Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

"It's highly likely Miss Montague is dead."

"Tell me about that."

I gave him the basics. Found in the water. Decomposition and saponification. Nothing confidential there. Not my fault if he thought it was an accidental drowning.

Still Marshall didn't open the folder. In the small, warm room I could smell his cologne. It smelled pricey. Like his nurse and receptionist, the guy was annoying as hell.

"Perhaps you'd prefer a warrant, Dr. Marshall. We could alert the media, get lots of airtime for GMC, maybe score you some national coverage."

Marshall made a decision. Or perhaps the decision had been made earlier and the good doctor had been buying time to assess.

"Unique Montague did present here for care."

"Describe her, please."

Marshall's description matched the DOA in the barrel.

"When was Miss Montague's last visit?"

"She came infrequently."

"Her last visit?"

Marshall opened the folder and carefully flattened the flap with one palm.

"August of last summer. The patient was given medication and told to return in two weeks. Miss Montague failed to follow up as advised. Of course, I can't-"

"Do you know where she lived?"

Marshall took his time perusing the file, turning pages and aligning each even with the edges of the others. "She provided an address on Meeting Street. Sadly, it is a familiar one. The Crisis Assistance Ministry."

"A shelter."

Marshall nodded.

"Did she name next of kin?"

"That line is blank." Marshall closed the file and used the same palm motion to press the crease. "That is often the case with our clientele. Unfortunately, I haven't the time to become personally involved with my patients. It's my one regret about the practice I've chosen."

"How long have you been with the clinic?"

Marshall smiled, this time baring no teeth. "We've finished discussing Miss Montague, then?"

"What else can you tell us?"

"The woman loved her dear cat."

Marshall recentered the two halves of his tie. It was silk, probably by a designer I didn't know.

"I am generally present at this clinic for some part of each Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. On alternating days I see patients elsewhere." Marshall stood. We were being dismissed. "Feel free to contact me if I can offer further assistance."

"I don't think he liked us." Ryan started the Jeep.

"What was your take?" I asked.

"The guy's a hand washer."

"He's a doctor."

"In the Howard Hughes sense. I'll bet he double-checks locks, counts paper clips, arranges his socks by color."

"I arrange my socks by color."

"You're a girl."

"I agree. Marshall's overly neat. But do you think the poser knows more than he's saying?"

"He admits he knows more than he's saying. He's a doctor."

"And the others?"

"Big."

"That's it?"

"Big and surly."

Reaching out, I cranked the AC.

"And Daniels has done time."

"Why do you say that?"

"Jailhouse tattoos."

"You're sure?"

"Trust me. I'm sure."

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe frustration at my inability to produce results. Even Ryan was irritating me.

Or was I irritated at myself for losing my cool? Why had I asked about Helene Flynn? Had mentioning her been a good move or a gaffe? Would word get back to GMC? To Gullet?

My visit could stir things up, maybe force a response from Herron, motivate GMC to cooperate in the investigation of Flynn's disappearance.

On the other hand, my little drop-in could cause problems for Emma. Infuriate the sheriff, and push him to cut me out of the loop.

At least I hadn't divulged details of Unique Montague's death.

No cool. No results.

I leaned back to ponder. I was doing that when my cell phone sounded.

No results? Oh, baby, did we have results.

EMMA SOUNDED MORE ENERGIZED THAN SHE HAD IN DAYS. WHEN I asked how she felt, it was back to "hellcat."

"Thirty-four calls. Bingo. Lee Ann hits on a dentist holding a Willie Helms chart. Dr. Charles Kucharski. I paid the old codger a visit."

"That's how you limit yourself to paperwork?"

Emma ignored that. "Kucharski was so glad for a visitor I thought he might handcuff me to a wall in a homemade bunker."

"Meaning?"

"I doubt his patient load is overwhelming."

"Uh-huh." I sounded like Daniels.

"Kucharski remembered Helms as a tall pale guy, mid to late thirties, with a lot of tics. Helms's last visit was in April of 1996."

"What kind of tics?"

"Erratic neck and hand movements. Kucharski had to secure Helms's head and wrists to the chair while he drilled and filled. Kucharski thought it could have been Tourette's."

"Did Helms provide contact information? Address? Employer?"

"Helms's father, Ralph Helms, paid the bills. Willie listed that number in his record. When Lee Ann called, the phone was no longer in service. Turns out Helms senior died in the fall of ninety-six."

"Thus the termination of the regular checkups."

"Helms gave his employer as Johnnie's Auto Parts, off Highway 52. Guy named John Hardiston buys junkers, deals in scrap metal, that kind of thing. Hardiston says he hired Helms out of friendship with Ralph, let him live in an old trailer at the back of the yard. Helms took care of the dogs, acted as a kind of security guard. Worked for Hardiston almost ten years, then, one day, just took off."

"When was that?"

"Fall of 2001. Hardiston says Helms was always talking about going to Atlanta, so he didn't think much of it, just figured the guy finally packed up and went. Hardiston says Helms turned out to be a good employee, was sorry to lose him."

"But he didn't try to find him."

"No."

"If Helms died in 2001, that fits with my estimated PMI."

"Our bug guy suggests an outer limit of five years. That was my other news. You want me to read his preliminary report?"

"Summarize."

There were pauses as Emma pulled phrases from the text. "Empty puparial cases. Multiple soil-dwelling taxa. Beetles represented by cast skins and dead adults."

I heard the shuffling of paper.

"Helms's antemortem dental X-rays showed mucho mouth metal, so I picked up the postmortems and dropped both sets by Bernie Grimes's office. He'll call as soon as he can break free to do the comparison."

Emma paused for effect.

"There's more. Buried in the mound on my desk I also found a fax from the state forensics lab."

"The eyelash yielded DNA?"

"Pleeze. They've only had it since Thursday. But a malacologist looked at the shell."

"Malacologist?" That was a new one on me.

"Expert in clams, mussels, and snails. The thing is" -pause – "Viviparus intertextus." I could tell from Emma's cadence she was reading from the fax. "Viviparus intertextus is moderately common in swamps in the South Carolina Lowcountry, but is never found at the beach, in estuaries, or anywhere near salt water."

"So that snail shouldn't have been in that grave," I said.

"The species is strictly freshwater."

"Oooohkay." My mind thumbed through the possibilities. "The vic was killed elsewhere then transported to Dewees."

"Or the body was buried elsewhere, dug up, and moved to Dewees."

"Or the snail dropped from the gravedigger's clothing or shovel."

"All reasonable explanations."

We both mulled the list. Neither of us proposed a reasonable top candidate.

Emma shifted topics. "What's happening with the barrel lady?"

I described our visit to the GMC clinic.

"Gullet's not going to like it."

"No," I agreed.

"I'll take care of it," she said. "And I'll prod him on Helms, though I doubt much will happen over the long weekend."

"You really are feeling better?"