“I’ll be right out here,” the officer said.

He left, shutting the door, which like every door on the ward had no handles. Only the corrections officers had keys, so it was important to keep the double-cylinder deadbolt in the locked position. If the bolt was out, the door wasn’t going to shut all the way and accidentally trap a member of the staff or visiting consultant such as herself inside a small room with a two-hundred- pound man who’d just dismembered some woman he’d met in a bar, for example.

Scarpetta picked up the tape measure and said to Oscar, “I’d like to measure your arms and legs. Get your exact height and weight.”

“I’m four foot and a quarter,” he said. “I weigh one hundred and nine pounds. I wear a size-five shoe. Sometimes a four. Or a six and a half if it’s a woman’s. Sometimes a five and a half. It depends on the shoe. I have a wide foot.”

“Left arm from the glenohumeral joint to the tip of your third finger. If you don’t mind holding your arms as straight as you can. That’s perfect. Sixteen and one-eighth inches for the left. Sixteen and two-eighths for the right. Not unusual. Most people’s arms aren’t precisely the same length. Now your legs, if you can hold them straight out. I’m going to measure from your acetabulum, your hip joint.”

She felt it through the thin cotton of his gown, and measured the length of his legs to the tip of his toes, and the shackles clacked quietly and his muscles bulged as he moved. His legs were only about two inches longer than his arms, and slightly bowed. She wrote down the measurements and retrieved other paperwork from the countertop.

“Let me confirm what they gave me when I got here,” she said. “You’re thirty-four, your middle name is Lawrence. You’re right-handed, according to this,” and she got as far as his date of birth and address in the city before he interrupted her.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I want you here? Why I demanded it? Why I made sure Jaime Berger was informed I wouldn’t cooperate unless you came? Screw her.” His eyes were watering and his voice wavered. “Terri would still be here if it wasn’t for her.”

He turned his head to the right and looked at the wall.

“Are you having trouble hearing me, Oscar?” Scarpetta asked.

“My right ear,” he said in a voice that intermittently shook and changed octaves.

“But you can hear with your left ear?”

“Chronic ear infections when I was a boy. I’m deaf in my right ear.”

“Do you know Jaime Berger?”

“She’s cold-blooded, doesn’t give a shit about anybody. You’re nothing like her. You care about victims. I’m a victim. I need you to care about me. You’re all I’ve got.”

“In what way are you a victim?” Scarpetta labeled envelopes.

“My life’s been ruined. The person who means most to me is gone. I’ll never see her again. She’s gone. I have nothing left. I don’t care if I die. I know who you are and what you do. I would even if you weren’t famous. Famous or not, I would know who and what you are. I had to think fast, very fast. After finding … after finding Terri …” His voice cracked, and he blinked back tears. “I told the police to bring me here. Where I’d be safe.”