comes from an outsider — Lucy, who tells Dr. Scarpetta, who tells you”—Dr. Maroni eats the risotto with enthusiasm—“then there are no ethical or legal concerns. You can begin to follow the trail.”
“And the VIP knows Kay’s working with me on the case, since she was just here in Rome and it’s been in the news. So this VIP will believe Kay indirectly is the source, and then there’s no trouble. That’s very good. Perfect.”
“The
“Excellent. This VIP. Without compromising confidentiality, can you tell me why she’s a patient at McLean?”
“Her reason or mine? Personal safety is her reason. Mine is so she could take advantage of me. She has both axis one and axis two pathology. Rapid-cycling bipolar and refuses to acknowledge it, much less take a mood stabilizer. Which personality disorder would you like me to discuss? She has so many. I regret to say that people with personality disorders rarely change.”
“So something caused a breakdown. Is this the VIP’s first hospitalization for psychiatric reasons? I’ve been doing research. She’s against medication and thinks all of the problems in the world can be managed by following her advice. What she calls
“The VIP has no known history of hospitalization prior to this. Now you’re asking the important questions. Not where she is. But why. I can’t tell you where she is. I can tell you where the VIP is.”
“Something was traumatic to your VIP?”
“This VIP received an e-mail from a madman. Coincidentally, the same madman Dr. Self told me about last fall.”
“I must talk to her.”
“Talk to who?”
“All right. May we discuss Dr. Self?”
“We’ll change our conversation from the VIP to Dr. Self.”
“Tell me more about this madman.”
“As I said, someone I saw several times at my office here.”
“I won’t ask the name of this patient.”
“Good, because I don’t know it. He paid cash. And he lied.”
“You have no idea about his real name?”
“Unlike you, I don’t get to do a background check on a patient or demand proof of his true identity,” Dr. Maroni says.
“Then what was his false name?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why did Dr. Self contact you about this man? And when?”
“Early October. She said he was sending e-mails to her and she thought it best to refer him elsewhere. As I’ve said.”
“Then she’s at least somewhat responsible, if she acknowledged a situation was beyond her capabilities,” Captain Poma says.
“This is where, perhaps, you don’t understand her. She would never begin to think anything is beyond her capabilities. She couldn’t be bothered with him, and it appealed to her maniacal ego to refer him to a Nobel Prize — winning psychiatrist who is on the faculty of Harvard Medical School. It was gratifying to inconvenience me, as she’s done many times before. She has her reasons. If nothing else, she probably knew I would fail. He isn’t treatable.” Dr. Maroni studies his wine as if there is an answer in it.
“Tell me this,” Captain Poma says. “If he’s untreatable, then don’t you agree this also justifies what I’m thinking? He’s a very abnormal man who may be doing very abnormal things. He’s sent her e-mails. He may have sent her the e-mail she mentioned to you when she was admitted at McLean.”
“You mean the VIP. I never said Dr. Self is at McLean. But if she were, you certainly should find out exactly why. It seems that’s what matters. I’m repeating myself like a broken record.”
“He might have sent the VIP the e-mail that disturbed her enough to make her hide at your hospital. We must locate him and at least be sure he isn’t a murderer.”
“I have no idea how to do that. As I said, I couldn’t begin to tell you who he is. Only that he’s an American and served in Iraq.”
“What did he say was his purpose in coming to see you here in Rome? That’s a long way for an appointment.”
“He was suffering from PTSD. He seems to have connections in Italy. He told a very unsettling story about a young woman he spent a day with last summer. A body discovered near Bari. You remember the case.”
“The Canadian tourist?” the captain says, surprised. “Shit.”
“That’s the one. Only she was unidentified at first.”
“She was nude, badly mutilated.”
“Not like Drew Martin, from what you’ve told me. The same thing wasn’t done to the eyes.”
“She was also missing large areas of flesh.”
“Yes. At first it was assumed she was a prostitute who’d been thrown from a moving car or was hit by one, thus explaining these wounds,” Dr. Maroni says. “The autopsy showed otherwise, was done very competently, even if it was performed in very primitive conditions. You know how these things go in remote areas that have no money.”
“Especially if it’s a prostitute. She was autopsied in a cemetery. Had the Canadian tourist not been reported missing about this same time, she may have been buried in the cemetery, unidentified,” Captain Poma recalls.
“It was determined the flesh had been removed by some type of knife or saw.”
“And you aren’t going to tell me everything you know about this patient who paid cash and lied about his name?” the captain protests. “You must have notes you could share with me?”
“Impossible. What he told me is no proof.”
“What if he’s this killer, Paulo?”
“If I had more evidence, I’d tell you. I have only his twisted tales and the uneasy feeling I got when I was contacted about the murdered prostitute who turned out to be the missing Canadian.”
“You were contacted? What? For your opinion? That’s news to me.”
“It was worked by the state police. Not the Carabinieri. I give my free advice to many people. In summary, this patient never came to see me again, and I couldn’t tell you where he is,” Dr. Maroni says.
“Couldn’t or won’t.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Don’t you see how it’s possible he’s Drew Martin’s killer? He was referred to you by Dr. Self, and suddenly she hides at your hospital because of an e-mail from a madman.”
“Now you’re perseverating and back to the VIP. I’ve never said Dr. Self is a patient at the hospital. But motivation for hiding is more important than the hiding place itself.”
“If only I could dig with a shovel inside your head, Paulo. No telling what I’d find.”
“Risotto and wine.”
“If you know details that could help this investigation, I don’t agree with your secrecy,” the captain says, and then he says nothing because the waiter is heading toward them.
Dr. Maroni asks to see the menu again, even though he has tried everything on it by now because he dines here often. The captain, who doesn’t want a menu, recommends the grilled Mediterranean spiny lobster, followed by salad and Italian cheeses. The male seagull returns alone. He stares through the window, ruffling his bright white feathers. Beyond are the lights of the city. The gold dome of Saint Peter’s looks like a crown.
“Otto, if I violate confidentiality with so little evidence and am mistaken, my career is finished,” Dr. Maroni finally says. “I don’t have a legitimate reason to expose further details about him to the police. It would be most unwise of me.”
“So you introduce the subject of who may be the killer and then close the door?” Captain Poma leans into the table and says in despair.
“I didn’t open that door,” Dr. Maroni says. “All I did was point it out to you.”
