Cruel and Unusual (Kay Scarpetta Series #4) [NOOK Book]

Overview

“A knockout” (People) of a thriller from #1 New York Times bestselling author Patricia Cornwell featuring medical examiner Kay Scarpetta.

“Killing me won’t kill the beast” are the last words of rapist-murderer Ronnie Joe Waddell, written four days before his execution. But they can’t explain how medical examiner Dr. Kay Scarpetta finds Waddell’s fingerprints on another crime scene—after she’d performed his autopsy. If this is some sort of ...
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Cruel and Unusual (Kay Scarpetta Series #4)

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Overview

“A knockout” (People) of a thriller from #1 New York Times bestselling author Patricia Cornwell featuring medical examiner Kay Scarpetta.

“Killing me won’t kill the beast” are the last words of rapist-murderer Ronnie Joe Waddell, written four days before his execution. But they can’t explain how medical examiner Dr. Kay Scarpetta finds Waddell’s fingerprints on another crime scene—after she’d performed his autopsy. If this is some sort of game, Scarpetta seems to be the target. And if the next victim is someone she knows, the punishment will be cruel and unusual...

When Dr. Kay Scarpetta and Police Lieutenant Pete Marino find the brutally wounded body of a 13-year-old boy carefully propped against a dumpster, and the only fingerprint that of an already executed criminal, their investigation takes a "cruel and unusual" turn. An 11-week NYT hardcover bestseller. Cornwell's previous novels All That Remains, Body of Evidence, and Postmortem have over 3 million copies in print.

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Editorial Reviews

Larry King
A page-turner...I dare you to start reading Patricia Cornwell's new book and then be able to put it down. —USA Today
Newsweek
Taut, high tech and eerily credible...with each book, her scalpel is getting sharper.
People
A knockout...the best work yet from Cornwell...disturbing...compelling...the most successful case thus far for Dr. Kay Scarpetta.
Baltimore Sun
A first-rate thriller...as taut and terrifying as Silence of the Lambs...Cornwell's boldest, darkest work yet.
Richmond Times-Dispatch
Classic Cornwell...chilling...riveting...utterly convincing.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
The fourth mystery to feature Virginia's Chief Medical Officer Dr. Kay Scarpetta (after All That Remains ) is the most intricately plotted and fully characterized novel yet in Cornwell's admirable series. From its opening at the autopsy of convicted killer Ronnie Joe Wadell--after his execution in the electric chair--to its final moments with Scarpetta facing a special grand jury indictment, the novel connects old crimes and cover-ups to current politics in an intriguing puzzler. On the eve of Wadell's death, a teenage boy in Richmond, Va., is mutilated in a murder that echoes the killing of a TV news anchorwoman 10 years before, the crime for which Wadell was convicted. Next, a fingerprint at the home of a recently murdered psychic is identified in FBI files as the executed killer's, suggesting to Scarpetta that tentacles from the first murder may be reaching out from the past. The Christmas Day murder of her own morgue supervisor suggests those tentacles may have penetrated her office. Scarpetta's computer-whiz niece Lucy, Richmond homicide investigator Pete Marino and an old FBI friend help Kay save her reputation. That this complex case seems to end abruptly is surely due in part to the reader's reluctance to come to the last page. Literary Guild, Mystery Guild and Doubleday Book Club selections. (June)
Library Journal
Outstanding medical crime writer Cornwell offers yet another Dr. Kay Scarpetta thriller, in which the fingerprints of an executed killer turn up at the scene of a new murder. Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 2/1/93.
School Library Journal
YA-In this fourth Kay Scarpetta mystery, the chief medical examiner for the state of Virginia is once again challenged by gruesome murder and confusing evidence. How could the fingerprints of Ronnie Joe Waddell appear at the scene of a murdered psychic after Waddell was executed in the electric chair? In the midst of many puzzling matters come other difficult issues to confront Kay as she tries to do her job. She becomes the object of hysterical media attention, and finds that she herself might be indicted for the very crimes she is trying to solve. Someone is sabotaging her efforts by hacking into her computer files and leaking information. Exasperated, she calls upon her niece, Lucy, a 17-year-old computer whiz, whom readers will remember from earlier ``Scarpetta'' novels. Along with FBI agent Benton Wesley and police chum Pete Marino, Lucy helps Kay solve the murders and ferret out the traitor in her office. YAs will enjoy the teen's angst and the exciting twist at the book's end.-Carolyn E. Gecan, Thomas Jefferson Sci-Tech, Fairfax County, VA
Emily Melton
Popular Kay Scarpetta, chief medical examiner of Virginia, is back in Cornwell's latest, which will no doubt rocket onto the best-seller lists, as have "Postmortem" (1990), "Body of Evidence" (1991), and "All That Remains" (1992). This time Scarpetta's involved in the strange case of Ronnie Joe Waddell, a convicted killer. Waddell is executed, and Scarpetta performs the autopsy. Then she is called to the scene of an apparent suicide. When the death begins to look suspiciously like murder and the dead Waddell's distinctive fingerprint turns up at the scene, Scarpetta's determined to solve the mystery. But she quickly finds that her job, her reputation, and even her life, are on the line in a complex and sensitive case involving prominent officials who have everything to lose if the truth is uncovered. Cornwell has written a gripping, intense story full of the graphic details of death. She obviously knows her forensic stuff, and she's got a knack for inventing tricky, attention-getting plots. But this time out, she takes so long to develop all the disparate plot pieces that the complicated climax, crammed into a few short pages, leaves the reader feeling slightly cheated and wondering why all the loose ends don't quite get tied up. All in all, though, it's an "edge-of-your-seat" read that's sure to be extremely popular. Buy plenty of copies.
Kirkus Reviews
On the eve of longtime Death Row inmate Ronnie Joe Waddell's execution, Virginia chief medical examiner Dr. Kay Scarpetta (All That Remains, Body of Evidence, etc.) gets a call about the kidnap-murder of young Eddie Heath—a homicide that has uncanny similarities to Waddell's handiwork. And the eeriness continues after the execution—when Waddell's fingerprint is found in the home of a second murder victim, and when Susan Story, Kay's morgue supervisor, spooked by the autopsy on Waddell, is killed with the same gun that shot Eddie. Kay has to deal not only with the specter of Waddell again at large (escaped? switched with another inmate? misidentified through his prints for someone else?) but with a security leak in her own office, as a breach in her computer files and the theft of her records put her on the spot as a suspect in Susan's murder—and point to corruption that reaches further than Kay can imagine. Cornwell's accustomed forensic flair, plus the bonus of an unusually baffling and intricate plot, make this her best book yet—and a new high point in her meteoric rise. (Literary Guild Dual Selection for August)
From the Publisher
"A knockout."
People

