chain-smoking, chronically in a sour mood, acting like a male chauvinist ass. But he knew what to do. He was a damn good detective and I’d almost forgotten that.
Marino squats close to the opening in the fence and shines his flashlight through, the crisscrossed tape blazing neon yellow. The intense beam of light illuminates where the pavement ends at an area of soaked brown grass that is flattened and gouged as if something hard and heavy was dragged over it. Then the churned-up area recedes into the distance, to the infield, fading into a barely perceptible intermittent trail, a remnant that seems more imagined than real as if left by a phantom snail.
“She was dragged.” Marino stands up.
“I’d say so,” Harold agrees.
“He got her inside this gate,” Marino adds, “and had to have a way to do that unless it just happened to be unlocked or the lock and chain conveniently were already cut off.”
“Unlikely,” Harold says. “MIT campus police patrol everything around here like it’s Vatican City.”
“They’d notice if one of these gates was busted into or a lock was missing,” Rusty pipes up.
“Did I hear an echo?” Marino says as if Rusty and Harold are invisible. “Oh no. I’m sorry. It’s the peanut gallery. My point being,” he says to me, “whoever’s involved had a plan for disposing of her body.” He stares at the square of bright yellow plasticized paper in a sea of red some fifty yards from us.
The wind shakes and snatches at the tarp as if what’s underneath it is fighting to get out.
“Someone who knew he didn’t need a swipe to get into this back lot,” Marino continues. “Someone who knew he could drive over the curb through that pedestrian gate, that it happens to be a wide one and a vehicle could fit through it. Someone who knew that all the gates leading into the playing fields would be locked and he’d have to have a way inside the fence.”
“Unless you’re talking about an individual who in fact does have a swipe, keys, access. Like a student or someone who works here,” Rusty points out and Marino ignores him.
He scans the lit-up apartment windows, a misty rain slick like sweat on his face, which is hard and angry as if whatever happened to this dead woman is personal and he might just hurt whoever’s to blame. He takes his time glaring at a Channel 5 TV van with a satellite dish on the roof and a microwave antenna on the back as it pulls into the lot and stops. The front doors swing open.
“Don’t even think of coming inside the fence!” Marino barks at the news correspondent stepping out, a striking-looking woman I recognize. “Nobody beyond the tape. Stay the hell out.”
“If I wait right here and behave myself, can I get a statement, pretty please?” The correspondent’s name is Barbara Fairbanks, and I’ve had my rounds with her, unpleasant ones.
“I got nothing to say,” Marino answers.
“I was talking to Dr. Scarpetta,” Barbara Fairbanks says as she smiles at me and moves closer with her microphone, a cameraman on her heels. “Do you know anything yet? Can you confirm if it’s the woman reported missing?”
The camera light turns on, following Barbara Fairbanks like a full moon, and I know better than to give even one simple answer. If I reply I just got here or don’t know or I haven’t examined the body yet, somehow it ends up an out-of-context slanted quote that goes viral on the Internet.
“Can you give me a statement about Newtown? Do you think it will do any good to study the killer’s brain…?”
“Let’s go,” I tell Rusty and Harold.
“Stay away from the disturbed grassy area, keep way off to the side of it,” Marino says to us. “I got to get it photographed if they haven’t done it already. I’ll probably get some soil samples, too. See if there’s fibers from the sheet that’s over her, see if we can reconstruct what the hell happened out here.”
We pick our way through sopping-wet grass and mud
Marino squats close to the opening in the fence and shines his flashlight through, the crisscrossed tape blazing neon yellow. The intense beam of light illuminates where the pavement ends at an area of soaked brown grass that is flattened and gouged as if something hard and heavy was dragged over it. Then the churned-up area recedes into the distance, to the infield, fading into a barely perceptible intermittent trail, a remnant that seems more imagined than real as if left by a phantom snail.
“She was dragged.” Marino stands up.
“I’d say so,” Harold agrees.
“He got her inside this gate,” Marino adds, “and had to have a way to do that unless it just happened to be unlocked or the lock and chain conveniently were already cut off.”
“Unlikely,” Harold says. “MIT campus police patrol everything around here like it’s Vatican City.”
“They’d notice if one of these gates was busted into or a lock was missing,” Rusty pipes up.
“Did I hear an echo?” Marino says as if Rusty and Harold are invisible. “Oh no. I’m sorry. It’s the peanut gallery. My point being,” he says to me, “whoever’s involved had a plan for disposing of her body.” He stares at the square of bright yellow plasticized paper in a sea of red some fifty yards from us.
The wind shakes and snatches at the tarp as if what’s underneath it is fighting to get out.
“Someone who knew he didn’t need a swipe to get into this back lot,” Marino continues. “Someone who knew he could drive over the curb through that pedestrian gate, that it happens to be a wide one and a vehicle could fit through it. Someone who knew that all the gates leading into the playing fields would be locked and he’d have to have a way inside the fence.”
“Unless you’re talking about an individual who in fact does have a swipe, keys, access. Like a student or someone who works here,” Rusty points out and Marino ignores him.
He scans the lit-up apartment windows, a misty rain slick like sweat on his face, which is hard and angry as if whatever happened to this dead woman is personal and he might just hurt whoever’s to blame. He takes his time glaring at a Channel 5 TV van with a satellite dish on the roof and a microwave antenna on the back as it pulls into the lot and stops. The front doors swing open.
“Don’t even think of coming inside the fence!” Marino barks at the news correspondent stepping out, a striking-looking woman I recognize. “Nobody beyond the tape. Stay the hell out.”
“If I wait right here and behave myself, can I get a statement, pretty please?” The correspondent’s name is Barbara Fairbanks, and I’ve had my rounds with her, unpleasant ones.
“I got nothing to say,” Marino answers.
“I was talking to Dr. Scarpetta,” Barbara Fairbanks says as she smiles at me and moves closer with her microphone, a cameraman on her heels. “Do you know anything yet? Can you confirm if it’s the woman reported missing?”
The camera light turns on, following Barbara Fairbanks like a full moon, and I know better than to give even one simple answer. If I reply I just got here or don’t know or I haven’t examined the body yet, somehow it ends up an out-of-context slanted quote that goes viral on the Internet.
“Can you give me a statement about Newtown? Do you think it will do any good to study the killer’s brain…?”
“Let’s go,” I tell Rusty and Harold.
“Stay away from the disturbed grassy area, keep way off to the side of it,” Marino says to us. “I got to get it photographed if they haven’t done it already. I’ll probably get some soil samples, too. See if there’s fibers from the sheet that’s over her, see if we can reconstruct what the hell happened out here.”
We pick our way through sopping-wet grass and mud
Similar Books
