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so.”
         “Maybe,” Benton says, picking up the photograph.
         “But nude for everyone to see,” Captain Poma disagrees.
         “Take a good look at her position. I could be wrong, of course, just trying to open my mind to other interpretations, putting aside my prejudices, my angry assumptions that this killer is filled with hate. It’s just a feeling I’m getting. The suggestion of a different possibility, that maybe he wanted her found but his intention wasn’t to sexually degrade,” she says.
         “You don’t see contempt? Rage?” Captain Poma is surprised, seems genuinely incredulous.
         “I think what he did made him feel powerful. He had a need to overpower her. He has other needs that at this moment we can’t possibly know,” she says. “And I’m certainly not suggesting there’s no sexual component. I’m not saying there isn’t rage. I just don’t think these are what drive him.”
         “Charleston must feel very lucky to have you,” he says.
         “I’m not sure Charleston feels anything of the sort,” she says. “At least, the local coroner most likely doesn’t.”
         The drunk Americans are getting louder. Benton seems distracted by what they’re saying.
         “An expert like yourself right there. Very lucky is how I would consider it if I were the coroner. And he doesn’t avail himself of your talents?” Captain Poma says, brushing against her as he reaches for a photograph he doesn’t need to look at again.
         “He sends his cases to the Medical University of South Carolina, has never had to contend with a private pathology practice before. Not in Charleston or anywhere. My contracts are with some of the coroners from outlying jurisdictions where there’s no access to medical examiner facilities and labs,” she explains, distracted by Benton.
         He indicates for her to pay attention to what the drunk Americans are saying.
         “…I just think when it’s undisclosed this and undisclosed that, it’s fishy,” one of them pontificates.
         “Why would she want anybody to know? I don’t blame her. It’s like Oprah or Anna Nicole Smith. People find out where they are, they show up in droves.”
         “How sickening. Imagine being in the hospital…”
         “Or in Anna Nicole Smith’s case, in the morgue. Or in the damn ground…”
         “…And mobs of people out there on the sidewalk, yelling out your name.”
         “Can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen, is what I say. Price you pay for being rich and famous.”
         “What’s going on?” Scarpetta asks Benton.
         “It would seem our old friend Dr. Self had some sort of emergency earlier today and is going to be off the air for a while,” he replies.
         Captain Poma turns around and looks at the table of noisy Americans. “Do you know her?” he asks.
         Benton says, “We’ve had our run-ins with her. Mainly, Kay has.”
         “I believe I read something about that when I was researching you. A sensational, very brutal homicide case in Florida that involved all of you.”
         “I’m glad to know you researched us,” Benton says. “That was very thorough.”
         “Only to make myself familiar before you came here.” Captain Poma meets Scarpetta’s eyes. “A very beautiful woman I know watches Dr. Self regularly,” he says, “and she tells me she saw her on the show last fall. It had something to do with her winning that very big tournament in New York. I admit I don’t pay much attention to tennis.”
         “The U.S. Open,” Scarpetta says.
         “I’m not aware Drew was on her show,” Benton says, frowning as if he doesn’t believe him.
         “She was. I’ve checked. This is very interesting. Suddenly, Dr. Self has a family emergency. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her, and she has yet to respond to my inquiries.