"Ingenious...a first-rate storyteller."
Los Angeles Times Book Review

"Engrossing...an extremely effective novel of suspense, in all its varieties...Corwell's sleuth is the best in the business."
Entertainment Weekly

"Classic Cornwell...chilling...riveting...utterly convincing."
Richmond Times-Dispatch

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781439187531
  • Publisher: Scribner
  • Publication date: 12/1/2009
  • Series: Kay Scarpetta Series, #4
  • Sold by: SIMON & SCHUSTER
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 416
  • Sales rank: 10,931
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author

Patricia  Cornwell
“It’s important for me to live in the world I want to write about,” says Patricia Cornwell, “If I want a character to do or know something, I try to do or know the same thing.” The award-winning former police reporter spent time working both as an employee of the Virginia Chief Medical Examiner’s Office and as a volunteer police officer before she wrote her first Kay Scarpetta novel, Postmortem. Her preparation paid off—Postmortem was the first novel ever to win the Edgar, Creasey, Anthony, Macavity, and French Prix du Roman d’Aventure awards in one year. She has followed that up with ten other bestselling novels featuring Kay Scarpetta. She then began a new series with her #1 New York Times bestsellers Hornet’s Nest and Southern Cross. She is also the author of two cookbooks, Scarpetta’s Winter Table and Food to Die For; A Time for Remembering, a biography of Ruth Bell Graham, wife of evangelist Billy Graham; a children’s book, Life’s Little Fable; and her #1 bestselling work of nonfiction, Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper—Case Closed. She lives in New York City.
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    1. Also Known As:
      Patricia Daniels Cornwell (full name)
    2. Hometown:
      Boston, MA and New York, NY
    1. Date of Birth:
      June 9, 1956
    2. Place of Birth:
      Miami, Florida
    1. Education:
      B.A. in English, Davidson College, 1979; King College
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt


1

Saturday, the last day of August, I started work before dawn. I did not witness mist burning off the grass or the sky turning brilliant blue. Steel tables were occupied by bodies all morning, and there are no windows in the morgue. Labor Day weekend had begun with a bang of car crashes and gunfire in the city of Richmond.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon when I finally returned to my West End home and heard Bertha mopping in the kitchen. She cleaned for me every Saturday and knew from past instruction not to bother with the phone, which had just begun to ring.

“I’m not here,” I said loudly as I opened the refrigerator.

Bertha stopped mopping. “It was ringing a minute ago,” she said. “Rang a few minutes before that, too. Same man.”

“No one’s home,” I repeated.

“Whatever you say, Dr. Kay.” The mop moved across the floor again.

I tried to ignore the disembodied answering machine message intruding upon the sun-washed kitchen. The Hanover tomatoes I took for granted during the summer I began to hoard with the approach of fall. There were only three left. Where was the chicken salad?

