Page 49 of Unnatural Death

“I’ve had enough of your Secret Squirrel talk,” he says to her. “Informed of what?”

“It’s not my job to brief you. Others will do that.”

“We don’t have time for a damn briefing by a bunch of suits.” Marino glowers.

“When you realize what it’s about, you’ll listen.”

“How do we know that this videorecordyou’re creating won’t get out somehow?” he continues to challenge her.

“Basically, this is one SCIF communicating with another. Only approved PEDs allowed.”

She’s talking about the portable electronic devices the Secret Service decided to implement, and prior to this none were approved for the REMOTE. Nothing Wi-Fi–enabled has been allowed. We’ve had to resort to a refurbished 35-millimeter Canon camera that’s vintage and approved. I retrieve it from a cabinet, making sure it has film and the battery is good.

“I’m going to get you started.” Lucy picks up a computer tablet I’ve never seen before. “Then I’m headed back to Buckingham Run, making sure everybody’s out before dark.”

“Maybe I’ll see you later tonight?” I ask her.

“Not sure when I’ll get home.”

Lucy living in our guesthouse doesn’t mean Benton and I see her daily or even often, as busy as she is. There’s much about her private life that I don’t know. And I’m careful not to pry. I give her the space she needs.

“I’m not sure when I’ll be getting home either. But I’ll throw together something to eat no matter the hour,” I tell her. “I’ll leave supper in your refrigerator if you’d like. Whenever you come in, you’ll have it. And I’ll check on Merlin, make sure he’s fed and fine.” Merlin is her Scottish Fold cat, a rescue who’s a handful.

“He should have plenty of dry food to tide him over, but I won’t say no to your offer,” Lucy replies. “I’ll probably have Tron with me. Unless something else happens, we’ll be working through the night reviewing videos, running software.”

“I’ll make sure there’s plenty for both of you to eat. Be careful, please,” I reply, and this would be a good time for a hug.

But we won’t when on the job and can’t be sure who’s watching. Lucy, Marino, Benton, all of us are conditioned to shield our personal lives as much as possible. If the wrong people detect what you care about most, it gives them power.

“Let’s see what everybody’s saying.” Lucy selects an option on the computer tablet, and the volume turns on. “We can hear them, but they won’t be able to hear or see us yet.” We catch Benton mid-conversation.

“… The temptation is to focus on certain details when it’s the emotionality of the act that matters most. That’s the true north in this case.” He’s talking to Director Bella Steele on the video screens. “What was the killer feeling? Emotions are what drives the bus. From them, we can have a shot at predicting.”

“Hatred and rage.” Bella is fond of power pantsuits and scarves in bold colors. “That’s what I see when I look at the photographs,” she adds while shuffling through a stack of them.

In her midfifties, she’s the first female director of one of the oldest federal law enforcement agencies, its inception a cruel irony. The Secret Service began at the end of the Civil War when as much as a third of American currency was counterfeit. The head of the Treasury Department convinced President Abraham Lincoln that an enforcement division was critical.

Executive protection wasn’t the reason. Saving the nation’s financial system was, and on April 14, 1865, Lincoln signed the bill creating the U.S. Secret Service. That night he and the first lady had no bodyguard while attending a raucous comedy at Ford’s Theatre less than a mile from the White House. As the audience laughed uproariously, Lincoln was shot to death inside his private booth.

“Our sound is going on and we’re up on the monitors,” Lucy announces. “Hello, hello?” She greets everyone remotely. “How are you reading us?”

“Loud and clear,” several people answer, the mood heavy with tension.

“Roger that.” Lucy opens the airlock’s outer door. “I’ll leave you guys to it.” She looks at me before vanishing as if beamed to another place.

“Welcome and thanks for being here on such short notice,” my husband begins in his measured, pleasant way. “I’m Benton Wesley, in charge of threat assessment for the Secret Service. We’re grateful for the participation of Virginia Chief Medical Examiner Kay Scarpetta and her head of investigations, Pete Marino—”

“I sure as hell hope all this crap you set up is leakproof,” Marino interrupts with his typical diplomacy. “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and find videos of the doc and me all over the freakin’ internet.”

“That would be disastrous,” I agree.

“There’s way too much stuff on it already about these damn cases,” he complains.

“With more on the way, and that’s one of the payoffs for the enemy we’re up against,” Benton promises. “But before we get into this any further let me make quick introductions.”

He goes around the conference table, and most people I’ve met. Several I know well. I’m informed that key counter-terrorism and other experts will be witnessing the autopsies internationally. I have no clue who’s out there in the ether. It could be five people. It could be fifty.

“Today is Wednesday, November first, and it’s three-forty-fiveP.M.East Coast time,” my husband begins for the record, and I’m seeing him on all three video screens the Secret Service has set up in here. “Approximately twelve hours ago two people were killed inside Buckingham Run, a heavily forested wilderness several miles southwest of Manassas.”

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