Patricia Cornwell – Scarpetta11 – The Last Precinct

Marino chugs a glass of his dangerous concoction. “That reminds me,” he says to no one in particular. “I die, she ain’t cutting on me.” As if I am not standing right there. “That’s the deal.” He pours another glass, and by now, all of us have stopped what we are doing. We stare at him. ‘That’s been bothering me for ten fucking years now.” Another swallow. “Damn, this stuff will warm your toes. I don’t want her slam­ming me around on one of those damn steel tables and cutting me up like I’m a fish from the fucking market. Huh. I got a deal with the girls up front.” A reference to my clerks in the front office. “No passing my pictures around. Don’t think I don’t see what goes on up there. They compare dick sizes.” He chugs half a glass and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ve heard ’em do it. Especially Clit-ta.” He makes a lewd play on Cleta’s name.

He starts for the pitcher again and I put out my hand to stop him as my anger rushes forth in an army of harsh words. “That’s enough. What the hell’s gotten into you? How dare you come here drunk and then get drunker. Go sleep it off, Marino. I’m sure Anna can find a spare bed. You’re not driv­ing anywhere and none of us care to be subjected to you right now.”

He gives me a defiant, mocking stare as he lifts his glass again. “Least I’m being honest,” he retorts. “Rest of you can pretend all you want that it’s a good damn day because it’s fucking Christmas. Well, so fucking what? Lucy’s quit her job so she don’t get fired because she’s a smart-ass queer.”

“Don’t, Marino,” Lucy warns him.

“McGovern quit her job, and I dunno what her deal is.” Pokes a thumb at her, insinuating she may be of Lucy’s same persuasion. “Anna’s gotta move outta her own fucking house because you’re here and being investigated for murder, and now you’re quitting your job. No small fucking goddamn wonder, and we’ll just see if the governor keeps you around. A private consultant. Yeah.” He slurs his words and sways in the middle of the kitchen, his face blotchy red. “That’ll be the day. So guess who’s left? Me, myself and I.” He slams the glass down on the counter and walks out of the kitchen, bumping into a wall, knocking a painting crooked, stumbling into the living room.

“My God.” McGovern quietly lets out a big breath.

“Redneck bastard,” Lucy says.

“The file.” Anna stares after him. “That is what is wrong with him.”

MARINO is IN A DRUNKEN COMA ON THE LIVING room couch. Nothing stirs him. He does not move, but his snoring alerts us that he is both alive and not aware of what is going on inside Anna’s house. The lasagna is cooked and stay­ing warm in the oven, and a key lime pie chills inside the re­frigerator. Anna has set out on the eight-hour drive to Hilton Head, despite my protests. I did all I could to encourage her to stay, but she felt she should go on. It is midafternoon. Lucy, McGovern and I have been sitting at the dining room table for hours, place settings moved out of the way, gifts still un­opened under the tree, the Tlip file spread out before us.

Benton was meticulous. He sealed each item in clear plas­tic, and purple stains on some of the letters and envelopes in­dicate ninhydrin was used to process latent fingerprints. The postmarks are Manhattan, all with the same first three digits of a zip code, 100. It is not possible to know which branch posted the letters. All a three-digit prefix indicates is which city and that the mail wasn’t processed through a home or business postage meter machine or at some rural station. In those instances, the postmark would be five digits.

There is a table of contents in the front of the Tlip file and it lists a total of sixty-three items dating from the spring of 1996 (about six months before Benton wrote the letter he wanted delivered to me after his death) to the fall of 1998 (mere days before Carrie Grethen escaped from Kirby). The first item is labeled Exhibit 1, as if it is physical evidence for a jury to see. It is a letter posted in New York on May 15, 1996, unsigned and computer-printed in an ornate, hard-to-read WordPerfect font that Lucy identifies as “Ransom.”