The Body Farm by Patricia Cornwell
“Dr. Scarpetta,” she said, startled. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I thought it was a good idea for me to return to Richmond right now,” I said, pulling a chair close to her desk. “Dr. Fielding and I are going to try to cover Tidewater from here.”
Cleta was from Florence, South Carolina, and wore a lot of makeup and her skirts too short because she believed that happiness was being pretty, which was something she would never be. In the midst of sorting grim photographs by case number, she sat straight in her chair, a magnifying glass in hand, bifocals on. Nearby was a sausage biscuit on a napkin that she probably had gotten from the cafeteria next door, and she was drinking Tab.
“Well, I think the roads are starting to melt,” she let me know.
“Good.” I smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She seemed very pleased as she plucked more photographs out of the shallow box.
“Cleta,” I said, “you remember Ted Eddings, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, ma’am.” She suddenly looked as if she might cry. “He was always so nice when he would come in here. I still can’t believe it.” She bit her lower lip.
“Dr. Fielding says Eddings called down here the end of last week,” I said. “I’m wondering if you might remember that.”
She nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I sure do. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Did he talk to you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you remember what he said?”
“Well, he wanted to speak to Dr. Fielding, but his line was busy. So I asked if I could take a message, and we kidded around some. You know how he was.” Her eyes got bright and her voice wavered. “He asked me if I was still eating so much maple syrup because I had to be eating plenty of it to talk like this. And he asked me out.”
I listened as her cheeks turned red.
“Of course, he didn’t mean it. He was always saying, you know, ‘When are we going out on that date?’ He didn’t mean it,” she said again.
“It’s all right if he did,” I kindly told her.
“Well, he already had a girlfriend.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“He said he was going to bring her by sometime, and I got the impression he was pretty serious about her. I believe her name is Loren, but I don’t know anything else about her.”
I thought of Eddings engaging in personal conversations like this with my staff, and was even less surprised that he had seemed to gain access to me more easily than most reporters who called. I could not help but wonder if this same talent had led to his death, and I suspected it had.
“Did he ever mention to you what he wanted to talk to Dr. Fielding about?” I said as I got up.
She thought hard for a moment, absently rummaging through pictures the world should never see. “Wait a minute. Oh, I know. It was something about radiation. About what the findings would be if someone died from that.”
“What kind of radiation?” I said.
“Well, I was thinking he was doing some sort of story on X-ray machines. You know, there’s been a lot in the news lately because of all the people afraid of things like letter bombs.”
I did not recall seeing anything in Eddings’ house that might indicate he was researching such a story. I returned to my office and started on paperwork and began returning telephone calls. Hours later, I was eating a late lunch at my desk when Marino walked in.
“What’s it doing out there?” I said, surprised to see him. “Would you like half a tuna fish sandwich?”
Shutting both doors, he sat with his coat still on, and the look on his face frightened me. “Have you talked to Lucy?” he said.
“Not since I left the house.” I put the sandwich down. “Why?”
“She called me”—he glanced at his watch—“roughly an hour ago. Wanted to know how to get in touch with Danny so she could call him about her car. And she sounded drunk.”
I was silent for a moment, my eyes on his. I looked away. I did not ask him if he were certain because Marino knew about such matters, and Lucy’s past was quite familiar to him.
“Should I go home?” I quietly asked.
“Naw. I think she’s in some kind of mood and is blowing things off. At least she’s got no car to drive.”
I took a deep breath.
“Point is, I think she’s safe at the moment. But I thought you should know, Doc.”
“Thank you,” I grimly said.
I had hoped my niece’s proclivity to abuse alcohol was a problem she had left behind, for I had seen no worrisome signs since those early self-destructive days when she had driven drunk and almost died. If nothing else, her odd behavior at the house this morning in addition to what Marino had just revealed made me know that something was very wrong. I wasn’t certain what to do.
“One other thing,” he added as he got up. “You don’t want her going back to the Academy like this.”
“No,” I said. “Of course not.”
He left, and for a while I stayed behind shut doors, depressed, my thoughts like the sluggish river behind my house. I did not know if I was angry or frightened, but as I thought of the times I had offered wine to Lucy or gotten her a beer, I felt betrayed. Then I was almost desperate as I considered the magnitude of what she had accomplished, and what she had to lose, and suddenly other images came to me, too. I envisioned terrible scenes penned by a man who wanted to be a deity, and I knew that my niece with all her brilliance did not understand the darkness of that power. She did not understand malignancy the way I did.
I put my coat and gloves on, because I knew where I should go. I was about to let the front office know I was leaving, when my phone rang, and I picked it up in the event it might be Lucy. But it was the Chesapeake police chief, who told me his name was Steels and that he had just moved here from Chicago.
“I’m sorry this is the way we have to meet,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “But I need to talk to you about a detective of mine named Roche.”