A beep was followed by the familiar male voice. “Doc? It’s Marino…”

Oh, Lord, I thought, shoving the refrigerator door shut with a hip. Richmond homicide detective Pete Marino had been on the street since midnight, and I had just seen him in the morgue as I was picking bullets out of one of his cases. He was supposed to be on his way to Lake Gaston for what was left of a weekend of fishing. I was looking forward to working in my yard.

“I’ve been trying to get you, am heading out. You’ll have to try my pager…”

Marino’s voice sounded urgent as I snatched up the receiver.

“I’m here.”

“That you or your goddam machine?”

“Take a guess,” I snapped.

“Bad news. They found another abandoned car. New Kent, the Sixty-four rest stop, westbound. Benton just got hold of me—”

“Another couple?” I interrupted, my plans for the day forgotten.

“Fred Cheney, white male, nineteen. Deborah Harvey, white female, nineteen. Last seen around eight last night when they drove off from the Harveys’ Richmond house, on their way to Spindrift.”

“And the car’s in the westbound lane?” I inquired, for Spindrift, North Carolina, is three and a half hours east of Richmond.

“Yo. Appears they was heading in the opposite direction, back into the city. A trooper found the car, a Jeep Cherokee, about an hour ago. No sign of the kids.”

“I’m leaving now,” I told him.

Bertha had not stopped mopping, but I knew she had picked up every word.

“Be on my way soon as I finish up in here,” she assured me. “I’ll lock up and set the alarm. Don’t you worry, Dr. Kay.”

Fear was running along my nerves as I grabbed my purse and hurried out to my car.

There were four couples so far. Each had disappeared, eventually to be found murdered within a fifty-mile radius of Williamsburg.

The cases, dubbed by the press as The Couple Killings, were inexplicable, and no one seemed to have a clue or credible theory, not even the FBI and its Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, or VICAP, which featured a national database run on an artificial intelligence computer capable of connecting missing persons with unidentified bodies and linking serial crimes. After the first couple’s bodies were found more than two years ago, a VICAP regional team, comprising FBI Special Agent Benton Wesley and veteran Richmond homicide detective Pete Marino, was invited by local police to assist. Another couple would disappear, then two more. In each instance, by the time VICAP could be notified, by the time the National Crime Information Center, or NCIC, could even wire descriptions to police departments across America, the missing teenagers were already dead and decomposing in woods somewhere.

Turning off the radio, I passed through a tollbooth and picked up speed on I-64 East. Images, voices suddenly came back to me. Bones and rotted clothing scattered with leaves. Attractive, smiling faces of missing teenagers printed in the newspapers, and bewildered, distraught families interviewed on television and calling me on the phone.

“I’m so sorry about your daughter.”

“Please tell me how my baby died. Oh, God, did she suffer?”

“Her cause of death is undetermined, Mrs. Bennett. There’s nothing else I can tell you at this time.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“All that remains is his bones, Mr. Martin. When soft tissue is gone, gone with it is any possible injury…”

“I don’t want to hear your medical bullshit! I want to know what killed my boy! The cops are asking about drugs! My boy’s never been drunk in his life, much less taken drugs! You hear me, lady? He’s dead, and they’re making him out to be some sort of punk…”

“CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER BAFFLED: Dr. Kay Scarpetta Unable to Tell Cause of Death.”

Undetermined.

Over and over again. Eight young people.

It was awful. It was, in fact, unprecedented for me.

Every forensic pathologist has undetermined cases, but I had never had so many that appeared to be related.

I opened the sunroof and my spirits were lifted somewhat by the weather. The temperature was in the low eighties, leaves would be turning soon. It was only in the fall and spring that I did not miss Miami. Richmond summers were just as hot, without benefit of ocean breezes to sweep the air clean. The humidity was horrible, and in winter I fared no better, for I do not like the cold. But spring and fall were intoxicating. I drank in the change, and it went straight to my head.

The I-64 rest stop in New Kent County was exactly thirty-one miles from my house. It could have been any rest stop in Virginia, with picnic tables, grills and wooden trash barrels, brick-enclosed bathrooms and vending machines, and newly planted trees. But there was not a traveler or a truck driver in sight, and police cars were everywhere.

A trooper, hot and unsmiling in his blue-gray uniform, walked toward me as I parked near the ladies’ room.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, leaning close to my open window. “This rest area’s closed today. I’m going to have to ask you to drive on.”

“Dr. Kay Scarpetta,” I identified myself, switching off the ignition. “The police asked me to come.”

“For what purpose, ma’am?”

“I’m the chief medical examiner,” I replied.

