If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to have your ex reappear just as a psychotic manuscript-obsessed killer starts targeting you, then congratulations: you’re either Kay Scarpetta or the victim of some particularly vindictive fan fiction. Body of Evidence is Patricia Cornwell’s second entry in the Scarpetta series. While it has flashes of forensic brilliance and enough soap opera drama to power a daytime Emmy reel, it’s also a book that feels like it’s juggling scalpels with its eyes closed. Sometimes it lands a slice. Sometimes it just pokes around and mutters something about tissue samples.
Murder and Manuscripts and Money, Oh My
After her breakout success with Postmortem, a forensic procedural so groundbreaking it won more mystery awards than Agatha Christie’s ghost could shake a bloody knife at—Cornwell hit the gas on Body of Evidence. Publishers, suddenly realizing they had the next Stephen King of sliced livers on their hands, opened their wallets accordingly. The paperback rights alone went for a cool $385,000. That’s a lot of cash for a book that spends several chapters inside people’s heads, and a few others inside their abdominal cavities.
Developmentally, the novel reads like someone dared Cornwell to merge Fatal Attraction with Murder, She Wrote, only with more latex gloves and less Angela Lansbury. The story lurches between forensic autopsy scenes, long passages of inner Scarpetta monologue (she might be one bad date away from starting a podcast), and romantic flashbacks with Mark James, who is equal parts WASP fantasy and sentient Brooks Brothers catalogue.
Queen of Cadavers, High Priestess of Plot Threads
Cornwell’s own backstory deserves its own thriller. A former crime reporter and technical writer at the Virginia Chief Medical Examiner’s Office, she leveraged her inside knowledge to write Postmortem, and then parlayed that into a literary empire. She doesn’t just write about morgues; she practically sets up shop in one.
In Scarpetta, she created a character who is equal parts razor-sharp intellect and lonely gourmet cook, perpetually making pasta between death investigations. The creation of Body of Evidence clearly leans into Cornwell’s strengths—procedural detail, a deep respect for methodical science, and a palpable discomfort with normal human relationships. In other words: come for the DNA analysis, stay for the social dysfunction.
She Autopsied, She Cooked, She Cried
The plot? Well, it begins with a murdered romance writer named Beryl Madison, who had more enemies than the last person to call Taylor Swift “overrated.” Beryl had a shady past, a missing manuscript, and a stalker who makes BTK look like a clingy ex with bad texting etiquette. Scarpetta, trying to do her job, is roped into the chaos—navigating an unhelpful police department, a sleazy agent, and Mark James, who returns like a beige-suited ghost from Georgetown.
And then there’s Frankie Aims, the eventual killer, who manages to be both obvious and confusing in that specific way only second novels can pull off. The book’s actual tension lies not in the whodunit, but in the when-will-Kay-get-a-moment-to-eat-something-warm-without-finding-a-clue-in-it.
“Not Bad,” Says the Masses
Upon release, Body of Evidence was gobbled up by readers still drunk on the novelty of Postmortem. It didn’t win all the awards this time, but it sold, and more importantly, it showed publishers that Cornwell wasn’t a one-book wonder. It helped establish Scarpetta as a long-haul heroine, someone who’d soon be doing battle with bureaucrats, psychopaths, and whatever terrible man she dated in the late ’90s.
Critics gave it polite nods. Fans were hooked, especially if they had a subscription to Forensic File Fetishes Quarterly. But in hindsight, it’s a transitional novel: not quite as tight as the first, not as bloated as later entries. It’s a sophomore album that had to prove itself while also setting the stage for what was to come—a kind of literary CSI pilot with a side of emotional angst.
Solid, Slightly Stiff, But Not Yet in Rigour Mortis
Body of Evidence is a competent and occasionally compelling forensic thriller. It’s not Cornwell’s best, but it’s a necessary bridge between the origin story and the sprawling empire to come. It’s got mood, it’s got blood, it’s got pasta. And in the world of Scarpetta, that’s enough to earn a solid 3 out of 5 stars. Just don’t go in expecting the mystery to twist your brain into a pretzel. This is more of a soft chew.
⭐️⭐️⭐️ out of 5
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