Kathy Reichs - Bones Are Forever

Twiller’s address was at the far end, on the north side of the curve. The place needed paint, new screens, and a bucket of weed killer. Maybe a bulldozer. Twiller’s next-door neighbor had two garbage pails on his stoop and a car on cinder blocks in the drive.

We arrived to the usual hubbub of activity. The front door of Twiller’s house was open, and every indoor and outdoor bulb was blazing. Blue and yellow Evi Lites dotted the lawn, marking the locations of trace evidence, perhaps bits of Castain.

A sheet-covered body lay on a walk leading to a porch enclosed by a rusty iron railing. Crime scene tape triangled between the railing and two stunted pines in the yard. Portable halogens were focused on it.

More tape paralleled the curb on the opposite side of the culde-sac, a restraint for gawkers out for a glimpse of someone else’s misery. Possibly members of the media.

Ryan was right. It seemed every conceivable member of law enforcement had turned out. I saw cruisers from the RCMP and MED, a hearse, a panel van, and at least a dozen unmarked cars and pickups. Most had flashing lights on their roofs or dashboards. Radios added staticky sputter to the tumult of voices calling back and forth.

Ollie was off to one side, talking to a woman whose dress was too short and too tight for her heavy thighs and the rolls of fat outlining her bra. I assumed this was Merilee Twiller.

Ryan pulled to the end of the line of parked vehicles. An RCMP corporal approached his door. Ryan badged us in. We got out and walked toward Ollie.

As we drew close, I could see that Twiller was in her forties, trying hard not to look it. Despite an overload of makeup, I noted puffy lower lids, networks of deep lines, and starbursts of capillaries on either side of her nose.

Ollie didn’t explain us to Twiller. “You take a look at him?”

Ryan answered for both of us. “Not yet. What have you got so far?”

“Around seven Castain dropped in for a little poontang with the love of his life here.” Ollie flicked a thumb at Twiller.

“You’re a real dick,” she said.

“Castain left around eight. Never made it to the property line.”

“Any witnesses?” Ryan asked.

“The grieving girlfriend says she heard shots, then squealing tires. Didn’t get a look at the shooter or the car.”

“That’s how it went down.” Defensive.

“Where was lover boy going from here?”

“We’ve been over this.” Twiller kept her angry rainbow eyes on Ollie.

“I’m slow. Explain it again.”

“Arty didn’t tell me shit.”

“And you didn’t ask.”

“No.”

“I’m guessing he was heading out to deliver more product. That’s why he came here, right? You’re on the spike, aren’t you, princess?”

“Screw you and the questions you galloped in on.”

“How about I give you a ride to the cage?”

“Because my boyfriend got shot?”

“What do you suppose we’ll find in the house?”

“A shitpot of cat hair.”

Anger bunched the muscles below Ollie’s temples. He knew Twiller was right. She’d have flushed any drugs before calling the cops.

Ollie’s brusqueness was getting us nowhere. I caught Ryan’s eye and tipped my head toward the house. He dipped his chin in understanding.

“How about you show me the vic?” Ryan suggested.

Ollie nodded. Told Twiller to stay put.

I watched them weave through the melee of cops and technicians swarming the cul-de-sac.

“My condolences for your loss,” I said to Twiller.

For the first time, she glanced my way. In the pulsing red light, her mouth looked taut, her cheeks stretched and hollow. “Right” was all she said.

“Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Arty?” I asked.

Twiller drew her right arm across her belly, rested her left elbow on it, and began chewing a thumb cuticle that already looked raw.

Behind us, I saw Ollie and Ryan join a woman standing over Castain. Under the bright spots, the logo on her jacket was easily recognizable.

In the Northwest Territories, all sudden deaths are investigated by the Coroners Service, a division of the Department of Justice. The service has its main office in Yellowknife and roughly forty coroners throughout the territory. The NWT has no staffed facility for performing postmortems.

I knew that the deputy chief coroner was a woman named Maureen King. I guessed I was looking at her. And that she would order Castain’s body transported to the office of Alberta’s chief medical examiner in Edmonton for autopsy.

“Had Arty argued with anyone?” I asked Twiller. “Made anyone mad?”

Twiller shook her head.

“Received any strange phone calls or visitors?”

“I already told the other cop. We didn’t hang out that much.”

“Was Arty seeing other women?”

“We weren’t going steady, if that’s what you mean.” Twiller swiped both palms down her cheeks. “He didn’t deserve this.”

“I know.”

“Do you? What the hell do you know?”

“I’m sorry.”

Ten yards beyond us, King lifted a corner of the sheet. Ryan dropped to a crouch for a closer look at Castain.

“It’s that bastard Unka.” She said it so softly I almost didn’t hear.

“Excuse me?”

“Unka thought Arty was skimming.”

“Arty told you that?”

“I overheard a conversation. When he’s pissed, he gets ugly.”

“Unka.”

She nodded.

“Ugly enough to kill?”

“He’d gut-stab his mother, then order up pizza.”

* * *

It was past ten when the hearse finally rolled. Ollie stayed to help canvass the neighbors. The hit wasn’t his problem, but he hoped to pry something loose on Scar.

Ryan and I rode to the Explorer in silence. I looked out my window at the bare trees straining to bud, the patches of last night’s snow struggling to hang on. Felt the frustration they depicted.

Ryan spoke first. “Your friend has the interrogation skills of a slug.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“He was.”

“What’s your point?”

“He was incompetent.” Ryan patted his jacket pocket.

“Don’t smoke,” I said.

Ryan shot me a look but stopped searching for a cigarette.

“You’ve both been acting like jerks,” I said.

“I’d never be that callous.”

“He felt she was holding back.”

“Was she?”

“Yes.”

As we ascended the circle drive, I told him what Twiller had said about Unka.

“You just proved my point,” he said.

We got out of the car and crossed to the hotel.

“It gets to him,” I said, not sure why I was defending Ollie.

Ryan cocked a skeptical brow.

“He gets tired of the violence. Of constantly dealing with skanks who make you want to scrub your whole body with Lysol.”

“You speaking for shithead or yourself?”

Damn good point. I didn’t concede it.

“We both know Castain just bounced Ruben to the back burner, perhaps kicked her from the stage altogether.”

Normally, I’d have made fun of Ryan’s mixed metaphor. Not then.

“This whole thing is just too freaking frustrating.” I started for the elevator.

“We’ll find her.”

I turned.

“But now we’ll have to rely on ourselves,” he said.

“And shithead.”

“And shithead.”

A truce. Of sorts.

Back in my room, I tried my iPhone. To my surprise, it gave a listless flicker. Hopeful that the working bits just needed to dry out, I plugged it in to charge.

Using the landline, I phoned my elusive daughter. She remained elusive. I left another message.

Exhausted, I did a quick toilette, then dropped into bed. But my mind refused to disengage. I wondered about Arty Castain. Who had killed him? Why? Was it really Unka, or was it a major move by Scarborough? Had Castain’s death been the first in a bloodbath about to commence? What secrets had Castain taken to the grave?