“I’m so sorry about your daughter.”
“Please tell me how my baby died. Oh, God, did she suffer?”
“Her cause of death is undetermined, Mrs. Bennett. There’s nothing else I can tell you at this time.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“All that remains is his bones, Mr. Martin. When soft tissue is gone, gone with it is any possible injury…”
“I don’t want to hear your medical bullshit! I want to know what killed my boy! The cops are asking about drugs! My boy’s never been drunk in his life, much less taken drugs! You hear me, lady? He’s dead, and they’re making him out to be some sort of punk…”
“CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER BAFFLED: Dr. Kay Scarpetta Unable to Tell Cause of Death.”
Undetermined.
Over and over again. Eight young people.
It was awful. It was, in fact, unprecedented for me.
Every forensic pathologist has undetermined cases, but I had never had so many that appeared to be related.
I opened the sunroof and my spirits were lifted somewhat by the weather. The temperature was in the low eighties, leaves would be turning soon. It was only in the fall and spring that I did not miss Miami. Richmond summers were just as hot, without benefit of ocean breezes to sweep the air clean. The humidity was horrible, and in winter I fared no better, for I do not like the cold. But spring and fall were intoxicating. I drank in the change, and it went straight to my head.
The I-64 rest stop in New Kent County was exactly thirty-one miles from my house. It could have been any rest stop in Virginia, with picnic tables, grills and wooden trash barrels, brick-enclosed bathrooms and vending machines, and newly planted trees. But there was not a traveler or a truck driver in sight, and police cars were everywhere.
A trooper, hot and unsmiling in his blue-gray uniform, walked toward me as I parked near the ladies’ room.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, leaning close to my open window. “This rest area’s closed today. I’m going to have to ask you to drive on.”
“Dr. Kay Scarpetta,” I identified myself, switching off the ignition. “The police asked me to come.”
“For what purpose, ma’am?”
“I’m the chief medical examiner,” I replied.
As he looked me over, I could see the skeptical glint in his eyes. I supposed I did not look particularly “chiefly.”
Dressed in a stone-washed denim skirt, pink oxford cloth shirt, and leather walking shoes, I was without the accoutrements of authority, including my state car, which was in the state garage awaiting new tires. At a glance, I was a not-so-young yuppie running errands in her dark gray Mercedes, a distracted ash-blonde en route to the nearest shopping mall.
“I’ll need some identification.”
Digging inside my purse, I produced a thin black wallet and displayed my brass medical examiner’s shield, then handed over my driver’s license, both of which he studied for along moment I sensed he was embarrassed.
“Just leave your car here, Dr. Scarpetta. The folks you’re looking for are in back.”
He pointed in the direction of the parking area for trucks and buses. “Have a nice one,” he added inanely, stepping away.
I followed a brick walk. When I rounded the building and passed beneath the shade of trees, I was greeted by several more police cars, a tow truck with light bar flashing, and at least a dozen men in uniforms and plain clothes. I did not see the red Jeep Cherokee until I was almost upon it. Midway along the exit ramp, it was well off the pavement in a dip and obscured by foliage. Two door, it was coated with a film of dust. When I looked in the driver’s window I could see that the beige leather interior was very clean, the backseat neatly packed with various items of luggage, a slalom ski, a coiled yellow nylon ski rope, and a red-and-white plastic ice chest. Keys dangled from the ignition. Windows were partly rolled down. Depressed tire tracks leading from the pavement were clearly visible in the sloping grass, the front chrome grille nudged up against a clump of pines.