‘All that Remains’ by Patricia D Cornwell.
‘All that Remains’
by Patricia D Cornwell.
A DR KAY Scarpetta Mystery
1
Saturday, the last day of August, I started work before dawn. I did not witness mist burning off the grass or the sky turning brilliant blue. Steel tables were occupied by bodies all morning, and there are no windows in the morgue. Labor Day weekend had begun with a bang of car crashes and gunfire in the city of Richmond.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon when I finally returned to my West End home and heard Bertha mopping in the kitchen. She cleaned for me every Saturday and knew from past instruction not to bother with the phone, which had just begun to ring.
“I’m not here,” I said loudly as I opened the refrigerator.
Bertha stopped mopping. “It was ringing a minute ago,” she said. “Rang a few minutes before that, too. Same man.”
“No one’s home,” I repeated.
“Whatever you say, Dr. Kay.”
The mop moved across the floor again.
I tried to ignore the disembodied answering machine message intruding upon the sun-washed kitchen. The Hanover tomatoes I took for granted during the summer I began to hoard with the approach of fall. There were only three left. Where was the chicken salad? A beep was followed by the familiar male voice. “Doc? It’s Marino…”
Oh, Lord, I thought, shoving the refrigerator door shut with a hip. Richmond homicide detective Pete Marino had been on the street since midnight, and I had just seen him in the morgue as I was picking bullets out of one of his cases. He was supposed to be on his way to Lake Gaston for what was left of a weekend of fishing. I was looking forward to working in my yard.
“I’ve been trying to get you, am heading out. You’ll have to try my pager…”
Marino’s voice sounded urgent as I snatched up the receiver.
“I’m here.”
“That you or your goddam machine?”
“Take a guess,” I snapped “Bad news. They found another abandoned car. New Kent, the Sixty-four rest stop, westbound. Benton just got hold of me – ”
“Another couple?” I interrupted my plans for the day forgotten.
“Fred Cheney, white male, nineteen. Deborah Harvey, white female, nineteen. Last seen around eight last night when they drove off from the Harveys’ Richmond house, on their way to Spindrift.”
“And the car’s in the westbound lane?”
I inquired, for Spindrift, North Carolina, is three and a half hours east of Richmond.
“Yo. Appears they was heading in the opposite direction, back into the city. A trooper found the car, a Jeep Cherokee, about an hour ago. No sign of the kids.”
“I’m leaving now,” hold him.
Bertha had not stopped mopping, but I knew she had picked up every word.
“Be on my way soon as I finish up in here,” she assured me. “I’ll lock up and set the alarm. Don’t you worry, Dr. Kay.”
Fear was running along my nerves as I grabbed my purse and hurried out to my car.
There were four couples so far. Each had disappeared, eventually to be found murdered within a fifty-mile radius of Williamsburg.
The cases, dubbed by the press as The Couple Killings, were inexplicable, and no one seemed to have a clue or credible theory, not even the FBI and its Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, or VICAP, which featured a national data base run on an artificial intelligence computer capable of connecting missing persons with unidentified bodies and linking serial crimes. After the first couple’s bodies were found more than two years ago, a VICAP regional team, comprising FBI Special Agent Benton Wesley and veteran Richmond homicide detective Pete Marino, was invited by local police to assist. Another couple would disappear, then two more. In each instance, by the time VICAP could be notified, by the time the National Crime Information Center, or NCIC, could even wire descriptions to police department across America, the missing teenagers were already dead and decomposing in woods somewhere.
Taming off the radio, I passed through a tollbooth and picked up speed on I-64 East Images, voices suddenly came back to me. Bones and rotted clothing scattered with leaves. Attractive, smiling faces of missing teenagers printed in the newspapers, and bewildered, distraught families interviewed on television and calling me on the phone.