13
Benton leaned back in his fake leather chair and was quiet as Scarpetta scanned paperwork on the other side of the small scarred desk.
He loved the straight bridge of her nose, the strong lines of her jaw and cheekbones, and the deliberate but graceful way she moved when she did the slightest thing, such as turning a page. In his mind, she looked no different than the first time they’d met, when she’d appeared in the doorway of her conference room, her blond hair out of place, no makeup on, the pockets of her long white lab coat filled with pens, tissues, pink telephone slips for calls she had no time to return but somehow would.
He’d recognized on the spot that for all of her strength and seriousness, she was thoughtful and kind. He’d seen it in her eyes during that first encounter, and he saw it in them now, even when she was preoccupied, even when he had hurt her yet again. He couldn’t imagine not having her, and felt a pang of hatred pierce him, hatred of Marino. What Benton had immersed himself in all of his adult life was now inside his home. Marino had let the enemy in, and Benton didn’t know how to make it leave.
“What time did the police arrive at the scene? And why are you staring at me?” Scarpetta asked without looking up at him.
“About quarter past six. I messed things up. Please don’t be angry with me.”
“Notified how?” She turned a page.
“Nine-one-one. He claims he found Terri’s body around five, but he didn’t call nine-one-one until six. Nine minutes past six, to be exact. The police were there within minutes. About five minutes.”
When she didn’t answer him, he picked up a paper clip, started unbending it. He didn’t used to fidget.
“They found the outer door locked,” he said. “There are three other apartments in the building, no one home, no doorman. The police couldn’t get into the building, but her apartment’s on the ground floor, so they went around to the back, to the windows, and through a gap in the curtains they saw Oscar in the bathroom, cradling a woman’s body. She was covered by a blue towel. He was crying hysterically, holding her, stroking her. The cops rapped on the glass until they got his attention and he let them in.”
He was talking in choppy sentences, his brain sluggish and slightly disorganized, probably because he was extremely stressed. He worked on the paper clip. He watched her.
After a lengthy silence, she looked up at him and said, “Then what? Did he talk to them?”
She’s comparing notes, he thought. Wants to line up what I know with what Oscar said to her. She’s being clinical, impersonal, because she’s not going to forgive me, he thought.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry with me,” he said.
She held his gaze and said, “I’m wondering why she had nothing on but a bra and a robe. If a stranger was at her door, would she answer it like that?”
“We can’t work through it now.” Benton meant their relationship, not the case. “Can we put it on a shelf?”
It was the way they phrased it when private matters presented themselves in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Her lingering gaze and the way her eyes turned a deeper shade of blue told him she would. She would put it on a shelf for now because she loved him, even if he didn’t deserve it.
“It’s a good question. The way she might have been dressed when she answered the door,” he said. “I have a few observations, when we get to that part.”
“What exactly did Oscar do when the police were inside the apartment with him?” she asked.
“He was sobbing, knees buckling, yelling. So insistent on returning to the bathroom that two officers had to hold on to him while they tried to get him to talk. He said he cut off the flex-cuff. It was on the bathroom floor near a pair of scissors he said he’d removed from the cutlery block in the kitchen.”
“Did he call it a flex-cuff at the scene? Or is that what the police called it? Where did the term flex-cuff come from? It’s important we know who said it first.”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, someone knows.”
Benton bent the paper clip into a figure-eight as what they’d placed on the shelf kept falling off. At some point they would talk, but talking didn’t fix broken trust any more than it fixes broken bones. Lies and more lies. The necessary axis of his life was lies, all well intended or professionally and legally necessary, which was why, in fact, Marino was a threat. The foundation of Marino’s relationship with her had never been lies. When he forced himself on her, he wasn’t showing contempt or hate or trying to humiliate. Marino was taking what he wanted when she wouldn’t give it, because it was the only way he could kill an unrequited love he could no longer survive. His betrayal of her was actually one of the most honest things he’d ever done.
“And we don’t know what’s become of the ligature she was strangled with,” Benton said. “It appears the killer removed it from her neck after she was dead and left with it. Police suspect it was another flex-cuff.”
“Based on?”
“Would be unusual to bring two different types of ligatures to the scene,” Benton said.
He worked the straightened paper clip back and forth until it broke.
