The Body Farm by Patricia Cornwell
I went over to her and lifted her chin. She was hot and smoky, her breath and body odor bad.
“You listen to me,” I said with an intensity that would have frightened her in the past. “You get this goddamn notion out of your head right now. You are glad you didn’t die, and you aren’t committing suicide, if that’s what you’re implying, and I believe it is. You know what suicide is all about, Lucy? It’s about anger, about pay-back. It’s the final fuck-you. You will do that to Benton? You will do that to Marino? You will do that to me?”
I held her face in my hands until she looked at me.
“You’re going to let the no-good piece of trash Carrie do that to you?” I demanded. “Where’s that fierce spirit I know?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered with a sigh.
“Yes you do,” I said. “Don’t you dare ruin my life, Lucy. It’s been damaged enough. Don’t you dare make me spend the rest of my days with the echo of a gunshot sounding on and on in my mind. I didn’t think you were a coward.”
“I’m not.”
Her eyes focused on mine.
“Tomorrow we fight back,” I said.
She nodded, swallowing hard.
“Go take a shower,” I said.
I waited until I heard the water in her bathroom running, and then went into the kitchen. We needed to eat, although I doubted either of us felt like it. I thawed chicken breasts and cooked them in stock with whatever fresh vegetables I could find. I was liberal with rosemary, bay leaves, and sherry, but nothing stronger, not even pepper, for we needed to be soothed. Marino called twice while we were eating, to make certain we were all right.
“You can come over,” I said to him. “I’ve made soup, although it might be kind of thin by your standards.”
“I’m okay,” he said, and I knew he did not mean it.
“I’ve got plenty of room, if you’d like to stay the night. I should have thought to ask you earlier.”
“No, Doc. I got things to do.”
“I’m going to the office first thing in the morning,” I said.
“I don’t know how you can,” he replied in a judgmental way, as if my thinking about work meant I wasn’t showing what I should be showing right now.
“I have a plan. And come hell or high water, I’m going to carry it out,” I said.
“I hate it when you start planning things.”
I hung up and collected empty soup bowls from the kitchen table, and the more I thought about what I was going to do, the more manic I got.
“How hard would it be for you to get a helicopter?” I said to my niece.
“What?” She looked amazed.
“You heard me.”
“Do you mind if I ask what for? You know, I can’t just order one like a cab.”
“Call Teun,” I said. “Tell her I’m taking care of business and need all of the cooperation I can get. Tell her if all goes as I’m hoping, I’m going to need her and a team to meet us in Wilmington, North Carolina. I don’t know when yet. Maybe right away. But I need free rein. They’re going to have to trust me.”
Lucy got up and went to the sink to fill her glass with more water.
“This is nuts,” she said.
“Can you get a helicopter or not?”
“If I get permission, then yes. Border Patrol has them. That’s usually what we use. I can probably get one in from D.C.”
“Good,” I said. “Get it as fast as you can. In the morning I’m hitting the labs to confirm what I think I already know. Then we may be going to New York.”
“Why?”
She looked interested but skeptical.
“We’re going to land at Kirby and I intend to get to the bottom of things,” I answered her.
Marino called again at close to ten, and I reassured him one more time that Lucy and I were as fine as could be expected, and that we felt safe inside my house, with its sophisticated alarm system, lighting, and guns. He sounded bleary and thick, and I could tell he had been drinking, his TV turned up loud.
“I need you to meet me at the lab at eight,” I said.
“I know, I know.”
“It’s very important, Marino.”
“It’s not like you need to tell me that, Doc.”
“Get some sleep,” I said.
“Ditto.”
But I couldn’t. I sat at my desk in my study, going through the suspicious fire deaths from ESA. I studied the Venice Beach death, and then the one from Baltimore, struggling to see what, if anything, the cases and victims had in common besides the point of origin and the fact that although arson was suspected, investigators could find no evidence of it. I called the Baltimore police department first, and found someone in the detective division who seemed amenable to talking.
“Johnny Montgomery worked that one,” the detective said, and I could hear him smoking.
“Do you know anything about it?” I asked.
“Best you talk to him. And he probably will need some way of knowing you’re who you say you are.”
“He can call me at my office in the morning for verification.” I gave him the number. “I should be no later than eight. What about e-mail? Does Investigator Montgomery have an address I could send a note to?”
“Now that I can give you.”
I heard him open a drawer, and then he gave me what I needed.
“Seems I’ve heard of you before,” the detective thoughtfully said. “If you’re the ME I’m thinking of. I know it’s a lady. A good-looking one, too, based on what I’ve seen on TV. Hmmm. You ever get up to Baltimore?”
“I went to medical school in your fair city.”
“Well, now I know you’re smart.”
“Austin Hart, the young man who died in the fire, was also a student at Johns Hopkins.” I prodded him.
“He was also a homo. I personally think it was a hate crime.”
