cpatricia.unnaturalexposure-第2章

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ng　a　biography　of　Steve　McQueen　and　eating　toast　before　I　arrived。　Momentarily；　he　was　setting　a　mug　of　tea　within　my　reach；　not　asking　how　I　took　it；　for　by　now　he　knew。
　'A　little　toast　with　jam？'　he　asked　as　he　did　every　morning。
　'I　ate　at　the　hotel；　thanks。'　I　gave　the　same　reply　as　he　sat　behind　his　desk。
　'Never　stops　me　from　eating　again。'　He　smiled；　slipping　on　glasses。　'I'll　just　go　over　your　schedule；　then。　You　lecture　at　eleven　this　morning；　then　again　at　one　P。M。　Both　at　the　college；　in　the　old　pathology　building。　I　should　expect　about　seventy…five　students　for　each；　but　there　could　be　more。　I　don't　know。　You're　awfully　popular　over　here；　Dr　Kay　Scarpetta；'　he　cheerfully　said。　'Or　maybe　it's　just　that　American　violence　is　so　exotic　to　us。'
　'That's　rather　much　like　calling　a　plague　exotic；'　I　said。
　'Well；　we　can't　help　but　be　fascinated　by　what　you　see。'
　'And　I　guess　that　bothers　me；'　I　said　in　a　friendly　but　ominous　way。　'Don't　be　too　fascinated。'
　We　were　interrupted　by　the　phone；　which　he　snapped　up　with　the　impatience　of　one　who　answers　it　too　often。
　Listening　for　a　moment；　he　brusquely　said。　'Right；　right。　Well；　we　can't　place　an　order　like　that　just　yet。　I'll　have　to　ring　you　back　another　time。
　'I've　been　wanting　puters　for　years；'　he　plained　to　me　as　he　hung　up。　'No　bloody　money　when　you're　the　dog　wagged　by　the　Socialist　tail。'
　'There　will　never　be　enough　money。　Dead　men　don't　vote。'
　'The　bloody　truth。　So　what's　the　topic　of　the　day？'　he　wanted　to　know。
　'Sexual　homicide；'　I　replied。　'Specifically　the　role　DNA　can　play。'
　'These　dismemberments　you're　so　interested　in。'　He　sipped　tea。　'Do　you　think　they're　sexual？　I　mean；　would　that　be　the　motivation　on　the　part　of　whoever　would　do　this？'　His　eyes　were　keen　with　interest。
　'It's　certainly　an　element；'　I　replied。
　'But　how　can　you　know　that　when　none　of　the　victims　has　ever　been　identified？　Couldn't　it　just　be　someone　who　kills　for　sport？　Like；　say；　your　Son　of　Sam；　for　example？'
　'What　the　Son　of　Sam　did　had　a　sexual　element；'　I　said；　looking　around　for　my　pathologist　friend。　'Do　you　know　how　much　longer　she　might　be？　I'm　afraid　I'm　in　a　bit　of　a　hurry。'
　Shaw　glanced　at　his　watch　again。　'You　can　check。　Or　I　suppose　she　may　have　gone　on　to　the　morgue。　We　have　a　case　ing　in。　A　young　male；　suspected　suicide。'
　'I'll　see　if　I　can　find　her。'　I　got　up。
　Off　the　hallway　near　the　entrance　was　the　coroner's　court；　where　inquests　for　unnatural　deaths　were　held　before　a　jury。　This　included　industrial　and　traffic　accidents；　homicides　and　suicides；　the　proceedings　in　camera；　for　the　press　in　Ireland　was　not　allowed　to　print　many　details。　I　ducked　inside　a　stark；　chilly　room　of　varnished　benches　and　naked　walls；　and　found　several　men　inside；　tucking　paperwork　into　briefcases。
　'I'm　looking　for　the　coroner；'　I　said。
　'She　slipped　out　about　twenty　minutes　ago。　Believe　she　had　a　viewing；'　one　of　them　said。
　I　left　the　building　through　the　back　door。　Crossing　a　small　parking　lot；　I　headed　to　the　morgue　as　an　old　man　came　out　of　it。　He　seemed　disoriented；　almost　stumbling　as　he　looked　about；　dazed。　For　an　instant；　he　stared　at　me　as　if　I　held　some　answer；　and　my　heart　hurt　for　him。　No　business　that　had　brought　him　here　could　possibly　be　kind。　I　watched　him　hurry　toward　the　gate　as　Dr　Margaret　Foley　suddenly　emerged　after　him；　harried；　her　graying　hair　disarrayed。
　'My　God！'　She　almost　ran　into　me。　'I　turn　my　back　for　a　minute　and　he's　gone。'
　The　man　let　himself　out；　the　gate　flung　open　wide　as　he　fled。　Foley　trotted　across　the　parking　lot　to　shut　and　latch　it　again。　When　she　got　back　to　me；　she　was　out　of　breath　and　almost　tripped　over　a　bump　in　the　pavement。
　'Kay；　you're　out　and　about　early；'　she　said。
　'A　relative？'　I　asked。
　'The　father。　Left　without　identifying　him；　before　I　could　even　pull　back　the　sheet。　That　will　foul　me　up　the　rest　of　the　day。'
