The Body Farm by Patricia Cornwell
“What are you going to do about that?”
“I don’t know.”
I got increasingly upset.
“Right now, his car is low on my list. I’ve got all his things in the house,” I told her.
I took a deep breath.
“I can’t make decisions about everything at once,” I said.
“You should clear every bit of it out today.”
Lucy leaned against the counter, drinking coffee and watching me with that same flat look in her eyes.
“I mean it,” she went on in a tone that carried no emotion.
“Well, I’m not touching anything of his until his body has come home.”
“I can help you, if you want.”
She sipped her coffee again. I was getting angry with her.
“I will do this my way, Lucy,” I said as pain seemed to radiate to every cell in me. “For once I’m not going to slam the door on something and run. I’ve done it most of my life, beginning when my father died. Then Tony left and Mark got killed, and I got better and better at vacating each relationship as if it were an old house. Walking off as if I had never lived there. And guess what? It doesn’t work.”
She was staring down at her bare feet.
“Have you talked to Janet?” I asked.
“She knows. Now she’s all bent out of shape because I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to see anybody.”
“The harder you run, the more you stay in one place,” I said. “If you’ve learned nothing else from me, Lucy, at least learn that. Don’t wait until half your life has passed.”
“I’ve learned a lot of things from you,” my niece said as windows caught the morning and brightened my kitchen. “More than you think.”
For a long moment she stared at the empty doorway leading into the great room.
“I keep thinking he’s going to walk in,” she muttered.
“I know,” I said. “I keep thinking it, too.”
“I’ll call Teun. As soon as I know something, I’ll page you,” she said.
The sun was strong to the east and other people heading to work squinted in the glare of what promised to be a clear, hot day. I was carried in the flow of traffic on Ninth Street past the wrought-iron-enclosed Capitol Square, with its Jeffersonian pristine white buildings and monuments to Stonewall Jackson and George Washington. I thought of Kenneth Sparkes, of his political influence. I remembered my fear and fascination when he would call with demands and complaints. I felt terribly sorry for him now.
All that had happened of late had not cleared his name of suspicion for the simple reason that even those of us who knew we might be dealing with serial murders were not at liberty to release such information to the news. I was certain that Sparkes did not know. I desperately wanted to talk to him, to somehow ease his mind, as if perhaps in doing so I might ease my own. Depression crushed my chest with cold, iron hands, and when I turned off Jackson Street into the bay of my building, the sight of a hearse unloading a black pouched body jolted me in a way it had not before.
I tried not to imagine Benton’s remains enveloped so, or the darkness of his cold, steel space at the shutting of the cooler door. It was awful to know all that I did. Death was not an abstraction, and I could envision every procedure, every sound and smell in a place where there was no loving touch, only a clinical objective and a crime to be solved. I was climbing out of my car when Marino rolled up.
“Mind if I stick my car in here?” he asked, even though he knew the bay parking was not for cops.
Marino was forever breaking rules.
“Go ahead,” I replied. “One of the vans is in the shop. Or at least I think it is. You’re not going to be here long.”
“How the hell do you know?”
He locked his car door and flicked an ash. Marino was his rude self again, and I found this incredibly reassuring.
“You going to your office first?” he asked, as we followed a ramp to doors that led inside the morgue.
“No. Straight upstairs.”
“Then I’ll tell you what’s probably already on your desk,” he said. “We got a positive I.D. for Claire Rawley. From hair in her brush.”
I wasn’t surprised, but the confirmation weighed me down with sadness again.
“Thanks,” I told him. “At least we know.”
19
THE TRACE EVIDENCE laboratories were on the third floor, and my first stop was the scanning electron microscope, or SEM, which exposed a specimen, such as the metal shaving from the Shephard case, to a beam of electrons. The elemental composition making up the specimen emitted electrons, and images were displayed on a video screen.
In short, the SEM recognized almost all of the one hundred and three elements, whether it was carbon, copper, or zinc, and because of the microscope’s depth of focus, high resolution, and high magnification, trace evidence such as gunshot residue or the hairs on a marijuana leaf could be viewed in amazing, if not eerie, detail.
The location of the Zeiss SEM was enthroned within a windowless room of teal and beige wall cupboards and shelves, counter space, and sinks. Because the extremely expensive instrument was very sensitive to mechanical vibration, magnetic fields, and electrical and thermal disturbances, the environment was precisely controlled.
The ventilation and air conditioning system were independent of the rest of the building, and photographically safe lighting was supplied by filament lamps that did not cause electrical interference and were directed up at the ceiling to dimly illuminate the room by reflection. Floors and walls were thick steel-beamed reinforced concrete impervious to human bustling or the traffic of the expressway.
Mary Chan was petite and fair-skinned, a first-rate microscopist, this minute on the phone and surrounded by her complex apparatus. With its instrument panels, power units, electron gun and optical column, X-ray analyzer, and vacuum chamber attached to a cylinder of nitrogen, the SEM looked like a console for the space shuttle. Chan’s lab coat was buttoned to her chin, and her friendly gesture told me she would be but a minute.
