Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

"The cops suspected suicide?"

Emma nodded. "No note or body was ever found. My investigator thinks this could be him."

"Let your investigator handle the recovery."

"There's no margin for error on this one. Daddy's a local politico. Guy's angry, vocal, and hangs with the power boys. That's a dangerous combination."

I wondered again if blowback from the cruise ship incident was affecting Emma more than I knew.

"What tipped your investigator?"

"The remains are hanging from a tree. The tree's less than a mile from the kid's last known address."

I pictured the scene. That picture was all too familiar.

"Has Daddy been told?"

Emma shook her head.

Plan B.

"How about this?" I proposed. "Tell Daddy that his son's disappearance is being given top priority. A body has been found, but three months' exposure complicates analysis. Outside expertise is needed to make an identification."

As usual, Emma got it right off. "The coroner's office wants the best, and cost is no obstacle."

"I like the way you think."

Emma smiled a weak smile. "You'll really do it?"

"You have the authority to bring me into the case?"

"Yes."

"I'll do it if you promise to go straight home to bed."

"How about this?" Emma counterproposed. "I deliver the NCIC forms to the sheriff, get him working on the Dewees skeleton. You supervise recovery of my hanging victim. We keep in touch by phone."

"After your nap."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Sounds like a plan."

THIS IS WHAT EMMA KNEW.

Matthew Summerfield IV was a troubled kid from a family that didn't tolerate imperfection. Mama was Sally, nee Middleton, of the First Continental Congress Middletons. Daddy was a Citadel grad and reigning monarch on the Charleston City Council.

Matthew IV tried foot-stepping Matthew III, but got bounced for smoking pot as a plebe. Deciding on tough love, Daddy booted Sonny from the family homestead.

Matthew IV bunked in with friends, made spare change by buying rice and dried beans at the Piggly Wiggly and repackaging them as thirteen-bean soup and hoppin' John mix for the tourists. On February 28, young Matt left his stall at the Old City Market near East Bay Street, walked to Meeting Street, and vanished. He was eighteen.

Emma's directions sent me over the Wando River and north to the Francis Marion National Forest, a quarter-million-acre triangle of coastal plain bordered on the north by the Santee River, on the east by the intracoastal waterway, and on the west by Lake Moultrie. Slammed hard in '89 by Hurricane Hugo, the flora in the Francis Marion had rebounded with all the vigor of a Brazilian jungle. The whole drive I worried about finding the action.

I needn't have. Vehicles lined the shoulder. Cruisers with their lights flashing. A coroner's van. A park ranger's Jeep. A battered Chevy Nova. Two SUVs, their occupants bumper-leaning in tanks and cutoffs, faces bearing identical expressions of eager curiosity, already telling the story in their heads.

I was pleased to see no media trucks, but, given the crowd, doubted that would last.

Besides the gawkers, the only people visible were a uniform and two black kids. Grabbing my pack, I climbed from the car and headed toward them.

The boys had shaved heads and looked about sixteen. Both were gangstered up in enormous basketball jerseys and butt-hanger jeans. From Emma's report, I guessed this was the lucky pair that had blundered upon the body.

The cop was a small man with brown-black eyes. His name tag said H. Tybee. Despite the oppressive heat and humidity, Deputy Tybee's creases were razors and his hat sat perfectly squared to his brows.

Hearing me approach, Tybee stopped his interview and looked up. His nose was pointy with a high, narrow bridge. I imagined his buddies calling him "Hawk."

The kids regarded me with arms crossed, heads canted so their ears almost touched their shoulders. Tybee kept his expression neutral so I could read it any way I chose. I read it as arrogant.

Three boys acting tough.

I introduced myself and explained my connection to the coroner.

Tybee crooked his head toward the woods.

"DOA's yonder."

Yonder?

"These homeboys claim they don't know squat."

The homeboys shifted their slouches to smirk at each other.

I spoke to the taller of the two. "What's your name?"

"Jamal."

"What happened, Jamal?"

"We already tole him."

"Tell me."

Jamal shrugged. "We seen something hanging from a tree. That's it."

"Did you recognize the person hanging from the tree?"

"Dude's messed up."

"Why were you in the woods?"

"Enjoying nature." Traded smirks.

Hearing a motor, we all checked the road.

A white Ford Explorer with a blue star on the side panel was rounding the curve. We watched it pull to a stop behind one of the cruisers. A man got out, followed by a dog.

The man was tall, maybe six-two, and broad-chested, like a boxer. He wore pressed khakis and aviator shades. The dog was brown and had retriever somewhere in its parentage.

I was beginning to feel underdressed. Next outing, I'd bring Boyd.

The man strode toward us, carrying himself like someone who might speed-dial the governor. The words "Sheriff Junius Gullet" were embroidered on the left of his crisp white shirt.

Jamal uncrossed his arms and shoved his hands downward. Only the fingertips went low enough to take cover in the pockets.

"Afternoon, sir." Tybee touched his brim. "Lady says she's with the coroner."

"Spoke to Miz Rousseau." Gullet pronounced the name "Roosa." "And such would appear to be the case."

The dog moved to the edge of the woods and lifted a leg at each of several trees.

Gullet's eyes flicked me up and down. Then he thrust out an arm, and his hand swallowed mine in a ball-breaker grip.

"You're the lady doc from Charlotte." Gullet spoke without intonation.

"Anthropologist."

"Miz Rousseau usually uses Jaffer."

"I'm sure she told you, he's out of the country."

"Bit out of the ordinary, but it's Miz Rousseau's call. She give you background?"

I nodded.

"Kid lived less than a mile from here with a houseful of baseheads." OK. The sheriff wasn't one for gushy intros. "Seen the body?" Flat.

"I just arrived."

"Dude's worm food." Jamal's smirk went wider than his face.

Gullet's face came around slowly. It was without expression, almost bored. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then, "You get off on disrespecting the dead, son?"

Jamal shrugged. "Man, that dude's head-"

Gullet hit him in the sternum with one beefy finger. "You want to shut your mouth long enough to listen? That 'worm food' is one of the Lord's own souls, just like the rest of us." Gullet withdrew his finger. "Maybe even you, son."

Both boys developed an intense interest in their sneakers.

To me: "Yonder's a trail leading to swampland. This part of the park isn't a hot spot for locals or tourists. Nothing much to fish. Too buggy to camp."

I nodded.

"Hope you're ready for this."

I nodded again.

"Nothin' shocks this old boy anymore."

The dog scampered ahead. I followed Gullet.

Walking into the woods, I channeled my mind into death scene mode. From this point on I would tune out the extraneous and focus only on the relevant. I would notice every overly lush plant, every bent twig, every odor, every insect. The human melee around me would become white noise.

Here the forest was a mixture of loblolly pine, sweet gum, hemlock, and beech. Dogwood, witch hazel, and sweet shrub packed the under-story, tinting the air with sun-baked sweetness.

Gullet set a swift pace. Sun slipped through the lattice overhead, creating a wild geometry of light and shadow. Now and then leaves rustled, tattling on some startled creature. Underfoot, the soil felt soft and moist.