soothed by her touch.

  “Whoever’s following me, spying on me,” he started on that again. “Maybe the government, but whose government? Maybe some hate cell or some cult. I know you’re not afraid of anyone or any government or any cult or group or you wouldn’t talk about the things you do on TV. Terri said the same thing. You’re her hero. If only she knew I was sitting in this room with you, talking about her. Maybe she knows. Do you believe in the after-life? That the loved one’s spirit doesn’t leave you?”

  His bloodshot eyes looked up, as if looking for Terri.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he said.

  “Let me make sure you understand something,” Scarpetta said.

  She pulled up a plastic chair and sat close to the table.

  “I know nothing about this case,” she said. “I don’t know what you supposedly did or didn’t do. I don’t know who Terri is.”

  Shock registered on his face. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I was called in to examine your injuries, and agreed to do so. And I’m probably not the person you should be speaking to. Your well-being is of my utmost concern, so I’m obliged to tell you that the more you talk to me about Terri, about what happened, the bigger the risk.”

  “You’re the only one I should be speaking to.”

  He wiped his nose and eyes, and stared at her as if he were trying to figure out something very important.

  He said, “You have your reasons. Maybe you know something.”

  “You should have a lawyer. Then every word you say is privileged, unconditionally.”

  “You’re a physician. Whatever we discuss is privileged. You can’t allow the police to interfere with my medical care, and they have no right to any information unless I give permission or there’s a court order. You must protect my dignity. That’s the law.”

  “It’s also the law that if you’re charged with a crime, my records can be subpoenaed by the prosecution or the defense. You need to think about that before you continue to talk to me about Terri, about what happened last night. Anything I say could be subpoenaed,” she emphasized.

  “Jaime Berger had her chance to talk to me. She’s nothing like you. She deserves to be fired. She deserves to suffer the way I am and to lose what I’ve lost. It’s her fault.”

  “Do you want to cause Jaime Berger harm?” Scarpetta asked.

  “I’d never harm anybody. But she’s harmed herself. It’s her fault. The universe repays in kind. If she loses someone she loves, it will be her fault.”

  “I’ll try to impress it upon you again. If you’re charged with a crime, I can be subpoenaed and will have no choice but to disclose anything I’ve observed. Yes. I absolutely can be subpoenaed by Jaime Berger. Do you understand that?”

  His different-colored eyes stared at her, his body rigid with anger. Scarpetta was aware of the heavy steel door, wondering if she should open it.

  “They won’t find any justifiable cause to pin this on me,” he said. “I didn’t stop them from taking my clothes, my car. I’ve given consent to go inside my apartment because I’ve got nothing to hide, and you can see for yourself the way I’m forced to live. I want you to see it. I insist you see it. I said you have to see it or they can’t go in. There’s no evidence I’ve ever hurt Terri unless they make it up. And maybe they will. But you’ll protect me because you’re my witness. You’ll watch after me no matter where I am, and if anything happens to me, you’ll know it’s part of a plan. And you can’t tell anyone anything I don’t want them to know. Right now, legally, you can’t reveal anything that goes on between us. Not even to your husband. I allowed him to do my psychological eval, and he’ll tell you from my mental-health assessment that I’m not crazy. I trust his expertise. More important, I knew he could get to you.”

  “Did you tell him what you’re telling me?”

  “I let him do the eval, and that’s all. I said he could check my mind and you could check the rest of me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t cooperate. You can’t tell him what I say. Not even him. If that changes and I get falsely accused and you get subpoenaed? By then you’ll believe in me and fight for me anyway. You should believe in me. It’s not like you’ve never heard of me.”

  “Why would you think I’ve heard of you?”

  “I see.” His stare was fierce. “You’ve been instructed not to talk. Fine. I don’t like this game. But okay. Fine. All I ask is you listen to me and not betray me or violate your sworn oath.”

  Scarpetta should stop now. But she was thinking about Berger. Oscar hadn’t threatened Berger. Not yet. Unless he did, Scarpetta couldn’t reveal a word he said, but that didn’t stop her from worrying about Berger, about anybody close to Berger. She wished he would come right out with it and say in no uncertain terms that he was a danger to Berger or to someone. Then no more confidentiality, and at the very least, he would be arrested for communicating a threat.

  “I’m going to take notes, which I’ll keep in a file as a consultation,” Scarpetta said.

  “Yes, notes. I want a record of the truth in your hands. In case something happens.”

  She slipped a pad of paper and pen out of a pocket of her lab coat.

  “In case I die,” he said. “There’s probably no way out. They’ll probably get me. This will probably be my last New Year’s Day. Probably I don’t care.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Whatever I do, wherever I go, they know.”

  “What about right now?”

  “Maybe. But you know?” He looked at the door. “There’s a lot of steel to get through. I’m not sure they can get through it, but I’m going to be careful what I say and what I think. You need to listen carefully. You need to read my mind while you can. Eventually, they’ll completely control what’s left of my free will, my thoughts. Maybe what they’re doing is practice. They have to practice on someone. We know the CIA’s had covert behavior-modification neuro-electromagnetic programs for half a century, and who do you think they practice on? And what do you think happens if you go to the police? Mysteriously, no report is filed. Same thing that happened when I reported it to Ms. Berger. I was ignored. And now Terri’s dead. I’m not paranoid. I’m not suffering some schizoid, psychotic episode. I don’t have a personality disorder. I’m not delusional. I don’t believe the Air Loom Gang is after me with their infernal machine, although one has to wonder about the politicians and if that’s why we’re at war in the Middle East. Of course, I’m being facetious, although not much would surprise me anymore.”

  “You seem very well versed in psychology and psychiatric history.”

  “I have a Ph.D. I teach the history of psychiatry at Gotham College.”

  She’d never heard of it and asked him where it was.

  “It’s
nowhere,” he said.

  5

  Her username was Shrew because her husband used to call her that. He didn’t always mean it as an insult. Sometimes it was a term of endearment.

  “Don’t be such a goddamn shrew,” he would say, verbatim, after her complaints about his cigars or not picking up after himself. “Let’s have a drink, my darling little shrew” usually meant it was five p.m. and he was in a decent mood and wanted to watch the news.

  She’d carry in their drinks and a bowl of cashews, and he’d pat the cushion next to him on the tawny corduroy couch. After a half-hour of the news, which, needless to say, was never good, he would get quiet and not call her a shrew or talk to her, and dinner would be the sounds of eating, after which he would retreat to the bedroom and read. One day he went out on an errand and never came back.

  She had no illusions about what he’d have to say were he still here. He wouldn’t approve of her being the anonymous system administrator for the Gotham Gotcha website. He would call what she did disgusting detritus that was intended to ruthlessly exploit and inflict disease upon people, and would say it was insane for her to work a job where she’d never met any of those involved or for that matter didn’t know their names. He would say it was outrageously suspicious that Shrew did not know who the anonymous columnist was.

  Most of all, he would be aghast that she had been hired over the phone by an “agent” who wasn’t an American. He said he lived in the UK, but he sounded about as English as Tony Soprano, and had forced Shrew to sign numerous legal documents without her own counsel reviewing them first. When she’d done everything asked of her, she was given a trial run of one month. Without pay. At the end of that period, no one had called to tell her what a marvelous job she’d done or how thrilled the Boss (as Shrew thought of the anonymous columnist) was to have her onboard. She’d never heard a word.