Jefferson Bass - Flesh and Bone - A Body Farm Novel

During my hour and ten minutes as an inmate-I had been promised I’d be out in an hour, but I figured I’d asked at least fifteen minutes of questions along the way-I had moved along a carefully orchestrated assembly line, like a car chassis moving through the factory. I had traced a big U, with one side of the U corresponding to Intake and the other side to Release, with a short hallway connecting the two at the base. Some of the procedures seemed silly, such as surrendering and inventorying my personal effects only to reclaim them a mere seventy minutes later. But there was an elegant symmetry to the process, too, a satisfying sense of ceremony or ritual.

I’d gone in one side, stripped of almost everything I had, and had come out the other, where everything was restored to me. I wondered if there was any hope of that same symmetry holding true in the rest of my life. I couldn’t see it yet. I hoped that was merely because I was still locked on the “Intake” side of the nightmare.

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AFTER I’Dgotten dressed up for my arrest, I put on the same outfit once more and climbed into the Taurus. I felt odd and conspicuous-ashamed, almost-to drive through the rustic cabins and campground wearing a coat and tie, especially two days in a row. The fancy getup seemed as inappropriate here in the woods as shorts and a T-shirt would have seemed at a symphony concert. But once I got to the funeral, I would blend right in.

I had not known Jess was religious; for that matter, I still didn’t, but the location of her memorial service-St. Paul’s Episcopal Church-suggested that either Jess or whoever arranged her funeral was. How strange, I reflected as I approached the outskirts of Chattanooga yet again, to know someone’s flesh as intimately as I had recently come to know Jess’s, yet to know nearly nothing about their spirit, or at least their beliefs. So many things I’ll never get the chance to learn about her, I thought, and the realization sent me spinning down another dark spiral of grief.

St. Paul’s was located in downtown Chattanooga, three blocks from the convention center and practically alongside U.S. 27, the elevated expressway that skirted the western edge of the business district before crossing the Tennessee River and angling northeast up the valley of the Tennessee River. I took the second downtown exit, which fed me north onto Pine Street; I was early, so I was able to park at a meter directly across the street from the church’s main entrance.

St. Paul’s was set above street level, and the entrance was beside a tall bell tower of red brick, rising from a gray limestone base. Episcopalians, I’d observed, tended to have a flair for architecture, along with the money to indulge it. As I crossed the street to the front steps, I noticed several police cars at the curb. Technically, Jess wasn’t part of the police department, but she was part of the extended family of law enforcement, and the code of honor extended to her: You turn out to honor your fallen comrades. The unwritten, darker corollary, I’d noticed over the years, was that the more shocking the death, the bigger the turnout, as if a show of posthumous solidarity might somehow make up for the tragedy that had struck down one of their own-or prevent the next one.

As I topped two flights of steps and reached a brick plaza just below the double wooden doors into the nave, I noticed two uniformed officers flanking the entrance. I thought perhaps they were giving out programs, but their hands were empty, so I decided they were simply some sort of honor guard. One of the officers looked my way; I made eye contact with him and nodded somberly. He stepped forward to meet me. “Dr. Brockton?”

“Yes, hello there,” I said, holding out my hand and reading the name MICHAEL QUARLES on a brass bar on his chest. “Have we worked together before, Officer Quarles?”

“No, sir,” he said, “we haven’t met. Dr. Brockton, I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed here.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not allowed to be here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said, sir. You’re not allowed to enter the church; in fact, you’re not allowed anywhere on the church property, so I’ll have to ask you to go back down these steps.”

“This is Dr. Carter’s memorial ser vice, isn’t it?” He nodded once. “She was a colleague and a friend of mine,” I said.

“Maybe so,” he said, “but there’s a restraining order, signed by Judge Avery, that bars you from entering this church or setting foot on this property today. So I’m asking you-no, sir, I’m telling you-to leave the property now.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Who requested this restraining order?”

“Assistant District Attorney Preston Carter.” Jess’s ex-husband.

“This is not right,” I protested. “He has no grounds for this.”

“Way I hear it, you’ve been charged with her murder,” he said. “I’d call that pretty solid ground. In any case, we’re here to enforce a restraining order that bars you from this property. I’ll give you to the count of three to comply; if you do not, I will take you into custody, sir.”

“Who can I talk to about this?”

“One.”

“I need to be in there.”

“Two.”

“ Please . I am begging you.”

“Three.” He stepped forward and took my arm. I shook off his grip; without taking his eyes from mine, he reached to the back of his belt, where I knew police carried their handcuffs. Holding up both hands, I began backing down the stairs. He allowed me to retreat. A small group of onlookers who had gathered at the foot of the steps parted to let me pass. Some of them glanced at me furtively; others stared openly.

I noticed Jess’s receptionist at the edge of the group, her eyes rimmed in red. “Amy,” I said, “ please see if you can get me in there.” She ducked her head and hurried up the stairs, and the rest of the small crowd followed suit.

The two policemen were still watching me. I looked from one unyielding face to the other, then finally shook my head and walked across the street to the Taurus. As I pulled away from the curb onto Pine Street, I rolled down my window and stopped to give the officers a long last look, which they returned without expression. Then I took my foot off the brake and eased north on Pine, toward the STOP sign at Sixth Street. As I turned right onto Sixth, I took a final look back at the church and I thought I saw Officer Quarles speaking into the radio mike that was clipped to his shoulder.

Two blocks east, Sixth intersected Broad Street, the main boulevard through the heart of downtown. A right on Broad, followed by another right onto Martin Luther King Boulevard, would take me back to highway 27, and from there to I-75 North, and to Knoxville. But I did not turn right; instead I turned left onto Broad Street, away from my route home. I parked at the first meter I came to, fed in five quarters I fished from the change tray, and started walking toward St. Paul’s. Then I turned back to the car; I took off my suit coat and my tie and put a UT cap on my head. My clothes-black pants, a blue shirt and tie, and black wingtips-looked too dressy for the cap, but I hoped I could pass for a tourist or casual passerby if a policeman didn’t look too closely.

Where Sixth met Pine, I looked left toward the front of the church. I didn’t see any police on the sidewalk, but just to be on the safe side, I continued down Sixth, past a high-rise nursing home named St. Barnabas, then doubled back through an alley that ran between the nursing home and the back of the church. An iron gate behind the church opened onto a small playground; to one side of the playground, a door led into what looked like a wing of classrooms. I tried the gate and found it locked. Looking around, I saw no one, and I gripped the uprights and prepared to scale it. Then I thought of all those windows in St. Barnabas, and all those rooms filled with elderly people whose chief entertainment might consist of staring outside in search of something interesting. I hurried up the alley to Pine, and turned onto the sidewalk bordering the church.