Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

“Seems old T-Bird had other reasons for making himself scarce. Little matter of an outstanding warrant.”

“Cuervo failed to show for a court hearing?” I guessed.

“Drug charge. August twenty-ninth.”

“Any luck with his cell phone?”

“Records show no incoming or outgoing calls since August twenty-fifth. Tracking individual numbers will take some time.”

“You going to toss the shop now?”

Slidell shook his head. “Tomorrow. Tonight I gotta run Larabee’s prints.”

That made sense. The Lake Wylie case was definitely murder. We weren’t even certain the Greenleaf cellar involved criminal activity.

I retrieved the print forms from the main autopsy room and gave them to Slidell.

“I want to be there,” I said.

“Eh,” he said.

I took that as assent.

When Slidell had gone, I looked at my watch. Eight forty. Apparently Skinny’s social life was as pathetic as mine.

I was rebagging the skull when a ping sounded in my brain. You know. You’ve had them. In comics they appear as overhead bulbs with radiating lines.

Prints.

Wax.

What are the chances?

It happens.

Using a scalpel, I cut intersecting lines in the wax coating the top of the skull, outlining a roughly two-inch square. With some teasing, a flake lifted free.

I repeated the process until the entire wax cap lay in pieces on a stainless steel tray. One by one I viewed each under the scope.

I was three-quarters through when I saw it on the concave side of a segment that had adhered to the right parietal. One perfect thumbprint.

Why the undersurface? Had the wax lifted the print from the underlying skull? Had the perp’s finger contacted the hot wax as it was poured or as it dripped from a candle?

It didn’t matter. The print was there and it could lead to a suspect.

Feeling pumped, I dialed Slidell. His voice mail answered. I left a message.

After photographing the print with direct then angled light, I examined every flake twice, upside and downside. I found nothing.

The clock said 10:22.

Time to go.

I was pulling into my drive when Slidell called.

His news trumped mine.

“James Edward Klapec. Went by Jimmy. Seventeen. Looks better with his head. But not much.”

Slidell’s comment irked me even more than usual. We were talking about a dead child. I said nothing.

“Parents live down east, near Jacksonville,” Slidell continued. “Father’s a retired marine, pumps gas, mother works in the commissary at Camp Lejeune. Dropped a dime, found out little Jimmy split last February.”

“Did the parents know he was living in Charlotte?”

“Yeah. The kid phoned every couple months. Last call came sometime in early September. They weren’t sure the exact date. Keep in mind, these folks ain’t checking the mail for an invite from MENSA.”

I wondered how Slidell knew about MENSA, but let it go.

“The Klapecs didn’t come to Charlotte to take their son home?”

“According to Dad, the kid was sixteen and could do as he pleased.” Slidell paused. “That’s what he said, but this shitbird read like an open book. The kid was queer and Klapec wanted nothing to do with him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Called him a faggot.”

Clear enough.

“Why was Klapec in the system?”

“Kid was a chicken hawk.”

That made no sense. In the parlance of my gay friends, chicken hawks were older gay men looking for young blood.

“I know you’re going to explain that,” I said.

“Punks that hang around gay bars waiting for prey. You know, circling, like chicken hawks. Great lifestyle. Do a john, score some dough, get wasted.”

Deciding the term in this context was a cop thing, I let it go.

So the Lake Wylie boy had followed a common path for runaways. Kid leaves home expecting a Ken Kesey Merry Pranksters bus ride, ends up eating garbage from Dumpsters and turning tricks. It’s a heartrending but predictable course.

“Did you speak with the mother?”

“No.”

“Did you mention the condition of the body?”

There was a brief silence. Then, “Maybe we’ll find the head and they don’t have to know.”

So Badass Slidell had a heart after all.

I described the wax print.

“Worth running,” Slidell said. “Klapec worked a patch in NoDa, around Thirty-sixth and North Davidson.” NoDa. North Davidson. Charlotte’s version of SoHo. “Rinaldi’s gonna float his picture, see what the homeys are willing to share. Before he heads up there I’ll have him collect your wax and run it by the lab.”

“What time are you tossing Cuervo’s shop?”

“Eight. Sharp. And, doc?”

I waited.

“You oughta stay out of the spotlight.”

Overnight, a front swaggered down from the mountains and kicked aside the warm comforter swaddling the Piedmont. I awoke to the smell of wet leaves and the sound of rain drumming my window. Beyond the screen, magnolia branches worked hard in the wind.

Cuervo’s shop was located just south of uptown, in a neighborhood that wasn’t a Queen City showplace. Many enterprises were fifties and sixties Dixie, chicken and burger franchises, body shops, barbecue joints. Others catered to more recent arrivals. Tienda Los Amigos. Panadería y Pastelería Miguel. Supermercado Mexicano. All were housed in strip malls well past their prime.

La Botánica Buena Salud was no exception. Brick, with a dark, brown-tinted window, the operation was flanked by a tattoo parlor and a bronzing salon. An ice cream shop, an insurance agency, a plumbing supply outfit, and a pizzeria completed the assemblage.

A beat-to-crap Mustang and an ancient Corolla occupied a narrow band of asphalt fronting the shops. Each gleamed as though buffed by a proud new owner. A good drenching will do that for old junkers.

I parked and tuned into WFAE. Sipping coffee from a travel mug, I listened to Weekend Edition.

Ten minutes passed with no sign of CSS or Slidell. So much for eight sharp.

Rain turned the neon lights on the tattoo parlor to orange and blue streaks. Through the wash on my windshield I watched a homeless man pick through trash, waterlogged sweatshirt hanging to his knees.

Scott Simon was reporting on mutated frogs when my eyes drifted to the driver’s-side rearview. Slidell was framed in the glass. Below it letters announced: Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

A sobering thought.

Killing the engine, I got out.

Slidell was also breakfasting on the run, a Bojangles sausage biscuit and a Nehi orange.

“Hell of a downpour, eh?” Garbled.

“Mm.” Water was soaking my hair and running down my face. I raised the hood of my sweatshirt. “Is CSS coming?”

“Thought we’d poke around first, see if they’re needed.”

Preferring to examine his scenes pristine, undisturbed, Slidell’s normal MO was to allow himself time alone before calling in the techs.

Downing the last of his biscuit and soda, Slidell bunched and stuffed the wrapper into the can, then unpocketed and flourished a set of keys. “Asshole at the management office has punctuality issues.”

Up the strip, a storm drain had clogged, turning the asphalt into a shallow pond. Together, Slidell and I slogged to the shop.

I waited while he tried key after key. A bus whooshed past, water spraying from all of its tires.

“Want me to try?” I offered.

“I got it.”

Keys continued jangling.

Rain pelted Slidell’s windbreaker and dripped from the bill of his cap. My sweatshirt grew heavy, began to lengthen like that of the bum.

Far off a car alarm whooped.

Finally, something clicked. Slidell pushed. The door opened with a soft tinkling of bells.