Anger rose like heat. “Call the police and get them towed,” I said from the locker room. “You finish up here. I’m going upstairs to take care of this.”

Slamming my balled-up gown into the laundry bin, I pulled off gloves, shoe covers and cap. I vigorously scrubbed with antibacterial soap and yanked open my locker, my hands suddenly clumsy. I was very upset, this case, the press, Wesley, everything was getting to me.

“Dr. Scarpetta?”

Wingo was suddenly in the doorway as I fumbled with buttons on my blouse, and his walking in on me while I was dressing was nothing new. It never bothered either of us, for I was as comfortable with him as I would be with a woman.

“I was wondering if you had time . . .” He hesitated. “Well, I know you’re busy today.”

I tossed bloody Reeboks into my locker and slipped on the shoes I had worn to work. Then I put on my lab coat.

“Actually, Wingo”—I checked my anger so I did not take it out on him—“I’d like to talk to you, too. When you finish down here, come see me in my office.”

He did not have to tell me. I had a feeling I knew. I rode the elevator upstairs, my mood darkened like a storm about to strike. Wesley was still in my office, studying what was on my computer screen, and I walked past in the hallway without slowing my stride. It was Rose I wanted to find. When I got to the front office, clerks were frantically answering phones that would not stop, while my secretary and administrator were before a window overlooking the front parking lot.

The rain had not relented, and this had not seemed to deter a single journalist, cameraman or photographer in this town. They seemed crazed, as if the story must be huge for everyone else to be braving a downpour.

“Where are Fielding and Grant?” I asked about my deputy chief and this year’s fellow.

My administrator was a retired sheriff who loved cologne and snappy suits. He stepped away from the window, while Rose continued to look out.

“Dr. Fielding’s in court,” he said. “Dr. Grant had to leave because his basement’s flooding.”

Rose turned around with the demeanor of one ready to fight, as if her nest had been invaded. “I put Jess in the filing room,” she said of the receptionist.

“So there’s no one out front.” I looked toward the lobby.

“Oh, there are plenty of people, all right,” my secretary angrily said as phones rang and rang. “I didn’t want anybody sitting out there with all those vultures. I don’t care if there is bulletproof glass.”

“How many reporters are in the lobby?”

“Fifteen, maybe twenty, last I checked,” my administrator answered. “I went out there once and asked them to leave. They said they weren’t going until they had a statement from you. So I thought we could write something up and . . .”