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Kay Scarpetta Series

Volume 8

UNNATURAL EXPOSURE

Patricia Cornwell

And there came unto me one of the seven angels which had the seven vials full of the

seven last plagues . . .

Revelation 21:9

Chapter One

Night fell clean and cold in Dublin, and wind moaned beyond my room as if a million

pipes played the air. Gusts shook old windowpanes and sounded like spirits rushing

past as I rearranged pillows one more time, finally resting on my back in a snarl of

Irish linen. But sleep would not touch me, and images from the day returned. I saw

bodies without limbs or heads, and sat up, sweating.

I switched on lamps, and the Shelbourne Hotel was suddenly around me in a warm

glow of rich old woods and deep red plaids. I put on a robe, my eyes lingering on the

phone by my fitfully-slept-in bed. It was almost two A.M. In Richmond, Virginia, it

would be five hours earlier, and Pete Marino, commander of the city police

department's homicide squad, should be up. He was probably watching TV, smoking,

eating something bad for him unless he was on the street.

I dialed his number, and he grabbed the phone as if he were right next to it.

'Trick or treat.' He was loudly on his way to being drunk.

'You're a little early,' I said, already regretting the call. 'By a couple of weeks.'

'Doc?' He paused in confusion. 'That you? You back in Richmond?'

'Still in Dublin. What's all the commotion?'

'Just some of us guys with faces so ugly we don't need masks. So every day is

Halloween. Hey! Bubba's bluffing,' he yelled out.

'You always think everybody's bluffing,' a voice fired back. 'It's from being a

detective too long.'

'What you talking about? Marino can't even detect his own B.O.'

Laughter in the background was loud as the drunk, derisive comments continued.

'We're playing poker,' Marino said to me. 'What the hell time is it there?'

'You don't want to know,' I answered. 'I've got some unsettling news, but it doesn't

sound like we should get into it now.'

'No. No, hold on. Let me just move the phone. Shit. I hate the way the cord gets

twisted, you know what I mean? Goddamn it.' I could hear his heavy footsteps and a

chair scraping. 'Okay, Doc. So what the hell's going on?'

'I spent most of today discussing the landfill cases with the state pathologist. Marino,

I'm increasingly suspicious that Ireland's serial dismemberments are the work of the

same individual we're dealing with in Virginia.'

He raised his voice. 'You guys hold it down in there!'

I could hear him moving farther away from his pals as I rearranged the duvet around

me. I reached for the last few sips of Black Bush I had carried to bed.

'Dr Foley worked the five Dublin cases,' I went on. 'I've reviewed all of them. Torsos.

Spines cut horizontally through the caudal aspect of the fifth cervical vertebral body.

Arms and legs severed through the joints, which is usual, as I've pointed out before.

Victims are a racial mix, estimated ages between eighteen and thirty-five. All are

unidentified and signed out as homicides by unspecified means. In each case, heads

and limbs were never found, the remains discovered in privately owned landfills.'

'Damn, if that don't sound familiar.' he said.

'There are other details. But yes, the parallels are profound.'

'So maybe the squirrel's in the U.S. now,' he said. 'Guess it's a damn good thing you

went over there, after all.'

He certainly hadn't thought so at first. No one really had. I was the chief medical

examiner of Virginia, and when the Royal College of Surgeons had invited me to give

a series of lectures at Trinity's medical school, I could not pass up an opportunity to

investigate the Dublin crimes. Marino had thought it a waste of time, while the FBI

had assumed the value of the research would prove to be little more than statistical.

Doubts were understandable. The homicides in Ireland were more than ten years old,

and as was true in the Virginia cases, there was so little to go on. We did not have

fingerprints, dentition, sinus configurations or witnesses for identification. We did not

have biological samples from people missing to compare to the victims' DNA. We did

not know the means of death. Therefore, it was very difficult to say much about the

killer, except that I believed he was experienced with a meat saw and quite possibly

used one in his profession, or had at one time.

'The last case in Ireland, that we know of, was a decade ago,' I was saying to Marino

over the line. 'In the past two years we've had four in Virginia.'

'So you're thinking he stopped for eight years?' he said. 'Why? He was in prison,

maybe, for some other crime?'

'I don't know. He may have been killing somewhere else and the cases haven't been

connected,' I replied as wind made unearthly sounds.

