Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

A long second of silence as Heavner weighed options.

“I have no obligation to tell you anything, Dr. Brennan.” Oh, so measured now. “But as a professional courtesy, and to persuade you to desist, I will share that we believe the man’s name is John Ito. But due to your meddling, you already know that.”

“You still think he’s Asian.”

“I do.”

“Based on?”

“It would be unethical for me to reveal personal details about a deceased.”

It took everything I had not to point out that she’d done exactly that. On air. And not to argue that her assessment of the man’s ancestry was incorrect. But Heavner couldn’t know that I’d shot pics of her case. Or that Hawkins had leaked me the file.

“Of course.”

“We should have confirmation shortly.” Curt. “I trust you’ll keep this information to yourself.”

“As would any professional.” Reckless. But my patience was rubbing thin.

Three beeps, then empty silence. Heavner knew I’d been alluding to both the present and the past.

I sat a moment, wondering. Was Heavner right, and I was utterly wrong? She’d done the autopsy, explored every inch of the man’s anatomy. I’d seen only the jpgs texted to me and my own hastily shot cell-phone pics.

I went to the guest room/study and pulled every image up on my laptop. Printed some.

For the next hour, I reexamined the mutilated craniofacial features. Took what measurements I could and calculated indices—ratios between one dimension and another.

Birdie joined me at some point. Hopped onto the desk and performed complicated hygiene involving inter-toe spaces.

Finally, I sat back, more firmly convinced than ever. MCME 304-18 had no ancestors in Yokohama, Shanghai, or Pyongyang.

I checked the time. 4:40. Still no call from Slidell. Or Pete.

Mainly to keep busy, I got online and researched John Ito. Google. Facebook. LinkedIn.

The name was not uncommon. A financial adviser in Hawaii. A music professor at Carnegie Mellon University. A student at UNLV. An independent farming professional in Ontario. Whatever that meant.

What interested me most were the photos. Every John Ito was Asian.

I inputted the word combination John Ito West Virginia . Got nothing.

Then I tried the name Felix Vodyanov.

Found not a single link. Anywhere.

Curious, I went to Truthfinder.com, a site claiming to have the goods on every living being in the western hemisphere. After entering Felix Vodyanov as the name and West Virginia as the geographic location, I checked the box indicating male gender and watched, simultaneously fascinated and horrified, as the screen whiz-zipped through data sets. Mug shots, online profiles, address information, sexual offenses, traffic offenses, arrest records, phone numbers, court records, felonies, relatives, misdemeanors, birth records. You get it.

Nothing.

Leaving the geographic location blank, I tried again.

Zip.

I was thinking about that when my mobile rang. This time, I checked caller ID. Slidell.

“Yo.”

“Detective.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” The Lewis Carroll reference surprised me. Probably coincidence, though four-syllable words were impressive for Slidell.

“I’m listening,” I said.

“Did some follow-up on this guy, John Ito.”

Sounds of crinkling, then chewing. Farther distant, what I took to be squad-room noises. Phones. Keyboards. Voices. I made myself wait.

“The address listed on the car registration is phony.”

“Seriously? You ran it that fast?”

“Nah. I just threw up a pin, watched where it came down on a map.”

Throw one up your ass, I thought.

“It’s an abandoned airfield on the outskirts of Morgantown,” Slidell said.

“To register a vehicle, you have to have a valid driver’s license or state ID of some sort, right?” I asked.

Skinny refilled his mouth and chewed. Doritos, I guessed, based on the wet crunch. Mid-mastication, “And proof of insurance. The DMV checks all that.”

“Then isn’t it hard to register a car with a fake ID?”

“Hard but not impossible.”

“You’re talking about ghosting?” I was referring to a type of identity theft in which the profile of a dead person is stolen. Usually the “ghoster” is the same age as the “ghost,” had that person lived, so that birthdates on the fake documents are believable.

“You know the right sources, you can get the job done,” Slidell said.

“You think John Ito is an alias?”

“I got a guy working on it.”

“When will you know?”

“I could ring him every few minutes the next couple of days, see if that gooses his nuts.”

Easy, Brennan .

“I did some digging on Ito and Vodyanov.” I described my internet searches.

A few seconds of squad-room noise, then, “You busy right now?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

“Get your ass down here.”

The Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department operates out of the Law Enforcement Center, a concrete-and-glass complex stretching along East Trade Street in the heart of uptown. Thanks to the brief presence of the 2012 Democratic National Convention and a security budget of $50 million, the ground floor, once an open lobby, now looks like the bridge of a starship charting the outer reaches. Circular wooden barrier. Bulletproof glass. Monitors displaying the building’s every millimeter, inside and out.

After signing the register, I swiped my security card and rode to the second floor. Directly across from the elevator, signs with arrows indicated Crimes Against Property to the left, Crimes Against Persons to the right. Above the arrows, the hornet’s-nest symbol of the CMPD.

I passed through a doorway and turned right into a corridor remarkably bereft of detectives, two in shirtsleeves and ties, one in khaki pants and a navy golf shirt featuring the intrepid wasp logo. Khakis carried coffee. All three carried a whole lot of firepower.

I proceeded past interview rooms running along the right side of the hall. A second sign ID’d a section on the left, 2220: Violent Crimes Division . Homicide and assault with a deadly. I entered.

For years, Slidell held title to coveted real estate at the back of the squad. Now he was stuck in a corner by the copy machine. His volunteer status with the cold-case unit scored him the space.

I wormed through the maze of cubicles, accompanied by the same symphony I’d heard via phone thirty minutes earlier. Slidell was seated at his desk, a phone shoulder-clamped to one ear. As I approached, he cradled the receiver.

“Yo, doc.” He stood. “Got something’s gonna curl your shorts.”

Slidell headed for the elevator. Like a well-trained puppy, I followed. We ascended without speaking, Slidell’s eyes glued to the digits lighting up to mark our ascent.

“We’re going to the crime lab?” I recognized the floor he’d chosen. Had been there many times.

“QD.” Slidell used the acronym for Questioned Documents, one of five specialty sections in the CMPD crime lab. But why?

A woman was waiting when the doors hummed open. Tiny, with tightly cropped black hair and cocoa skin. I didn’t know her, figured she must be new.

“Mittie Peppers.” Smiling with teeth too small for her mouth. Made me think of Chiclets lined up on her gums.

“Temperance Brennan.” Smiling back. We shook hands. Peppers’s grip could have crushed dandelion fluff.

“She’s been looking at the notebook,” Slidell said. To Peppers. “Brief her.”

“I prefer to show her.”

“We ain’t got all day.”

“It won’t take all day.” Not a single Chiclet in sight. I liked this woman.

Peppers chatted as we walked down a corridor that was totally empty. “I’m a bit nerd forward. My heart’s with digital—the internet and cybercrime—but I also work traditional QD evidence. Are you familiar with document examination?”