Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

I opened Lonnie Aikman's file, and Ryan and I skimmed Winborne's article.

Ryan thought a moment. "Kucharski thought Helms may have had Tourette's."

"Symptoms fit."

"So he may have been under a doctor's care."

"Maybe."

"Aikman was schizophrenic and on meds," Ryan noted.

"So the article says."

"Prescribed by a doctor."

I got Ryan's meaning. "You think Helms or Aikman could have been treated at the GMC clinic?"

"It's something to gnaw on. Willie Helms was a long shot and that panned out."

I wasn't really listening. I was remembering. Another MP Another article. Retrieved by Dumpster-diving in a storm. Name?

Grabbing the tablet on which I'd drawn my spreadsheet, I fanned the pages. A small rectangle fluttered to the tabletop. Post and Courrier, Friday, May 19.

I read aloud, picking out the salient points for Ryan.

"Jimmie Ray Teal is a forty-seven-year-old male who disappeared on May eighth," I said. "He was last seen leaving his brother's Jackson Street apartment heading for a medical appointment."

Bolting from the table, I dug out a phone directory and thumbed through the T's. There was a Nelson Teal listed on Jackson. I dialed. The phone went unanswered for ten rings. I dialed again, with the same result.

Ryan and I looked at each other.

"Aikman's mother lives in Mount Pleasant," Ryan said.

I went back to the directory.

"No Aikmans in Mount Pleasant, but there's one on Isle of Palms, another in Moncks Corner, and a couple in Charleston."

Ryan dialed the suburbs, while I took Charleston proper. Amazingly, everyone answered. Sadly, no one knew or had heard of Lonnie or his mother.

"I've met the journalist," I said.

"Got his number?"

I scrolled through calls received on my cell. Winborne's number was still there. Phoning him appealed to me about as much as a case of shingles. But at least the bozo hadn't written anything on Cruikshank.

I checked my watch: 10:07. Drawing a deep breath, I dialed.

"Winborne." Distorted, as though through half-chewed caramels.

"It's Dr. Brennan."

"Hold on."

A pop-top whooshed. I heard swallowing.

"OK. Shoot."

I repeated my name.

There was crinkling, then the sound of more chewing. "The lady dug the site on Dewees?"

"Yes."

"Got more than you bargained for on that one, eh, Doc?" Plankton was as annoying on the phone as he'd been in person.

"Mr. Winborne, this past March you wrote an article for the Moultrie News concerning the 2004 disappearance of a man named Lonnie Aikman."

"How 'bout that. The chick reads my stuff."

The chick fought the urge to disconnect.

"May I ask why you did a story so long after Aikman's disappearance?

"You're phoning to tell me that skeleton was ole Lonnie."

"No, I am not."

"It is, though, isn't it?"

"No."

"Bullshit."

I waited.

"You still there?"

"I'm here."

"The Dewees stiff's really not Aikman?"

"The remains were not those of Lonnie Aikman."

"But you know who it is."

"I'm not at liberty to release that information. Mr. Winborne, I'd like to know the reason for your interest in Lonnie Aikman."

"You know the drill, Doc." Garbled by spitty mastication. "You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Suddenly, I'm feeling a mite itchy."

I hesitated. What to give the little reptile?

"The man on Dewees has been positively identified through dental records. While I lack the authority to release his name, I promise to encourage the coroner to share that information with you once next of kin notification has been completed."

"That's it?"

"I also promise that if the Dewees skeleton turns into breaking news-"

"Did you actually say breaking news? Like on CNN? Like I could do a spot with Anderson Cooper? Maybe Wolf would invite me to the Situation Room?"

"Mr. Winborne, I-"

"Breaking news! I think I may wet myself."

Winborne's cackling set my nerves on edge.

"I would simply like to know what you learned about Lonnie Aikman."

"Why?"

"The information may be relevant to a death investigation." Through barely parted teeth.

"Whose?"

"I can't tell you that."

"How's Cruikshank fit in?"

"What?"

"The PI found swinging in the Francis Marion. How's he fit in?"

"You reported that Aikman's mother lives in Mount Pleasant, yet I can't find a listing."

"Cruikshank?"

This was going nowhere. I had to give him something.

"Noble Cruikshank's death is being viewed as a probable suicide."

"Probable?"

"The coroner's investigation is ongoing."

"What was he looking at?"

"Cruikshank specialized in missing persons."

"Like Lonnie Aikman?"

"I have no reason to suspect that Cruikshank's death is connected to the disappearance of Lonnie Aikman. Now I'm itching, Mr. Win-borne."

"Fair enough. Susie Ruth Aikman remarried. Phone's in her new husband's name."

"May I have the number?"

"Doc, you know better. Giving that out would be violating a confidence, exposing an informant to who knows what."

All my molars were now tightly clamped. "Would you call Mrs. Aikman and ask her to phone me?"

"Sure, Doc. This is going well, don't you think?"

Twenty minutes later he phoned back.

"Four days ago a car was hauled from a creek bed off Highway 176, northwest of Goose Creek. A woman was behind the wheel."

Winborne sounded shaken.

"Susie Ruth Aikman is dead."

"COPS ON THE SCENE FOUND NO SIGNS OF FOUL PLAY, FIGURED Susie Ruth fell asleep or konked out and veered off the road."

"How old was she?"

"Seventy-two." All jollity had left Winborne's voice.

"Was she ill? Heart problems? Dementia?"

"Not that anyone knew."

My mind was racing. An unexplained traffic fatality would normally call for a coroner's investigation. Susie Ruth Aikman's body was found on Tuesday. Emma and I had spent that whole day together. Why hadn't she mentioned the old woman's death? She was too ill? Forgot? Didn't see the relevance?

"Look, I wasn't bucking at the bit to crash your dig. That was my editor's brilliant idea. But when you found those bones…" Winborne hesitated, as though weighing how much to reveal, how much to hold back. "I've been poking at something for a couple months now."

I waited out another, longer pause.

"I don't want to do this over the phone. Meet me tomorrow."

"Tell me when and where."

"Unitarian Church, corner of Clifford and Archdale. Follow the brick walkway to the path connecting to King. I'll be there at nine. I'll wait ten minutes."

"Do I come solo and dress in black?"

"Yeah, come alone. Wear what you want."

I was treated to another dial tone. Lately that was happening a lot. While preparing for bed, I told Ryan about my upcoming rendezvous with Winborne.

"Hang a flag on the balcony?"

"Oh, yeah," I agreed. "Very Deep Throat."

Ryan removed my panties and draped them on the deck.

At nine the next morning I was passing through the Unitarian churchyard gates. Ryan was next door at St. John's Lutheran. Bells were gonging at the cathedral, First Baptist, Emmanuel A.M.E., Bethel United Methodist, St. Michael's Episcopal, and First Scots Presbyterian. Really. It's no fluke Charleston's nicknamed the Holy City.

The Unitarian churchyard was like a hothouse gone feral. Lush trees ruled the path. Crepe myrtles, lantana, and daylilies held sway at the cemetery.

Winborne was at the spot he'd described, five-o'clock shadow making his face resemble an unwashed ashtray. My guess? Plankton looked unshaven long before stubble was cool.

Winborne watched me approach, a guarded smile on his lips.