Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

Larabee was referring to the brand-new light-rail arm of CATS, the Charlotte Area Transit System. A bit much with the Panthers and Bobcats, I know. But then, mass transit planners aren’t known for their subtlety.

“Cuervo was hit by a train?”

“Crushed his legs and pelvis. He carried no ID, and no one ever claimed him.”

“Did you run prints?” My teeth weren’t chattering, but they were thinking about it.

“Yeah, right. This guy was dragged almost fifty feet. Palms and fingers were raw meat.”

“How did it happen?”

“The driver thought he saw something on the track, threw his emergency brake and blew his horn, but couldn’t stop. Apparently a train going fifty-five miles per hour takes up to six hundred feet to come to a complete halt.”

“Ouch.” I was amazed Cuervo wasn’t in worse shape.

“The cross arms were lowered and the bells and lights were activated before the train approached the station. The driver had also blown his horn.”

“Was the driver tested?” I was amazed I hadn’t heard about this incident.

“Drug and alcohol clean.”

“Cuervo was alive when the train hit him?”

“Definitely.”

“And you had no reason to doubt that his death was an accident?”

“No. And his blood alcohol level was.08. Is the guy legal?”

“Cuervo held both U.S. and Ecuadoran citizenship.”

“Any family here?”

“Apparently not. He lived alone on Greenleaf, operated a shop called La Botánica Buena Salud off South Boulevard. The INS has no permanent address for him either here or in Ecuador.”

“Makes it tough to track next of kin.”

Larabee zipped the bag and we exited to the corridor.

Back in my office, I dialed Slidell.

“I’ll be a sonovabitch.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

For a full thirty seconds, the only sounds I heard were phones ringing on Slidell’s end of the line.

“This morning I did some canvassing along that road leading to where Klapec was found. You’ll never guess what’s tucked away in those woods.”

“Why don’t you tell me.” Though the freezer had calmed my tremors and settled my stomach, already I was perspiring and my head was starting to rumble. I was not in the mood for Twenty Questions.

“A camp. I’m not talking Camp Sun in the Pines, you know, canoeing and hiking and ‘Kumbaya.’ I’m talking Camp Full Moon. As in witches and warlocks baying at it.”

“Wiccan?”

“Yep. And, according to the neighbors, who ain’t exactly thrilled with all the jujuism in their backyards, things were cooking the night before Klapec turned up.”

I started to ask what that meant, but Slidell kept on talking.

“Drumming, dancing, chanting.”

“The activity could be completely unrelated to Klapec.”

“Right. A friendly little wienie roast. I want to see Cuervo.”

“Come on down.”

Slidell hesitated a beat. Then, “And I want your take on something Eddie wrote.”

I’d barely hung up when my cell phone sounded.

Nine-one-nine area code.

Larke Tyrell.

My fragile gut clenched in anticipation of the upcoming conversation.

I’d just qualified for certification by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology when Tyrell was appointed the state’s chief medical examiner. We met through work I was doing for the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation, reassembling and identifying two drug dealers murdered and dismembered by outlaw bikers.

I was one of Tyrell’s first hires as a consulting specialist, and though our relationship was generally congenial, over the years we’d had our differences. As a result, I’d learned that the chief could be cynical and exceedingly dictatorial.

I drank water from the glass at my elbow, then, carefully, clicked on.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“Tempe. Sorry to hear you’re not feeling shipshape.” Born in the lowcountry to a Marine Corps family, then a two-hitch marine himself before med school, Tyrell spoke like a military version of Andy Griffith.

“Thank you.”

“I’m concerned, Tempe.”

“It’s just a flu.”

“About your outburst with Boyce Lingo.”

“I’d like to explain-”

“Mr. Lingo is irate.”

“He’s always irate.”

“Do you have any idea the public image nightmare you’ve created?” Tyrell was fond of the rhetorical question. Assuming this was one, I said nothing.

“This office has an official spokesperson whose responsibility it is to interact with the media. I can’t have my staff airing their personal views on medical examiner cases.”

“Lingo foments fear so he can make himself look like a hero.”

“He’s a county commissioner.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“And you think throwing a tantrum for the press is the way to neutralize him?”

I closed my lids. They felt like sandpaper sliding over my eyeballs.

“You’re right. My behavior was inexcusable.”

“Agreed. So explain why you ignored my direct order?” Tyrell sounded angrier than I’d ever heard him.

“I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “You’ve lost me.”

“Why would you brief a reporter when I requested you cease all contact with the press?”

“What reporter?”

I heard paper rustle.

“Allison Stallings. Woman had the brass ones to call my office for confirmation of information that should have been confidential. Tempe, you know that data pertaining to a child is particularly sensitive.”

“What child?”

“Anson Tyler. It’s beyond my comprehension how you could have shown so little respect for that dead little boy and his poor, grieving family.”

The sweat felt cold on my face. I had no memory of talking to Allison Stallings.

But Monday was a blank. Was it possible I’d made contact, hoping, in some boozy delusion, to clear up the misconception that Anson Tyler’s death was connected to that of Jimmy Klapec? To clarify that the Catawba River headless body was not linked to the Lake Wylie headless body? Or to the cauldron head we now knew to be Susan Redmon’s?

Or had Stallings called me? Was that why I’d shut down and shoved my mobile into a drawer?

Tyrell was still talking, his voice somber.

“-this is a serious breach. Disregarding my order. Disclosing confidential information. This behavior can’t be ignored. Action must be taken.”

I felt too weak to argue. Or to point out that Stallings was not a reporter.

“I will think long and hard what that action should be. We’ll talk soon.”

I put the phone down with one trembling hand. Finished the water. Dragged myself to the lounge and refilled the glass from the tap. Downed two aspirins. Returned to my office. Took up the Klapec report. Set it down, unable to think through the pounding in my head.

I was sitting there, doing nothing, when Slidell appeared with a grease-soaked bag of Price’s fried chicken. Normally, I’d have pounced. Not today.

“Well, don’t you look like something the dog threw up.”

“And you’re a picture of manly vitality?”

Unkind, but true. Slidell’s face was gray and a dark crescent underhung each eye.

Placing the chicken on the file cabinet, Skinny dropped into a chair opposite my desk. “Maybe you should go home and rack out.”

“It’s just a bug.”

Slidell regarded me as a cat might a sparrow. I was sure he could smell the wine sweat coating my skin.

“Yeah,” he said. “Those bugs can be a bitch. Where’s Cuervo?”

I led him to the freezer. He asked the same questions I’d asked Larabee. I relayed the information the ME had provided.

Back in my office, the fried poultry smell was overwhelming. Slidell dug in the bag and began on a drumstick. Grease trickled down his chin. It was all I could do not to gag.