As he looked me over, I could see the skeptical glint in his eyes. I supposed I did not look particularly “chiefly.” Dressed in a stone-washed denim skirt, pink oxford cloth shirt, and leather walking shoes, I was without the accouterments of authority, including my state car, which was in the state garage awaiting new tires. At a glance, I was a not-so-young yuppie running errands in her dark gray Mercedes, a distracted ash-blonde en route to the nearest shopping mall.

“I’ll need some identification.”

Digging inside my purse, I produced a thin black wallet and displayed my brass medical examiner’s shield, then handed over my driver’s license, both of which he studied for a long moment. I sensed he was embarrassed.

“Just leave your car here, Dr. Scarpetta. The folks you’re looking for are in back.” He pointed in the direction of the parking area for trucks and buses. “Have a nice one,” he added inanely, stepping away.

I followed a brick walk. When I rounded the building and passed beneath the shade of trees, I was greeted by several more police cars, a tow truck with light bar flashing, and at least a dozen men in uniforms and plain clothes. I did not see the red Jeep Cherokee until I was almost upon it. Midway along the exit ramp, it was well off the pavement in a dip and obscured by foliage. Two-door, it was coated with a film of dust. When I looked in the driver’s window I could see that the beige leather interior was very clean, the backseat neatly packed with various items of luggage, a slalom ski, a coiled yellow nylon ski rope, and a red-and-white plastic ice chest. Keys dangled from the ignition. Windows were partly rolled down. Depressed tire tracks leading from the pavement were clearly visible in the sloping grass, the front chrome grille nudged up against a clump of pines.

Marino was talking to a thin, blond man, someone he introduced as Jay Morrell with the state police, whom I did not know. He seemed to be in charge.

“Kay Scarpetta,” I volunteered, since Marino identified me only as “Doc.”

Morrell fixed dark green Ray-Bans on me and nodded. Out of uniform and sporting a mustache that was little more than teenage fuzz, he exuded the all-business bravado I associated with investigators brand-new on the job.

“Here’s what we know so far.” He was glancing around nervously. “The Jeep belongs to Deborah Harvey, and she and her boyfriend, uh, Fred Cheney, left the Harveys’ residence last night at approximately eight P.M. They were heading to Spindrift, where the Harvey family owns a beach house.”

“Was Deborah Harvey’s family home when the couple left Richmond?” I inquired.

“No, ma’am.” He briefly turned his shades my way. “They were already at Spindrift, had left earlier in the day. Deborah and Fred wanted to go in a separate car because they planned to return to Richmond on Monday. Both of them are sophomores at Carolina, and needed to come back early to get ready to return to school.”

Marino explained as he got out his cigarettes, “Right before they left the Harvey house last night, they called up Spindrift, told one of Deborah’s brothers they was heading out and would be arriving sometime between midnight and one A.M. When they didn’t show up by four o’clock this morning, Pat Harvey called the police.”

“Pat Harvey?” I looked at Marino in disbelief.

It was Officer Morrell who replied, “Oh, yeah. We got us a good one, all right. Pat Harvey’s on her way here even as we speak. A chopper picked her up”—he glanced at his watch—“about a half hour ago. The father, uh, Bob Harvey, he’s on the road. Was in Charlotte on business and was supposed to get to Spindrift sometime tomorrow. As far as we know, he hasn’t been reached yet, doesn’t know what’s happened.”

Pat Harvey was the National Drug Policy Director, a position the media had dubbed Drug Czar. A presidential appointee who not so long ago had been on the cover of Time magazine, Mrs. Harvey was one of the most powerful and admired women in America.

“What about Benton?” I asked Marino. “Is he aware Deborah Harvey is Pat Harvey’s daughter?”

“He didn’t say nothing about it to me. When he called, he’d just landed in Newport News—the Bureau flew him in. He was in a hurry to find a rental car. We didn’t talk long.”

That answered my question. Benton Wesley would not be rushing here in a Bureau plane unless he knew who Deborah Harvey was. I wondered why he had not said anything to Marino, his VICAP partner, and I tried to read Marino’s broad, impassive face. His jaw muscles were flexing, the top of his balding head flushed and beaded with sweat.

“What’s going on now,” Morrell resumed, “is I got a lot of men stationed around to keep out traffic. We’ve looked in the bathrooms, poked around a little, to make sure the kids aren’t in the immediate area. Once Peninsula Search and Rescue get here, we’ll start in on the woods.”

Immediately north of the Jeep’s front hood the well-attended landscaping of the rest stop was overcome by brush and trees that within an acre became so dense I could see nothing but sunlight caught in leaves and a hawk making circles over a distant stand of pines. Though shopping malls and housing developments continued their encroachment upon I-64, this stretch between Richmond and Tidewater so far had remained unspoiled. The scenery, which I would have found reassuring and soothing in the past, now seemed ominous to me.

“Shit,” Marino complained as we left Morrell and began walking around.

“I’m sorry about your fishing trip,” I said.

