I had inherited my quarters from the previous chief, but beyond the paneling, nothing was as it had been back in those cigar-smoky days when forensic pathologists like Cagney nipped bourbon with cops and funeral home directors, and touched bodies with bare hands. My predecessor had not worried much about alternate light sources and DNA.
I remembered the first time I had been shown his space after he had died and I was being interviewed for his position. I had surveyed macho mementos he had proudly displayed, and when one of them turned out to be a silicone breast implant from a woman who had been raped and murdered, I had been tempted to stay in Miami.
I did not think the former chief would like his office now, for it was nonsmoking, and disrespect and sophomoric behavior were left outside the door. The oak furniture was not the state’s but my own, and I had hidden the tile floor with a Sarouk prayer rug that was machine-made but bright.
There were corn plants and a ficus tree, but I did not bother with art, because like a psychiatrist, I wanted nothing provocative on my walls, and frankly, I needed all the space I could find for filing cabinets and books. As for trophies, Cagney would not have been impressed with the toy cars, trucks and trains I used to help investigators reconstruct accidents.
I took several minutes to look through my in-basket, which was full of red-bordered death certificates for medical examiner cases and green-bordered ones for those that were not. Other reports also awaited my initialing, and a message on my computer screen told me I needed to check my electronic mail. All that could wait, I thought, and I walked back out into the hall to see who else was here.
Only Cleta was, I discovered, when I reached the front office, but she was just who I needed to see.
“Dr. Scarpetta,” she said, startled. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I thought it was a good idea for me to return to Richmond right now,” I said, pulling a chair close to her desk.
“Dr. Fielding and I are going to try to cover Tidewater from here.”
Cleta was from Florence, South Carolina, and wore a lot of makeup and her skirts too short because she believed that happiness was being pretty, which was something she would never be. In the midst of sorting grim photographs by case number, she sat straight in her chair, a magnifying glass in hand, bifocals on. Nearby was a sausage biscuit on a napkin that she probably had gotten from the cafeteria next door, and she was drinking Tab.
“Well, I think the roads are starting to melt,” she let me know.
“Good.” I smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She seemed very pleased as she plucked more photographs out of the shallow box.
“Cleta,” I said, “you remember Ted Eddings, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, ma’am.” She suddenly looked as if she might cry. “He was always so nice when he would come in here.
I still can’t believe it.” She bit her lower lip.
“Dr. Fielding says Eddings called down here the end of last week,” I said. “I’m wondering if you might remember that.”
She nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I sure do. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Did he talk to you?”
. “Yes.”
“Can you remember what he said?”
“Well, he wanted to speak to Dr. Fielding, but his line was busy. So I asked if I could take a message, and we kidded around some. You know how he was.” Her eyes got
bright and her voice wavered. “He asked me if I was still eating so much maple syrup because I had to be eating plenty of it to talk like this. And he asked me out.”
I listened as her cheeks turned red.
“Of course, he didn’t mean it. He was always saying, you know. “When are we going out on that date? He didn’t mean it,” she said again.
“It’s all right if he did,” I kindly told her.
“Well, he already had a girlfriend.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.