'There's those serial cases in South Africa,' he thickly thought out loud. 'In Florence,

Germany, Russia, Australia. Shit, now that you think of it, they're friggin' everywhere.

Hey!' He put his hand over the phone. 'Smoke your own damn cigarettes! What do

you think this is? Friggin' welfare!'

Male voices were rowdy in the background, and someone had put on Randy Travis.

'Sounds like you're having fun,' I dryly said. 'Please don't invite me next year, either.'

'Bunch of animals,' he mumbled. 'Don't ask me why I do this. Every time they drink

me outa house, home. Cheat at cards.'

'The M.O. in these cases is very distinctive.' My tone was meant to sober.

'Okay,' he said. 'So if this guy started in Dublin, maybe we're looking for someone

Irish. I think you should hurry back home.' He belched. 'Sounds like we need to go to

Quantico and get on this. You told Benton yet?'

Benton Wesley headed the FBI's Child Abduction Serial Killer Unit, or CASKU, for

which both Marino and I were consultants.

'I haven't had a chance to tell him yet.' I replied, hesitantly. 'Maybe you can give him a

heads-up. I'll get home as soon as I can.'

'Tomorrow would be good.'

'I'm not finished with the lecture series here,' I said.

'Ain't a place in the world that don't want you to lecture. You could probably do that

and nothing else,' he said, and I knew he was about to dig into me.

'We export our violence to other countries,' I said. 'The least we can do is teach them

what we know, what we've learned from years of working these crimes . . .'

'Lectures ain't why you're staying in the land of leprechauns, Doc,' he interrupted as a

flip-top popped. 'It ain't why, and you know it.'

'Marino,' I warned. 'Don't do this.'

But he kept on. 'Ever since Wesley's divorce, you've found one reason or another to

skip along the Yellow Brick Road, right on out of town. And you don't want to come

home now, I can tell from the way you sound, because you don't want to deal, take a

look at your hand and take your chances. Let me tell you. Comes a time when you got

to call or fold . . .'

'Point taken.' I was gentle as I cut off his besotted good intentions. 'Marino, don't stay

up all night.'

The Coroner's Office was at No. 3 Store Street, across from the Custom House and

central bus station, near docks and the river Liffey. The brick building was small and

old, the alleyway leading to the back barred by a heavy black gate with MORGUE

painted across it in bold white letters. Climbing steps to the Georgian entrance, I rang

the bell and waited in mist.

It was cool this Tuesday morning, trees beginning to look like fall. I could feel my

lack of sleep. My eyes burned, my head was dull, and I was unsettled by what Marino

had said before I had almost hung up on him.

'Hello.' The administrator cheerfully let me in. 'How are we this morning, Dr

Scarpetta?'

His name was Jimmy Shaw, and he was very young and Irish, with hair as fiery as

copper ivy, and eyes as blue as sky.

'I've been better,' I confessed.

'Well, I was just boiling tea,' he said, shutting us inside a narrow, dimly lit hallway,

which we followed to his office. 'Sounds like you could use a cup.'

'That would be lovely, Jimmy,' I said.

'As for the good doctor, she should be finishing up an inquest.' He glanced at his

watch as we entered his cluttered small space. 'She should be out in no time.'

His desk was dominated by a large Coroner's Inquiries book, black and bound in

heavy leather, and he had been reading a biography of Steve McQueen and eating

toast before I arrived. Momentarily, he was setting a mug of tea within my reach, not

asking how I took it, for by now he knew.

'A little toast with jam?' he asked as he did every morning.

'I ate at the hotel, thanks.' I gave the same reply as he sat behind his desk.

'Never stops me from eating again.' He smiled, slipping on glasses. 'I'll just go over

your schedule, then. You lecture at eleven this morning, then again at one P.M. Both

at the college, in the old pathology building. I should expect about seventy-five

students for each, but there could be more. I don't know. You're awfully popular over

here, Dr Kay Scarpetta,' he cheerfully said. 'Or maybe it's just that American violence

is so exotic to us.'

'That's rather much like calling a plague exotic,' I said.

'Well, we can't help but be fascinated by what you see.'

'And I guess that bothers me,' I said in a friendly but ominous way. 'Don't be too

fascinated.'

We were interrupted by the phone, which he snapped up with the impatience of one

who answers it too often.

