Kathy Reichs: Spider Bones

I turned to face Ryan and Lô.

For a full thirty seconds no one ventured an opinion. Lô went first.

“My gut says this asshole’s full of shit.”

“It has to be Spider,” I said. “Who else would know about Long Binh? The Huey crash? Xander’s reason for traveling to Vietnam?”

“How could Xander have been on a military chopper?” Lô asked.

“Civilians hitched rides all the time,” I said.

“He look right for it?”

I pulled two pictures from my purse. The snapshot I’d found in Jean Laurier’s desk drawer. The team photo Plato had taken from his album.

The three of us studied the face of young Spider. That of the man on the screen.

Both had the same dark eyes and heavy curved brows.

“Hard to tell with the mask,” Lô said. “Plus this guy’s circling the drain.”

“The eyes seem right,” Ryan said.

“If the man’s lying, what’s his motive?” I asked.

No one had a theory on that.

“One thing bothers me,” Lô said. “How’d this Spider, not being Samoan, hook up with SOS?”

Or a theory on that.

“If he is legit, that would explain Spider’s dog tag turning up with Xander Lapasa’s body,” I said.

“It wouldn’t explain us rolling Spider’s prints off the Hemmingford vic,” Ryan countered.

“No,” I agreed. “But it would explain why DNA showed that that man could not be Harriet’s son.”

“Anyone thirsty?” Lô rose.

“Diet Coke,” I said.

“Coffee.”

“Don’t start without me.” Lô disappeared through the door.

To pass the time, I looked again at the photos. There was Spider leaning on the Chevy. There he was, a scrolly number 12 on his chest.

I wondered what position Spider had played. If he’d enjoyed baseball. How often the coach had sent him into a game.

Plato said a cousin got Spider to join the team, that his son mostly rode the bench.

What was the cousin’s name?

Reggie. Reggie Cumbo.

I looked at Reggie, down on one knee, unsmiling. The resemblance to Spider really was uncanny.

Plato said the boys were related through Harriet.

I pictured the old man as he spoke of his wife. Again felt his grief.

What had Plato said? Harriet had pretty eyes, one brown, one green as a loblolly pine.

A minute particle popped into being in my brain.

Fingerprints said the man who died in Hemmingford was Spider Lowery.

DNA said he wasn’t.

Army records said Spider Lowery died in Vietnam.

The man talking to Schoon said he didn’t.

I remembered the snapshot of Harriet Lowery standing on a pier. Her sun-fried chest. Her mismatched eyes.

The lone particle was joined by others.

I remembered my conversation with Harriet’s transplant physician. Macken admitted that irregularities had surfaced during testing for tissue compatibility. DNA showed that Harriet could not be Tom’s mother.

Plato and Harriet rejected that.

Tom was Spider’s twin.

I recalled a court case. An article.

The particles coalesced into a full-blown theory.

I stared at the monitor, hardly breathing, willing the man in the mask to look into the camera.

The door opened.

Come on!

Footsteps crossed the room.

Come on!

Lô set a Coke in front of me.

Come on!

On the screen, Schoon entered and placed a white paper bag on the table. The duo from California withdrew sodas, sandwiches, paper napkins. Popped cans. Opened and squeezed packets of mayo and mustard.

Do it, you bastard! Look at me!

Finally, he did.

And I knew who he was.

And what had happened.

I SHOT TO MY FEET.

“I need to get online.”

Ryan and Lô looked at me like I’d said I was joining Al Qaeda.

“Tell Schoon to stall.”

“Why?”

“Just keep this guy talking.”

I hurried to reception and made my request.

Unruffled, Tina led me to an empty office, typed a few keystrokes, and withdrew without query.

Moneypenny was all right.

Logging on, I went to the New England Journal of Medicine, called up an article, and speed-read. Scribbled notes. Moved through link after link until satisfied my understanding was adequate.

Next I entered a name and followed those loops.

A second name.

More loops.

I practically danced my way back to the conference room.

A woman had joined Ryan and Lô. She was tall, with short brown hair and acne-scarred cheeks. I placed her age at midthirties.

Lô made introductions. He didn’t look happy.

The newcomer was Maya Cotton, an ADA with the Honolulu prosecutor’s office.

Cotton and I shook hands.

“Anyway, sorry to spoil your day,” Cotton said.

“Sonofabitch.” Lô whacked a table leg with one foot.

“What?” I asked, not really interested, anxious to share my breakthrough.

“They kicked Pinky Atoa this morning.”

That surprised me. “He admitted to being involved in the Kealoha-Faalogo murder.”

Snorting in disgust, Lô gestured to Cotton.

“It turned out Atoa was actually only sixteen. The confession’s out. Since there’s really nothing else, he couldn’t be held.”

Down the hall, Schoon was still questioning Face Mask.

“Did I miss much?” I asked, gesturing at the screen.

“Spider’s reborn,” Ryan said. “Plans to join the Jesuits.”

“I know what happened.” I was so jazzed I showed no empathy for Lô’s frustration. “Spider. Xander. Lapasa. I just needed some medical info.”

“Lecture alert,” Ryan whispered to Lô and Cotton.

“I’ll keep it brief.” I was too pumped to take offense.

“And intelligible.”

“Yeah, yeah. No jargon.”

Deep breath.

“In two thousand two a pregnant woman named Lydia Fairchild applied for welfare in the UK. In addition to her unborn infant, she had two children by a man named Jamie Townsend. As part of the application process, Fairchild had to provide DNA evidence that Townsend was the father. Results showed that he was, but indicated that she wasn’t the mother.”

“Bummer,” Ryan said.

“No kidding. Fairchild was accused of fraud and her kids were taken into care. A judge ordered that a witness be present when she delivered, and that blood samples be taken from Fairchild and the baby. DNA indicated she was not the mother of that child either, even though it was a witnessed birth. A breakthrough came when lawyers discovered a similar case in Boston.”

“Thank the Lord for defense attorneys.” Lô, the king of sarcasm.

“In fact, it was the prosecutor.” I smiled at Cotton. “In nineteen ninety-eight a woman named Karen Keegan needed a kidney transplant. Her adult sons were tested for suitability as donors. Two of the three failed to match her DNA to the extent a biological child should. More sophisticated testing showed that Keegan was a chimera, a combination of two separate sets of cell lines with two separate sets of chromosomes.”

“How’d they figure that?” Ryan asked.

“Different DNA sequencing was found in tissues other than the ones originally taken from Keegan. Fairchild’s prosecutors suggested this possibility to her lawyers, and DNA samples were collected from members of the extended family. The DNA for Fairchild’s children matched that of her mother to the extent expected for a grandmother.”

“Showing she was the mother.” Cotton looked confused.

“Further tests showed that while DNA obtained from Fairchild’s skin and hair didn’t match her children’s, DNA obtained from a cervical smear was different and did match them.”