Kathleen raises her voice. “Hell, no. I’ve never been in segregation before because why
would I be? They need to let me out. I need to go back to my life.”
Officer Macon walks past the windows of the visitation room. I’m aware of him looking in at us, and I avoid looking back as
I think of the poem Kathleen sent and the prison’s literary magazine that she edited until several weeks ago. I wonder how
often she published herself and passed over others. I glance at my watch. Our hour is almost up.
“Well, it’s nice of you to bring me this picture of Jack.” Kathleen holds the photograph at arm’s length and narrows her eyes. “I hope your trial goes all right.”
The way she says it catches my attention, but I don’t react.
“Trials aren’t a picnic. Course, I usually just plead guilty
in exchange for the lightest sentence I can get. Save the taxpayers money. Have had a few suspended sentences because I was
honest enough to just say yup, I did it, sorry about that. If you don’t have a reputation to protect, just plead guilty. Better
than getting a jury of your peers,” she snarls, “who want to make an example out of you.”
She isn’t thinking about Dawn Kincaid, who will never plead guilty to anything. A sensation begins in the pit of my stomach.
“Now, you do have a reputation, Dr. Kay Scarpetta. You have a reputation as big as the great outdoors, don’t you? So it’s
not all that simple for you, is it?” She smiles coldly, and her eyes are flat. “I sure am glad we finally met so I could see what all the
fuss was about.”
“I don’t know what fuss you’re referring to.”
“I got sick as hell of hearing about you. I guess you haven’t read the letters.”
I don’t answer her about the letters she and Jack supposedly wrote to each other. Letters I’ve never seen.
“I can tell you haven’t read them.” Kathleen is nodding and grinning, and I can see the gaping spaces where she’s missing
teeth. “You really don’t know, do you? It makes sense you didn’t. I have to wonder if you would have had any contact with
me if you knew. Well, maybe you would but maybe you wouldn’t be so smug. Maybe you wouldn’t think you’re so high and mighty.”
I sit quietly. Perfectly composed. Nothing shows. Not curiosity. Not the anger I feel.
“Before e-mail, we wrote real letters on paper,” she says. “He always wrote to me on lined notebook paper like he was still
a schoolboy. This would have been in the early nineties, and Jack was working for you in Richmond and miserable as hell all
the time. He used to write that what you needed was to be fucked but good. That you were a frustrated crazy bitch and if someone
just went ahead and fucked you good maybe it would improve your disposition. Apparently he and that homicide detective you
worked with all the time back then used to joke about it in the morgue and at crime scenes. They’d joke you’d been in the
cooler too long and with too many dead bodies and somebody needed to warm you up. Someone needed to show you what it was like
to be with a man whose dick could still get stiff.”
Pete Marino was a homicide detective in Richmond when I was chief, and I realize why I’ve not seen any such letters. The FBI
would have them. Benton’s the criminal intelligence analyst, the forensic psychologist assisting the Boston field office,
and I know for a fact he’s read the e-mails that Kathleen and Jack exchanged. Benton has given me an overview of what is in
them, and I have no doubt he would have read any letters written on paper, too. He wouldn’t want me to see what Kathleen Lawler
has just described. He wouldn’t want me to know about cruel comments Marino made, about him mocking me behind my back. Benton
would shield me from anything that hurtful, arguing that there is nothing to be gained from it. I am steady and calm. I won’t
react. I won’t give Kathleen Lawler the
would I be? They need to let me out. I need to go back to my life.”
Officer Macon walks past the windows of the visitation room. I’m aware of him looking in at us, and I avoid looking back as
I think of the poem Kathleen sent and the prison’s literary magazine that she edited until several weeks ago. I wonder how
often she published herself and passed over others. I glance at my watch. Our hour is almost up.
“Well, it’s nice of you to bring me this picture of Jack.” Kathleen holds the photograph at arm’s length and narrows her eyes. “I hope your trial goes all right.”
The way she says it catches my attention, but I don’t react.
“Trials aren’t a picnic. Course, I usually just plead guilty
in exchange for the lightest sentence I can get. Save the taxpayers money. Have had a few suspended sentences because I was
honest enough to just say yup, I did it, sorry about that. If you don’t have a reputation to protect, just plead guilty. Better
than getting a jury of your peers,” she snarls, “who want to make an example out of you.”
She isn’t thinking about Dawn Kincaid, who will never plead guilty to anything. A sensation begins in the pit of my stomach.
“Now, you do have a reputation, Dr. Kay Scarpetta. You have a reputation as big as the great outdoors, don’t you? So it’s
not all that simple for you, is it?” She smiles coldly, and her eyes are flat. “I sure am glad we finally met so I could see what all the
fuss was about.”
“I don’t know what fuss you’re referring to.”
“I got sick as hell of hearing about you. I guess you haven’t read the letters.”
I don’t answer her about the letters she and Jack supposedly wrote to each other. Letters I’ve never seen.
“I can tell you haven’t read them.” Kathleen is nodding and grinning, and I can see the gaping spaces where she’s missing
teeth. “You really don’t know, do you? It makes sense you didn’t. I have to wonder if you would have had any contact with
me if you knew. Well, maybe you would but maybe you wouldn’t be so smug. Maybe you wouldn’t think you’re so high and mighty.”
I sit quietly. Perfectly composed. Nothing shows. Not curiosity. Not the anger I feel.
“Before e-mail, we wrote real letters on paper,” she says. “He always wrote to me on lined notebook paper like he was still
a schoolboy. This would have been in the early nineties, and Jack was working for you in Richmond and miserable as hell all
the time. He used to write that what you needed was to be fucked but good. That you were a frustrated crazy bitch and if someone
just went ahead and fucked you good maybe it would improve your disposition. Apparently he and that homicide detective you
worked with all the time back then used to joke about it in the morgue and at crime scenes. They’d joke you’d been in the
cooler too long and with too many dead bodies and somebody needed to warm you up. Someone needed to show you what it was like
to be with a man whose dick could still get stiff.”
Pete Marino was a homicide detective in Richmond when I was chief, and I realize why I’ve not seen any such letters. The FBI
would have them. Benton’s the criminal intelligence analyst, the forensic psychologist assisting the Boston field office,
and I know for a fact he’s read the e-mails that Kathleen and Jack exchanged. Benton has given me an overview of what is in
them, and I have no doubt he would have read any letters written on paper, too. He wouldn’t want me to see what Kathleen Lawler
has just described. He wouldn’t want me to know about cruel comments Marino made, about him mocking me behind my back. Benton
would shield me from anything that hurtful, arguing that there is nothing to be gained from it. I am steady and calm. I won’t
react. I won’t give Kathleen Lawler the
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