“I need to talk to you about him, too,” I said. “Maybe you can explain to me exactly what his problem is.”
“According to him, the problem’s you,” he said.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said, unable to restrain my anger. “To cut to the chase, Chief Steels, your detective is inappropriate, unprofessional and an obstruction in this investigation. He is banned from my morgue.”
“You realize Internal Affairs is going to have to thoroughly investigate this,” he said, “and I’m probably going to need you to come in at some point so we can talk to you.”
“Exactly what is the accusation?”
“Sexual harassment.”
“That’s certainly popular these days,” I ironically said. “However, I wasn’t aware I had power over him, since he works for you, not me, and by definition, sexual harassment is about the abuse of power. But it’s all moot since the roles are reversed in this case. Your detective is the one who made sexual advances toward me, and when they were not reciprocated, he’s the one who became abusive.”
Steels said after a pause, “Then it sounds to me like it’s your word against his.”
“No, what it sounds like is a lot of bullshit. And if he touches me one more time, I will get a warrant and have him arrested.”
He was silent.
“Chief Steels,” I went on, “I think what should be of glaring importance right now is a very frightening situation that is going on in your jurisdiction. Might we talk about Ted Eddings for a moment?”
He cleared his throat. “Certainly.”
“You’re familiar with the case?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been thoroughly briefed and am very familiar with it.”
“Good. Then I’m sure you’ll agree that we should investigate it to our fullest capacity.”
“Well, I think we should look hard at everybody who dies, but in the Eddings case the answer’s pretty plain to me.”
I listened as I got only
“You may or may not know that he was into Civil War stuff—had a collection, and all. Apparently, there were some battles not so far from where he went diving, and it may be he was looking for artifacts like cannonballs.”
I realized that Roche must have talked to Mrs. Eddings, or perhaps the chief had seen some of the newspaper articles Eddings supposedly had written about his underwater treasure hunts. I was no historian, but I knew enough to see the obvious problem with what was becoming a ridiculous theory.
I said to Steels, “The biggest battle on or near water in your area was between the Merrimac and the Monitor. And that was miles away in Hampton Roads. I have never heard of any battles in or near the part of the Elizabeth River where the shipyard is located.”
“But Dr. Scarpetta, we really just don’t know, do we?” he thoughtfully said. “Could be anything that was fired, any garbage dumped and anybody killed at any place back then. It’s not like there were television cameras or millions of reporters all over. Just Mathew Brady, and by the way, I’m a big fan of history and have read a lot about the Civil War. I’m personally of the belief that this guy, Eddings, went down in that shipyard so he could comb the river bottom for relics. He inhaled noxious gases from his machine and died, and whatever he had in his hands—like a metal detector—got lost in the silt.”
“I am working this case as a possible homicide,” I firmly said.
“And I don’t agree with you, based on what I’ve been told.”
“I expect the prosecutor will agree with me when I speak to her.”
The chief said nothing to that.
“I should assume you don’t intend to invite the Bureau’s Criminal Investigative Analysis people into this,” I added. “Since you have decided we’re dealing with an accident.”
“At this point, I see no reason in the world to bother the FBI. And I’ve told them that.”
“Well, I see every reason,” I answered, and it was all I could do not to hang up on him.
“Damn, damn, damn!” I muttered as I angrily grabbed my belongings and marched out the door.
Downstairs in the morgue office, I removed a set of keys from the wall, and I went outside to the parking lot and unlocked the driver’s door of the dark-blue station wagon we sometimes used to transport bodies. It was not as obvious as a hearse, but it wasn’t what one might expect to see in a neighbor’s driveway, either. Oversized, it had tinted windows obscured with blinds similar to those used by funeral homes, and in lieu of seats in back, the floor was covered with plywood fitted with fasteners to keep stretchers from sliding during transport. My morgue supervisor had hung several air fresheners from the rearview mirror, and the scent of cedar was cloying.
I opened my window part of the way and drove onto Main Street, grateful that by now roads were only wet, and rush hour traffic not too bad. Damp, cold air felt good on my face, and I knew what I must do. It had been a while since I had stopped at church on my way home, for I thought to do this only when I was in crisis, when life had pushed me as far as I could go. At Three Chopt Road and Grove Avenue, I turned into the parking lot of Saint Bridget’s, which was built of brick and slate and no longer kept its doors unlocked at night, because of what the world had become. But Alcoholics Anonymous met at this hour, and I always knew when I could get in and not be bothered.
Entering through a side door, I blessed myself with holy water as I walked into the sanctuary with its statues of saints guarding the cross, and crucifixion scenes in brilliant stained glass. I chose the last row of pews, and I wished for candles to light, but that ritual had stopped here with Vatican II. Kneeling on the bench, I prayed for Ted Eddings and his mother. I prayed for Marino and Wesley. In my private, dark space, I prayed for my niece. Then I sat in silence with my eyes shut, and I felt my tension begin to ease.
