Patricia Cornwell – Scarpetta11 – The Last Precinct

“How are you?” she asks, kindly.

“About as well as can be expected.”

“Please sit. Mike’s getting off the phone,” Edith tells me. “I guess he didn’t talk to enough people at the party.” She smiles and rolls her eyes as if she is talking about a naughty boy.

Edith has never really assumed the role of first lady, not in any tradition the Commonwealth of Virginia has ever seen, and although she may have her detractors, she has also be­come celebrated as a strong, modern woman. She is a histori­cal archaeologist who didn’t give up her career when her husband took office and avoids official events she considers frivolous or a poor use of her time. Yet she is her husband’s devoted partner and has raised three children, now grown or in college. In her late forties, she has deep brown hair that she wears one length, at her collar and brushed straight back. Her eyes are almost amber, and in them thoughts and questions stir. She has something on her mind. “I was going to take you aside at the party. Kay, I’m glad you called. Thank you for dropping by. You know it’s not like me to pry into your cases,” she goes on, “but I have to say I’m really unsettled by the one I just read about in the paperthe man found in that awful motel near Jamestown. Mike and I are both very concerned, well, obviously, because of the Jamestown connection.”

“I’m not aware of a Jamestown connection.” I am puzzled, and my first thought is that information has come in that she knows and I don’t. “No connection to the archaeological ex­cavation. Not that I’m aware of.”

“Perceptions,” she says simply. “If nothing else.”

Jamestown is Edith Mitchell’s passion. Her own profes­sion drew her to the site years ago, and then she became an advocate for it in her present political position. She has un­earthed pestholes and human bones and tirelessly courted the interest of potential financial backers and the media. “I’ve driven past that motel just about every time I go down there because it’s closer to downtown to take Route Five instead of Sixty-four.” A shadow passes over her face. “A real dump. Can’t say it would surprise me if something bad happened there. Looks like the sort of place drug dealers and hookers would hang out. Did you go to the scene?”

“Not yet.”

“Can I get you anything to drink, Kay? I have some very good whisky I bootlegged back from Ireland last month. I know you like Irish whisky.”

“Only if you’re having some.”

She reaches for the phone and asks Aaron to bring up the bottle of Black Bush and three glasses.

“What’s going on at Jamestown these days?” The air is tainted by a patina of cigar smoke that awakens my frustrating hunger for cigarettes. “I think the last time I was there was three or four years ago,” I tell her.

“When we found JR.,” she recalls.

“Yes.”

“It’s been that long since you were there?”

“Nineteen ninety-six, I think.”

“Well, you must come see what we’re doing. It’s amazing how the footprint of the fort has changed, and the artifacts, hundreds of thousands of them, as you probably know from the news. We’ve been doing isotopic studies on some of the bones, which I should think you would find interesting, Kay. JR continues to be our biggest mystery. His isotopic profile wasn’t at all consistent with a diet of either corn or wheat, so we didn’t know what to make of that, except that maybe he wasn’t English. So we sent one of his teeth to a lab in En­gland, for DNA.”

JR stands for Jamestown Rediscovery. It is the prefix given every feature discovered at the excavation site, but in this in­stance, Edith refers specifically to the one-hundred-and-second feature unearthed in the third or C layer of soil. JR102C is a grave. It has become the most celebrated grave of the excavation because the skeleton inside it is thought to be that of a young man who arrived at Jamestown with John Smith in May 1607 and was shot to death that fall. At the first hint of violence inside the coffin-stained clay, Edith and the chief archaeologist called me to the site, where together we brushed back dirt from a sixty-caliber musket ball and twenty-one shot that had fractured the tibia and rotated it one hundred and eighty degrees, so that the foot was pointing backward. The injury would have torn if not severed the popliteal artery behind the knee, and JR, as he has since become affection­ately known, would have bled to death quickly.

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