“What I need is a photograph of him and anything about his life, his habits, his hobbies.” I took advantage of the detective’s momentary lapse.
“Oh yeah.” He smoked. “One of these pretty boys. I heard he did modeling to pay his way through med school. Calvin Klein underwear ads, that sort of thing. Probably some jealous lover. You come to Baltimore next, Doc, and you got to try Camden Yards. You know about the new stadium, right?”
“Absolutely,” I replied as I excitedly processed what he had just said.
“I can get you tickets if you want.”
“That would be very nice. I’ll get in touch with Investigator Montgomery, and I thank you so much for your help.”
I got off the phone before he could ask me about my favorite baseball team, and I immediately sent Montgomery an e-mail that outlined my needs, although I felt I already had enough. Next I tried the Pacific Division of the Los Angeles Police Department, which covered Venice Beach, and I got lucky. The investigator who had worked Marlene Farber’s case was on evening shift and had just come in. His name was Stuckey, and he did not seem to require much verification from me that I was who I claimed to be.
“Wish somebody would solve this one for me,” he said right off. “Six months and still nothing. Not one tip that’s turned out to be worth anything.”
“What can you tell me about Marlene Farber?” I asked.
“Was on General Hospital now and then. And Northern Exposure. I guess you’ve seen that?”
“I don’t watch much TV. PBS, that’s about it.”
“What else, what else? Oh right. Ellen. No big parts, but who knows how far she might have gone. Prettiest thing you ever saw. Was dating some producer, and we’re pretty sure he had nothing to do with what happened. Only thing that guy really cared about was coke and screwing all the young stars he got parts for. You know, after I got the case, I went through a bunch of tapes of shows she was on. She wasn’t bad. It’s a shame.”
“Anything unusual about the scene?” I asked.
“Everything was unusual about that scene. Don’t have a clue how a fire like that c
“Investigator Stuckey, were her remains by chance found in the bathtub?”
“That’s another freaky thing, unless she was a suicide. Maybe set the fire and cut her wrists or something. A lot of people cut their wrists in the tub.”
“Any trace evidence to speak of?”
“Ma’am, she was chalk. Looked like she’d been in the crematorium. There was enough left of the torso area for them to ID her through X rays, but beyond that, we’re talking a few teeth, pieces and parts of bones, and some hair.”
“Did she by chance do any modeling?” I then asked.
“That, TV commercials, magazine ads. She made a pretty good living. Drove a black Viper and lived in a damn nice house right on the ocean.”
“I’m wondering if you could e-mail photos and any reports to me.”
“Give me your address, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“I need them fast, Investigator Stuckey,” I said.
I hung up and my mind was whirling. Each victim was physically beautiful and involved in photography or television. It was a common denominator that could not be ignored, and I believed that Marlene Farber, Austin Hart, Claire Rawley, and Kellie Shephard had been selected for a reason that was important to the killer. This was where everything unraveled. The pattern fit that of a serial killer, like Bundy, who selected women with long straight hair who resembled his estranged girlfriend. What didn’t fit was Carrie Grethen. In the first place, she had been locked up in Kirby when the first three deaths had occurred, and her MO had never been anything like this.
I was baffled. Carrie was not there and yet she was. I dozed for a while in my chair, and at six A.M., I came to with a start. My neck burned from being bent in the wrong position, and my back was achy and stiff. I slowly got up and stretched, and knew what I had to do but wasn’t certain I could. Just the thought filled me with terror, and my heart kicked in with violent force. I could feel my pulse pounding like a fist against a door, and I stared at the brown paper bags Marino had placed in front of a bookcase packed with law reviews. They were taped shut and labeled, and I picked them up. I followed the hallway to Benton’s room.
Although we typically had shared my bed, the opposite wing of the house had been his. Here he had worked and stored his day-to-day belongings, for as both of us had gotten older, we had learned that space was our most reliable friend. Our retreats made our battles less bloody, and absences during the day made nights more inviting. His door was open wide, as he had left it. The lights were out, the curtains drawn. Shadows got sharper as I stood, frozen for an instant, staring in. It required all of the courage I had ever demonstrated in my life to turn on the overhead light.
His bed with its bold blue duvet and sheets was neatly made, because Benton was always meticulous, no matter his hurry. He had never waited for me to change his linens or attend to his laundry, and part of this was due to an independence and strong sense of self that never really relented, not even with me. He had to do it his way. In that regard, we were so much alike, I marveled we had ever gotten together. I collected his hairbrush from the dresser, because I knew it might be useful for a DNA comparison, should there be no other avenue for identification. I went to the small cherry bedside table to look at the books and thick file folders stacked there.
He had been reading Cold Mountain, and had used the torn flap of an envelope to mark his place not quite halfway through. Of course, there were the pages of the latest revision of a crime classification manual he was editing, and the sight of his scratchy penmanship crashed me to earth. I tenderly turned manuscript pages and trailed my fingers over the barely legible words he had penned as tears ambushed me again. Then I set the bags on the bed and ripped them open.
