PATRICIA CORNWELL. Unnatural Exposure

‘Scarpetta,’ I said, on speakerphone.

Marino’s voice erupted inside my car. ‘City council’s freaking,’ he said. ‘You got McKuen whose little kid’s been hit by a car, now more crap about our case, on TV, in the papers, hear it on the radio.’

More leaks had occurred over the past two days. Police had a suspect in serial murders that included five cases in Dublin. An arrest was imminent.

‘You believe this shit?’ Marino exclaimed. ‘We’re talking about, what? Someone in his mid-twenties, and somehow he was in Dublin over the past few years? Bottom line is council’s suddenly decided to have some public forum about this situation, probably because they think it’s about to be resolved. Got to get that credit, right, make the citizens think maybe they did something for once.’ He was careful what he said, but seething. ‘So I gotta turn my ass right back around and be at city hall by ten. Plus, the chief wants to see me.’

I watched his taillights up ahead as he approached an exit. I-95 was busy this morning with trucks, and people who commuted every day to D.C. No matter how early I started, whenever I headed north, it seemed traffic was terrible.

‘Actually, it’s a good thing you’re going to be there. Cover my back, too,’ I said to him. ‘I’ll get up with you later, let you know what went on.’

‘Yo. When you see Ring, do that to his neck,’ he said.

I arrived at the Academy, and the guard in his booth waved me through because by now he knew my car and its license plate. The parking lot was so full, I ended up almost in the woods. Firearms training was already in progress on ranges across the road, and Drug Enforcement Agents were out in camouflage, gripping assault rifles, their faces mean. The grass was heavy with dew and soaked my shoes as I took a shortcut to the main entrance of the tan brick building called Jefferson.

Inside the lobby, luggage was parked near couches and the walls, for there were always National Academy, or N.A., police going somewhere, it seemed. The video display over the front desk reminded everyone to have a nice day and properly display his badge. Mine was still in my purse, and I got it out, looping the long chain around my neck. Inserting a magnetized card into a slot, I unlocked a glass door etched with the Department of Justice seal and followed a long glass-enclosed corridor.

I was deep in thought and scarcely cognizant of new agents in dark blue and khaki, and N.A. students in green. They nodded and smiled as they passed, and I was friendly, too, but I did not focus. I was thinking of the torso, of her infirmities and age, of her pitiful pouch in the freezer, where she would stay for several years or until we knew her name. I thought of Keith Pleasants, of deadoc, of saws and sharp blades.

I smelled Hoppes solvent as I turned into the gun-cleaning room with its rows of black counters and compressors blasting air through the innards of guns. I could never smell these smells or hear these sounds without thinking of Wesley, and of Mark. My heart was squeezed by feelings too strong for me when a familiar voice called out my name.

‘Looks like we’re heading the same way,’ said Investigator Ring.

Impeccably dressed in navy blue, he was waiting for the elevator that would take us sixty feet below ground, where Hoover had built his bomb shelter. I switched my heavy briefcase to my other hand, and tucked the box of slides more snugly under an arm.

‘Good morning,’ I blandly said.

‘Here, let me help with some of that.’

He held out a hand as elevator doors parted, and I noticed his nails were buffed.

‘I’m fine,’ I said, because I didn’t need his help.

We boarded, both of us staring straight ahead as we began the ride down to a windowless level of the building directly beneath the indoor firing range. Ring had sat in on consultations before, and he took copious notes, none of which had ended up in the news thus far. He was too clever for that. Certainly, if information divulged during an FBI consultation was leaked, it would be easy enough to trace. There were only a few of us who could be the source.

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