Patricia Cornwell – Scarpetta11 – The Last Precinct

The tops of buildings in the downtown skyline have van­ished in clouds, the air thick with snow. I stare out my office window, distracted by big flakes drifting past as phones ring and people move along the corridor. I worry that state and city government will shut down. This can’t happen on my first day back.

“Rose?” I call out to my secretary in the adjoining office. “Are you keeping up with the weather?”

“Snow,” her voice sails back.

“I can see that. They aren’t closing anything yet, are they?” I reach for my coffee and silently marvel over the unrelenting white storm that has seized our city. Winter wonderlands typ­ically grace the commonwealth west of Charlottesville and north of Fredericksburg, and Richmond is left out. The expla­nation I have always heard is that the James River in our im­mediate area warms up the air just enough to replace snow with freezing rains that sweep in like Grant’s troops to para­lyze the earth.

“Accumulation of possibly eight inches. Tapering off by later afternoon with lows in the twenties.” Rose must have logged on to an Internet weather update. “Highs not to get above freezing for the next three days. It looks like we’ll have a white Christmas. Isn’t that something?”

“Rose, what are you doing for Christmas?”

“Nothing much,” her response comes back.

I scan stacks of case files and death certificates and push around phone message slips, mail and interoffice memos. I can’t see the top of my desk and don’t know where to start. “Eight inches? They’ll declare a national emergency,” I com­ment. “We need to find out if anything’s closing besides schools. What’s on my schedule that hasn’t already been canceled?”

Rose is tired of yelling through the wall at me. She walks into my office, looking sharp in a gray pants suit and white turtleneck sweater, her gray hair pinned up in a French twist. She is rarely without my big calendar and opens it. She runs her finger over what is written in it for today, peering through half-moon reading glasses. “The obvious is we now have six cases and it’s not even eight o’clock yet,” she lets me know. “You’re on call for court, but I have a feeling that’s not going to happen.”

“Which case?”

“Let’s see. Mayo Brown. Don’t believe I remember him.”

“An exhumation,” I remember. “A homicidal poisoning, a rather shaky one.” The case is on my desk, somewhere. I start looking for it as muscles tense in my neck and shoulders. The last time I saw Buford Righter in my office it was over this very case, which was destined to create nothing but confusion in court even after I spent four hours explaining to him the di­lution effect on drug levels when the body has been em­balmed, that there is no satisfactory method to quantitate the rate of degradation in embalmed tissue. I went over the toxi­cology reports and prepared Righter for the defense of dilu­tion. Embalming fluid displaces blood and dilutes drug levels, I drilled into him. So if the decedent’s codeine level is at the low end of the acutely lethal dose range, then prior to em­balming, the level could only have been higher. I meticulously explained that this is what he needs to focus on because the defense is going to muddy the waters with heroin versus codeine.

We were seated at the oval table in my private conference room, paperwork spread before us. Righter tends to blow out a lot when he is confused, frustrated or just pissed off. He con­tinued to pluck up reports and frown at them, and then put them back down, all the while blowing like a whale breaking surface. “Greek,” he kept saying. “How the hell do you make the jury understand things like 6-mono-acetylmorphine is a marker for heroin, and since it wasn’t detected, then it doesn’t necessarily mean heroin wasn’t present, but if it was present, then that would mean heroin was, too? Versus telling if codeine is medicinal?” I told him that was my point, the very thing he didn’t want to focus on. Stick to the dilution offensethat the level had to have been higher before the person was embalmed, I coached him. Morphine is a metabolite of heroin. Morphine is also a metabolite of codeine, and when codeine is metabo­lized in the blood we get very low levels of morphine. We can’t tell anything definitively here, except we have no marker for heroin, and we do have levels of codeine and morphine, indi­cating the man took somethingwillingly or unwillinglybe­fore he died, I painted the scenario for him. And it was a much higher dose than is indicated now because of the embalming, I stressed again. But do these results prove the man’s wife poi­soned him with Tylenol Three, for example? No. Don’t get gummed up in the tar baby of 6-mono-acetylmorphine, I told Righter repeatedly.

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