cpatricia.blacknotice-第65部分

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oom。　I　heard　him　pick　up　the　faxes。　He　was　silent。
　　Then　he　said；　〃What　the　shit　are　you　doing？　Trying　to　make　yourself　crazy？　Why　the　hell　do　you　want　to　be　looking　at　something　like　this？〃　His　voice　rose　as　his　pain　and　panic　did。　〃Why？　You've　lost　your　mind！〃
　　I　wheeled　around　and　lunged　for　him。　I　grabbed　the　faxes。　I　shook　them　in　his　face。　Copies　of　body　diagrams；　and　toxicology　and　submitted　evidence　reports；　the　death　certificate；　toe　tag；　dental　charts；　what　had　been　in　his　stomach；　all　of　it　drifting　and　scattering　over　the　rug　like　dead　leaves。
　　〃Because　you　just　had　to　say　it；〃　I　yelled　at　him。　〃You　just　had　to　open　your　big；　rude　mouth　and　say　he　wasn't　dead！　So　now　we　know；　right？　Read　it　your　goddamn　self；　Marino。〃
　　I　sat　down　on　the　bed　and　wiped　my　eyes　and　nose　with　my　hands。
　　〃Just　read　it　and　don't　ever　talk　to　me　about　it　again；〃　I　said。　〃Don't　you　ever　say　anything　like'that　again。　Don't　you　say　he's　alive。　Don't　you　ever　do　that　to　me　again。〃
　　The　phone　rang。　He　snatched　it　up。
　　〃What〃　he　blurted　out。　〃Oh；　yeah？〃　he　added　after　a　pause。　〃Well；　they're　right。　We　are　making　a　fucking　disturbance；　and　you　send　fucking　security　up；　I'll　just　send　'em　right　back　down　'cause　I'm　a　goddamn…fucking　cop　and　I'm　in　a　goddamn…fucking…shitty　mood　right　now！〃
　　He　slammed　down　the　receiver。　He　sat　down　on　the　bed　next　to　me。　Tears　filled　his　eyes；　too。
　　〃Now　what　do　we　do；　Doc？　Now　what　the　hell　do　we　do；　huh？〃
　　〃He　wanted　us　to　have　dinner　together　so　we　would　fight　and　hate　and　cry　like　this；〃　I　muttered；　tears　slipping　down　my　face。　〃He　knew　we　would　turn　on　each　other　and　blame　each　other　because　there　was　no　other　way　for　us　to　let　it　out　and　go　on。〃
　　〃Yeah；　I　guess　he　profiled　us；〃　Marino　said。　〃I　guess　he　did。　Like　he　somehow　knew　it　would　happen；　and　how　we'd　act。〃
　　〃He　knew　me；〃　I　muttered。　〃Oh；　God；　did　he　know　me。　He　knew　I　would　handle　it　worse　than　anybody。　I'don't　cry。　I　don't　want　to　cry！　I　learned　not　to　when　my　father　was　dying；　because　to　cry　was　to　feel；　and　it　was　too　much　to　feel。　It　was　as　if　I　could　make　myself　get　dry　inside　like　a　dry　pod　that　rattles；　my　feelings　tiny；　hard　。　。　。　rattling。　I'm　devastated；　Marino。　I　don't　think　I　can　get　over　it。　Maybe　it　would　be　a　good　thing　if　I　got　fired；　too。　Or　quit。〃
　　〃That　ain't　gonna　happen；〃　he　said。
　　When　I　didn't　reply；　he　got　up　and　lit　a　cigarette。　He　paced。
　　〃You　want　some　dinner　or　something？〃
　　〃I　just　need　to　sleep；〃　I　said。
　　〃Maybe　getting　out'of　this　room　would　be　a　good　thing。〃
　　〃No；　Marino。〃
　　I　knocked　myself　out　with　Benadryl　and　felt　thickheaded　and　bleary　when　I　forced　myself　out　of　bed　the　next　morning。　I　looked　in　the　bathroom　mirror　and　saw　exhausted；　puffy　eyes。　I　splashed　cold　water　on　my　face　and　dressed　and　got　a　cab　at　seven…thirty；　this　time　without　any　help　from　Interpol。
　　The　Institut　Médico…Légal；　a　three…story　building　of　red　brick　and　pitted　limestone；　was　in　the　east　section　of　the　city。　The　Voie　Expressway　cut　it　off　from　the　Seine；　which　this　morning　was　the　color　of　honey。　The　taxi　driver　dropped　me　off　in　front；　where　I　walked　through　a　small；　lovely　park　with　primroses；　pansies；　daisies　and　wild　flowers；　and　old　plantain　trees。　A　young　couple　necking　on　a　bench　and　an　old　man　walking　his　dog　seemed　oblivious　to　the　distinct　stench　of　death　seeping　through　the　Institut's　barred　windows　and　black　iron　front　door。
　　Ruth　Stvan　was　well　known　for　the　unusual　system　she　ran。　Visitors　were　received　by　hostesses；　so　when　the　bereft　came　through　the　door；　they　were　immediately　intercepted　by　someone　kind　who　helped　them　find　their　way；　and　one　of　these　hostesses　reached　out　to　me。　She　led　me　along　a　tile　corridor　where　investigators　waited　in　blue　chairs；　and　I　understood　enough　of　what　they　were　saying　to　gather　that　someone　had　jumped　out　of　a　window　the　night　before。
