I notice the TV news truck ahead, and that’s just my luck. Shutting the door, already I’m getting wet, the rain cold on top of my bare head. I can feel the eyes of the cops inside their cruisers, their engines rumbling as I trot past coatless and in a chilly hurry.
Bright yellow crime scene tape flutters in the wind, and I recognize the local TV news crew up ahead, the same one I was confronted by three nights ago. Their camera lights flare on at my approach.
“This is Dana Diletti, live from Colonial Landing on Old Town’s waterfront,” she says into her microphone.
Great Dana, as she’s been nicknamed, is six feet tall, a former college basketball player, and now a celebrity news anchor who has her own show. Dressed in rain gear, she’s appropriately somber as her crew holds up umbrellas, tending to her every need, the cameras running constantly and with no regard for decorum.
“。 . . We’re here live at the scene where a woman recently employed by Thor Laboratories has gone missing,” she says to my dismay, and so much for verifying the victim’s identity. “Approaching now is the chief medical examiner . . . ,” she adds.
It’s the same thing I put up with Friday night when they showed up at the train tracks on Daingerfield Island. I didn’t want to be on TV then, and don’t want to be on it now. Walking with purpose, I avert my rain-slick face from them.
“DOCTOR SCARPETTA, CAN YOU tell us why you’ve been called to this townhome in the heart of Old Town’s waterfront?” Dana says into her microphone.
She and her umbrella-holding crew are in pursuit.
“Is it connected to the murder from Friday night? Is the victim Gwen Hainey? The thirty-three-year-old scientist who recently moved here from Boston . . . ?”
My answer is to duck under the yellow-tape perimeter, disgusted by what just happened on live television. I hope that Gwen’s family, friends, her allegedly abusive ex don’t find out in such a callous fashion. But there’s nothing I can do, and I follow the walkway past police in rain gear setting up a pup tent.
“Hey, stop right there!” an officer shouts, and then he’s next to me, an Alexandria crime scene investigator probably half my age. “Who are you?”
I pull out my badge-wallet, showing him my credentials. He looks embarrassed, apologizing, all of it caught on camera.
“Investigator Ryan asked that I come.” I explain why I’m here.
“I believe he’s in the manager’s office right now. They’re reviewing security videos.”
“Are we good for me to go inside?” I inquire.
“Everything’s been photographed. We’re just waiting for you guys to do your thing,” the officer says as I head to the door.
It’s slightly ajar, a female officer standing guard on the other side. The name on her uniform is B. FRUGE, and she directs me to step onto the white sticky mats covering most of the entryway, and that was smart. The police are making sure nothing is tracked inside.
In addition, any trace evidence already on the floor such as hairs or fibers will stick to the adhesive. All will go to the labs, and hopefully nothing will be lost.
“Kay Scarpetta, the new chief M.E.,” I introduce myself.
Showing her my creds, I push my rain-dampened hair out of my face, no doubt looking like something the cat dragged in. At least there’s plenty of PPE, and a 3-D scanner has been set up on a tripod, a box of evidence markers and scene cases nearby.
“I know who you are.” Officer Fruge shuts the front door.
Every sound is amplified by the emptiness, and from where I stand I don’t see a stick of furniture. There are no rugs or wall-to-wall carpet, nothing to absorb noise except for velvet draperies that likely were here when Gwen moved in.
“I for one am glad you’re back,” Officer Fruge adds, as if there are plenty of people who aren’t.
“Thank you, and I may have worked with your mother years ago. Greta Fruge?” My wet boots leave dirty tread-prints on the mats as I walk back and forth.
“Yep, I heard about it enough when I was coming along, that’s for sure. You two worked that big case on Tangier Island, the crazy scientist who tried to poison everyone with free samples they got in the mail.”
“I remember your mother very well.” The last thing I’m interested in at the moment is strolling down her morbid memory lane.
“I’m Blaise, but if you call me that nobody will know who you’re talking about,” she says, and I’m guessing she’s Lucy’s age, short and strongly built, with spiky hair and plenty of attitude. “Everybody just calls me Fruge.”