Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

A receptionist ushered us to restrooms so we could wash the blood from our hands and arms. Or maybe it was a nurse. Or an orderly. Who knew? Upon our return, she asked us to take seats and wait.

Slidell started to bluster. I led him by one arm to a row of interlocking metal seats. His muscles felt tense as tree roots.

Sensitive to Slidell’s mood, everyone left us alone. Those in law enforcement understood. Their presence was enough.

Slidell and I dropped into chairs and began our vigil, each lost in thoughts of our own.

I kept hearing the shots, picturing Rinaldi’s ghostly face. The blood. Too much blood.

Every few minutes Slidell would lurch to his feet and disappear outside. Each time he returned, cigarette smoke rode him like rain on a dog. I almost envied him the diversion.

Slowly, the number of cops increased. Plainclothes detectives stood in groups with uniformed patrolmen, faces tense, voices hushed.

Finally, a grim-faced doctor approached wearing blood-spattered scrubs. A stain on one sleeve mimicked the shape of New Zealand. Why would I think of that?

Slidell and I rose, terrified, hopeful. The doctor’s badge said Meloy.

Meloy told us that Rinaldi had taken two rounds to the chest and one to the abdomen. One wound was through and through. Two bullets remained in his body.

“He conscious?” Slidell asked, face fixed in grim resolution.

“He’s still in surgery,” Meloy said.

“He gonna make it?”

“Mr. Rinaldi has lost a lot of blood. Tissue damage is extensive.”

Slidell forced his voice even. “That ain’t an answer.”

“The prognosis is not good.”

Meloy led us to a staff lounge and told us to stay as long as we wanted.

“When’s he come off the table?” Slidell asked.

“That’s impossible to say.”

Promising to find us if there were developments, Meloy left.

Rinaldi died at 11:42 P.M.

Slidell listened stone-faced as Meloy delivered the news. Then he turned and strode from the room.

A cop drove me home. I should have said thanks, but didn’t. Like Slidell, I was too battered for niceties. Later I learned her name and sent a note. I think she understood.

Once in bed, I cried until I could cry no more. Then I fell into a dreamless sleep.

I awoke Sunday morning feeling something was wrong, but unsure what. When I remembered, I cried all over again.

The Observer ’s headlines were huge, the kind reserved for the outbreak of war or peace. Bold, two-inch letters screamed POLICE DETECTIVE SLAIN!

TV and radio coverage was equally frenzied, the rhetoric wildly speculative. Gang murder. Assassination. Drive-by shooting. Execution-style killing.

Asa Finney did not escape notice. Finney was described as a self-proclaimed witch arrested for possession of the Greenleaf cauldron skull, and as a person of interest in the Satanic killing of Jimmy Klapec.

Allison Stallings’s photo of Finney appeared on the front page of the Observer, on the Internet, and behind somber reporters at TV anchor desks. Everywhere, reports emphasized the fact that Rinaldi had been investigating both the Greenleaf and the Klapec cases.

My early morning sampling of media coverage left me despondent. And the day went downhill from there.

Katy called around ten to say she was sorry about Rinaldi. I thanked her, and asked about the picnic. She said it was about as much fun as a boil on the butt. And now they were sending her to some backass place in Buncombe County to help sort and tag documents. I said that her recent negativity was a real downer. Or something equally imprudent. She said I was the negative one, that I criticized everything about her. Like what? Her taste in music. I denied it. She challenged me to name a single group she liked. I couldn’t. And so on. We hung up, hostile and angry.

Boyce Lingo was on the air by noon, railing against decadence and corruption and insisting the world remake itself in his narrow image. As before, he encouraged his constituents to take a proactive stance against evil and to insist that their elected officials do likewise.

Boyce pointed to Asa Finney as an example of all that was wrong in today’s society. To my dismay, he referred to Finney as a minion of Satan, and implied a link to Rinaldi’s murder.

A Google of Allison Stallings eventually revealed that she was a writer of true crime with one publication under her belt, a low-budget mass market exposé of a domestic homicide in Columbus, Georgia. The book wasn’t even listed on Amazon.

Stallings had also earned photography credits in the Columbus Ledger-Inquirer, and one big score with the Associated Press.

Dear God. The woman was snooping for book ideas.

Around three, I checked my e-mail. There was a message from the OCME in Chapel Hill. It made three points. The chief was deeply troubled by my rant Friday morning. I was to abstain from all contact with the press. I’d be hearing from him first thing on Tuesday.

Ryan didn’t call.

Charlie didn’t call.

Birdie threw up on the bathroom rug.

In between e-mails and phone calls and vomit and tears, I cleaned. Not the run-the-vacuum-swipe-a-dust-cloth type slicking-up. I attacked the Annex with fury, toothbrush-scrubbing the bathroom grout, scouring the oven, changing the AC filters, defrosting the freezer, discarding just about everything in the medicine cabinet.

The intense physical activity worked. Until I stopped.

At six, I stood in my gleaming kitchen, grief once again threatening to overwhelm my composure. Birdie was in bunker mode atop the refrigerator.

“This won’t do, Bird,” I said.

The cat studied me, still wary of the vacuum.

“I should do something to lift my spirits.”

No response from the lofty height of the Sub-Zero.

“Chinese,” I said. “I’ll order Chinese.”

Bird repositioned his two front paws, centering them under his upraised chin.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “You can’t constantly sit home eating out of little white cartons.”

Bird neither agreed nor disagreed.

“Good point. I’ll go to Baoding and order all my favorites.”

And that’s what I did.

And the day really hit the mung heap.

Though restaurant dining is among my favorite activities, I’ve always felt the need of a social component. When alone, I eat with Birdie, in front of the TV.

But Baoding is a southeast Charlotte end-of-the-weekend tradition. On Sunday evenings I always see faces I know.

That night was no exception.

Unhappily, these were not faces I wanted to, well, face.

Martinis are a Baoding specialty, particularly for those awaiting takeout. Not very Chinese, but there it is.

When I entered, Pete was at the bar, talking to a woman seated on his right. Both were drinking what I guessed were apple martinis.

Quick reversal of course.

Too late.

“Tempe. Yo! Over here.”

Springing from his stool, Pete caught me before I could escape out the door.

“You have to meet Summer.”

“It’s not a good-”

Beaming, Pete tugged me across the restaurant. Summer had turned and was now gazing in our direction.

It was worse than I’d imagined. Summer was overblond, with breasts the size of beach balls, and far too little blouse to accommodate them. During introductions, she wrapped a territorial hand around Pete’s upper arm.

I offered congratulations on their engagement.

Summer thanked me. Coolly.

Pete beamed on, oblivious to the hypothermics.

I asked how wedding plans were progressing.

Summer shrugged, speared an apple slice with a red plastic swizzle stick.

Mercifully, at that moment their order arrived.

Summer popped from her stool like a spring-loaded doll. Snatching the bag, she mumbled, “Nice to meetcha,” and made for the door, leaving a gale of fleur-de-something in her wake.