Patricia Cornwell – Scarpetta11 – The Last Precinct

Fear is a fascinating emotion. I have studied it endlessly and often tell people the best example of how it works is to re­call the reaction of another driver you have pulled in front of and almost hit. Panic instantly turns to rage and the other per­son lays on the horn, makes obscene gestures or, these days, shoots you. I go through the progression completely, flaw­lessly, Shrill fear turning to fury. “I’ve not followed the news deliberately and certainly won’t appreciate the magnitude of it,” I reply. “I never appreciate having my privacy violated.”

“The murders of Kim Luong and Diane Bray created a lot of attention, but nothing like thisthe murder attempt on you,” he continues. “I’m supposing, then, you didn’t see The Washington Post this morning?”

I just stare at him, seething.

“Front-page photo of Chandonne in the stretcher being carried into the E.R., his hairy shoulders sticking out of the sheets like some sort of long-haired dog. Of course, his face was covered by bandages, but you certainly could get the sense of how grotesque he is. And the tabloids. You can imag­ine. Werewolf in Richmond, Beauty and the Beast, that sort of thing.” Disdain creeps around the edges of his voice, as if sen­sationalism is obscene, and I am subjected to an unwanted im­age of him making love to his wife. I can envision him fucking with his socks on. I suspect he would consider sex an indignity, the primitive judge of biology overruling his higher self. I have heard rumors. In the men’s room, he won’t use the urinals or toilets in front of anybody. He is a compulsive hand-washer. All of this is buzzing through my mind as he contin­ues to sit so properly and disclose the wilting public exposure Chandonne has caused me.

“Do you know if photographs of my house have shown up anywhere?” I have to ask. “There were photographers when I came out of my driveway last night.”

“Well, I do know there have been some helicopters flying over this morning. Someone told me that,” he replies, making me instantly suspicious that he has been back at my house again and witnessed this for himself. “Taking aerial shots.” He stares out at snow drifting down. “I guess the weather’s put a stop to it. The guard gate’s been turning away quite a few cars. The press, the curious. In an unexpected way, a damn good thing you’re staying with Dr. Zenner. Funny how things work out.” He pauses, staring off toward the river again. A flock of Canada geese circles, as if waiting for instructions from the tower. “Normally, what I’d recommend is you don’t return to your house until after the trial….”

“Until after the trial?” I interrupt.

“That would be if the trial were here,” he leads up to his next revelation, which I automatically assume is a reference to a change of venue.

“You’re saying, the trial will probably be moved out of Richmond,” I interpolate. “And what do you mean by nor­mally?”

“That’s what I’m getting to. Marino got a call from the Manhattan D.A.’s office.”

“This morning? This is the new development?” I am baf­fled. “What does New York have to do with anything?”

“This was a few hours ago,” he goes on. “The head of the sex crimes division, a woman named Jaime Bergera weird name, spelled J-A-I-M-E but pronounced Jamie. You may have heard of her. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you two know each other.”

“We’ve never met,” I reply. “But I’ve heard of her.”

“Friday, December fifth, two years ago,” Righter goes on, “the body of a twenty-eight-year-old black female was found in New York, an apartment in the area of Second Avenue and Seventy-seventh Street, Upper East Side. Apparently a woman who was a television meteorologist, uh, did the weather, on CNBC. Don’t know if you heard about the case?”

I begin to make connections against my will.

“When she didn’t show up at the studio early that morning, the morning of the fifth, and didn’t answer the phone, some­one checked on her. The victim”Righter pulls a tiny leather notebook out of his back pants pocket and flips through pages”name of Susan Pless. Well, her body’s back in her bedroom on the rug by the bed. Clothes ripped off from the waist up, face and head so badly beaten it looks like she was in a plane crash.” He glances up at me. “And that’s a quote, the plane crash partsupposedly how Berger described it to Marino. What was the word you used to use? Remember that case where the drunk teenagers were racing in a pickup truck

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