Thanks but no thanks, he let me know. I don’t need to be spied on more than I already am.

Approximately six hours ago, I’m told, he headed out the back door with his towel, his goggles, barefoot, and in swim trunks. I’ve been to the residence countless times. I can see the Endless Pool about the size of a home spa. I recall Briggs installing it on the deck maybe fifteen years ago when old football injuries started acting up and he began referring to himself as the joints chief of staff.

He gave up running for swimming, and at their Maryland home he’d wage war against the Endless Pool’s artificial current. If he wanted to build endurance he didn’t go longer but harder. He’d wear water mitts or scuba fins to increase resistance, and I ask if he had on either. Benton doesn’t seem to know, and I watch Marino pick up a handle of his big Pelican case, rolling it closer to the tent entrance as I hear voices and the clatter of a stretcher.

Then Marino’s cell phone startles the stifling quiet, the ring tone a World War II air-raid siren, an urgent alert I’ve heard before but not often. He steps away from his scene case and us as he answers someone high up in the Cambridge Police Department food chain.

“Yeah, I’m still here and about to wrap it up. What? You’re kidding.” His voice is exasperated but restrained. “Yeah, I’m hearing you. Not that I’m surprised.” He glares at Benton. “When the hell was this?”

The tent flap opens again, and Harold walks in, weary but tranquil, smiling sympathetically at me. He asks if I need anything, and I would see it on his face if he’d heard the news about Briggs. The CFC exists because of General John Anderson Briggs. He helped shape the place and has spent considerable time with us over the years. Harold, Rusty and the rest of my staff will be crushed. But not as crushed as I’ll always be.

“… That figures. It’s nice of him to tell me himself seeing as how I’ve been standing here talking to him for the past fifteen friggin’ minutes.” Marino gestures on the phone, stealing resentful sidelong glances at Benton.

“It’s still hot as Hades out there.” Harold solemnly nods, looking at me as if I’m a prospective project for an undertaker.

I can imagine him contemplating different glues and shades of makeup and whether I’m going to need putty.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Doctor Scarpetta …?”

“I do mind, Harold. I don’t need to hear that I look worse than some of my patients right about now.”

“Goddamn son of a bitch.” Marino has ended his call.