Page 79 of Unnatural Death

“No. She was talking to Doug, asking the usual questions. Cause of death. What position was the victim in when the shooting occurred. Patty wasn’t there longer than fifteen minutes,” I explain.

“Is it normal for her to pop in like that?”

“She’s not much for giving advance notice.”

I see the FBI investigator in my mind swathed in PPE and a face shield. She was taking photographs, peppering Doug with questions.

“She didn’t stop by my table, and I assumed she didn’t want to be anywhere near the examination of an infant,” I explain. “Doctor Schlaefer couldn’t handle it either, which is why I’d come in on a Saturday to begin with.”

“You’re saying you didn’t speak to Patty Mullet.” Faye makes sure.

“She avoided me like the plague.”

“Then she had no reason to know about your plans for the day.”

“Didn’t so much as say hello or look in my direction,” I reply. “I was home by noon, and Lucy and I headed out soon after that, riding for about an hour before we stopped at the store.”

“While you were doing autopsies that Saturday morning,” Faye says, “where was Lucy?”

“In her cottage working.”

“The entire morning?”

“That was the impression I had.”

“And after she was wounded she went to the hospital. Then what?” Faye asks.

“I’m not sure. Why?”

“I want to show you what was filmed by a local TV station in front of Old Town Market approximately three hours after the shooting.” Typing on her desktop keyboard, Faye pulls up the file, clicking on Play.

CHAPTER 30

THE VIDEO BEGINS WITH a sea of red and blue emergency lights flashing in the parking lot of the upscale Colonial-style Old Town Market. The front windows are shot out, shattered glass on the brick sidewalk. Police are collecting evidence as Patty Mullet appears, walking with purpose toward the entrance.

The TV crew begins bird-dogging her, the reporter firing questions that she waves off while ducking under the crime scene tape. Dressed in a khaki pantsuit, a gun on her hip and waving her creds around, she looks like a caricature of an FBI agent. In her late fifties, she has short gunmetal-gray hair and a leathery face marred by deep lines from too much sun and scowling.

“But here’s the important part and the problem,” Faye is saying. “Patty’s out front talking to Blaise Fruge, who of course is going to respond to anything that goes down in Old Town if she’s on duty. And she was. Now look what happens next.”

Lucy walks into the frame, her shirt dark with dried blood, the side of her neck bandaged. She approaches Patty and Fruge, saying things to them that I can’t hear. Lucy gestures at the shattered windows in the produce section. That’s where we were when two men wearing ski masks opened fire from a stolen car later found abandoned.

“Lucy must have gone back to the market straight from the E.R.,” I explain, and I was most unhappy when she left me at the hospital.

Refusing a ride home, she stalked out before Benton came to the rescue. I didn’t know where she went or how she got there. Later, when I checked her stitched-up injury and changed the bandage, she didn’t want to talk about what had happened. I didn’t push. I know better.

“Who brought this video to your attention?” I ask Faye. “Because I’ve never seen it.”

“The part with Lucy wasn’t made public for some reason. I wouldn’t be surprised if she convinced them to leave it on the cutting room floor. Patty emailed the clip to me. I guess she got the original footage from the TV station. She said that Lucy showing up after the fact is like a criminal returning to the scene of a crime.”

“What a reckless and idiotic thing to say.” I feel my anger building like a thunderhead. “Why did she show you this video, Faye? Why was she sharing such detailed investigative information? I think you’ll agree that it’s not appropriate. It’s alarmingly indiscreet and treacherous. Doesn’t matter that I trust you.”

“She’s hell-bent on making a big thing out of what she perceives as a vulnerability, that’s my guess,” Faye replies. “She kept saying that a normal person wouldn’t return to the market just hours after being shot. It’s what people do when manipulating the police while getting off on watching the crime scene being worked.”

“This isn’t a game or a movie. She’s playing with people’s lives,” I reply sharply, and it’s not the first time we’ve had trouble with Patty Mullet.

During Benton’s tenure with the FBI, he had the misfortune of working with her when she was fresh out of the academy. Desperate to be part of his criminal profiling unit, she wasn’t the right stuff, to put it kindly. Her interest in him went beyond the professional, and he became the embodiment of her every rejection. She punishes him and those he cares about, given the opportunity.

“She was asking if I had any idea whether Lucy was personally familiar with those who’ve claimed responsibility for the Mansons’ deaths,” Faye tells me. “The violent extremists who call themselves The Republic.”

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