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 more furious.
“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.