Listening for a moment, he brusquely said. 'Right, right. Well, we can't place an order

like that just yet. I'll have to ring you back another time.

'I've been wanting computers for years,' he complained to me as he hung up. 'No

bloody money when you're the dog wagged by the Socialist tail.'

'There will never be enough money. Dead men don't vote.'

'The bloody truth. So what's the topic of the day?' he wanted to know.

'Sexual homicide,' I replied. 'Specifically the role DNA can play.'

'These dismemberments you're so interested in.' He sipped tea. 'Do you think they're

sexual? I mean, would that be the motivation on the part of whoever would do this?'

His eyes were keen with interest.

'It's certainly an element,' I replied.

'But how can you know that when none of the victims has ever been identified?

Couldn't it just be someone who kills for sport? Like, say, your Son of Sam, for

example?'

'What the Son of Sam did had a sexual element,' I said, looking around for my

pathologist friend. 'Do you know how much longer she might be? I'm afraid I'm in a

bit of a hurry.'

Shaw glanced at his watch again. 'You can check. Or I suppose she may have gone on

to the morgue. We have a case coming in. A young male, suspected suicide.'

'I'll see if I can find her.' I got up.

Off the hallway near the entrance was the coroner's court, where inquests for

unnatural deaths were held before a jury. This included industrial and traffic accidents,

homicides and suicides, the proceedings in camera, for the press in Ireland was not

allowed to print many details. I ducked inside a stark, chilly room of varnished

benches and naked walls, and found several men inside, tucking paperwork into

briefcases.

'I'm looking for the coroner,' I said.

'She slipped out about twenty minutes ago. Believe she had a viewing,' one of them

said.

I left the building through the back door. Crossing a small parking lot, I headed to the

morgue as an old man came out of it. He seemed disoriented, almost stumbling as he

looked about, dazed. For an instant, he stared at me as if I held some answer, and my

heart hurt for him. No business that had brought him here could possibly be kind. I

watched him hurry toward the gate as Dr Margaret Foley suddenly emerged after him,

harried, her graying hair disarrayed.

'My God!' She almost ran into me. 'I turn my back for a minute and he's gone.'

The man let himself out, the gate flung open wide as he fled. Foley trotted across the

parking lot to shut and latch it again. When she got back to me, she was out of breath

and almost tripped over a bump in the pavement.

'Kay, you're out and about early,' she said.

'A relative?' I asked.

'The father. Left without identifying him, before I could even pull back the sheet. That

will foul me up the rest of the day.'

She led me inside the small brick morgue with its white porcelain autopsy tables that

probably belonged in a medical museum and old iron stove that heated nothing

anymore. The air was refrigerated-chilly, modern equipment nonexistent except for

electric autopsy saws. Thin gray light seeped through opaque skylights, barely

illuminating the white paper sheet covering a body that a father could not bear to see.

'It's always the hardest part,' she was saying. 'No one should ever have to look at

anyone in here.'

I followed her into a small storeroom and helped carry out boxes of new syringes,

masks and gloves.

'Strung himself up from the rafters in the barn,' she went on as we worked. 'Was being

treated for a drink problem and depression. More of the same. Unemployment,

women, drugs. They hang themselves or jump off bridges.' She glanced at me as we

restocked a surgical cart. 'Thank God we don't have guns. Especially since I don't

have an X-ray machine.'

Foley was a slight woman with old-fashioned thick glasses and a penchant for tweed.

We had met years ago at an international forensic science conference in Vienna, when

female forensic pathologists were a rare breed, especially overseas. We quickly had

become friends.

'Margaret, I'm going to have to head back to the States sooner than I thought,' I said,

taking a deep breath, looking about, distracted. 'I didn't sleep worth a damn last night.'

She lit a cigarette, scrutinizing me. 'I can get you copies of whatever you want. How

fast do you need them? Photographs may take a few days, but they can be sent.'

'I think there is always a sense of urgency when someone like this is on the loose,' I

said.

'I'm not happy if he's now your problem. And I'd hoped after all these years he had

bloody quit.' She irritably tapped an ash, exhaling the strong smoke of British tobacco.

'Let's take a load off for a minute. My shoes are already getting tight from the

swelling. It's hell getting old on these bloody hard floors.'

The lounge was two squat wooden chairs in a corner, where Foley kept an ashtray on

a gurney. She put her feet up on a box and indulged her vice.