“And of course it’s assumed the killer brought the flex-cuff—or cuffs—with him. Not exactly the sort of thing most people have lying around the house.”
“Why remove the flex-cuff from her neck and leave with it, and not bother with the one around her wrists? If that’s what happened,” she said.
“We don’t know this person’s mind. Not much to go on except circumstances. I suspect it comes as no surprise to you they think Oscar did it.”
“Based on?”
“Either the killer had a key or she must have let him in, and as you pointed out, she was wearing a bathrobe, not much else. So let’s talk about that. Why was she so comfortable, so trusting? How did she know who was buzzing the outer door? There’s no camera, no intercom. The implication, in my opinion, is she was expecting someone. She unlocked the outer door after dark when the building was empty, then she unlocked her apartment door. Or someone did. Violent offenders love holidays. Lots of symbolism, and nobody’s around. If Oscar killed her, last night was an ideal time to do it and stage it as something else.”
“That’s what the police believe happened, I assume you’re saying.”
She’s making comparisons again, Benton thought. What does she know?
“To them it makes the most sense,” he replied.
“When the police arrived, was her apartment door locked or unlocked?”
“Locked. Oscar locked the apartment door at some point after he was inside. What’s a little peculiar is after he called nine-one-one, he didn’t unlock the apartment building’s outer door, maybe prop it open. And he didn’t unlock the apartment door. I don’t know how he thought the police would get in.”
“I don’t find that peculiar in the least. No matter what he did or didn’t do, he probably was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“If he didn’t kill her, he was likely afraid the killer might come back.”
“How would the killer get back into the building? If he didn’t have a key?”
“People don’t always think about every detail when they’re afraid. Your first impulse when you’re afraid is to lock the doors.”
She’s checking out Oscar’s story. He must have told her he locked Terri’s apartment door because he was afraid.
“What did he say when he called nine-one-one?” she asked.
“I’ll let you listen for yourself,” Benton said.
The CD was already in his computer, and he opened an audio file and turned up the volume:
911 OPERATOR: “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
OSCAR (hysterical): “Yes! Police . . . ! My girlfriend . . . !”
911 OPERATOR: “What’s the problem, sir?”
OSCAR (almost inaudible): “My girlfriend . . . when I walked in . . . !”
911 OPERATOR: “Sir, what’s the problem?”
OSCAR (screaming): “She’s dead! She’s dead! Someone killed her! Someone strangled her!”
911 OPERATOR: “She was strangled?”
OSCAR: “Yes!”
911 OPERATOR: “Do you know if the person who strangled her is still in the house?”
OSCAR (crying, almost inaudible): “No . . . She’s dead . . . !”
911 OPERATOR: “We have units en route. Just stay where you are, okay?”
OSCAR (crying, unintelligible): “They . . .”
911 OPERATOR: “They? Is someone with you?”
OSCAR: “No . . .” (inaudible)
911 OPERATOR: “Stay on the line. The police are almost there. What happened?”
OSCAR: “I got here and she was on the floor . . .” (unintelligible)
Benton closed the file and said, “Then he hung up and wouldn’t answer when the operator called him back. If he’d stayed on the line, it would have been easier and quicker for the police to get inside the apartment. Instead of them having to go around back and bang on the window.”
“He sounded genuinely terrified and hysterical,” Scarpetta said.
“So did Lyle Menendez when he called nine-one-one to report his parents had been murdered. And we know how that story ended.”
“Just because the Menendez brothers—” she started to say.
“I know. I know it doesn’t mean Oscar killed Terri Bridges. But we don’t know he didn’t,” Benton said.
“And your explanation for why he said they? As if implying more than one person killed her?” Scarpetta asked.
“His paranoia, obviously,” Benton said. “Which I do think he genuinely feels. But that isn’t necessarily to his advantage in terms of how the police view it. Paranoid people commit murder because of their paranoid delusions.”
“And that’s what you’re really thinking?” Scarpetta said. “That basically this is a domestic homicide?”
She doesn’t believe it, Benton thought. She believes something else. What did Oscar say to her?
He answered, “I can understand why the police think it. But I’d like some real evidence.”
“What else do we know?”
“What he said.”
“At the scene or when he was in the detective’s car, Morales’s car?”