“Take her temperature again and try the tapioca. If she doesn’t keep that down, call me back, okay?” Chan was saying to someone. “I’ve got to go now.”
“My daughter,” she said to me as an apology. “A stomach upset, most likely from too much ice cream last night. She got into the Chunky Monkey when I wasn’t looking.”
Her smile was brave but tired, and I suspected she had been up most of the night.
“Man, I love that stuff,” Marino said as he handed her our packaged evidence.
“Another metal shaving,” I explained to her. “I hate to spring this on you, Mary, but if you could look at it now. It’s urgent.”
“Another case or the same one?”
“The fire in Lehigh County, Pennsylvania,” I replied.
“No kidding?” She looked surprised as she slit taped brown paper with a scalpel. “Lord,” she said, “that one sounds pretty awful, based on what I heard on the news, anyway. Then the FBI guy, too. Weird, weird, weird.”
She had no reason to know about my relationship with Benton.
“Between those cases and the one in Warrenton, you have to wonder if there isn’t some whacko pyro on the loose,” she went on.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said.
Chan took the cap off the small metal evidence button and with tweezers removed a layer of snowy cotton, revealing the two tiny bright turnings. She pushed back her roller chair to a counter behind her and proceeded to place a double-sided adhesive square of black carbon tape on a tiny aluminum stub. On this she mounted the shaving that seemed to have the most surface area. It was maybe half the size of a normal eyelash. She turned on a stereo-optical microscope, positioned the sample on the stage, and adjusted the light wand to take a look at a lower magnification before she resorted to the SEM.
“I’m seeing two different surfaces,” she said as she adjusted the focus. “One real shiny, the other so
“That’s different from the Warrenton sample,” I said. “Both surfaces were shiny, right?”
“Correct. My guess would be that one of the surfaces here was exposed to atmospheric oxidation. For whatever reason that might be.”
“Do you mind?” I asked.
She scooted out of the way and I peered through the lenses. At a magnification of four, the metal turning looked like a ribbon of crumpled foil, and I could just barely make out the fine striations left by whatever had been used to shave the metal. Mary took several Polaroid photographs and then rolled her chair back to the SEM console. She pushed a button to vent the chamber, or release the vacuum.
“This will take a few minutes,” she said to us. “You can wait here or go and come back.”
“I’m getting coffee,” said Marino, who had never been a fan of sophisticated technology and most likely wanted to smoke.
Chan opened a valve to fill the chamber with nitrogen to keep contamination, such as moisture, out. Next she pushed a button on the console and placed our sample on an electron optics table.
“Now we got to get it to ten to the minus six millimeters of mercury. That’s the vacuum level needed to turn on the beam. Usually takes two or three minutes. But I like to pump it down a little more than that to get a really good vacuum,” she explained, reaching for her coffee. “I think the news accounts are very confusing,” she then said. “A lot of innuendo.”
“So what else is new?” I wryly commented.
“Tell me about it. Whenever I read accounts of my court testimony, I always wonder if someone else had been on the stand instead of me. My point is, first they drag Sparkes into it, and to be honest, I was about to think that maybe he had burned his own place and some girl. Probably for money, and to get rid of her because she knew something. Then, lo and behold, there are these two other fires in Pennsylvania, and two more people killed, and there’s the suggestion all of it’s related? And where’s Sparkes been during all this?”
She reached for her coffee.
“Excuse me, Dr. Scarpetta. I didn’t even ask. Can I get you some?”
“No thank you,” I said.
I watched the green light move across the gauge as the mercury level slowly climbed.
“I also find it odd that this psycho woman escapes from the loony bin in New York—what’s her name? Carrie something? And the FBI profiler guy in charge of that investigation suddenly ends up dead. I think we’re ready to go,” she said.
She turned on the electron beam and the video display. The magnification was set for five hundred, and she turned it down and we began to get a picture of the filament’s current on the screen. At first it looked like a wave, then it began to flatten. She hit more keys, backing off the magnification again, this time to twenty, and we began to get a picture of the signals coming off the sample.
“I’ll change the spot size of the beam to get a little more energy.”
She adjusted buttons and dials as she worked.
“Looks like our shaving of metal, almost like a curled ribbon,” she announced.
The topography was simply an enlarged version of what we had seen under the optical microscope moments earlier, and since the picture wasn’t terribly bright, this suggested an element with a lower atomic number. She adjusted the scanning speed of the live picture and took away some of the noise, which looked like a snowstorm on the screen.
“Here you can clearly see the shiny versus the gray,” she said.
“And you think that’s due to oxidation,” I said, pulling up a chair.
“Well, you’ve got two surfaces of the same material. I would venture that the shiny side was recently shaved while the other wasn’t.”
“Makes sense to me.”
The crinkled metal looked like shrapnel suspended in space.
“We had a case last year,” Chan spoke again as she pressed the frame store button to make photographs for me. “A guy bludgeoned with a pipe from a machine shop. And tissue from his scalp had a metal filing from a lathe. It was transferred right into the wound. Okay, let’s change the back scatter image and see what kind of X ray we get off that.”
