Chapter 9
Scarpetta examined long, shallow abrasions on the left side of Oscar’s upper back as he volunteered how he got them.
“He was already inside, and he attacked me,” he was saying. “He ran off, and I found her. The police didn’t believe me. I could see it on their faces. They think I got hurt because I struggled with her. You can tell, can’t you? That I didn’t struggle with her?”
“It would be helpful if you’d describe to me what you were wearing last night,” she replied.
“You can tell these injuries aren’t from my struggling with her. They won’t find my DNA under her nails. She didn’t scratch me. She didn’t fight with me. We never fought. Maybe just an argument now and then. She was already dead.”
Scarpetta gave him a moment, he was crying so hard.
When he was quieter, she repeated the question. “Last night. What were you wearing when you got into the struggle with—?”
“I couldn’t see him.”
“You’re certain it was a him.”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what time this was?”
“Five o’clock.”
“Exactly?”
“I’m never late. All the lights were out. Even the entrance light was out. All her windows were dark. It didn’t make sense. She was expecting me. Her car was there on the street. I parked behind it. There were empty spaces. Because it was New Year’s Eve, and a lot of people were gone. I took my coat off and left it on the passenger’s seat. I had on a T-shirt and jeans. She likes me to wear tight T-shirts, sleeveless ones. She loves my body. I work on it because she loves it and I’d do anything to please her. She loves sex. I couldn’t be with a woman who doesn’t love sex.”
“Regular sex, rough sex, creative sex?” Scarpetta asked.
“I’m very considerate and gentle. I have to be. Because of my size.”
“What about fantasies? Such as bondage. It’s important I ask.”
“Never! Never!”
“It’s not a judgment. A lot of people do a lot of things, which is fine. As long as it’s all right for both of them.”
He was silent and uncertain. Scarpetta could tell he had a different answer than the one he wanted to give.
“I promise, there’s no judgment,” she said. “I’m trying to help. It doesn’t matter what consenting adults do as long as it’s all right for both of them.”
“She liked me to dominate,” he said. “Nothing painful. Just hold her down. To wrestle her down. She liked me to be strong.”
“Hold her down how? I’m asking because any information can help us figure out what happened.”
“Just hold her arms down on the bed. But I never hurt her. I never left a mark on her.”
“Ever used any types of bindings? Handcuffs? Anything like that? I’m just making sure.”
“Maybe her lingerie. She likes lingerie, to dress in very sexy ways. If I tie her hands with her bra, it’s very loose and I never hurt her. It’s just an idea, a suggestion, never real. I never spanked her or choked her or did anything real. We pretend, that’s all.”
“What about to you? Did she do these things to you?”
“No. I do them to her. I’m strong and powerful, and that’s what she likes, to be taken advantage of, but only the idea of it, never for real. She’s very, very sexy and exciting, and tells me exactly what she wants, and I do it, and it’s always amazing. We always have amazing sex.”
“Did you have sex last night? It’s important I ask.”
“How could I have? She was gone. It was so awful when I walked in and found her. Oh, God. Oh, God!”
“I’m sorry I have to ask you these questions. Do you understand why they’re important?”
He nodded, wiping his eyes and nose with the backs of his hands.
“It was cold last night,” Scarpetta said. “Why would you leave your coat in the car? Especially if all the lights were out and you were concerned.”
“I took my coat off to surprise her.”
“Surprise her?”
“She liked me in tight T-shirts. I already told you. I even thought about taking it off as she was opening the door. It was a sleeveless T-shirt. A white undershirt. I wanted her to open the door and see me in my undershirt.”
Too much explanation. His coat was in the car for another reason. He was lying, and doing it badly.
“I have a key to her building,” he said. “I went in and rang the bell to her apartment.”
Scarpetta asked, “Do you have a key to her apartment, or only to the building’s outer door?”
“Both. But I always ring the bell. I don’t just walk in on her. I rang the bell and suddenly the door flew open and this person was all over me, attacking me, dragging me inside, and slamming the door shut. That’s who killed her. It’s the same person who’s been following me, spying on me, tormenting me. Or he’s one of them.”
An interval of twenty-four hours was consistent with the age of Oscar’s injuries. But that didn’t mean he was telling the truth.
“Where’s your coat now?” Scarpetta asked.
He was staring at the wall.
“Oscar?”
He stared at the wall.
“Oscar?”
He answered as he stared at the wall, “It’s wherever they took it. The police. I said they could take my car, search it, do whatever they want. But they weren’t going to lay a finger on me. I told them they had to get you here. I would never hurt her.”
“Tell me more about your struggle with whoever was in her house.”
“We were near the door and it was pitch-dark. He was hitting me with the plastic flashlight. He ripped my T-shirt. It’s all ripped up and bloody.”
“You said it was pitch-dark. How do you know it was a flashlight?”
“When he opened the door, he shone it in my eyes, blinding me, then started the attack. We struggled.”
“Did he say anything?”
“All I heard was him breathing hard. Then he ran. He had on a big leather coat and leather gloves. He probably won’t have any injuries. He probably won’t have left his DNA or fibers. Things like that. He was smart.”
Oscar was the one who was smart, offering explanations to unasked questions. And lying.
“I shut the door and locked it and turned on all the lights. I screamed for Terri. The back of my neck feels like a cat clawed me. Hope I don’t get an infection. Maybe you should put me on an antibiotic. I’m glad you’re here. You had to be here. I told them. It all happened so fast, and it was so dark . . .” Tears, and he began to sob again. “I screamed for Terri.”
“The flashlight?” Scarpetta reminded him. “Was it on during your struggle?”
He hesitated, as if he’d never thought about that.
“He must have turned it off,” he decided. “Or maybe it broke when he was hitting me. Maybe he’s part of some kind of death squad. I don’t know. I don’t care how clever they are. There’s no perfect crime. You always quote Oscar Wilde. ‘Nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid.’ Except you. You could get away with it. Only someone like you could commit the perfect crime. You say it all the time.”
She couldn’t recall ever quoting Oscar Wilde, and she’d never said she could commit the perfect crime. It would be a stupid and outrageously offensive thing to say. She checked a cluster of slivered moon-shaped nail marks on his muscular left shoulder.