“Oscar wasn’t cooperative with him once they were out of the apartment,” Benton said.
He tossed the bits of paper clip into his wastepaper basket, and they binked against empty metal.
“By that point,” Benton said, “all he wanted was to go to Bellevue. Said he wouldn’t talk unless it was to me. Then he demanded that you come here. And here we are.”
He started on another paper clip. She watched him work on it.
“What did he tell the police while he was still inside the apartment?” she asked.
“Said when he arrived at the building, all the lights were out. He unlocked the outer door. Then he rang her apartment bell, and the door swung open and he was attacked by an intruder. Who quickly fled. Oscar locked the front door, turned on the lights, looked around, and found her body in the bathroom. He said there was no ligature around her neck, but he saw a reddish mark.”
“And he knew she was dead, yet waited to call the police. Because? What was his reason, in your opinion?” Scarpetta asked.
“He had no concept of time. He was beside himself. Who knows what’s true? But no probable cause for arrest. Doesn’t mean the cops weren’t more than happy to grant his request and lock him up. Doesn’t help he’s a muscle-bound dwarf who for the most part lives and works in cyberspace.”
“You know about his profession. What else?”
“We know everything about him except what he chooses not to tell us. How about you?” Maiming the paper clip. “Any thoughts?”
“I can speak theoretically.”
He gave her silence so she would fill it.
“I’ve had numerous cases when the police weren’t called right away,” she said. “When the killer needed time to stage the crime scene to look like something else. Or whoever found the body attempted to cover up what really happened. Embarrassment, shame, life insurance. Asphyxiophilia, for example—sexual hanging that turns tragic and the person dies of asphyxiation. Usually accidental. Mother walks in, sees her son in black leather, a mask, chains, nipple clips. Maybe cross-dressing. He’s hanging from a rafter, pornography everywhere. She doesn’t want the world to remember her son like that and doesn’t call for help until she’s gotten rid of the evidence.”
“Another theory?”
“The person’s so bereft, so unwilling to let his loved one go, he spends time with the body, stroking it, holding it, covering it if it’s nude, removing restraints. Restoring his person to the way she was, as if somehow that will bring her back.”
“Rather much what he did, isn’t it,” Benton said.
“I had a case where the husband found his wife dead in bed, an overdose. He climbed in next to her, held her, didn’t call the police until rigor was fully developed and she was cold.”
Benton looked at her for a long moment and said, “Remorse in domestic cases. Husband kills wife. Child kills mother. Overwhelming remorse, grief, panic. Doesn’t call the police right away. Holds the body, strokes it, talks to it, cries. Something precious that’s broken and can’t be fixed. Forever changed, forever gone.”
“A type of behavior more typical with impulse crimes,” she said. “Not premeditated ones. This murder doesn’t seem impulsive. When an offender brings his own weapon, his own bindings, like duct tape or flex-cuffs, that’s premeditated.”
Benton accidentally poked his fingertip with the twisted paper clip and watched a bead of blood form. He sucked the blood away.
She said, “No first-aid kit in my crime scene case, which probably isn’t very smart, now that I think of it. We should clean that up, find a Band-Aid. . . .”
“Kay, I don’t want you in the middle of this.”
“You’re the one who put me in the middle of it. Or at least permitted it.” She stared at his finger. “It would be good if you let it bleed as much as possible. I don’t like puncture wounds. They’re worse than cuts.”
“I didn’t mean to put you in the middle of it, wasn’t my choice.”
He started to say he didn’t make choices for her, but that would be another lie. She reached across the desk and handed him several tissues.
“I hate it,” he said. “Always hate it when you’re in my world, not yours. A dead body doesn’t get attached to you, have feelings for you. You don’t have a relationship with someone dead. We’re not robots. A guy tortures someone to death, and I sit across a table from him. He’s a person, a human being. He’s my patient. He thinks I’m his best friend until he hears me testify in court that he knew the difference between right and wrong. He ends up in prison for the rest of his life or, depending on the jurisdiction, on death row. Doesn’t matter what I think or believe in. I’m doing my job. I’ve done what’s right in the eyes of the law. Knowing that doesn’t make me feel any less haunted.”
“We don’t know what it is not to feel haunted,” she said.
