Kathy Reichs: Spider Bones

“I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

“I don’t see the relevance.”

“I work for JPAC.” I spoke directly to Cumbo. “The Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Cumbo didn’t raise his head or acknowledge my question.

“JPAC’s mission is to locate American war dead and bring them home. And they do a fine job of it.”

Epstein started to object. I continued to ignore him.

“I’m involved in the case of a soldier who was killed in Vietnam, eventually buried in his home state of North Carolina.”

Nothing.

“That soldier’s friends and family called him Spider.”

The half-moon plums pinched up ever so slightly.

“Recently an odd thing happened. A man died in Canada. Fingerprints identified that man as Spider. But Spider was buried in Lumberton, North Carolina.”

Cumbo began working his thumbnails. I noticed they were yellow and ridged.

“As you can imagine, this situation created considerable confusion. The army doesn’t like confusion. They opened an investigation to determine how the same man could be dead in two places.”

I paused for effect.

“But I think you know.”

“This is ridiculous,” Epstein said.

Still I ignored him.

“Spider’s real name was John Charles Lowery.”

Epstein and Schoon both looked surprised. Epstein regretted it. Forced his face blank.

“But you claim you are John Charles Lowery. You say you killed Xander Lapasa in Long Binh forty years ago and assumed his identity.”

Placing my forearms on the table, I leaned in.

“But John Charles Lowery never went to Vietnam. Did he, Reggie?”

Still Cumbo avoided my eyes.

“You remember Spider. You were cousins. You went to school together. Played baseball together. Wasn’t it you who encouraged Spider to join the team?”

Cumbo’s thumbnails were clicking double-time.

“Want to know how Spider died? He tied a rock to his ankle and drowned himself. His body’s lying in a morgue in Montreal. The tag on his toe says John Doe.”

A bit loose with the facts, but close enough.

Epstein flapped a hand, dismissive. “We’re finished here. This woman is clearly misinformed.” He gripped the arms of his chair and began to push back.

“You’re right and you’re wrong.” Cumbo’s eyes bore into mine.

“Mr. Lapasa, I strongly advise—”

Without turning, Cumbo raised a finger, a teacher demanding silence.

Epstein frowned disapproval.

Unhooking the elastic loops from his ears, Cumbo removed the mask.

I forced myself still.

Cumbo hadn’t worn protection out of fear of infection. The lower half of his face was grotesquely disfigured. His chin skewed right at an unnatural angle, and his lower jaw appeared way too small. I guessed most of his mandible had been surgically removed. His neck had a cavernous indentation, and a scar jagged diagonally across his throat.

“That make us even? Your face is shit too.”

I kept my eyes steady on Cumbo’s.

“You nailed it,” he said. “I’m not Al Lapasa. And I’m not Spider.”

“You’re Reggie Cumbo.”

“Haven’t been Reggie Cumbo for over forty years.”

“You reported for military service in Spider’s place.”

“He didn’t want to go. I did.”

“Spider went to Canada.”

Cumbo shrugged. “He liked snow.”

“Did you keep in touch?”

“For a while. I forwarded his mama’s letters. Quit when I headed to Nam.” Cumbo’s mouth executed a slippery sideways maneuver. “Still got some of her crap in a box.”

“The army wasn’t what you expected.”

Cumbo’s eyes narrowed.

“Combat. Hot, stinking jungle. You wanted out.”

“That war was stupid.” Defensive.

“So you murdered Xander Lapasa.”

“What? Am I watching a rerun?” Cumbo tossed the mask. It did a lopsided roll across the table, then dropped to the floor.

I switched topics.

“You own a bar in Oakland called the Savaii.”

“That a crime?”

“Savaii is a town in Samoa.”

“Now we all get an A in geography.”

“The Savaii is a hangout for members of a street gang called Sons of Samoa.”

Cumbo raised then dropped his hands back on the table. So?

“How does someone from Lumberton, North Carolina, end up SOS?”

“I got dark good looks so I fit the part. Indian, you know.” Cumbo’s mouth and chin tucked sideways in an attempt at an ironic grin. It was repellent. “Crips heard the name Lapasa, figured I was Samoan. Being a cuz worked for me, so I rolled with it.”

Schoon cleared his throat.

Epstein listened, quiet but vigilant.

“Tell me about Francis Kealoha.”

“Who the fuck’s Francis Kealoha?”

“Perhaps you know him as Frankie Olopoto.”

Below the scar Cumbo’s Adam’s apple rose then fell.

“How about George Faalogo? That name ring a bell?”

Cumbo said nothing.

“Let’s talk about Nickie Lapasa.”

No response.

“Xander’s brother. Xander Lapasa. The poor chump you murdered. I’m sure you’re aware that Nickie Lapasa is a powerful man. A rich man. I’m sure you know the Lapasa family has financial interests that extend far beyond the state of Hawaii. Maybe even to California. You told us you looked Nickie up online. Was that a little fib, Reggie? Are you and Nickie acquainted through, shall we say, professional ties?”

Schoon came to life.

“We will not discuss Nicholas Lapasa’s personal or professional affairs at any time during this interview.”

“Is that why you sent Frankie and Logo out here?” I pressed on.

Cumbo’s eyes narrowed even further, but he said nothing.

I pulled another topic switch.

“I understand you’re under investigation for selling illegal drugs. You deal out of your bar, Reggie?”

Now it was Epstein’s turn to object. “You’re crossing a line, miss.”

“You looking to expand distribution?” I continued drilling Cumbo. “Is that why you sent Kealoha and Faalogo to Hawaii? They your front men for new projects?”

“Enough!” Epstein was on his feet.

“You screwed up, Reggie. You sent Frankie and Logo onto another man’s turf. Ever hear of L’il Bud T’eo? You sent them into T’eo’s house.”

“This is outrageous.” A flush was spreading upward from Epstein’s collar.

“You got them killed, Reggie.”

“What the fuck?” Cumbo’s lips parted, revealing a tongue that looked like a shriveled eel.

“The sharks didn’t leave much to ID.”

Cumbo’s mouth closed, made another oily loop.

“Your line of questioning is completely out of order.”

For the first time I looked at Epstein. I had to credit the guy. He was tenacious as crabgrass.

“For this interview to continue you must focus exclusively on circumstances surrounding Xander Lapasa’s death.”

“Fine. Let’s focus on Xander. Your client says he wants to come clean about the murder. Still he lies about his real identity.” I turned to Cumbo. “Why is that, Reggie?”

“I told you. I have regrets.”

“You’re seeking peace? Forgiveness? Or are you just looking to save your ass?”

Cumbo snorted in derision.

“You know what I think, Reggie? Maybe the cops are closing in on your little operation. Maybe you’re taking heat from SOS for getting Frankie and Logo killed. Maybe you found out T’eo’s put a price on your head. Whatever. I doubt you give a rat’s ass about clearing your conscience. I think you’re looking to boogie again.”

I was on a roll, making it up as I went along.

“I think you see the clock ticking on Al Lapasa. I think you’re hoping John Lowery is your new get-out-of-jail-free card. That’s your MO, right? Steal someone else’s name and disappear? Reggie Cumbo becomes Spider Lowery. Spider Lowery becomes Al Lapasa. Now it’s time to go back to being Lowery. To disappear.”