Cruel and Unusual - Cornwell Patricia (книги онлайн полные версии .txt) 📗
“Doc, he wants them submitted to the firearms lab.”
For an instant, I thought Marino was joking…
“He thinks you should be willing to submit them for examination,” he added. “He thinks it's a good idea to show right away that the bullets recovered from Susan, the Heath kid, and Donahue couldn't have been fired from your guns.”
“Did you tell the major that the revolvers I have are thirty-eights?” I asked, incensed.
“Yes.”
“And he knows that twenty-two slugs were recovered from the bodies?”
“Yeah. I went round and round with him about it.
“Well, ask him for me if he knows of an adapter that would make it possible to use twenty-two rim fire cartridges in a thirty-eight revolver. If he does, tell him he ought to present a paper on it at the next American Academy of Forensic Sciences meeting.”
“I really don't think you want me to tell him that.”
'This is nothing but politics, publicity ploys. It's not even rational.”
Marino did not comment.
“Look,” I said evenly, “I have broken no laws. I am not submitting my financial records, firearms, or anything else to anyone until I have been appropriately advised. I understand that you must do your job, and I want you to do your job. What I want is to be left alone so I can do mine. I have three cases downstairs and Fielding's off to court.”
But I was not to be left alone, and this was made clear when Marino and I concluded our conversation and Rose appeared in my office. Her face was pale, her eyes frightened.
“The governor wants to see you,” she said.
“When?” I asked as my heart slapped.
“At nine.’
It was already eight-forty.
“Rose, what does he want?”
“The person who called didn't say.”
Fetching my coat and umbrella, I walked out into a winter rain that was just beginning to freeze. As I hurried along 14th Street, I tried to recall the last tine I had spoken to Governor Joe Norring and decided it was almost a year ago at a blacktie reception at the Virginia Museum. He was Republican, Episcopalian; and held a law degree from UVA. I was Italian, Catholic, born in: Miami, and schooled in the North. In my heart I was a Democrat.
The Capitol resides on Shockhoe Hill and is surrounded by an ornamental iron fence erected in the early nineteenth century to keep out trespassing cattle. The white brick building Jefferson designed is typical of his architecture, a pure symmetry of cornices and unfluted columns with Ionic capitals inspired by a Roman temple. Benches line the granite steps leading up through the grounds, and as freezing rain fell relentlessly I thought of my annual spring resolution to take a lunch hour away from my desk, and sit here in the sun. Rut I had yet to do it. Countless days of my life had been lost to artificial light and windowless, confined spaces that deed any architectural rubric.
Inside tree Capitol, I found a ladies' room and attempted to bolster my Confidence by making repairs.
Despite my efforts with lipstick and brush, the mirror had nothing reassuring to say. Bedraggled and unsettled, I took the elevator to the top of the Rotunda, where previous governors gaze sternly from oil portraits three floors above Houdon's marble statue -of George Washington. Midway along the south wall, journalists milled about with notepads, cameras, and microphones. I# did not-occur to me that I was their quarry until, as I approached, video cameras were mounted on shoulders, microphones were drawn like swords, and shutters began clicking with the rapidity of automatic weapons.
“Why won't you disclose your finances?”
“Dr: Scarpetta:..”
“Did you give money to Susan Story?”
“What kind of handgun do you own?”
“Doctor“
“Is it true that personnel records have disappeared from your office?”
They chummed the water with their accusations and questions as I fixed my attention straight ahead, my thoughts paralyzed. Microphones jabbed at my chin, bodies brushed against me, and lights flashed in my eyes. It seemed to take forever to reach the heavy mahogany door and escape into the genteel stillness behind it.
“Good morning,” said the receptionist from her fine wood fortress beneath a portrait of John Tyler.
Across the room, at a desk before a window, a plainclothes, Executive Protection Unit officer glanced at me, his face inscrutable.
“How did the press know about this?”
I asked the receptionist.
“Pardon?”
She was an older woman, dressed in tweed.
“How did they know I was meeting with the governor this morning?”
“I'm sorry. I wouldn't know.”
I settled on a pale blue love seat. Walls were papered in the same pale blue; the furniture was antique, with chair seats covered in needlepoint depicting the state seal. Ten minutes slowly passed. A door opened and a young man I recognized as Norring's press secretary stepped inside and smiled at me.
“Dr. Scarpetta, the governor will see you now.”
He was slight of build, blond, and dressed in a navy suit and yellow suspenders.
“I apologize for making you wait. Unbelievable weather we're having. And I understand it's supposed to drop into the teens tonight. The streets will be glass in the morning.”
He ushered me through one well-appointed office after another, where secretaries concentrated behind computer screens and aides moved about silently and with purpose. Knocking lightly on a formidable door, he tuned the brass knob and stepped aside, chivalrously touching my back as I preceded him into the private space of the most powerful man in Virginia. Governor Norring did not get up from his padded leather chair behind his uncluttered burled walnut desk. Two chairs were arranged across from him and I was shown to one while he continued perusing a document.
“Word you like something to drink?” the press secretary asked me.
“No, thank you:” He left softly shutting the door.
The governor placed the document on the desk and leaned back in his chair. He was a distinguished-looking titan with just enough irregularity of his features to cause one to take him seriously; and he was impossible to miss when he walked into a room. Like George Washington, who was six foot two in a day of short men, Nofing was well above average height; his hair thick and dark at an age when men are balding of going gray.
“Doctor, I've been wondering if there might be a way to extinguish this fire of controversy before it's completely out of control.”
He spoke with the soothing cadences of Virginian conversation.
“Governor Norring I certainly hope there is.”
“Then please help me understand why you are not cooperates with the police.”
“I wish to seek the advice of an attorney, and have not had a chance to do so. I don't view this as a lack of co-operation.”
“It certainly is your right not to incriminate yourself,” he said slowly. “But the very suggestion of your invoking the Fifth only darkens the cloud of suspicion surrounding you. I'm certain you must be aware of that.”
“I'm aware that I will probably be criticized no matter what I do right now. It is reasonable and prudent for me to protect myself.”
“Were you making payments to your morgue supervisor, Susan Story?”
“No, sir, I was not. I have done nothing wrong.”
“Dr. Scarpetta.”
He leaned forward in his chair and laced his fingers on top of the desk. “It is my understanding that you are unwilling to cooperate by turning over any records that might substantiate these claims you've made.”
“I have not been informed that I am a suspect in any crime, nor have I received Miranda warnings. I have waived no rights. I have had no opportunity to seek counsel. At this moment, it is not my intention to open the files of my professional and personal life to the police or anyone else.”
“Then, in summary, you are refusing to make full disclosure,” he said.