'I can never forget those poor people.' She started talking about her serial cases again.

'When the first one came to me, I thought it was the IRA. Never seen people torn

asunder like that except in bombings.'

I was reminded of Mark in a way I did not want to be, and my thoughts drifted to him

when he was alive and we were in love. Suddenly he was in my mind, smiling with

eyes full of a mischievous light that became electric when he laughed and teased.

There had been a lot of that in law school at Georgetown, fun and fights and staying

up all night, our hunger for each other impossible to appease. Over time we married

other people, divorced and tried again. He was my leitmotif, here, gone, then back on

the phone or at my door to break my heart and wreck my bed.

I could not banish him. It still did not seem possible that a bombing in a London train

station would finally bring the tempest of our relationship to an end. I did not imagine

him dead. I could not envision it, for there was no last image that might grant peace. I

had never seen his body, had fled from any chance, just like the old Dubliner who

could not view his son. I realized Foley was saying something to me.

'I'm sorry,' she repeated, her eyes sad, for she knew my history well. 'I didn't mean to

bring up something painful. You seem blue enough this morning.'

'You made an interesting point.' I tried to be brave. 'I suspect the killer we're looking

for is rather much like a bomber. He doesn't care who he kills. His victims are people

with no faces or names. They are nothing but symbols of his private, evil credo.'

'Would it bother you terribly if I asked a question about Mark?' she said.

'Ask anything you want.' I smiled. 'You will anyway.'

'Have you ever gone to where it happened, visited that place where he died?'

'I don't know where it happened,' I quickly replied.

She looked at me as she smoked.

'What I mean is, I don't know where, exactly, in the train station.' I was evasive,

almost stuttering.

Still she said nothing, crushing the cigarette beneath her foot.

'Actually,' I went on, 'I don't know that I've been in Victoria at all, not that particular

station, since he died. I don't think I've had reason to take a train from there. Or arrive

there. Waterloo was the last one I was in, I think.'

'The one crime scene the great Dr Kay Scarpetta will not visit.' She tapped another

Consulate out of the pack. 'Would you like one?'

'God knows I would. But I can't.'

She sighed. 'I remember Vienna. All those men and the two of us smoking more than

they did.'

'Probably the reason we smoked so much was all those men,' I said.

'That may be the cause, but for me, there seems to be no cure. It just goes to show that

what we do is unrelated to what we know, and our feelings don't have a brain.' She

shook out a match. 'I've seen smokers' lungs. And I've seen my share of fatty livers.'

'My lungs are better since I quit. I can't vouch for my liver,' I said. 'I haven't given up

whiskey yet.'

'Don't, for God's sake. You'd be no fun.' She paused, adding pointedly, 'Course,

feelings can be directed, educated, so they don't conspire against us.'

'I will probably leave tomorrow.' I got back to that.

'You have to go to London first to change planes.' She met my eyes. 'Linger there. A

day.'

'Pardon?'

'It's unfinished business, Kay. I have felt this for a long time. You need to bury Mark

James.'

'Margaret, what has suddenly prompted this?' I was tripping over words again.

'I know when someone is on the run. And you are, just as much as this killer is.'

'Now, that's a comforting thing to say,' I replied, and I did not want to have this

conversation.

But she was not going to let me escape this time. 'For very different reasons and very

similar reasons. He's evil, you're not. But neither of you wants to be caught.'

She had gotten to me and could tell.

'And just who or what is trying to catch me, in your opinion?' My tone was light but I

felt the threat of tears.

'At this stage, I expect it's Benton Wesley.'

I stared off, past the gurney and its protruding pale foot tied with a tag. Light from

above shifted by degrees as clouds moved over the sun, and the smell of death in tile

and stone went back a hundred years.

'Kay, what do you want to do?' she asked kindly as I wiped my eyes.

'He wants to marry me,' I said.

I flew home to Richmond and days became weeks with the weather getting cold.

Mornings were glazed with frost and evenings I spent in front of the fire, thinking and

fretting. So much was unresolved and silent, and I coped the way I always did,

working my way deeper into the labyrinth of my profession until I could not find a

way out. It was making my secretary crazy.

'Dr Scarpetta?' She called out my name, her footsteps loud and brisk along the tile

floor in the autopsy suite.

'In here,' I answered over running water.

