enough to hear my impressions. She wants to see if I can be objective when talking about my own case. She wants to see if I can stick to the facts. I hear Marino down the hall. He walks in with three steaming foam cups and sets them on the table, sliding a black coffee my way. "I don't know what you take, but you got cream," he rudely tells Berger. "And yours truly takes it fully loaded with cream and sugar because I sure as hell wouldn't want to do anything that might deprive me of my nourishment."

"How seriously messed up would someone be if he got formalin in his eyes?" Berger says to me.

"Depends on how quickly the person rinsed," I objectively answer, as if her inquiry is theoretical and not an allusion to my maiming another human being.

"Must hurt like living hell. An acid, right? I've seen what it does to tissue_turns it into rubber," she comments.

"Not literally."

"Of course not literally," she agrees with a trace of a smile that suggests I ought to lighten up a little, as if that is possible.

"If you suspend tissue in formalin for a long period of time, or inject it_in embalming, for example," I explain, "then yes, it fixes tissue, preserves it indefinitely."

But Berger has little interest in the science of formalin. I am not even sure how interested she is in the extent of any permanent damage the chemical may have caused Chan-donne. I have the sensation she is more focused on how I feel about causing him pain and possible disability. She does not ask me. She just looks at me. I am beginning to feel the weight of those looks. Her eyes are like experienced palpating hands feeling for any anomaly or tenderness.

"We got any idea who he's going to get for a lawyer?" Marino reminds us he is present.

Berger sips her coffee. "The six-million-dollar question."

"So you don't got a clue," Marino says with suspicion.

"Oh, I have a clue. It will be someone you definitely won't like."

"Huh," he retorts. "That's easy to predict. I've never met a

defense attorney I liked."

"At least it will be my problem," she says. "Not yours." She puts him in his place again.

I bristle at this, too. "Look," I tell her, "trying him in New York isn't something that makes me happy."

"I understand how you feel."

"I seriously doubt it."

"Well, I've talked to your friend Mr. Righter_enough to tell you exactly how it would go if you put Monsieur Chan-donne on trial here in Virginia." She is cool now, the expert, just a little sardonic. "The court would nol-pros the imperson-ating-an-officer charge and reduce attempted murder to entering a dwelling with intent to commit murder." She pauses, looking for my reaction. "He never actually touched you. That's the problem."

"Actually, it would have been more of a problem if he had," I answer, refusing to show that she is really beginning to piss me off.

"He may have raised that hammer to strike you, but he never did." Her eyes are steady on mine. "For which we're all grateful."

"You know what they say, your rights are honored only in the breach." I lift my coffee.

"Righter would have filed a motion to have all of the charges combined into one trial, Dr. Scarpetta. And then what would have been your role? Expert witness? Fact witness? Or victim? The conflict is glaringly apparent. Either you testify as the medical examiner and the attack on you is completely left out, or you're simply a victim who survived and someone else testifies to your record. Or worse"_she pauses for effect_"Righter stipulates your reports. He seems to have a habit of that, from what I understand."

"The guy's got the guts of an empty sock," Marino says. "But the Doc's right. Chandonne ought to pay for what he tried to do to her. And he sure as hell should pay for what he did to the other two women. And he ought to get the death penalty. At least down here, we'd fry him."

"Not If Dr. Scarpetta were somehow discredited as a witness, Captain. A good defense attorney would be quick to paint her as conflicted and squirt a lot of ink into the water."

"Don't matter. It's all moot, right?" Marino says. "He ain't being tried here and I wasn't born yesterday. He won't ever be tried here. You guys will lock him up and us small-timers down here will never get our day in court."

"What was he doing in New York two years ago?" I ask. "Do you have any ideas about that?"

"Huh," Marino says as if he knows details that have not been shared with me yet. "That's a story."

"Could it be his family has cartel connections in my fair city?" Berger lightly suggests.

"Hell, they probably have a damn penthouse apartment," Marino retorts.

"And Richmond?" Berger goes on. "Isn't Richmond a stopping-off point between New York and Miami along the I-95 drug corridor?"

"Oh yeah," Marino answers. "Before Project Exile got going and slapped these drones with time in federal prison if they were caught with guns, drugs. Yeah, Richmond used to be a real popular place to do your business. So if the Chan-donne cartel's in Miami_and we already know that, based on the undercover stuff Lucy was doing down there_and if there's a big New York connection, then no big surprise that cartel guns and drugs were ending up in Richmond, too."

"Were?" she queries. "Maybe still are."

"I guess all this will keep ATF busy for a while," I say.

"Huh," Marino snorts again.

A weighty pause, then Berger says, "Well, now that you've brought that up." Her demeanor tells me she is about to give me news I will not appreciate. "ATF has a little problem, it appears. As do the FBI and the French police. The hope, obviously, was to use Chandonne's arrest as an opportunity to get warrants to search his family's Paris home and maybe during the course of it find evidence that might help bring down the cartel. But we're having a little difficulty placing Jean-Baptiste inside the family house. In fact, we have nothing to prove who he is. No driver's license. No passport or birth certificate. No record this bizarre man even exists. Only his DNA, which is so close to the DNA of the man found in your port we can assume they are probably related, probably brothers. But I need something more tangible than that if I'm going to get a jury on my side."

"And no way in hell his family's going to come forward and claim the Loup-Garou," Marino says in awful French. "That's the whole reason there's no record of him to begin with, right? The mighty Chandonnes don't want the world to know they got a son who's a hairy-ass serial-killing freak."

"Wait a minute," I stop them. "Didn't he identify himself when he was arrested? Where did we get the name Jean-Baptiste Chandonne, if not from him?"

"We got it from him." Marino rubs his face in his hands. "Shit. Show her the videotape," he suddenly blurts out to Berger. I have no idea what videotape he is talking about, and Berger isn't at all happy he mentioned it. "The Doc has a right to know," he says.

"What we have here is a new spin on a defendant who has a DNA profile but no identity." Berger sidesteps the subject Marino has just tried to force.

What tape? I think, as paranoia heats up. What tape?

"You got it with you?" Marino regards Berger with open hostility, the two of them squaring off in a stony angry tableau, staring across the table at each other. His face darkens. He outrageously grabs her briefcase and slides it toward him as if he plans to help himself to whatever is inside it. Berger places her hand on top of it with an arresting look. "Captain!" she warns in a tone that bodes the worst trouble he has ever seen. Marino withdraws his hand, his face a furious red. Berger opens her briefcase and gives me her full attention. "I have every intention of showing the tape to you," she measures her words. "I just wasn't going to do it right this minute, but we can." She is very controlled but I can tell she is very angry as she slides a videotape out of a manila envelope. She gets up and inserts it into the VCR. "Someone know how to work this thing?"