At almost six P.M., I was about to leave when I paused in the narthex and saw the lighted doorway of the library down a hall. I wasn’t certain why I was guided in that direction, but it did occur to me that an evil book might be countered by one that was holy, and a few moments with the catechism might be what the priest would prescribe. When I walked in, I found an older woman inside, returning books to shelves.
“Dr. Scarpetta?” she asked, and she seemed both surprised and pleased.
“Good evening.” I was ashamed I did not remember her name.
“I’m Mrs. Edwards.”
I remembered she was in charge of social services at the church, and trained converts in Catholicism, which some days I thought should include me since it was so rare I went to Mass. Small and slightly plump, she had never seen a convent but still inspired the same guilt in me that the good nuns had when I was young.
“I don’t often see you here at this hour,” she said.
“I just stopped by,” I answered. “After work. I’m afraid I missed evening prayer.”
“That was on Sunday.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’m so glad I happened to see you on my way out.” Her eyes lingered on my face and I knew she sensed my need.
I scanned bookcases.
“Might I help you find something?” she asked.
“A copy of the catechism,” I said.
She crossed the room and pulled one off a shelf, and handed it to me. It was a large volume and I wondered if I had made a good decision, for I was very tired right now and I doubted Lucy was in a condition to read.
“Perhaps there is something I might help you with?” Her voice was kind.
“Maybe if I could speak to the priest for a few moments, that would be good,” I said.
“Father O’Connor is making hospital visits.” Her eyes continued searching. “Might I help you in some way?”
“Maybe you can.”
“We can sit right here,” she suggested.
We pulled chairs out from a plain wooden table reminiscent of ones I had sat at in parochial school when I was a girl in Miami. I suddenly remembered the wonder of what had awaited me on the pages of those books, for learning was what I loved, and any mental escape from home had been a blessing. Mrs. Edwards and I faced each other like friends, but the words were hard to say because it was rare I talked this frankly.
“I can’t go into much detail because my difficulty relates to a case I am working,” I began.
“I understand.” She nodded.
“But suffice it to say that I have become exposed to a satanic-type bible. Not devil worship, per se, but something evil.”
She did not react but continued to look me in the eye.
“And Lucy was, as well. My twenty-three-year-old niece. She also read this manuscript.”
“And you’re having problems as a result?” Mrs. Edwards asked.
I took a deep breath and felt foolish. “I know this sounds rather weird.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” she said. “We must never underestimate the power of evil, and we should avoid brushing up against it whenever we can.”
“I can’t always avoid that,” I said. “It is evil that usually brings my patients to my door. But rarely do I have to look at documents like the one I’m talking about now. I’ve been having disturbing dreams, and my niece is acting erratically and has spent a lot of time with the Book. Mostly, I’m worried about her. That’s why I’m here.”
“‘But continue thou in the things which thou hast learned and hast been assured of,”’ she quoted to me. “It’s really that simple.” She smiled.
“I’m not certain I understand,” I replied.
“Dr. Scarpetta, there is no cure for what you’ve just shared with me. I can’t lay hands on you and push the darkness and bad dreams away. Father O’Connor can’t, either. We have no ritual or ceremony that works. We can pray for you, and of course, we will. But what you and Lucy must do right now is return to your own faith. You need to do whatever it is that has given you strength in the past.”
“That’s why I came here today,” I said again.
&nb
That would be the day, I thought as I drove toward home, and my fears only intensified when I walked through my front door. It was not quite seven P.M. and Lucy was in bed.
“Are you asleep?” I sat next to her in the dark and placed my hand on her back. “Lucy?”
She did not answer and I was grateful that our cars had not arrived. I was afraid she might have tried to drive back to Charlottesville. I was so afraid she was about to repeat every terrible mistake she had ever made.
“Lucy?” I said again.
She slowly rolled over. “What?” she said.
“I’m just checking on you,” I said in a hushed tone.
I saw her wipe her eyes and realized she was not asleep but crying.
“What is it?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“I know it’s something. And it’s time we talk. You’ve not been yourself and I want to help.”
She would not answer.
“Lucy, I will sit right here until you talk to me.”
She was quiet some more, and I could see her eyelids move as she stared up at the ceiling. “Janet told them,” she said. “She told her mom and dad. They argued with her, as if they know more about her feelings than she does. As if somehow she is wrong about herself.”
Her voice was getting angrier and she worked her way up to a half-sitting position, stuffing pillows behind her back.
“They want her to go to counseling,” she added.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not sure I know what to say except that the problem lies with them and not with the two of you.”
“I don’t know what she’s going to do. It’s bad enough that we have to worry about the Bureau finding out.”
“You have to be strong and true to who you are.”