Marino is in the hallway, an unlit cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth, and I can feel him trying to read me and what might have just happened while Jay was inside my bedroom with the door shut. My gaze lingers on the empty hallway, halfway hoping Jay will reappear and dreading it at the same time. Marino grabs my bags and cops fall silent as I approach. They avoid looking in my direction as they move about my great room, duty belts creaking, equipment they manipulate clicking and clacking. An investigator takes photographs of the coffee table, the flash gun popping bright white. Someone else is videotaping while a crime scene technician sets up an alternative light source called a Luma-Lite that can detect fingerprints, drugs and body fluids not visible to the unaided eye. My downtown office has a Luma-Lite I routinely use on bodies at scenes and in the morgue. To see a Luma-Lite inside my house gives me a feeling that is indescribable.
Dark dusting powder smudges furniture and walls, and the colorful Persian rug is pulled back, exposing antique French oak underneath. An endtable lamp is unplugged and on the floor. The sectional sofa has craters where cushions used to be, the air oily and acrid with the residual odor of formalin. Off the great room and near the front door is the dining room and through the open doorway I am greeted with the sight of a brown paper bag sealed with yellow evidence tape, dated, initialed and labeled clothing Scarpetta. Inside it are the slacks, sweater, socks, shoes, bra and panties I was wearing last night, clothes taken from me in the hospital. That bag and other evidence and flashlights and equipment are on top of my favorite red Jarrah Wood dining room table, as if it is a workbench. Cops have draped coats over chairs, and wet, dirty footprints are everywhere. My mouth is dry, my joints weak with shame and rage.
“Yo Marino!” a cop barks. “Righter’s looking for you.”
Buford Righter is the city commonwealth’s attorney. I look around for Jay. He is nowhere to be seen.
“Tell him to take a number and wait in line.” Marino sticks to his deli-line allusion.
He lights the cigarette as I open the front door, and cold air bites my face and makes my eyes water. “Did you get my crime scene case?” I ask him.
“It’s in the truck.” He says this like a condescending husband who has been asked to fetch his wife’s pocketbook.
“Why’s Righter calling?” I want to know.
“Bunch of fucking voyeurs,” he mutters.
Marino’s truck is on the street out front and two massive tires have chewed tracks into my snowy churned-up lawn. Buford Righter and I have worked many cases together over the years and it stings that he did not ask me directly if he could come to my house. He has not, for that matter, contacted me to see how I am and let me know he is glad I am alive.
“You ask me, people just want to see your joint,” Marino says. “So they give these excuses about needing to check this and that.”
Slush seeps into my shoes as I carefully make my way along the driveway.
“You got no idea how many people ask me what your house is like. You’d think you was Lady Di or something. Plus, Righter’s got his nose in everything, can’t stand to be left out of the loop. Biggest fucking case since Jack the Ripper. Righter’s bugging the hell out of us.”
Flash guns suddenly explode in bright white stutters and I almost slip. I swear out loud. Photographers have gotten past the neighborhood guard gate. Three of them hurry toward me in a blaze of flashes as I struggle with one arm to climb into the truck’s high front seat.
“Hey!” Marino yells at the nearest offender, a woman. “Goddamn bitch!” He lunges, trying to block her camera, and her feet go out from under her. She sits down hard on the slick street, camera equipment thudding and scattering.
“Fuckhead!” she screams at him. “Fuckhead!”
“Get in the truck! Get in the truck!” Marino yells at me.