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gifted forensic pathologist. Dr. Lanier has always respected her and was more than a little impressed when he heard her lecture at a regional meeting of coroners. Most forensic pathologists, particularly ones with her status, look down on coroners, think they’re all funeral home directors who got voted into office. Of course, some of them are.
    Trouble stuck out its big foot and tripped Dr. Scarpetta, hurting her badly, several years back. For that she has Dr. Lanier’s sympathy. Not a day goes by when trouble doesn’t stomp around looking for him, too.
    Now some notorious serial killer seems to think Dr. Lanier needs the help of her colleague Marino. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s being set up. With the election not even six months away, Dr. Lanier is suspicious of any deviation from routine, and a letter from Jean-Baptiste Chandonne makes him as leery as hell. The only reason he can’t dismiss it is simple: Jean-Baptiste Chandonne, if the letter is really from him, knows about Charlotte Dard. Her case has been forgotten by the public and was never all that newsworthy outside of Baton Rouge. Her cause of death was undetermined. Dr. Lanier has always entertained the possibility that she was murdered.
    He’s always believed that the best way to identify a cottonmouth is to poke at it. If the inside of its mouth is white, whack off its head. Otherwise, the critter’s nothing more than a harmless water snake.
    He may as well poke at the truth and see what he finds. While sitting at his desk, he picks up the phone and discovers Marino doesn’t care who finds him—he has what Dr. Lanier calls a bring-’em-on attitude. He envisions Marino as the type who would ride a Fat Boy Harley, probably without a helmet. The cop’s answering machine doesn’t say he can’t answer the phone because he’s not in or is on the other line, which is what most professional, polite people record as greetings. The recorded gruff male voice says, “Don’t call me at home,” and offers another number for the person to try.
    Dr. Lanier tries the other number. The voice that answers sounds like the recorded one.
    â€œDetective Marino?”
    â€œWho wants to know?”
    He’s from New Jersey and doesn’t trust anyone, probably doesn’t like hardly anyone, either.
    Dr. Lanier introduces himself, and he’s careful about what he says, too. In the trust and like department, Marino’s met his match.
    â€œWe had a death down here about eight years ago. You ever heard of a woman named Charlotte Dard?”
    â€œNope.”
    Dr. Lanier gives him a few details of the case.
    â€œNope.”
    Dr. Lanier gives him a few more.
    â€œLet me ask you something. Why the hell would I know anything about some drug overdose in Baton Rouge?” Marino’s not at all nice about it.
    â€œSame question I have.”
    â€œHuh? What is this? Are you some asshole bullshitting me?”
    â€œA lot of people think I’m an asshole,” Dr. Lanier replies. “But I’m not bullshitting you.”
    He debates whether he should tell Marino about the letter from Jean-Baptiste Chandonne. He decides that no useful purpose would be served. He’s already found out what he needed to know: Marino is clueless about Charlotte Dard and annoyed at being bothered by some coroner.
    â€œOne other quick question, and then I won’t take up any more of your time,” Dr. Lanier says. “You have a long history with Dr. Kay Scarpetta . . . .”
    â€œWhat’s she got to do with this?” Marino’s entire demeanor changes. Now he’s just plain hostile.
    â€œI understand she’s doing private consulting.” Dr. Lanier had read a brief mention of it on the Internet.
    Marino doesn’t respond.
    â€œWhat do you think of her?” Dr. Lanier asks the question that he feels sure will trigger a volcanic temper.
    â€œTell you what, asshole.