Page 105 of Unnatural Death

Digging into my briefcase, I pull out the small cardboard box containing the mini-camera I found in the snow after being run off the road. I give it to Benton, suggesting that Mike Abel might have been attacked like I was. I’m quick to add that I don’t have a shred of proof. Only a hunch after being run off the road on my way home.

“I couldn’t see. And had there not been glass between me and them? They would have cut the hell out of my head and hands the same way Carrie was cut by the drone when she showed up with one on our property seven years ago.”

“Straight out of Alfred Hitchcock’sThe Birds,” Benton says as we drink our coffee.

“She’s paying me back.”

“If what you suspect is true, then who sent in the drones? Who ran you off the road, possibly trying to injure or kill you?” Benton asks.

“The same person who did it to Mike Abel if I’m right. And I don’t think it’s being done remotely from Russia.” I envision the white construction van on the roadside, the hazard lights flashing.

“Maybe someone living in the Nokesville area.” Benton gets up from the bed. “Looks like we’re ready for a refill.”

“If I’m right, then Mike Abel’s death will be a homicide. It’s more important than ever that we find out what happened to him,” I reply.

“I don’t know how we’ll ever prove such a thing.” Benton collects our coffee mugs.

“Maybe that’s what Ledger, the nineteen-year-old stepson, witnessed,” I reply. “He’s dropped out of UVA. He went into a decline after the tractor incident and Wally Jonas is suspicious Ledger might have seen something.”

“And is afraid to say?”

“That’s the implication.”

“Then he must have an inkling who or what he’s up against.” Benton hovers in the bedroom doorway with our coffee mugs. “And he’s pretending he didn’t see anything, doesn’t know anything.”

While he leaves, I check my text messages and emails. Fabian and Faye are building an igloo in the woods and have sent me pictures. They’ve shaped a bed and chairs out of snow, their construction cozy and impressive. State offices are closed but some people are working. My deputy chief, Doug Schlaefer, wants me to call him.

“I hope you’re staying in,” I tell him right off. “Even if you can drive in this stuff, a lot of other people around here shouldn’t.”

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Rex Bonetta and Clark Givens are busy inside their labs,” Doug replies. “Both have trucks that can get through pretty much anything. They’re finding out all kinds of shinola that’s mind-blowing.”

“I don’t know who’s inside our building at the moment,” I reply.

“Well, I’m not and don’t intend to be,” my deputy chief says, and I can hear his wife and their baby in the background. “I won’t be going in. But Rex got some results with scanning electron microscopy that are just banana-cakes weird.” Doug typically swears in goofy euphemisms.

“Which case?”

“The dentist. Nan Romero. Rex and Clark have been processing the painter’s tape that was holding the nitrous oxide hose in place. There’s some bizarre microscopic debris adhering to the adhesive backing. Snake skin cells from rattlers, water moccasins, a Burmese python. Monkey hair, specifically a brown howler monkey indigenous to Brazil. Also, microscopic bits of tropical bird feathers, just to name a few.”

“That’s creepy. And crazy.” I’m completely baffled.

“They also got several partial fingerprints they can run through IAFIS. Clark got a DNA profile he’s running through CODIS.”

“Please pass all of this along to Blaise Fruge,” I reply. “We discussed the case last night and she has her reasons to suspect the dentist’s death may not be a suicide.”

“Well, I’m agreeing with her now. Where the hell did the painter’s tape come from? A zoo?” Doug says, and someone else is ringing me from a number I don’t recognize. Telling him I need to go, I answer the incoming call, saying hello without identifying myself.

“I’m looking for Doctor Scarpetta. The chief medical examiner.” The voice sounds male and young but it’s hard to tell.

“May I ask what this is in reference to?” I reply as Benton returns to the bedroom with our coffees.

“My name is Ledger Smithson. I’m very sorry to disturb you when we’ve not been introduced or anything.” He has a Virginia accent and is polite and polished. He doesn’t sound scared or shy, either one. “And as I understand it you came out here to our dairy farm after the tractor turned over killing my stepdad, Mike Abel.”

“How did you get my number?”

“The investigator Wally Jonas gave it to my mother, and she never followed up with you. I hope you don’t mind me calling. But you reached out first.”

“And by that you mean …?”

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