　She　led　me　inside　the　small　brick　morgue　with　its　white　porcelain　autopsy　tables　that　probably　belonged　in　a　medical　museum　and　old　iron　stove　that　heated　nothing　anymore。　The　air　was　refrigerated…chilly；　modern　equipment　nonexistent　except　for　electric　autopsy　saws。　Thin　gray　light　seeped　through　opaque　skylights；　barely　illuminating　the　white　paper　sheet　covering　a　body　that　a　father　could　not　bear　to　see。
　'It's　always　the　hardest　part；'　she　was　saying。　'No　one　should　ever　have　to　look　at　anyone　in　here。'
　I　followed　her　into　a　small　storeroom　and　helped　carry　out　boxes　of　new　syringes；　masks　and　gloves。
　'Strung　himself　up　from　the　rafters　in　the　barn；'　she　went　on　as　we　worked。　'Was　being　treated　for　a　drink　problem　and　depression。　More　of　the　same。　Unemployment；　women；　drugs。　They　hang　themselves　or　jump　off　bridges。'　She　glanced　at　me　as　we　restocked　a　surgical　cart。　'Thank　God　we　don't　have　guns。　Especially　since　I　don't　have　an　X…ray　machine。'
　Foley　was　a　slight　woman　with　old…fashioned　thick　glasses　and　a　penchant　for　tweed。　We　had　met　years　ago　at　an　international　forensic　science　conference　in　Vienna；　when　female　forensic　pathologists　were　a　rare　breed；　especially　overseas。　We　quickly　had　bee　friends。
　'Margaret；　I'm　going　to　have　to　head　back　to　the　States　sooner　than　I　thought；'　I　said；　taking　a　deep　breath；　looking　about；　distracted。　'I　didn't　sleep　worth　a　damn　last　night。'
　She　lit　a　cigarette；　scrutinizing　me。　'I　can　get　you　copies　of　whatever　you　want。　How　fast　do　you　need　them？　Photographs　may　take　a　few　days；　but　they　can　be　sent。'
　'I　think　there　is　always　a　sense　of　urgency　when　someone　like　this　is　on　the　loose；'　I　said。
　'I'm　not　happy　if　he's　now　your　problem。　And　I'd　hoped　after　all　these　years　he　had　bloody　quit。'　She　irritably　tapped　an　ash；　exhaling　the　strong　smoke　of　British　tobacco。　'Let's　take　a　load　off　for　a　minute。　My　shoes　are　already　getting　tight　from　the　swelling。　It's　hell　getting　old　on　these　bloody　hard　floors。'
　The　lounge　was　two　squat　wooden　chairs　in　a　corner；　where　Foley　kept　an　ashtray　on　a　gurney。　She　put　her　feet　up　on　a　box　and　indulged　her　vice。
　'I　can　never　forget　those　poor　people。'　She　started　talking　about　her　serial　cases　again。　'When　the　first　one　came　to　me；　I　thought　it　was　the　IRA。　Never　seen　people　torn　asunder　like　that　except　in　bombings。'
　I　was　reminded　of　Mark　in　a　way　I　did　not　want　to　be；　and　my　thoughts　drifted　to　him　when　he　was　alive　and　we　were　in　love。　Suddenly　he　was　in　my　mind；　smiling　with　eyes　full　of　a　mischievous　light　that　became　electric　when　he　laughed　and　teased。　There　had　been　a　lot　of　that　in　law　school　at　Georgetown；　fun　and　fights　and　staying　up　all　night；　our　hunger　for　each　other　impossible　to　appease。　Over　time　we　married　other　people；　divorced　and　tried　again。　He　was　my　leitmotif；　here；　gone；　then　back　on　the　phone　or　at　my　door　to　break　my　heart　and　wreck　my　bed。
　I　could　not　banish　him。　It　still　did　not　seem　possible　that　a　bombing　in　a　London　train　station　would　finally　bring　the　tempest　of　our　relationship　to　an　end。　I　did　not　imagine　him　dead。　I　could　not　envision　it；　for　there　was　no　last　image　that　might　grant　peace。　I　had　never　seen　his　body；　had　fled　from　any　chance；　just　like　the　old　Dubliner　who　could　not　view　his　son。　I　realized　Foley　was　saying　something　to　me。
　'I'm　sorry；'　she　repeated；　her　eyes　sad；　for　she　knew　my　history　well。　'I　didn't　mean　to　bring　up　something　painful。　You　seem　blue　enough　this　morning。'
　'You　made　an　interesting　point。'　I　tried　to　be　brave。　'I　suspect　the　killer　we're　looking　for　is　rather　much　like　a　bomber。　He　doesn't　care　who　he　kills。　His　victims　are　people　with　no　faces　or　names。　They　are　nothing　but　symbols　of　his　private；　evil　credo。'
　'Would　it　bother　you　terribly　if　I　asked　a　question　about　Mark？'　she　said。
　'Ask　anything　you　want。'　I　smiled。　'You　will　anyway。'
　'Have　you　ever　gone　to　where　it　happened；　visited　that　place　where　he　died？'
　'I　don't　know　where　it　happened；'　I　quickly　replied。
　She　looked　at　me　as　she　smoked。
　'What　I　mean　is；　I　don't　know　where；　exactly；　in　the　train　station。'　I　was　evasive；　almost　stuttering。
　Still　she　said　nothing；　crushing　the　cigarette　beneath　her　foot。
　'Actually；'　I　went　on；　'I　don't　know　that　I've　been　in　Victoria　at　all；　not　that　particular　stati