Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“Sarcoidosis.”

When Larabee looked up, his desk lamp threw shadows across the lines in his face.

“That would take us back to lymph nodes, lungs, and skin.”

“Approximately fourteen percent of sarcoidosis cases show skeletal involvement, mostly in the short bones of the hands and feet.”

I laid a pathology textbook on the desk in front of him. Larabee read a moment, then leaned back, chin on palm. His expression told me he was unconvinced.

“Most cases of sarcoidosis are asymptomatic. The disease pursues a slow, benign course, usually with spontaneous healing. People don’t even know they have it.”

“Until they get an X ray for some other reason,” he said.

“Exactly.”

“Like being dead.”

I ignored that.

“Sarcoidosis primarily affects young adults,” I said.

“And is most evident radiographically in the lungs.”

“You said the lungs were hamburger.”

“Sarcoidosis is mainly seen among African-Americans.”

“There’s a high incidence among Melungeons.”

Larabee looked at me as though I’d said Olmec warriors.

“It all fits. There’s an Anatolian bump on the back of the passenger’s head and modified shoveling on his incisors. His cheekbones are flaring, otherwise the guy looks like Charlton Heston.”

“Refresh me on Melungeons.”

“They’re fairly dark-skinned people with European-looking features. Some have an Asian eye fold.”

“Living where?”

“Most are in the mountains of Kentucky, Virginia, West Virginia, and North Carolina.”

“Who are they?”

“Survivors of the lost colony of Roanoke, Portuguese shipwrecks, the lost tribes of Israel, Phoenician seamen. You can take your pick of theories.”

“What’s the current favorite?”

“Descendants of Spanish and Portuguese colonists who abandoned the settlement of Santa Elena in South Carolina during the late sixteenth century. Supposedly these folks mingled with the Powhatans, the Catawbas, the Cherokees, and a number of other tribes. There may even have been some input from Moorish and Turkish galley slaves and from Portuguese and Spanish prisoners left on Roanoke Island in 1586.”

“Left by whom?”

“Sir Francis Drake.”

“Who do Melungeons think they are?”

“They claim to be variously of Portuguese, Turkish, Moorish, Arabic, and Jewish origin mixed with Native Americans.”

“Any evidence to support that?”

“When first encountered back in the sixteen hundreds they were living in cabins, speaking broken English, and described themselves as ‘Portyghee.’ ”

Larabee made a give-me-more gesture with his hand.

“A recent gene-frequency study showed no significant differences between Melungeon populations in Tennessee and Virginia and populations in Spain, Portugal, North Africa, Malta, Cyprus, Iran, Iraq, and the Levant.”

Larabee shook his head. “How do you remember stuff like that?”

“I don’t. I just looked it up. There are lots of Melungeon Web sites.”

“Why is this relevant?”

“There’s a large population of Melungeons living near Sneedville, Tennessee.”

“And?”

“Remember Ricky Don Dorton?”

“The owner of the Cessna.”

“Dorton’s from Sneedville, Tennessee.”

“That works.”

“Thought it might.”

“Give Sheila Jansen a call. I’ll get on the horn to Sneedville.”

I’d just completed my call to the NTSB agent when Slidell and Rinaldi made their second appearance of the day.

“Ever hear of a man named J. J. Wyatt?” Rinaldi asked.

I shook my head.

“Looks like Wyatt was on Darryl Tyree’s speed dialer.”

“Meaning Tyree called Wyatt frequently?”

Rinaldi nodded. “From his cell phone.”

“Recently?”

“The final three calls were placed just before seven last Sunday morning.”

“To?”

“Wyatt’s cell phone.” Slidell face looked poached with heat.

“Which was located where?” I asked.

“Most likely in Wyatt’s hand.” Slidell mopped his brow.

I was biting back a reply when Larabee joined us wearing a smile wider than a lean face such as his could support.

“Guys,” the ME said to Slidell and Rinaldi, “you are in the presence of genius.”

Larabee did a half-bow in my direction, then waggled a slip of paper in the air.

“Jason Jack Wyatt.”

Absolute quiet crammed my little office.

Puzzled by our nonreaction, Larabee looked from Slidell to Rinaldi to me.

“What?”

Slidell spoke first.

“What about Jason Jack Wyatt, Doc?”

“Twenty-four-year-old male Melungeon from Sneedville, Tennessee. Wyatt was reported missing three days ago by a worried grandma.”

Larabee glanced up from his notes.

“Granny says young J.J. suffered from ‘the arthrity’ in his hands and feet. Dental records are in transit, and it looks good for a match on the Cessna passenger.”

No one said a word.

“Ready for the best part?”

Three nods.

“Grandma’s name is Effie Opal Dorton Cumbo.”

Larabee’s impossibly wide smile broadened.

“J. J. Wyatt and Ricky Don Dorton are Tennessee kissin’ cousins.”

16

THIRTY SECONDS PASSED BEFORE ANYONE SPOKE.

Rinaldi stared at the ceiling. Slidell studied his shoes. Both looked like they were doing complicated math in their heads.

Knowing he was out of the loop, but not knowing why, Larabee waited us out, the smile gone. His slack face looked like it had spent a lifetime baking in an oven.

I started the dialogue by holding up an index finger.

“Jason Jack Wyatt might be the passenger on the Cessna.”

“The Cessna was owned by Ricky Don Dorton,” Rinaldi said.

I added a finger.

“Wyatt was Dorton’s cousin,” Slidell offered.

Ring man.

“Darryl Tyree made frequent calls to Wyatt, including three on the morning the Cessna crashed.” Rinaldi.

Pinky.

“Having off-loaded at least four kilos of blow.” Slidell.

My thumb went up.

“Tyree is a dealer,” Rinaldi said, “whose girlfriend has recently gone missing.”

I started on a second hand.

“Having offed her own kid.” Slidell.

“Maybe,” I said.

“Two members of Tamela’s family are also missing.” Rinaldi ignored our exchange about the baby.

My second middle finger went up.

“And sweet cheeks’ license turned up in a house with two kilos of snort and a dead guy in the privy.” Slidell.

Ring man number two.

“A house in the possession of Sonny Pounder, a low-level dealer who snitched to the cops about Tamela’s baby.”

Pinky number two.

“A house with bears interred in the yard,” I added, dropping both hands.

Slidell tendered an emphatic expletive.

I suggested one of my own.

A phone rang in Larabee’s office.

“You’re going to fill me in on all of this,” the ME said to me, then shot out the door.

Rinaldi reached into an inside pocket, withdrew a Ziploc baggie, and tossed it onto my desk.

“CSU found this stashed with the cocaine. Thought it might mean something to you.”

Before reaching for the bag I glanced at Rinaldi.

“Trace analysis has already gone over it.”

Unzipping the seal, I studied the contents.

“Feathers?”

“Very unusual feathers.” Rinaldi.

“I know nothing about feathers.”

Slidell shrugged. “You were all over Yogi and his friends, Doc.”

“That’s bone. These are feathers.”

Rinaldi withdrew an eight-inch plume and twirled it. Even under fluorescent light the blues looked rich and iridescent.

“It’s no song sparrow,” he said.