'What happened?'
'No one seems to know. We saved a blood sample on filter paper for DNA purposes, just like we typically do. And of course we kept a stock jar with sections of all major organs, et cetera. The blood sample seems to have been misplaced, and it appears the stock jar was accidentally thrown out.'
'That can't have happened,' I said.
Dr. Horowitz was quiet.
'What about tissue in paraffin blocks for histology?' I then asked, for fixed tissue could also be tested for DNA, if all else failed.
'We don't take tissue for micros when the cause of death is clear,' he said.
I did not know what to say. Either Dr. Horowitz ran a frighteningly inept office, or these mistakes were not mistakes. I had always believed the chief was an impeccably scrupulous man. Maybe I had been wrong. I knew how it was in New York City. The politicians could not stay out of the morgue.
'She needs to be brought back up,' I said to him. 'I see no other way. Was she embalmed?'
'We rarely embalm bodies destined for Hart Island,' he said of the island in the East River where Potter's Field was located. 'Her identification number needs to be located and then she'll be dug up and brought back by ferry. We can do that. That's all we can do, really. It might take a few days.
That's all we can do, really. It might take a few days.'
'Dr. Horowitz?' I carefully said. 'What is going on here?'
His voice was steady but disappointed when he answered, 'I have no earthly idea.'
I sat at my desk for a while, trying to figure out what to do. The more I thought, the less sense anything made. Why would the army care if Jane was identified? If she was General Gault's niece and the army knew she was dead, one would think they would want her identified and buried in a proper grave.
'Dr. Scarpetta.' Rose was in the doorway adjoining her office to mine. 'It's Brent from the Amex.'
She transferred the call.
'I've got another charge,' Brent said.
'Okay.' I tensed.
'Yesterday. A place called Fino in New York. I checked it out. It's on East Thirty-sixth Street. The amount is $104.13.'
Fino had wonderful northern Italian food. My ancestors were from northern Italy, and Gault had posed as a northern Italian named Benelli. I tried Wesley, but he was not in. Then I tried Lucy, and she was not at ERF, nor was she in her room. Marino was the only person I could tell that Gault was in New York again.
'He's just playing more games,' Marino said in disgust. 'He knows you're monitoring his charges, Doc. He's not doing anything he doesn't want you to know about.'
'I realize that.'
'We're not going to catch him through American Express. You ought to just cancel your card.'
But I couldn't. My card was like the modem Lucy knew was under the floor. Both were tenuous lines leading to Gault. He was playing games, but one day he might overstep himself. He might get too reckless and high on cocaine and make a mistake.
'Doc,' Marino went on, 'you're getting too wound up with this. You need to chill out.'
Gault might want me to find him, I thought. Every time he used my card he was sending a message to me. He was telling me more about himself. I knew what he liked to eat and that he did not drink red wine. I knew about the cigarettes he smoked, the clothes he wore, and I thought of his boots.
'Are you listening to me?' Marino was asking.
We had always assumed that the jungle boots were Gault's.
'The boots belonged to his sister,' I thought out loud.
'What are you talking about?' Marino said impatiently.
'She must have gotten them from her uncle years ago, and then Gault took them from her.'
'When? He didn't do it at Cherry Hill in the snow.'
'I don't know when. It may have been shortly before she died. It could have been inside the Museum of Natural History. They basically wore the same shoe size. They could have traded boots. It could be anything. But I doubt she gave them up willingly.
For one thing, the jungle boots would be very good in snow. She would have been better off with them than the ones we found in Benny's hobo camp.'
Marino was silent a moment longer. Then he said, 'Why would he take her boots?'
'That's easy,' I said. 'Because he wanted them.'
That afternoon, I drove to the Richmond airport with a briefcase packed full and an overnight bag. I had not called my travel agent because I did not want anyone to know where I was going. At the USAir desk, I purchased a ticket to Hilton Head, South Carolina.
'I hear it's nice down there,' said the gregarious attendant. 'A lot of people play golf and tennis down there.' She checked my one small bag.
'You need to tag it.' I lowered my voice. 'It has a firearm in it.'
She nodded and handed me a blaze orange tag that proclaimed I was carrying an unloaded firearm.