　　I　followed　my　silent　guide　past　a　small　chapel　with　stained　glass　where　a　couple　was　crying　over　a　young　boy　inside　an　open　white　casket。　Handling　the　dead　here　was　different　from　what　we　did。　In　America；　there　simply　wasn't　time　or　funding　for　hostesses；　chapels　and　handholding　in　a　society　in　which　shootings　came　in　every　day　and　no　one　lobbied　for　the　dead。
　　Dr。　Stvan　was　working　on　a　case　in　the　Salle　d'Autopsie；　designated　as　such　by　a　sign　over　automatically　opening　doors。　When　l　walked　in；　I　was　overwhelmed　by　anxiety　again。　I　shouldn't　have　e　here。　I　didn't　know　what　I　would　say。　Ruth　Stvan　was　placing　a　lung　in　a　hanging　scale；　her　green　gown　splashed　with　blood；　glasses　speckled　with　it。　I　knew　her　case　was　the　man　who　had　jumped。　His　face　was　smashed；　feet　split　open；　shin　tones　driven　up　into　his　thighs。
　　〃Give　me　one　minute；　please；〃　Dr。　Stvan　said　to　me。
　　There　were　two　other　cases　going　on；　those　doctors　wearing　white。　On　chalkboards　were　names　and　case　numbers。　A　Stryker　saw　was　opening　a　skull　while　water　ran　loudly　in　sinks。　Dr。　Stvan　was　quick　and　energetic；　fair　and　big…boned　and　older　than　me。　I　remembered　that　when　we　were　in　Geneva　she　had　kept　to　herself。
　　Dr。　Stvan　covered　her　unfinished　case　with　a　sheet　and　pulled　off　her　gloves。　She　began　untying　her　gown　in　back　as　she　walked　over　to　me　with　sure；　strong　steps。
　　〃How　are　you？〃　she　asked。
　　〃I'm　not　sure；〃　I　said。
　　If　she　thought　this　an　odd　answer；　she　didn't　show　it。
　　〃Follow　me；　please；　and　we'll　talk　as　I　clean　up。　Then　get　a　coffee。〃
　　She　took　me　into　a　small　dressing　room　and　dropped　her　gown　in　a　clothes　bin。　Both　of　us　washed　our　hands　with　disinfectant　soap；　and　she　scrubbed　her　face；　too；　and　dried　it　with　a　rough；　blue　towel。
　　〃Dr。　Stvan；〃　I　said；　〃obviously　I'm　not　here　for　a　friendly　chat　or　to　dabble　into　what　your　M。E。　system　is　like　over　here。　We　both　know　that。〃
　　〃Of　course；〃　she　replied；　meeting　my　eyes。　〃I'm　not　friendly　enough　for　a　social　visit。〃　She　smiled　a　little。　〃Yes；　we　met　in　Geneva；　Dr。　Scarpetta；　but　we　didn't　socialize。　It's　a　shame；　really。　There　were　so　few　women　back　then：'
　　She　talked　as　we　walked　along　the　corridor。
　　〃When　you　called；　I　knew　what　it　was　about　because　I'm　the　one　who　asked　you　here；〃　she　added。
　　〃It　makes　me　a　little　nervous　to　hear　you　say　that；〃　I　replied。　〃As　if　I'm　not　nervous　enough。〃
　　〃We're　after　the　same　things　in　life。　If　you　were　me；　I'd　be　visiting　you；　do　you　see？　I　would　be　saying；　we　can't　let　this　continue。　We　can't　let　other　women　die　this　way。　Now　in　America；　in　Richmond。　He's　a　monster；　this　Loup…Garou：　〃
　　We　stepped　inside　her　office；　where　there　were　no　windows；　and　stacks　of　files　and　journals　and　memos　spilled　from　every　surface。　She　picked　up　the　phone　and　dialed　an　extension；　and　asked　someone　to　bring　us　coffee。
　　〃Please；　make　yourself　fortable；　if　that's　possible。　I'd　move　things　out　of　the　way　but　I've　no　place　to　put　them。〃
　　I　pulled　a　chair　close　to　her　desk。
　　〃I　felt　very　out　of　place　when　we　were　in　Geneva；〃　she　said；　her　mind　apparently　jumping　back　to　that　memory　as　she　shut　the　door。　〃And　part　of　the　reason　is　the　system　here　in　France。　Forensic　pathologists　are　pletely　isolated　here　and　that's　not　changed　and　perhaps　never　will　in　my　lifetime。　We're　allowed　to　talk　to　no　one；　which　isn't　always　so　bad　because　I　like　to　work　alone。〃
　　She　lit　a　cigarette。
　　〃I　inventory　the　injuries　and　police　tell　the　whole　story；
　　if　they　choose。　If　a　case　is　sensitive；　I　talk　to　the　magistrate　myself　and　maybe　I　get　what　I　need；　maybe　I　don't。　Sometimes　when　I　raise　the　question；　no　lab　is　appointed　for　the　tests；　do　you　understand？〃
　　〃Then；　in　a　sense；〃　I　said；　〃your　only　job　is　to　find　the　cause　of　death。〃
　　She　nodded。　〃For　each　case　I　receive　a　mission　from　the　magistrate　to　determine　the　cause　of　death；　and　that's　all。〃
　　〃You　don't　really　investigate。〃
　　〃Not　the　way　you　do。　Not　the　way　I　want　to；〃　she　replied；　blowing　smoke　out　of　the　side　of　her　mouth。　〃You　see；　the　problem　with　French　justice　is　the　magistrate　is　independent。　I　can　report　to　no　one　but　the　magistrate　who　appointed　me；　and　only　the　minister　of　justice　can　take　a　case　away　and　give　it　to　another　magistrate。　So　if　there's　a　problem；　I　don't　have　the　power　to　do