Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

Was my goal purely selfish? Was I dragging colleagues into my private drama to irk the patootie out of my new boss and impress the big enchilada in Chapel Hill?

I turned to the photos on my phone.

Had been scrolling a while when I spotted an image that froze my breath.

6

SUNDAY, JULY 1

I’d examined the photos over and over. Then transferred them to my Mac and sharpened each pic individually with Photoshop. I’d zoomed in and out on varying details. Tried black-and-white, different hues, saturations, and levels of contrast. Compared what I was seeing against Heavner’s notes.

By three a.m., my head was throbbing, and my eyes felt like hot balls of gravel behind my lids. Not a migraine but painful enough. I’d steeled myself for one quick run through the faceless man’s clothing and possessions, then lights out.

Didn’t happen. The fourth of those images had jolted me alert. A close-up of a tattered scrap of paper. I stared, puzzled and confused.

An online search had provided a partial answer. But no clue to the meaning of that answer.

The images had stormed unchecked throughout the three hours of sleep my hyper-jazzed brain had allowed. The blood-soaked clothing. The gutted body. The scrap. I awoke, still headachy and exhausted.

Strong gusts were spitting leaves and other missiles against the black rectangle that was my window. The mockingbird was playing elsewhere. Or hunkered down, awaiting sunrise or calmer headwinds.

I thought about lying in bed all day. About abandoning my illicit crusade for the faceless man. About sucking up to Heavner, maybe dropping by on Monday with a toe-in-the-water attempt at détente. Then I remembered her tone and the look of loathing on her face. And her self-serving interviews with Nick Body.

I got up and put on my running gear. Slipped out into the warm, windy predawn blackness.

Shapes bobbed on the choppy surface of the pond, heads tucked, necks forming inverted U’s against the buffeting blasts.

Skin-puckering flashbacks. Glinting teeth. Bloodied feathers. Sightless eyes.

A trench-coated silhouette.

I left Sharon Hall, ran past Queens University and on to Freedom Park. The place was deserted, all night creatures still burrowed deep in their nests, dens, and holes—the opossums, foxes, junkies, and drunks. The only sounds were my footfalls, the pummeling air, and the twitching branches and vegetation.

By the time I headed home, windows were glowing, and headlights were slicing the slowly yielding darkness. To the east, a buttery crack was wedging open the meeting point between earth and sky.

After a long, hot shower, I fed Birdie, then brewed coffee strong enough to revive roadkill. Armed with my notes, I dialed Hawkins.

Got the recorded voice I expected.

Left a message.

Next, I sent a text to another area code.

Talk when you’re awake?

Ten minutes later, Ryan phoned.

“ Bonjour, ma chère .”

“Hey,” I said.

“Feeling all right?” Besides Mama, Ryan was the only person who knew of my recent diagnosis. Sometimes I regretted looping him in.

“It’s an aneurysm, not bubonic plague.”

“I’m happy to pop down early.”

“I’m fine. Stop asking.”

“Got it. Are you up with the birds because you miss me so badly?”

“Something like that.”

“My toes go all sweaty when you talk mushy.”

“Happy Canada Day.”

“ Merci, madame .”

“Doing anything special to celebrate?” Polite for: Why have you gone incommunicado?

“Yesterday I was at Fer a Cheval, a hunting and fishing camp near Mont-Laurier.”

“In pursuit of?”

“Walleye and trout.”

“Catch anything?”

“A cold. I’m home now.”

“Bad weather?”

“Chilly and rainy.”

“It’s July.”

“Thus, the absence of snow. No matter, I’m jammed with work.”

“Business is still booming?”

“I’ve got a builder convinced his lawyer is defrauding him out of billions, a single mom wanting the entire life story of a nanny applicant, and parents terrified that their son may be shacking up with his former high school biology teacher.”

“How old is the teacher?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“And the kid?”

“Nineteen.”

“He’s legal to shag the vicar’s grandmère if he wants. Assuming she’s mentally competent and willing.”

“So I’ve informed them. I’m also doing some digging for the SQ.”

Since police detectives are restricted in ways private investigators are not, they sometimes turn to PIs when a case has dead-ended. Ryan didn’t elaborate, so I didn’t ask.

He went on, “I saw LaManche while riding up to the squad room Friday morning. He mentioned some joy waiting in your lab.”

“We talked on Thursday. The case isn’t urgent, probably old cemetery remains.”

“How’s Daisy?”

“Chemo-peachy.”

“Let me guess. She’s considering nuptials in Uganda. Maybe hiring mountain gorillas as waiters.”

“Ushers.” Though currently she’s too busy banging Sinitch to dream up harebrained travel possibilities. I kept that to myself.

“Got big plans for July Fourth?” Ryan asked.

“My stockpile of sparklers is quite impressive.”

“Did you lay in Valium for the birdcat?”

“It’s not Birdie’s favorite holiday. Assuming he doesn’t need therapy, I may bring him along when I fly north.”

“My toes go all—”

“My relationship with Heavner has become a real train wreck.”

Ryan knew our history. “And?”

“I’m considering something that may send it right off the rails.”

I heard faint moaning up the line between Charlotte and Quebec. The hypothetical preacher’s granny?

“Are you still there?” I asked.

“I’m listening.”

I laid down the full version, holding nothing back. As I spoke, I could feel my voice tighten, thread by thread. Ryan didn’t interrupt.

I started with the mysteriously texted images, concluded with the leaked dossier and Lizzie Griesser.

“You don’t know the source of the pics?”

“No clue. I suspect someone was giving me a heads-up.”

“Why?”

“If I knew that, I’d probably know who sent them. Anyway, I spent hours with those and with my photos. None is first-rate. I had to snap mine quickly with just my phone. But it’s obvious Heavner’s wrong on some points.”

“Such as?”

“In one shot, I can see the left upper posterior dentition.”

“The molars.”

“Yes. Every occlusal surface is worn. In another shot, I can see the superior portion of the right pubic symphyseal face. The hogs yanked the two pelvic halves apart, gnawed one, bypassed the other in favor of the viscera.”

“Very accommodating.”

“The angle’s not perfect, but magnified, I can read the age indicators.”

“It’s Johnny Appleseed.”

“Do you want to hear this?”

Chastened silence.

“The man was older than Heavner implied, I’d say in the thirty-five-to-fifty range, probably the upper end of that. And other than black hair, I can’t imagine how she concluded he might be Asian. His features were toast, but the hogs had yanked his scalp back far enough to expose most of his frontal bone—his forehead, orbital ridges, and the area above his nose. The upper nasal aperture, interorbital distance, and orbital shape all suggest the man was Caucasoid. White.”

Ryan blew out a long breath. Disinterested? Disapproving? I didn’t care. I pressed on.

“Also, one shoulder, one hip, and both upper arms have dark blotches I’d bet the farm are hematomas.”

“Bruises.”

“In varying stages of healing.”