Page 64 of Unnatural Death

“I think Jiminy understands what we’re saying,” Marino says.

“Maybe he does.”

“We got anything in here he can eat?”

“Hold on.”

I rummage inside my briefcase, pulling out a bag of trail mix, realizing how hungry I am. I try not to think about the Scotch, the dinner in my future, preferably in front of the fireplace with Benton.

“I don’t know if this will work, but it’s salt-free, so I don’t think it will hurt him.” I lift the perforated lid enough to drop in a few raisins and sunflower seeds. “He’s also going to need water, but that will have to wait. And we’re going to need actual cricket food, whatever that might be.”

“They’ll eat pretty much anything, including dog biscuits,” Marino says. “Don’t ask me how I know.”

“I won’t.” I open the trailer’s back cargo door, cold air rushing in.

“I used to raise them for fishing,” he tells me anyway. “I didn’t do it for long. It was too much trouble. But I’ve caught some pretty big catfish and bluegills with them.”

“A detail I could have done without, and maybe this is your penance,” I reply. “Jiminy is giving you a conscience. Maybe you can try fly fishing or using lures in the future.”

We trundle the stretchers outside to the sound of TV helicopters, bright like small planets in the night sky. News trucks are still parked along the street, and then a drone is zipping in our direction, a quadcopter with lights, its camera livestreaming, I have no doubt. Reporters realize we’ve emerged. They start yelling through our privacy fence.

“Doctor Scarpetta, what did you find out …?”

“How did they die …?”

“Were they murdered …?”

We wheel the stretchers down the metal ramp attached to the back of the trailer, and there’s no way to be quiet. The reporters know what we’re doing, and the bombardment of questions continues in a nerve-racking din, people shouting on top of each other.

“Did a bear do it …?”

“Is it true they were about to get arrested …?”

“Have you ever shopped at Wild World …?”

The temperature is dropping, a sharp wind gusting, the moon a waning crescent behind haze. Clouds are rolling in like a tarp, and I feel snow in the air as Marino and I ferry the bodies to the black van waiting for us, the engine running. Henry Addams is wearing gloves, a face mask and a winter coat. He’s unfolding two stretchers that work better than the one he struggled with this morning.

“I hope we’ve not kept you waiting,” I say to him.

“I’ve been here only a few minutes. What a carnival.” He points at the drone orbiting. “I’m betting it belongs to one of the TV stations. My God, I don’t know how people stand putting up with this all the time.”

Marino and I lift the pouched bodies, transferring them to the stretchers that Henry brought. We help him slide them into the back of the van.

“I’m not sure what you’ve been able to keep up with over recent hours, but the news has gone rabid.” He shuts the tailgate as the shouting behind the fence continues.

“Doctor Scarpetta …?”

“Why did your niece pick you up in a helicopter …?”

“Why are you using the trailer for the autopsies …?” “Conspiracy theories range from the Mansons were killed by a huge bear to they were murdered by someone who’d been stalking them,” Henry is saying.

“Possibly we’re being recorded.” I’m keenly aware of the drone whining loudly like a huge mosquito. “I don’t know if it can pick up what we’re saying, but we should assume it. We should be careful.”

“Damn, I wish I had a fire hose right about now.” Marino stares hatefully at the quadcopter hovering maybe a hundred feet above our heads.

“I think enough things have been shot out of the air for one day,” I reply.

“If you don’t need anything else from me right now, I’m going to clean up since only one of us can do it at a time.” Not waiting for an answer, Marino returns to the trailer.

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