“Hey. Ain’t it the way it always goes? Been planning this damn trip for months. Screwed again. Nothing new.”

“I noticed that when you pull off the Interstate,” I observed, ignoring his irritation, “the entrance ramp immediately divides into two ramps, one leading back here, the other to the front of the rest stop. In other words, the ramps are one-way. It’s not possible to pull into the front area for cars, then change your mind and drive back here without going a considerable distance the wrong way on the ramp and risking hitting someone. And I would guess there was a fair amount of travelers on the road last night, since it’s Labor Day weekend.”

“Right. I know that. It don’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that somebody intended to ditch the Jeep exactly where it is because there were probably a lot of cars parked in front last night. So he takes the ramp for trucks and buses. Probably was pretty deserted back here. Nobody sees him, and he splits.”

“He may also not have wanted the Jeep found right away, explaining why it’s well off the pavement,” I said.

Marino stared off toward the woods and said, “I’m getting too old for this.”

A perpetual complainer, Marino had a habit of arriving at a crime scene and acting as if he did not want to be there. We had worked with each other long enough for me to be used to it, but this time his attitude struck me as more than an act. His frustration went deeper than the canceled fishing trip. I wondered if he had had a fight with his wife.

“Well, well,” he mumbled, looking toward the brick building. “The Lone Ranger’s arrived.”

I turned around as the lean, familiar figure of Benton Wesley emerged from the men’s room. He barely said “hello” when he got to us, his silver hair wet at the temples, the lapels of his blue suit speckled with water as if he had just washed his face. Eyes fixed impassively on the Jeep, he slipped a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket and put them on.

“Has Mrs. Harvey gotten here yet?” he asked.

“Nope,” Marino replied.

“What about reporters?”

“Nope,” Marino said.

“Good.”

Wesley’s mouth was firmly set, making his sharp-featured face seem harder and more unreachable than usual. I would have found him handsome were it not for his imperviousness. His thoughts and emotions were impossible to read, and of late he had become such a master at walling off his personality that I sometimes felt I did not know him.

“We want to keep this under wraps as long as possible,” he went on. “The minute the word’s out all hell is going to break loose.”

I asked him, “What do you know about this couple, Benton?”

“Very little. After Mrs. Harvey reported them missing early this morning, she called the Director at home and then he called me. Apparently, her daughter and Fred Cheney met at Carolina and had been dating since their freshman year. Both of them supposedly good, clean-cut kids. No history of any sort of trouble that might account for them getting tangled up with the wrong type of person out here—at least according to Mrs. Harvey. One thing I did pick up on was she had some ambivalence about the relationship, thought Cheney and her daughter spent too much time alone.”

“Possibly the real reason for their wanting to drive to the beach in a separate car,” I said.

“Yes,” Wesley replied, glancing around. “More than likely that was the real reason. I got the impression from the Director that Mrs. Harvey wasn’t keen on Deborah’s bringing her boyfriend to Spindrift. It was family time. Mrs. Harvey lives in D.C. during the week and hadn’t seen much of her daughter and two sons all summer. Frankly, I have the feeling that Deborah and her mother may not have been getting along very well of late, and may have had an argument right before the family headed off to North Carolina yesterday morning.”

“What about the chance the kids might have run off together?” Marino said. “They was smart, right? Would read the papers, watch the news, maybe saw the stuff about these couples on that TV special the other week. Point is, they probably knew about the cases around here. Who’s to say they didn’t pull something? A pretty slick way to stage a disappearance and punish your parents.”

“It’s one of many scenarios we need to consider,” Wesley replied. “And it’s all the more reason I hope we can keep this from the media as long as possible.”

Morrell joined us as we walked along the exit ramp back toward the Jeep. A pale blue pickup truck with a camper shell pulled up, and a man and a woman in dark jumpsuits and boots got out. Opening the tailgate, they let two panting, tail-wagging bloodhounds out of their crate. They snapped long leads to rings on the leather belts around their waists and grabbed each dog by its harness.

“Salty, Neptune, heel!”

I didn’t know which dog was which. Both were big and light tan with wrinkled faces and floppy ears. Morrell grinned and put out his hand.

“Howya doin’, fella?”

Salty, or maybe it was Neptune, rewarded him with a wet kiss and a nuzzle to the leg.

The dog handlers were from Yorktown, their names Jeff and Gail. Gail was as tall as her partner and looked just about as strong. She reminded me of women I’ve seen who have spent their lives on farms, their faces lined by hard work and the sun, a stolid patience about them that comes from understanding nature and accepting its gifts and punishments. She was the search-and-rescue team captain, and I could tell from the way she was eyeing the Jeep that she was surveying it for any sign that the scene, and therefore the scents, had been disturbed.

“Nothing’s been touched,” Marino told her, bending over to knead one of the dogs behind the ears. “We haven’t even opened the doors yet.”

