‘No one seems to know. We saved a blood sample on filter paper for DNA purposes, just like we typically do. And of course we kept a stock jar with sections of all major organs, et cetera. The blood sample seems to have been misplaced, and it appears the stock jar was accidentally thrown out.’

‘That can’t have happened,’ I said.

Dr. Horowitz was quiet.

‘What about tissue in paraffin blocks for histology?’ I then asked, for fixed tissue could also be tested for DNA, if all else failed.

‘We don’t take tissue for micros when the cause of death is clear,’ he said.

I did not know what to say. Either Dr. Horowitz ran a frighteningly inept office, or these mistakes were not mistakes. I had always believed the chief was an impeccably scrupulous man. Maybe I had been wrong. I knew how it was in New York City. The politicians could not stay out of the morgue.

‘She needs to be brought back up,’ I said to him. ‘I see no other way. Was she embalmed?’

‘We rarely embalm bodies destined for Hart Island,’ he said of the island in the East River where Potter’s Field was located. ‘Her identification number needs to be located and then she’ll be dug up and brought back by ferry. We can do that. That’s all we can do, really. It might take a few days.’

‘Dr. Horowitz?’ I carefully said. ‘What is going on here?’

His voice was steady but disappointed when he answered, ‘I have no earthly idea.’

I sat at my desk for a while, trying to figure out what to do. The more I thought, the less sense anything made. Why would the army care if Jane was identified? If she was General Gault’s niece and the army knew she was dead, one would think they would want her identified and buried in a proper grave.

‘Dr. Scarpetta.’ Rose was in the doorway adjoining her office to mine. ‘It’s Brent from the Amex.’

She transferred the call.

‘I’ve got another charge,’ Brent said.

‘Okay.’ I tensed.

‘Yesterday. A place called Fino in New York. I checked it out. It’s on East Thirty-sixth Street. The amount is $104.13.’

Fino had wonderful northern Italian food. My ancestors were from northern Italy, and Gault had posed as a northern Italian named Benelli. I tried Wesley, but he was not in. Then I tried Lucy, and she was not at ERF, nor was she in her room. Marino was the only person I could tell that Gault was in New York again.

‘He’s just playing more games,’ Marino said in disgust. ‘He knows you’re monitoring his charges, Doc. He’s not doing anything he doesn’t want you to know about.’

‘I realize that.’

‘We’re not going to catch him through American Express. You ought to just cancel your card.’