It was October 30. I was in the morgue locker room, washing up with antibacterial

soap.

'Where have you been?' Rose asked as she walked in. 'Working on a brain. The

sudden death from the other day.'

She was holding my calendar and flipping pages. Her gray hair was neatly pinned

back, and she was dressed in a dark red suit that seemed appropriate for her mood.

Rose was deeply angry with me and had been since I' d left for Dublin without saying

good-bye. Then I forgot her birthday when I got back. I turned off the water and dried

my hands.

'Swelling, with widening of the gyri, narrowing of the sulci, all good for ischemic

encephalopathy brought on by his profound systemic hypotension,' I cited.

'I've been trying to find you,' she said with strained patience.

'What did I do this time?' I threw up my hands.

'You were supposed to have lunch at the Skull and Bones with Jon.'

'Oh, God,' I groaned as I thought of him and other medical school advisees I had so

little time to see.

'I reminded you this morning. You forgot him last week, too. He really needs to talk

to you about his residency, about the Cleveland Clinic.'

'I know, I know.' I felt awful about it as I looked at my watch. 'It's one-thirty. Maybe

he can come by my office for coffee?'

'You have a deposition at two, a conference call at three about the Norfolk-Southern

case. A gunshot wound lecture to the Forensic Science Academy at four, and a

meeting at five with Investigator Ring from the state police.' Rose went down the list.

I did not like Ring or his aggressive way of taking over cases. When the second torso

had been found, he had inserted himself into the investigation and seemed to think he

knew more than the FBI.

'Ring I can do without,' I said, shortly.

My secretary looked at me for a long moment, water and sponges slapping in the

autopsy suite next door.

'I'll cancel him and you can see Jon instead.' She eyed me over her glasses like a stern

headmistress. 'Then rest, and that's an order. Tomorrow, Dr Scarpetta. Don't come in.

Don't you dare let me see you darken the door.'

I started to protest and she cut me off.

'Don't even think of arguing,' she firmly went on. 'You need a mental health day, a

long weekend. I wouldn't say that if I didn't mean it.'

She was right, and as I thought about having a day to myself, my spirits lifted.

'There's not a thing I can't reschedule,' she added. 'Besides.' She smiled. 'We're having

a touch of Indian summer and it's supposed to be glorious, in the eighties with a big

blue sky. Leaves are at their peak, poplars an almost perfect yellow. Maples look like

they're on fire. Not to mention, it's Halloween. You can carve a pumpkin.'

I got suit jacket and shoes out of my locker. 'You should have been a lawyer,' I said.

Chapter Two

The next day, the weather was just what Rose predicted, and I woke up thrilled. As

stores were opening, I set out to stock up for trick-or-treaters and dinner, and I drove

far out on Hull Street to my favorite gardening center. Summer plantings had long

since faded around my house, and I could not bear to see their dead stalks in pots.

After lunch, I carried bags of black soil, boxes of plants and a watering can to my

front porch.

I opened the door so I could hear Mozart playing inside as I gently tucked pansies into

their rich, new bed. Bread was rising, homemade stew simmering on the stove, and I

smelled garlic and wine and loamy soil as I worked. Marino was coming for dinner,

and we were going to hand out chocolate bars to my small, scary neighbors. The

world was a good place to live until three-thirty-five when my pager vibrated against

my waist.

'Damn,' I exclaimed as it displayed the number for my answering service.

I hurried inside, washed my hands and reached for the phone. The service gave me a

number for a Detective Grigg with the Sussex County Sheriff's Department, and I

immediately called.

'Grigg,' a man answered in a deep voice.

'This is Dr Scarpetta,' I said as I stared dismally out windows at large terra cotta pots

on the deck and the dead hibiscus in them.

'Oh good. Thank you for getting back to me so quick. I'm out here on a cellular phone,

don't want to say much.' He spoke with the rhythm of the old South, and took his time.

'Where, exactly, is here?' I asked.

'Atlantic Waste Landfill on Reeves Road, off 460 East. They've turned something up I

think you're going to want to take a look at.'

'Is this the same sort of thing that has turned up in similar places?' I cryptically asked

as the day seemed to get darker.

'Afraid that's what it's looking like,' he said.

'Give me directions, and I'm on my way.'

