“I’ll give them a statement, all right,” I snapped.

Rose put her hand on my arm. “Dr. Scarpetta, I’m not sure it’s a good idea . . .”

I interrupted her, too. “Leave this to me.”

The lobby was small, and the thick glass partition made it impossible for any unauthorized person to get in. When I rounded the corner, I could not believe how many people were crammed into the room, the floor filthy with footprints and dirty puddles. As soon as they saw me, camera lights blazed. Reporters began shouting, shoving microphones and tape recorders close as flash guns went off in my face.

I raised my voice above all of them. “Please! Quiet!”

“Dr. Scarpetta . . .”

“Quiet!” I said more loudly, as I blindly stared out at aggressive people I could not make out. “Now, I am going to ask you politely to leave,” I said.

“Is it the Butcher again?” A woman raised her voice above the rest.

“Everything is pending further investigation,” I said.

“Dr. Scarpetta.”

I could just barely make out the television reporter as Patty Denver, whose pretty face was on billboards all over the city.

“Sources say you’re working this as another victim in these serial killings,” she said. “Can you verify that?”

I did not respond.

“Is it true the victim is Asian, probably prepubescent, and came off a truck that is local?” she went on, to my dismay. “And are we to assume that the killer may now be in Virginia?”

“Is the Butcher killing in Virginia now?”

“Possible he deliberately wanted the other bodies dumped here?”

I held up a hand to quiet them. “This is not the time for assumptions,” I said. “I can tell you only that we are treating this as a homicide. The victim is an unidentified white female. She is not prepubescent but an older adult, and we encourage people who might have information to call this office or the Sussex County Sheriff’s Department.”

“What about the FBI?”

“The FBI is involved,” I said.

“Then you are treating this as the Butcher . . .”

Turning around, I entered a code on a keypad and the lock clicked free. I ignored the demanding voices, shutting the door behind me, my nerves humming with tension as I walked quickly down the hall. When I entered my office, Wesley was gone, and I sat behind my desk. I dialed Marino’s pager number, and he called me right back.

“For God’s sake, these leaks have got to stop!” I exclaimed over the line.

“We know damn well who it is,” Marino irritably said.

“Ring.” I had no doubt, but could not prove it.

“The drone was supposed to meet me at the landfill. That was almost an hour ago,” Marino went on.

“It doesn’t appear the press had any trouble finding him.”

I told him what sources allegedly had divulged to a television crew.

“Goddamn idiot!” he said.

“Find him and tell him to keep his mouth shut,” I said. “Reporters have practically put us out of business today, and now the city’s going to believe there’s a serial killer in their midst.”