I was devastated, and found it hard to worry about other cases because this one would not end. We knew the dead man in the trailer could not be deadoc. Fingerprints had come back to a drifter with a long arrest record of crimes mostly involving theft and drugs, and two counts of assault and attempted rape. He was out on parole when he had used his pocketknife to pry open the camper door, and no one doubted that his shotgun death was a homicide.

I walked into my office at eight-fifteen. When Rose heard me, she came through her doorway.

“I hope you got some rest,” she said, more worried about me than I’d ever seen.

“I did. Thanks.” I smiled, and her concern made me feel guilty and shamed, as if I were bad somehow. “Any new developments?”

“Not about Tangier.” I could see the anxiety in her eyes. “Try to get your mind off it, Dr. Scarpetta. We’ve got five cases this morning. Look at the top of your desk. If you can find it. And I’m at least two weeks behind on correspondence and micros because of your not being here to dictate.”

“Rose, I know, I know,” I said, not unkindly. “First things first. Try Phyllis again. And if they still say she’s out sick, get a number where she can be reached. I’ve been trying her home number for days and no one answers.”

“If I get her, you want me to put her through?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

That happened fifteen minutes later when I was about to go into staff meeting. Rose got Phyllis Crowder on the line.

“Where on earth are you? And how are you?” I asked.

“This wretched flu,” she said. “Don’t get it.”

“I did and am still getting rid of it,” I said. “I’ve tried your house in Richmond.”

“Oh, I’m at my mother’s, in Newport News. You know, I work a four-day week and have been spending the other three days out here for years.”

I did not know that. But we had never socialized.

“Phyllis,” I said, “I hate to bother you when you’re not well, but I need your help with something. In 1978 there was a laboratory accident at the lab in Birmingham, England, where you once worked. I’ve pulled what I can on it, and know only that a medical photographer was working directly over a smallpox lab . . .”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted me. “I know all about it. Supposedly, the photographer was exposed through a ventilator duct, and she died. The virologist committed suicide. The case is cited all the time by people who argue in favor of destroying all frozen source virus.”

“Were you working in that lab when this happened?”

“No, thank goodness. That was some years after I left. I was already in the States by then.”

I was disappointed, and she went into a coughing spell and could hardly talk.

“Sorry.” She coughed. “This is when you hate living alone.”