“Yes, I know where Strawberry Street is,” Susan’s father said. “I don’t know why she would have gone there. To my knowledge, it’s not an area where she normally went. Nothing would have been open today. I don’t know.”
“Do you know where her husband, Jason Story, is?” Marino asked.
“He’s here.”
“Here?”
Marino glanced around.
“Upstairs, asleep Jason’s not feeling well.”
“The children are whose?”
“Tom and Marie’s. Tom’s our son. They’re visiting for the holidays and left early this afternoon. For Tidewater. To visit friends. They should be home anytime.”
He reached for his wife’s hand. “Millie, these people have a lot of questions to ask. You’d better get Jason.”
“I tell you what,” Marino said. “I’d rather talk to him alone for a minute. Maybe you could take me to him?”
Mrs. Dawson nodded, hiding her face in her hands.
“I think you best check on Charlie and Hailey,” her husband said to her. “See if you can get your sister on the phone. Maybe she can come.”
His pale blue eyes followed his wife and Marino out of the kitchen. Susan’s father was tall, with fine bones, his dark brown hair thick, with very little gray. His gestures were economical, his emotions well contained. Susan had gotten her looks from him and perhaps her disposition.
“Her car is old. She has nothing of value to steal, and I know she would not have been involved. Not in drugs or anything.” He searched my face.
“We don’t know why this happened, Reverend Dawson.”
“She was pregnant” he said, the words catching in his throat. “How could anyone?”
“I don’t know”’ I said. “I don’t know how.”
He coughed. “She did not own a gun.”
For a moment, I did not know what he meant. Then I realized, and reassured him, “No. The police did not find a gun. There’s no evidence she did this to herself.”
“The police? You aren’t the police?”
“No. I’m the chief medical examiner. Kay Scarpetta.”
He stared numbly at me.
“Your daughter worked for me.”
“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know how to comfort you,” I said with difficulty.
“I haven’t begun to deal with this myself. But I’m going to do everything possible to find out what happened. I want you to know that.”
“Susan spoke of you. She always wanted to be a doctor.”
He averted his gaze, blinking back tears.
“I saw her last night. Briefly, at her home.”
I hesitated, reluctant to probe the soft places of their lives. “Susan seemed troubled. And she has not been herself at work of late.”
He swallowed, fingers laced tightly on top of the table. His knuckles were white.
“We need to pray. Would you pray with me, Dr. Scarpetta?”
He held out his hand. “Please.”
“As his fingers wrapped firmly around mine, I could not help but think of Susan’s obvious disregard for her father and distrust for what he represented. Fundamentalists frightened me, too. I felt anxious shutting my eyes holding hands with the Reverend Mack Dawson as he thanked God for a mercy I saw no evidence of and claimed promises too late for God to keep. Opening my eyes, I withdrew my hand. For an uneasy moment I feared that Susan’s father sensed my skepticism and wou1d question my beliefs. But the fate of my soul was foremost on his mind.
A loud voice sounded from upstairs, a muffled protest could not make out A chair scraped across the floor. The telephone rang and rang, and the voice rose again in a primal outcry of rage and pain. Dawson closed his eyes. He muttered something under his breath that rather strange. I thought he said, “Stay in your room.”
“Jason has been here the whole time.” he said. I could see his pulse pounding in his temples. “I realize he can speak for himself. But I just want you to know this from me.”
“You mentioned he’s not feeling well.”
“He woke up with a cold, the beginning of one. Susan took his temperature after lunch and encouraged him to go to bed. He would never hurt… Well.” He coughed “I know the police have to ask, have to consider domestic situations. But that’s not the case here.”