I interrupted him. “Mr. Grueman, when was the last time you saw Ronnie Joe Waddell?”

He paused and stared up at the ceiling. “The last time I was in his physical presence would have been at least a year ago. Typically, most of our conversations were over the phone. I would have been with him in the end had he permitted it, as I’ve already mentioned.”

“Then you never saw him or spoke with him when he was supposedly at Spring Street awaiting execution.”

“Supposedly? That’s a curious choice of words, Dr. Scarpetta.”

“We can’t prove it was Waddell who was executed the night of December thirteenth.”

“Certainly you’re not serious.” He looked amazed.

I explained all that had transpired, including that Jennifer Deighton was a homicide and Waddell’s fingerprint had turned up on a dining room chair inside her home. I told him about Eddie Heath and Susan Story, and the evidence that someone had tampered with AFIS. When I was finished, Grueman was sitting very still, his eyes riveted on me.

“My Lord,” he muttered.

“Your letter to Jennifer Deighton never turned up,” I went on. “The police found neither that nor her original fax to you when they searched her house. Maybe someone took them. Maybe her killer burned them in her fireplace the night of her death. Or maybe she disposed of them herself because she was afraid. I do believe she was killed because of something she knew.”

“And this would be why Susan Story was killed, too? Because she knew something?”

“Certainly that’s possible,” I said. “My point is that so far two people linked to Ronnie Waddell have been murdered. In terms of someone who might know a lot about Waddell, you would be considered high on the list.”

“So you think I may be next,” he said with a wry smile. “You know, perhaps my biggest grievance against the Almighty is that the difference between life and death should so often turn on timing. I consider myself forewarned, Dr. Scarpetta. But I am not foolish enough to think that if someone intends to shoot me I can successfully elude him.”

“You could at least try,” I said. “You could at least take precautions.”

“And I shall.”

“Maybe you and your wife could go on a vacation, get out of town for a while.”

“Beverly has been dead for three years,” he said.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Grueman.”

“She had not been well for many years - in fact, not for most of the years we were together. Now that I have no one to depend on me, I have given myself up to my proclivities. I am an incurable workaholic who wants to change the world.”

“I suspect that if anyone could come close to changing it, you could.”