She asked Oscar, “Do you understand the purpose of these samples and why you’re under no obligation to give them?”

He watched her arrange envelopes, forceps, a tape measure, and various other forensic items on the white paper-covered examination table. He turned away from her and stared at the wall.

The corrections officer said, “Look at the doctor when she talks to you, Oscar.”

Oscar continued to stare at the wall.

In a tense, tenor voice, he said, “Dr. Scarpetta, could you repeat what you said, please?”

“You signed a release, agreeing it was all right for me to take certain biological samples,” she replied. “I’m confirming you understand the scientific information these samples can provide, and that no one has asked for them.”

Oscar still hadn’t been charged with a crime. She wondered if Benton, Berger, and the police interpreted his malingering to mean he was going to confess any minute to a murder Scarpetta knew nothing about. This forced her into an untenable and unprecedented position. Since he wasn’t under arrest, she couldn’t divulge anything he revealed to her unless he waived the doctor-patient privilege, and the only waiver he had signed so far was one that allowed her to take biological samples.

Oscar looked at her and said, “I know what they’re for. DNA. I know why you need my hair.”

“The samples will be analyzed and the labs will have your DNA profile. Hair can tell us if you’re a chronic substance abuser. There are other things the police, the scientists look for. Trace evidence …”

“I know what it is.”

“I’m making sure you understand.”

“I don’t do drugs, and I’m certainly not a chronic substance abuser of any description,” he said in a shaky voice, facing the wall again. “And my DNA and fingerprints are all over her apartment. My blood’s in there. I cut my thumb.”

He showed her his right thumb, a Band-Aid around the second knuckle.

“I let them fingerprint me when they brought me in,” he said. “I’m not in any database. They’ll see I’ve never committed a crime. I don’t get parking tickets. I stay out of trouble.”

He stared at the forceps she picked up, and fear shadowed his mismatched eyes.

“I don’t need those,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Have you showered since you got here?” she asked, putting down the forceps.

“No. I said I wouldn’t until you looked at me.”

“Have you washed your hands?”

“No. I’ve touched as little as possible, mainly the pencil your husband had me use during certain psychological tests. Projective figure drawings. I’ve refused to eat. I didn’t want to do anything to my body until you looked. I’m afraid of doctors. I don’t like pain.”

She tore open paper packets of swabs and applicators while he watched, as if at any moment he expected her to do something that might hurt.

“I’d like to scrape under your nails,” she said. “Only if it’s all right. We can recover trace evidence, DNA, from under fingernails, toenails.”