“I have no letters, and any documents that he might have signed would have been handled by a number of people. You’re welcome to try.”
“I’ll let you know if we have no other alternative. But there is one final thing I’ve been meaning to ask.”
We paused in the doorway. Grueman was leaning on his cane. “You mentioned that during your last conversation with Waddell, he made three last requests. One was to publish his meditation, another to call Jennifer Deighton. What was the third?”
“He wanted me to invite Norring to the execution.”
“And did you?”
“Well, of course,” Grueman said. “And your fine governor didn’t even have the manners to RSVP.”
10
It was late afternoon, and Richmond’s skyline was in view when I called Rose.
“Dr. Scarpetta, where are you?”
My secretary sounded frantic. “Are you in your car?”
“Yes. I’m about five minutes from downtown.”
“Well, keep driving. Don’t come here right now.”
“What?”
“Lieutenant Marino’s trying to reach you. He said if I talk to you to tell you to call him before you do anything. He said it’s very, very urgent.”
“Rose, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Have you been listening to the news? Did you read the afternoon paper?”
“I’ve been in D.C. all day. What news?”
“Frank Donahue was found dead early this afternoon.”
“The prison warden? That Frank Donahue?”
“Yes.”
My hands tensed on the wheel as I stared hard at the road.
“What happened?”
“He was shot. He was found in his car a couple of hours ago. It’s just like Susan.”
“I’m on my way,” I said. gliding into the left lane and accelerating.
“I really wouldn’t. Fielding’s already started on him. Please call Marino. You need to read the evening paper. They know about the bullets.”
`They?” I said.
“Reporters. They know about the bullets linking Edgy; Heath’s and Susan’s cases.”
“I called Marino’s pager and told him I was on my way home. When I pulled into my garage, I went straight to the front stoop and retrieved the evening paper.
A photograph of Frank Donahue smiled above they fold: The headline read, “STATE PENITENTIARY WARDEN SLAIN.”
Below this was a second story featuring the photograph of another state official – me: That story’s lead was that the bullets recovered from the bodies of the Heath boy and Susan had been fired from the same gun, and a number of bizarre connections seemed to link both homicides to me. In addition to the same intimation that had run in the Post was information much more sinister. My fingerprints, I was stunned to read, had been recovered from an envelope containing cash that the police had found inside Susan Story’s house. I had demonstrated an “unusual interest” in Eddie Heath’s case by appearing at Henrico Doctor’s Hospital, prior to his death, to examine his wounds. Later I had performed his autopsy, and it was at this time that Susan refused to witness his case and supposedly fled from the morgue When she was murdered less than two weeks later, I responded to the scene, appeared unannounced at the home of her parents directly afterward to ask them questions, and insisted on being present during the autopsy. I was not directly assigned a motive for malevolence toward anyone, but the one implied in Susan’s case was as infuriating as it was amazing. I may have been making major mistakes on the job. I had neglected to print Ronnie Joe Waddell when his body came to the morgue after his execution. I recently had left the body of a homicide victim in the middle of a corridor, virtually in front of an elevator used by numerous people who worked in the building, thus seriously compromising the chain of evidence. I was described as aloof and unpredictable, with colleagues observing that my personality had begun to change after the death of my lover, Mark James. Perhaps Susan, who had worked by my side daily, had possessed knowledge that could ruin me professionally. Perhaps I had been paying for her silence.
“My fingerprints?” I said to Marino the instant he appeared at my door. “What the hell is this business about fingerprints belonging to me?”