He squeezed his finger, staining the tissue brilliant red. He looked at her on the other side of his desk, at the squareness of her shoulders, at her strong, capable hands, and the lovely contour of her body beneath her suit, and he wanted her. He felt aroused just doors away from a prison, and yet when they were alone at home, he scarcely touched her. What had happened to him? It was as if he’d been in an accident and had been pieced back together wrong.
He said, “You should go back to Massachusetts, Kay. If he gets indicted and you’re subpoenaed, then you’ll come back and we’ll deal with it.”
“I’m not going to run from Marino,” she said. “I’m not going to avoid him.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” But it was exactly what he was saying. “It’s Oscar Bane I’m worried about. He could walk out of Bellevue right now. I’d like you as far away from him as possible.”
“What you want is for me to be as far away from Marino as possible.”
“I don’t know why you’d want to be around him.” His feelings went flat, his voice hard.
“I didn’t say I wanted it. I said I wasn’t going to run from it. I’m not the one who ran like a coward. He did.”
“Hopefully my part in this will be over in a few days,” Benton said. “Then it’s NYPD’s responsibility. God knows I’m way behind at McLean. Only halfway through my research study, although I’m not sure about the journal article anymore. You don’t have to do the consultation at the damn morgue. Why should you pull Dr. Lester’s feet out of the fire again?”
“That’s not what you really want. For me to be a no-show? For me to walk off the job after Berger’s asked me to help? The last shuttle’s at nine o’clock. I’d never make it. You know that. Why are you talking like this?”
“Lucy could take you in her helicopter.”
“It’s snowing at home. The visibility’s probably two feet.”
She watched his face, and it was hard for him to keep his feelings out of his eyes, because he wanted her. He wanted her now, in his office, and if she knew what he was feeling, she would be repulsed by him. She would decide he’d spent too many years wallowing through every form of perversion imaginable, and had finally been infected.
“I keep forgetting the weather’s different there,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Then that’s the way it will be. You certainly packed as if you aren’t going anywhere.”
Her luggage was by the door.
“Food,” she said. “As much as you’d love to take me out for a romantic dinner tonight, we’re eating in. If we ever get home.”
They looked into each other’s eyes. She had just asked him the question she’d been wanting to ask but hadn’t.
He answered her, “My feelings about you haven’t changed. If you knew how I felt sometimes. I just don’t tell you.”
“Maybe you’d better start telling me.”
“I am telling you.”
He wanted her right then, and she sensed it, and she didn’t recoil. Maybe she felt the same way. It was so easy for him to forget there was a reason she was so polished and precise, that science was just the lead she looped around the neck of the wild animal so she could walk with it, so she could understand it and handle it. What she’d chosen to expose herself to in life couldn’t be more naked or primitive or powerful, and nothing shocked her.
“I believe a very important element in this case is why Terri Bridges was murdered in the bathroom,” she said. “And what makes us so sure she was?”
“The police found no evidence she was killed in any other area of the house. Nothing to suggest her body was moved into the bathroom after the fact. What food?”
“What we were going to have last night. When you say nothing suggests her body was moved, what does that mean? What might have suggested it?”
“I only know that Morales says nothing suggested it.”
“And likely nothing would in this case,” Scarpetta said. “If she’d been dead less than two hours, her body wasn’t going to tell anybody much of anything. Livor, rigor usually take at least six hours to be fully developed. Was she warm?”
“He said when he got there, he felt for a pulse. She was warm.”
“Then if Oscar didn’t kill her, whoever did must have left her apartment shortly before he got there and found her dead. Coincidence, amazing good luck for the killer that he wasn’t interrupted. He was just minutes away from Oscar walking in on him. Assuming the killer and Oscar aren’t one and the same.”
“If they aren’t,” Benton said, “you have to wonder why someone else would assume Terri would be home alone on New Year’s Eve. Unless it was random. Her lights were on in an otherwise dark building, and this time of year, most people who are home have their lights on all day, or at least by four, when the sun is going down. Question is whether she was a victim of opportunity.”
“What about an alibi? Oscar have one that you know of?”
“He have one that you know of?”
She watched him squeeze as much blood from his finger as he could.
“I’m trying to remember the last time you had a tetanus shot,” she said.