I was in dirty khakis, and an FBI tee shirt that my niece, Lucy, had given to me, and

did not have time to change. If I didn't recover the body before dark, it would have to

stay where it was until morning, and that was unacceptable. Grabbing my medical bag,

I hurried out the door, leaving soil, cabbage plants and geraniums scattered over the

porch. Of course my black Mercedes was low on gas. I stopped at Amoco first and

pumped my own, then was on my way.

The drive should have taken an hour, but I sped. Waning light flashed white on the

underside of leaves, and rows of corn were brown in farms and gardens. Fields were

ruffled green seas of soybeans, and goats grazed unrestrained in the yards of tired

homes. Gaudy lightning rods with colored balls tilted from every peak and corner, and

I always wondered what lying salesman had hit like a storm and played on fear by

preaching more.

Soon grain elevators Grigg had told me to look for came into view. I turned on

Reeves Road, passing tiny brick homes and trailer courts with pickup trucks and dogs,

with no collars. Billboards advertised Mountain Dew arid the Virginia Diner, and I

bumped over railroad tracks, red dust billowing up like smoke from my tires. Ahead,

buzzards in the road picked at creatures that had been too slow, and it seemed a

morbid harbinger.

At the entrance of the Atlantic Waste Landfill, I slowed my car to a stop and looked

out at a moonscape of barren acres where the sun was setting like a planet on fire.

Flatbed refuse trucks were sleek and white with polished chrome, crawling along the

summit of a growing mountain of trash. Yellow Caterpillars were striking scorpions. I

sat watching a moiling storm of dust heading away from the landfill, rocking over ruts

at a high rate of speed. When it got to me it was a dirty red Ford Explorer driven by a

young man who felt at home in this place.

'May I help you, ma'am?' he said in a Southern drawl, and he seemed anxious and

excited.

'I'm Dr Kay Scarpetta,' I replied, displaying the brass shield in its small black wallet

that I always pulled at scenes where I did not know anyone.

He studied my credentials, then his eyes were dark on mine. He was sweating through

his denim shirt, hair wet at his neck and temples.

'They said the medical examiner would get here, and for me to watch for him,' he said

to me.

'Well, that would be me,' I blandly replied.

'Oh yes, ma'am. I didn't mean anything . . .' His voice trailed off as his eyes wandered

over my Mercedes, which was coated in dust so fine and persistent that nothing could

keep it out. 'I suggest you leave your car here and ride with me,' he added.

I stared up at the landfill, at Caterpillars with rampant blades and buckets immobile

on the summit. Two unmarked police cars and an ambulance awaited me up where the

trouble was, and officers were small figures gathered near the tailgate of a truck

smaller than the rest, Near it someone was poking the ground with a stick, and I got

increasingly impatient to get to the body.

'Okay,' I said. 'Let's do it.'

Parking my car, I got my medical bag and scene clothes out of the trunk. The young

man watched in curious silence as I sat in my driver's seat with the door open wide,

and pulled on rubber boots, scarred and dull from years of wading in woods and rivers

for people murdered and drowned. I covered myself with a big faded denim shirt that

I had appropriated from my ex-husband, Tony, during a marriage that now did not

seem real. Then I climbed inside the Explorer and sheathed my hands in two layers of

gloves. I pulled a surgical mask over my head and left it loose around my neck.

'I can't say that I blame you,' my driver said. 'The smell's pretty rough. I can tell you

that.'

'It's not the smell,' I said. 'Microorganisms are what make me worry.

'Gee,' he said, anxiously. 'Maybe I should wear one of those things.'

'You shouldn't be getting close enough to have a problem.' He made no reply, and I

had no doubt that he already had gotten that close. Looking was too much of a

temptation for most people to resist. The more gruesome the case, the more this was

true.

'I sure am sorry about the dust,' he said as we drove through tangled goldenrod on the

rim of a small fire pond populated with ducks. 'You can see we put a layer of tire

chips everywhere to keep things settled, and a street cleaner sprays it down. But

nothing seems to help all that much.' He nervously paused before going on. 'We do

three thousand tons of trash a day out here.'

'From where?' I asked.

'Littleton, North Carolina, to Chicago.'

'What about Boston?' I asked, for the first four cases were believed to be from as far

away as that.

'No, ma'am.' He shook his head. 'Maybe one of these days. We're so much less per ton

down here. Twenty-five dollars compared to sixty-nine in New Jersey or eighty in

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