The video screen went gray and digital seconds began to count. Mary worked other buttons on her control panel, and a bright orange spectrum suddenly appeared on the screen against a background of vivid blue. She moved the cursor and expanded what looked like a psychedelic stalagmite.
“Let’s see if there are other metals.”
She made more adjustments.
“Nope,” she said. “It’s very clean. Think we got our same suspect again. We’ll call up magnesium and see if there’s an overlapping of lines.”
She superimposed the spectrum for magnesium over the one for our sample, and they were the same. She called up a table of elements on the video screen, and the square for magnesium was lit up red. We had confirmed our element, and although I had expected the answer we got, I was still stunned by it.
“Do you have any explanation as to why pure magnesium might be transferred to a wound?” I asked Chan as Marino returned.
“Well, I told you my pipe story,” she replied.
“What pipe?” Marino said.
“Only thing I can think of is a metal shop,” Chan went on. “But I would think that machining magnesium would be unusual. I mean, I can’t imagine what for.”
“Thanks, Mary. We’ve got one more stop to go, but I’m going to need you to let me have the shaving from the Warrenton case so I can take it over to firearms.”
She glanced at her watch as the phone rang again, and I could only imagine the caseload awaiting her.
“Right away,” she generously said to me.
The firearms and toolmarks labs were on the same floor and were really the same section of science, since the lands and grooves and firing pin impressions left on cartridge cases and bullets were, in fact, the toolmarks made by guns. The space in the new building was a stadium compared to the old, and this sadly spoke to the continuing deterioration of the society beyond our doors.
It was not unusual for schoolchildren to hide handguns in their lockers, or show them off in the bathrooms, and carry them on the school bus, it seemed, and it was nothing for violent offenders to be eleven and twelve years old. Guns were still the top choice for killing oneself or one’s spouse, or even the neighbor with the constantly barking dog. More frightening were the disgruntled and insane who entered public places and started blasting away, explaining why my office and the lobby were protected by bulletproof glass.
Rich Sinclair’s work area was carpeted and well lighted, and overlooked the coliseum, which had always reminded me of a metal mushroom about to take flight. He was using weights to test the trigger pull of a Taurus pistol, and Marino and I walked in to the sound of the hammer clicking against the firing pin. I was not in a chatty mood and did my best not to seem rude as I told Sinclair outright what I needed, and that I needed it now.
“This is the metal turning from Warrenton,” I said, opening that evidence button. “And this is the one recovered from the body in the Lehigh fire.”
I opened that evidence button next.
“Both have striations that are clearly visible on SEM,” I explained.
The point was to see if the striations, or toolmarks, matched, indicating that the same instrument had been used to produce the magnesium shavings that had been recovered thus far. The ribbons of metal were very fragile and thin, and Sinclair used a narrow plastic spatula to pick them up. They weren’t very cooperative and tended to jump around as if they were trying to escape as he coaxed them from their sea of cotton. He used squares of black cardboard to center the shaving from Warrenton on one, and the shavings from Lehigh on the other. These he placed on stages of the comparison microscope.
“Oh yeah,” Sinclair said without pause. “We’ve got some good stuff.”
He manipulated the shavings with the spatula, flattening them some as he bumped the magnification up
“Maybe a blade of some type,” he said. “The striations are probably from the finishing process and end up being a defect because no finishing process is going to be perfectly smooth. I mean, the manufacturer’s going to be happy, but he’s not at our end seeing this. There, here’s an even better area, I think.”
He moved aside so we could take a look. Marino bent over the eyepieces first.
“Looks like ski tracks in snow,” was his comment. “And that’s from the blade, right? Or whatever?”
“Yes, imperfections, or toolmarks, made by whatever shaved this metal. Do you see the match, when one shaving is lined up with the other?”
Marino didn’t.
“Here, Doc, you look.” Sinclair got out of my way.
What I saw through the microscope was good enough for court, the striations of the Warrenton shaving in one field of light matching the striations of the shaving in the other. Clearly, the same tool had shaved something made of magnesium in both homicide cases. The question was what this tool might be, and because the shavings were so thin, one had to consider a sharp blade of some type. Sinclair made several Polaroid photographs for me and slid them into glyassine envelopes.
“Okay, now what?” Marino asked as he followed me through the center of the firearms lab, past scientists busy processing bloody clothing under biohazard hoods, and others examining a Phillips screwdriver and machete at a big U-shaped counter.
“Now I go shopping,” I said.
I did not slow down as I talked but, in fact, was getting more frantic because I knew I was getting closer to reconstructing what Carrie or her accomplice or someone had done.
“What do you mean, shopping?”
Through the wall I could hear the muffled bangs of test fires in the range.
“Why don’t you check on Lucy?” I said. “And I’ll get back to both of you later.”
“I don’t like it when you do this later shit,” Marino said as elevator doors parted. “That means you’re running around on your own and poking your nose in things that maybe you shouldn’t. And this ain’t the time for you to be out on the street with nobody around. We got not a clue where Carrie is.”