‘Hmmm,’ he said, studying the entertainment center. ‘Interesting that it’s out about six inches from the wall.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Let’s move it.’
We pulled it out more, and directly in line with the knothole was a tiny video camera with a wide-angle lens. It was simply situated on a shallow ledge, a cord running from it into the base of the entertainment center, where it could be activated by a remote control that looked like it belonged to the television set. By doing a little bit of experimentation, we discovered that the camera was completely invisible from Brown’s bedroom, unless one put his eye right up to the knothole and the camera was on, a red light glowing.
‘Maybe he was doing a few lines of coke and decided to have sex with somebody,’ Marino said. ‘And at some point he got up close to look through the hole to make sure the camera was going.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘How fast can we look at the tape?’
‘I don’t want to do it here.’
‘I don’t blame you. The camera’s so small we couldn’t see much anyway.’
‘I’ll take it to the Intelligence Division as soon as we finish up.’
There was little left for us to do at the scene. As he suspected, Vander found significant residues in the gun cabinet, but no blood anywhere else in the house. The neighbors on either side of Sheriff Brown’s property were cloistered amid trees and had not heard or seen any activity late last night or early this morning.
‘If you’ll just drop me by my car,’ I said as we drove away.
Marino glanced suspiciously at me. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Petersburg.’
‘What the hell for?’ he said.
‘I’ve got to talk to a friend about boots.’
There were many trucks and much construction along a stretch of 1-95 South that I always found bleak. Even the Philip Morris plant with its building-high pack of Merits was stressful, for the fragrance of fresh tobacco bothered me. I desperately missed smoking, especially when I was driving alone on a day like this. My mind streaked, eyes constantly on mirrors as I looked for a dark blue van.
The wind flailed trees and swamps, and snow-flakes were flying. As I got closer to Ft. Lee I began to see barracks and warehouses where breastworks once had been built upon dead bodies during this nation’s cruelest hour. That war seemed close when I thought of Virginia swamps and woods and missing dead. Not a year passed when I didn’t examine old buttons and bones, and Minie balls turned into the labs. I had touched the fabrics and faces of old violence, too, and it felt different from what I put my hands on now. Evil, I believed, had mutated to a new extreme.
The US Army Quartermaster Museum was located in Ft. Lee, just past Kenner Army Hospital. I slowly drove past offices and classrooms housed in rows of white trailers, and squads of young men and women in camouflage and athletic clothes. The building I wanted was brick with a blue roof and columns and the heraldry of an eagle, crossed sword and key just left of the door. I parked and went inside, looking for John Gruber.
The museum was the attic for the Quartermaster Corps, which since the American Revolution had been the army’s innkeeper. Troops were clothed, fed and sheltered by the QMC, which also had supplied Buffalo soldiers with spurs and saddles, and General Fatten with bullhorns for his jeep. I was familiar with the museum because the corps was also responsible for collecting, identifying and burying the army’s dead. Ft. Lee had the only Graves Registration Division in the country, and its officers rotated through my office regularly.
I walked past displays of field dress, mess kits, and a World War II trench scene with sandbags and grenades. I stopped at Civil War uniforms that I knew were real and wondered if tears in cloth were from shrapnel or age. I wondered about the men who had worn them.
‘Dr. Scarpetta?’
I turned around.
‘Dr. Gruber,’ I said warmly. ‘I was just looking for you. Tell me about the whistle.’ I pointed at a showcase filled with musical instruments.