Police had hastily rifled through his closet and drawers, and nothing they had packed inside the bags was neatly folded, but rather bunched and rolled. One by one I smoothed open white cotton shirts and bold ties and two pairs of suspenders. He had packed two lightweight suits, and both of them were crinkled like crepe paper. There were dress shoes, and running clothes and socks and jockey shorts, but it was his shaving kit that stopped me.
Methodical hands had rummaged through it, and the screw cap to a bottle of Givenchy III was loose and cologne had leaked. The familiar sharp, masculine scent seized me with emotion. I could feel his smooth shaven cheeks. Suddenly, I saw him behind his desk in his former office at the FBI Academy. I remembered his striking features, his crisp dress and the smell of him, back then when I was already falling in love and did not know it. I neatly folded his clothing in a stack and fumbled, ripping and tearing open another bag. I placed the black leather briefcase on the bed and sprung open the locks.
Noticeably missing inside was the Colt Mustang .380 pistol that he sometimes had strapped to his ankle, and I found it significant that he had taken the pistol with him the night of his death. He always carried his nine-millimeter in its shoulder holster, but the Colt was his backup if he felt a situation to be threatening. This singular act indicated to me that Benton had been on a mission at some point after he had left the Lehigh fire scene. I suspected he had gone to meet someone, and I didn’t understand why he hadn’t let anybody know, unless he had become careless, and this I doubted.
I picked out his brown leather date book and flipped through it in search of any recent appointment that caught my eye. There were a hair cut, dentist appointment, and trips coming up, but nothing penciled in for the day of his death except the birthday of his daughter Michelle, the middle of next week. I imagined she and her sisters were with their mother, Connie, who was Benton’s former wife. I dreaded the idea that eventually I would need to share their sorrow, no matter how they might feel about me.
He had scribbled comments and questions about the profile of Carrie, the monster who soon after had caused his death. The irony of that was inconceivable, as I envisioned him trying to dissect Carrie’s behavior in hopes of anticipating what she might do. I didn’t suppose he had ever entertained the notion that even as he had concentrated on her, she quite likely had been thinking about him, too. She had been planning Lehigh County and the videotape, and by now, most likely, was parading as a member of a production crew.
My eyes stumbled over penned phrases such as offender-victim relationship/fixation, and fusion of identity/erotomania and victim perceived as someone of higher status. On the back of the page, he had jotted patterned life after. How fits Carrie’s victimology? Kirby. What access to Claire Rawley? Seemingly none. Inconsistent. Suggestive of a different offender? Accomplice? Gault. Bonnie and Clyde. Her original MO. May be on to something here. Carrie not alone. W/M 28–45? White helicopter?
Chills lifted my flesh as I realized what Benton had been thinking when he had been standing in the morgue taking notes and watching Gerde and me work. Benton had been contemplating what suddenly seemed so obvious. Carrie was not alone in this. She had somehow allied herself with an evil partner, perhaps while she was incarcerated at Kirby. In fact, I was certain that this allegiance predated her escape, and I wondered if during the five years she was there, she might have met another psychopathic patient who later was released. Perhaps she had corresponded with him as freely and audaciously as she had with the media and me.
It was also significant that Benton’s briefcase had been found inside his hotel room, when I knew it had accompanied him earlier at the morgue. Clearly, he had returned to his room some time after leaving the Lehigh fire scene. Where he had gone after that and why remained an enigma. I read more notes about Kellie Shephard’s murder. Benton had emphasized overkill, frenzied, and disorganized. He had jotted, lost control and victim response not according to plan. Ruination of ritual.Wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Rage. Will kill again soon.
I sna
“Lucy?” I softly touched her shoulder.
She jerked awake, sitting half up.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“I need to get up, too.”
She threw back the covers.
“Want to have a cup of coffee with me?” I asked.
“Sure.”
She lowered her feet to the floor.
“You should eat something,” I said.
She had slept in running shorts and a T-shirt, and she followed me with the silence of a cat.
“How about some cereal?” I said as I got a coffee mug out of a cupboard.
She said nothing but simply watched me as I opened the tin of homemade granola that Benton had eaten most mornings with fresh banana or berries. Just the toasty aroma of it was enough to crush me again, and my throat seemed to close and my stomach furled. I stood helplessly for a long moment, unable to lift out the scoop or reach for a bowl or do the smallest thing.
“Don’t, Aunt Kay,” said Lucy, who knew exactly what was happening. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
My hands trembled as I clamped the top back on the tin.
“I don’t know how you’re going to stay here,” she said.
She poured her own coffee.
“This is where I live, Lucy.”
I opened the refrigerator and handed her the carton of milk.
“Where’s his car?” she asked, whitening her coffee.
“The airport at Hilton Head, I guess. He flew straight to New York from there.”