Patricia Cornwell – Scarpetta11 – The Last Precinct

“Murder makes everybody selfish,” I tell her.

“No kidding.”

“It causes unbearable anger and pain,” I continue. “You think only of yourself. I’ve done much statistical analysis with our computer database, and one day I’m trying to pull up the case of a woman who was raped and murdered. I hit on three cases with the same last name and discover the rest of her family: a brother who died of a drug overdose some years af­ter the murder, then the father who committed suicide several years after that, and the mother who got killed in a car acci­dent. We’ve begun an ambitious study at the Institute, doing an analysis of what happens to the people left behind. They get divorced. They become substance abusers. Are treated for mental illness. Lose their jobs. Move.”

“Violence certainly poisons the lake,” Berger rather ba-nally replies.

“I’m tired of being selfish. That’s what I’m feeling,” I say. “Christmas Eve, and what have I done for anybody? Not even for Rita. Here she’s working past midnight, has several jobs because she has children. Well, I hate this. He’s hurt so many people. He continues to hurt people. We’ve had two off-the-wall murders that I believe are related. Torture. International connections. Guns, drags. Bed covers missing.” I look over at Berger. “When the hell is it going to stop?”

She turns into my driveway, making no pretense that she doesn’t know exactly which one it is. “The reality is, not soon enough,” she answers me.

Like Bray’s house, mine is completely dark. Someone has turned off all the lights, including the floodlights that are po­litely hidden in trees or in eaves and pointed down at the ground so they don’t light up my property like a baseball park and completely offend my neighbors. I don’t feel welcome. I dread walking inside and facing what Chandonne, what the police, have done to my private world. I sit for a moment and stare out my window as my heart sinks lower. Anger. Pain. I am deeply offended.

“What are you feeling?” Berger asks as she stares out at my house.

“What am I feeling?” 1 bitterly repeat. “So much for Piu si prende epeggio si mangia” I get out and angrily shut the car door.

Loosely translated, the Italian proverb means the more youpay, the worse you eat. Italian country life is supposed to be simple and sweet. It is supposed to be uncomplicated. The best food is made of fresh ingredients and people don’t rush away from the table or care about matters that really aren’t important. To my neighbors, my sturdy house is a fortress with every security system known to the human race. To me, what I built is a casa colonica, a quaint farmhouse of varying shades of creamy gray stone with brown shutters that warm me with reassuring, gentle thoughts of the people-I come from. I only wish I had roofed my house with coppi, or curved terra-cotta tiles, instead of slate, but I didn’t want a red dragon’s back on top of rustic stone. If I couldn’t reasonably find materials that were old, at least I chose ones that blend with the earth.

The essence of who I am is ruined. The simple beauty and safety of my life is sullied. I tremble inside. My vision blurs with tears as I climb the front steps and stand beneath the overhead lamp that Chandonne unscrewed. The night air bites and clouds have absorbed the moon. It feels like it might snow again. I blink and take in several breaths of cold air in an ef­fort to calm myself and shove down overwhelming emotion. Berger, at least, has the good grace to give me a moment of peace. She has dropped back as I insert my key into the dead-bolt lock. I step inside the dark, cool foyer and enter the alarm code as an awareness raises the hair on the back of my neck. I flip on lights and blink at the steel Medeco key in my hand and my pulse picks up. This is crazy. It can’t be. No way. Berger is quietly coming through the door behind me. She looks around at the stucco walls and vaulted ceilings. Paint­ings are crooked. Rich Persian rugs are rumpled and disturbed and filthy. Nothing has been restored to its original order. It seems contemptuous that no one bothered to clean up dusting powder and tracked-in mud, but this isn’t why I have a look on my face that pins Berger’s complete attention.