“Do you know if anybody else has been inside it? Maybe the person who found it?” Gail inquired.

Morrell began to explain, “The plate number went out over teletype, BOLOs, early this morning—”

“What the hell are BOLOs?” Wesley interrupted.

“Be On the Lookouts.”

Wesley’s face was granite as Morrell went on, tediously, “Troopers don’t go through lineup, so they’re not always going to see a teletype. They just get in their cars and mark on. The dispatchers started sending BOLOs over the air the minute the couple was reported missing, and around one P.M. a trucker spotted the Jeep, radioed it in. The trooper who responded said that other than looking through the windows to make sure nobody was inside, he didn’t even get close.”

I hoped this was true. Most police officers, even those who know better, can’t seem to resist opening doors and at least rummaging through the glove compartment in search of the owner’s identification.

Taking hold of both harnesses, Jeff took the dogs off to “use the potty” while Gail asked, “You got anything the dogs can scent off of?”

“Pat Harvey was asked to bring along anything Deborah might have been wearing recently,” Wesley said.

If Gail was surprised or impressed by whose daughter she was looking for, she did not show it but continued to regard Wesley expectantly.

“She’s flying in by chopper,” Wesley added, glancing at his watch. “Should be here any minute.”

“Well, just don’t be landing the big bird right here,” Gail commented, approaching the Jeep. “Don’t need anything stirring up the place.” Peering through the driver’s window, she studied the inside of the doors, the dash, taking in every inch of the interior. Then she backed away and took a long look at the black plastic door handle on the outside of the door.

“Best thing’s probably going to be the seats,” she decided. “We’ll let Salty scent off one, Neptune off the other. But first, we got to get in without screwing up anything. Anybody got a pencil or pen?”

Snatching a ballpoint Montblanc pen out of the breast pocket of his shirt, Wesley presented it to her.

“Need one more,” she added.

Amazingly, nobody else seemed to have a pen on his person, including me. I could have sworn I had several inside my purse.

“How about a folding knife?” Marino was digging in a pocket of his jeans.

“Perfect.”

Pen in one hand and Swiss army knife in the other, Gail simultaneously depressed the thumb button on the outside of the driver’s door and pried back the handle, then caught the door’s edge with the toe of her boot to gently pull it open. All the while I heard the faint, unmistakable thud-thud of helicopter blades growing louder.

Moments later, a red-and-white Bell JetRanger circled the rest stop, then hovered like a dragonfly, creating a small hurricane on the ground. All sound was drowned out, trees shaking and grass rippling in the roar of its terrible wind. Eyes squeezed shut, Gail and Jeff were squatting by the dogs, holding harnesses tight.

Marino, Wesley, and I had retreated close to the buildings, and from this vantage we watched the violent descent. As the helicopter slowly nosed around in a maelstrom of straining engines and beating air, I caught a glimpse of Pat Harvey staring down at her daughter’s Jeep before sunlight whited out the glass.

She stepped away from the helicopter, head bent and skirt whipping around her legs as Wesley waited a safe distance from the decelerating blades, necktie fluttering over his shoulder like an aviator’s scarf.

Before Pat Harvey had been appointed the National Drug Policy Director, she had been a commonwealth’s attorney in Richmond, then a U.S. attorney for the Eastern District of Virginia. Her prosecution of high-profile drug cases in the federal system had occasionally involved victims I had autopsied. But I had never been called to testify; only my reports had been subpoenaed. Mrs. Harvey and I had never actually met.

On television and in newspaper photographs she came across as all business. She was, in the flesh, both feminine and strikingly attractive, slender, her features perfectly wrought, the sun finding hints of gold and red in her short auburn hair. Wesley made brief introductions, and Mrs. Harvey shook each of our hands with the politeness and self-assurance of a practiced politician. But she did not smile or meet anyone’s eyes.

“There’s a sweatshirt inside,” she explained, handing a paper bag to Gail. “I found it in Debbie’s bedroom at the beach. I don’t know when she wore it last, but I don’t think it’s been recently washed.”

“When’s the last time your daughter was at the beach?” Gail inquired without opening the bag.

“Early July. She went there with several friends for a weekend.”

“And you’re sure she was the one wearing this? Possible one of her friends might have?” Gail asked casually, as though she were inquiring about the weather.

The question caught Mrs. Harvey by surprise, and for an instant doubt clouded her dark blue eyes. “I’m not sure.” She cleared her throat. “I would assume Debbie was the one wearing it last, but obviously I can’t swear to it. I wasn’t there.”

She stared past us through the Jeep’s open door, her attention briefly fixed on the keys in the ignition, the silver “D” dangling from the key chain. For a long moment no one spoke, and I could see the struggle of mind against emotion as she warded off panic with denial.

