Page 23 of Sharp Force
He helps himself to a cookie, taking a bite while giving Reba a thumbs-up.
“Reminds me of when I was a kid,” he says with a mouthful. “I used to love M&M cookies, especially at Christmas when the candy coatings are red and green like these.”
He’s shamed me to reaching for one, nibbling off a small bite. The buttery sweetness melts in my mouth, and what I’m doing goes against my training and better judgment. I don’t eat at crime scenes or with witnesses, least of all potential suspects. I could use a glass of water but won’t ask for anything.
“Delicious,” I tell her. “That was very kind of you.”
“I wanted to show at least a little hospitality.” Another bright smile, her eyes tragic. “Thank you both for going to the trouble of coming here, Doctor Scarpetta. And I believe you said your name is…?”
She looks blankly at Marino, and he tells her.
“Well, it was mighty nice of both of you to stop by with Rowdy’s things, especially in this weather…” Her voice dies in her throat again.
“Are you a real doctor?” Mick asks me cautiously. “Do you work in a funeral home?”
“I’m a real doctor, what’s called a forensic pathologist,” I reply. “And no, I don’t work in a funeral home. But I deal with them often.”
“What does a forensic pathologist do?” His eyes are wary.
“We try to figure out what happened to people who have died suddenly and unexpectedly,” I reply, and the boys don’t react. “Legally, we have to answer questions.”
“Please go on to your room,” Reba tells them.
“Come on, I’ll go with you,” Marino volunteers. “You can give me a tour. Are you two into sports?” he asks as they walk out of the living room.
“Baseball,” one of them says.
“I’m a pitcher,” says the other as they follow the hallway, disappearing through a doorway.
Reba sits down on the other end of the sofa, the leather cushion creaking. She turns to me, and I read the questions in her eyes. I can guess what’s coming.
“He thinks something’s not adding up? And I overheard him say he works murders?” She’s talking about Marino. “Why would he mention that unless you suspect somebody did something to Rowdy? Now it’s making more sense why I’m being asked so many questions I find disturbing.”
Digging into my briefcase, I pull out my Moleskine notebook. I open it to a clean page, contemplating what I can tell her. And what I won’t.
7:15 p.m., Christmas Eve,I jot down.
“I use those same notebooks at work,” Reba says to me.
W/Mrs. O’Leary inside lv room. I shorthand who I’m with and where we’re sitting.
“A habit that goes back to nursing school,” she adds, clearing her throat nonstop.
Pausing my pen, I look up to see her staring through tears.
“It’s a good way to keep track of things as they’re happening,” I reply. “An old habit of mine, too.”
I make a note of the address on South Payne Street, my every written word discoverable by attorneys. That doesn’t stop me from creating a record. People forget what they say during desperate moments. They misrepresent unintentionally. They also lie.
“You examined him,” Reba says. “What did you find out?”
“It’s too early for me to know for sure why your husband died,” I inform her. “I have an idea of the cause but not what might have led up to it.”
“What cause are you thinking?” She’s having trouble taking a deep breath.
“Your husband had serious heart disease,” I reply. “Had he complained about chest pains? Tachycardia? Getting out of breath?”
“That’s what killed him?” She’s wiping her eyes. “He wouldn’t go to a cardiologist. He wouldn’t go to doctors at all anymore. I knew it was just a matter of time…”
