“Yeah, well, unfortunately, that part could be true,” he said.

“I can’t believe this.” I was only getting angrier. “I have to release information to correct misinformation. I can’t be put in this position, Marino.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of this and a whole lot more,” he promised. “I don’t guess you know.”

“Know what?”

“Rumor has it that Ring’s been seeing Patty Denver.”

“I thought she was married,” I said as I envisioned her from a few moments earlier.

“She is,” he said.

I began dictating case 1930–97, trying to focus my attention on what I was saying and reading from my notes.

“The body was received pouched and sealed,” I said into the tape recorder, rearranging paperwork smeared with blood from Wingo’s gloves. “The skin is doughy. The breasts are small, atrophic and wrinkled. There are skin folds over the abdomen suggestive of prior weight loss . . .”

“Dr. Scarpetta?” Wingo was poking his head in the doorway. “Oops. Sorry,” he said when he realized what I was doing. “I guess now’s not a good time.”

“Come in,” I said with a weary smile. “Why don’t you shut the door.”

He did and closed the one between my office and Rose’s, too. Nervously, he pulled a chair close to my desk, and he was having a hard time meeting my eyes.

“Before you start, let me.” I was firm but kind. “I’ve known you for many years, and your life is no secret to me. I don’t make judgments. I don’t label. In my mind, there are only two categories of people in this world. Those who are good. And those who aren’t. But I worry about you because your orientation places you at risk.”

He nodded. “I know,” he said, eyes bright with tears.

“If you’re immunosuppressed,” I went on, “you need to tell me. You probably shouldn’t be in the morgue, at least not for some cases.”

“I’m HIV positive.” His voice trembled and he began to cry.

I let him go for a while, his arms over his face, as if he could not bear for anyone to see him. His shoulders shook, tears spotting his greens as his nose ran. Getting up with a box of tissues, I went over to him.

“Here.” I set the tissues nearby. “It’s all right.” I put my arm around him and let him weep. “Wingo, I want you to try to get hold of yourself so we can talk about this, okay?”

He nodded, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. For a moment he nuzzled his head against me, and I held him like a child. I gave him time before I faced him straight on, gripping his shoulders.

“Now is the time for courage, Wingo,” I said. “Let’s see what we can do to fight this thing.”

“I can’t tell my family,” he choked. “My father hates me anyway. And when my mother tries, he gets worse. To her. You know?”