Turning back to us, she said, “Debbie would have been carrying a purse. Nylon, bright red. One of those sports purses with a Velcro-lined flap. I’m wondering if you found it inside?”

“No, ma’am,” Morrell replied. “At least we haven’t seen anything like that yet, not from looking through the windows. But we haven’t searched the interior, couldn’t until the dogs got here.”

“I would expect it to be on the front seat. Perhaps on the floor,” she went on.

Morrell shook his head.

It was Wesley who spoke. “Mrs. Harvey, do you know if your daughter had much money with her?”

“I gave her fifty dollars for food and gas. I don’t know what she might have had beyond that,” she replied. “She also, of course, had charge cards. Plus her checkbook.”

“You know what she had in her checking account?” Wesley asked.

“Her father gave her a check last week,” she replied matter-of-factly. “For college—books, and so on. I’m fairly certain she’s already deposited it. I suppose she should have at least a thousand dollars in her account.”

“You might want to look into that,” Wesley proposed. “Make certain the money wasn’t recently withdrawn.”

“I will do so immediately.”

As I stood by and watched, I could sense hope blossoming in her mind. Her daughter had cash, charge cards, and access to money in a checking account. It did not appear that she had left her purse inside the Jeep, meaning she might still have it with her. Meaning she might still be alive and well and off somewhere with her boyfriend.

“Your daughter ever threaten to run away with Fred?” Marino asked her bluntly.

“No.” Staring again at the Jeep, she added what she wanted to believe: “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t possible.”

“What was her mood when you talked to her last?” Marino went on.

“We exchanged words yesterday morning before my sons and I left for the beach,” she replied in a detached, flat tone. “She was upset with me.”

“She know about the cases around here? The missing couples?” Marino asked.

“Yes, of course. We have discussed them, wondered about them. She knew.”

Gail said to Morrell, “We ought to get started.”

“Good idea.”

“One last thing.” Gail looked at Mrs. Harvey. “You got any idea who was driving?”

“Fred, I suspect,” she answered. “When they went places together, he usually drove.”

Nodding, Gail said, “Guess I’m going to need that pocketknife and pen again.”

Collecting them from Wesley and Marino, she went around to the passenger’s side and opened the door. She grasped one of the bloodhounds’ harnesses. Eagerly, he got up and moved in perfect accord with his mistress’s feet, snuffling along, muscles rippling beneath his loose, glossy coat, ears dragging heavily, as if lined with lead.

“Come on, Neptune, let’s put that magic nose of yours to work.”

We watched in silence as she directed Neptune’s nose at the bucket seat where Deborah Harvey was presumed to have been sitting yesterday. Suddenly he yelped as if he had encountered a rattlesnake, jerking back from the Jeep, practically wrenching the harness from Gail’s hand. He tucked his tail between his legs and the fur literally stood up on his back as a chill ran up my spine.

“Easy, boy. Easy!”

Whimpering and quivering all over, Neptune squatted and defecated in the grass.

© 1992 Patricia D. Cornwell

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 124 Customer Reviews
  • Posted February 28, 2012

    more from this reviewer

    Many Twists and Turns

    ** spoiler alert ** I am currently reading the entire Scarpetta series in order, and I have to say that this is my favorite so far. There were so many twists and turns in this book that really kept me thinking. I really enjoyed that part of it. There were a couple disappointments in this book. First, I hate that Dr. Scarpetta's lover, Mark, had been killed somewhere in between the last book and this one. Although this is a crime/murder book, I enjoyed the brief moments of romance. Second, although they knew who the killer was in the end and the case was basically solved, the killer was not actually found and is still at large in the end. With all the twists and turns and things that transpired in the book (corruption within the justice system, specifically in the ME's office), the ending did complete the story for me. They got to the bottom of who was involved and why things happened. I suppose that to chase the killer at that point would just be extra pages of writing that was not really suspenseful anymore. After reading the first three books in this series, I was just surprised that the killer was not found or killed in the end. Cornwell took a different path than in her first three books. Overall, this is an excellent book. I really enjoy Patricia Cornwell. I love how scientifically accurate she is. With an understanding of anatomy, physiology, and chemistry, Patricial Cornwell writes at a higher level that keeps me interested. Her books don't just appeal to an elementary level. Yet, I think that she explains things well enough that a person without a scientific background would understand the tests and findings presented in the book.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted December 15, 2011

    Wonderful Novel!

    I love Patricia Cornwell because I am never able to figure out "who dun-it" before the end of the book! This book in particular had enough twists and turns to keep me from putting the book down!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 30, 2009

    Great!

    Great book and great characters, as all Patricia Cornwell's books are.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 4, 2005

    Delightfully Disturbing

    There¿s a serial killer loose in Richmond, but there is a problem with the main suspect. He was executed before the murders¿ or was he? This is what Kay Scarpetta is up against in Patricia Cornwell¿s novel, Cruel and Unusual. It¿s a typical mystery story, except it¿s infused with new, fresh ideas and complex characters. I am usually a slow reader, forcing myself to al least do a chapter every day or so, but the suspense in this novel was so great that I could neither sleep nor eat until I knew the resolution. I finished the book in a matter of hours. Cornwell¿s book is blunt and grotesque in some parts, but invigorating nonetheless. The ending was surprising and creative, but also rather troubling. If you think you have the stomach for it, Cruel and Unusual is a good read. I would not, however, recommend it to children, insomniacs or people who live alone.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 5, 2003

    I though it would be good

    This was my 1st P.Cornwell book. I read half the book and it was too boring to finish. Maybe Postmortem and Body of Evidence is better.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 7, 2002

    Disappointing

    This is the 4th one that I've read of the series, this one was the worst yet. I'm sorry but it just couldn't keep my interest and I had to force myself to finish this book!!! What a Stupid Story, I hope the Body Farm is good.

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 22, 2000

    amazing as always

    Patricia Cornwell has an amazing talent for bringing Dr. Kay Scarpetta into life. I have read almost all of her books and have loved all of them. She ties characters together in such a fashion that we remember and love them. It is exciting to watch the relationships change and grow in each story. I recommend this and all her other books to be read. BEWARE...you may become determined to read all of her books no matter how early you have to get up the next morning.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 13, 2014

    Goldenstripe

    Goldenstripe smiled at her. "What do you mean?" he asked, looking around cautiously. ~Goldenstripe

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 15, 2014

    Lilywolf

    (Omg sorry I fell asleep! Stupid...) Lilywolf visibally flinches at Velvetstar's name. She has barely had time to process what Velvetstar had told her about her lives and she still refused to completely believe it. But she did know one thing. Goldenstripe could not know. If he were to find out the truth he would only blame himself for everything that has happened and Lilywolf didn't want that. She knew it wasn't his fault. So the tabby meows, "Goldenstripe... when I left to go find you... Velvetstar... well she lost another life in the earthquake." Hanging her head, the shecat continues, "It was an accident. Mouse didn't realize Velvetstar was under some debris and when she stepped on it.... I'm so sorry my love. I'm sure she has more lives. She just hadn't woken up when I left..." ~ Lilywolf &hearts

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 13, 2014

    Goldy

    I posted that before I was done. I just saw your post and that was really nice of you. I'm okay, I can't really think about it right now or else I won't get anything done. Not to say I have to move on, but for now I have to keep moving or else I don't do well. Anyways, thank you for that.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 14, 2014

    Goldenstripe

    (Yep,) Goldenstripe padded beside Lilywolf happily, the twolegs herbs dulling the pain that normally would've made him limp. He checked behind them occasionally to make sure they hadn't been spotted until they were a good distance away. ~Goldenstripe

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 4, 2014

    Good book, but wrong preview chapter.

    I bought the book after reading the free preview chapter on my nook color. The preview chapter you have on the nook is not the same book.
    Crule and Unusal was good read though.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 19, 2013

    Amazing!!!!!

    By far my favorite!!! Amazing and readable in just days because it is so good!!!!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 29, 2013

    Good, Easy Read

    Continues part of story line from book 3 which now continues in book 5. You would benefit from reading them in order.

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  • Posted May 23, 2009

    One of Cornwell's best

    I loved the originality of this book. Defiently one of my favorites in the Scarpetta series.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 25, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    I Knew This Would Be Great!

    Iknew this book would be a good one to rread and would not be able to put down. I love all of Kay Scarpetta's novels. Ms. Cornwell you do such a great job in writing your book's. I hope you write forever and never get tired of doing it. I sure don't get tired of reading your book's.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted November 1, 2008

    Another good read

    I thought this book kept its intensity through the entire story. Will be moving on to next book in the series!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 28, 2007

    The best series I have read

    Kay Scarpetta series by Patricia Cornwell. Is the best series I have read, I would read one, and couldn't wait to start the next one. I just had one problem the Titles they are not in order, had to go on line to find out what book was next, because the inside Titles does not go from top to bottom kind of confusing for me.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 4, 2006

    An outstanding page turner

    I read this book for english, thinking that I would just read a chapter or two and go online and find out the facts but I couldn't. I had a two week deadline and read it in one night. It was great, suspensful, and an excellent idea for a book. I love they way she put crime, mystery, and law all into one book. IT WAS EXCELLENT!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 14, 2006

    Cruel and Unusual is an outstanding, upbeat novel!!!!

    Through out my reading, I simply couldn't stop!!!! I was always left to pounder, when I did. There was never a dull moment. I had never read a novel by Patricia and now I will always want to for school projects.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
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