Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“‘The charred substance from the underbelly of the Cessna contained the alkaloids hydrastine, berberine, canadine, and berberastine.’”

“That make Ovaltine?” Slidell asked.

“That makes goldenseal,” Jansen said.

We all waited for her to go on.

Jansen flipped to another paper.

“ Hydrastis canadensis. Goldenseal. The roots and rhizomes are thought to have medicinal properties because of the hydrastine and berberine. Cherokee Indians used goldenseal as an antiseptic and to treat snakebite. Iroquois used it to treat whooping cough, pneumonia, digestive disorders. Early pioneers used it as an eyewash, and for sore throats, mouth sores. Commercial demand for goldenseal began around the time of the Civil War”—Jansen looked up from her notes—“and it’s now a top-selling herb in North America.”

“Used for what?” Larabee’s disdain of herbal medicines came through in his tone.

Jansen went back to her printout.

“Nasal congestion, mouth sores, eye and ear infections, as a topical antiseptic, laxative, anti-inflammatory, take your pick. Some people think goldenseal boosts the immune system and increases the effectiveness of other medicinal herbs. Some think it can induce abortion.”

Larabee sheeshed air through his lips.

Jansen looked up to see if we were with her.

“I got on the Net, did a little research.”

She selected a third printout.

“There’s been such intensive harvesting for both the domestic and international markets that goldenseal is now in trouble. Of the twenty-seven states reporting native patches, seventeen consider the plant imperiled. Its wholesale value has increased more than six hundred percent in the last decade.”

“Call the posy police.” Slidell.

“Does goldenseal grow in North Carolina?” I asked.

“Yes, but only in a few places. Goldenseal Hollow, for example, deep in the mountains in Jackson County.”

“Is it considered endangered in North Carolina?”

“Yes. And because of that status a permit is required to cultivate or propagate the plant within the state. Ever hear of CITES?”

“Yes.” Three for three.

“You need a CITES permit to export cultivated or wild-collected goldenseal roots or parts of roots. To get a permit you need to show that your roots, rhizomes, and seeds came from legally acquired parental stock and that the plants were cultivated for four years or more without augmentation from the wild.”

“So it’s difficult to obtain a supply of living roots with which to start plantations in this country?” Rinaldi asked.

“Very.”

“Is there a black market for goldenseal?” I asked.

“There is a black market for all herbs found in the North Carolina mountains, including goldenseal. So much so that a special five-agency task force has been set up in Appalachia.”

“Sweet God in heaven, there really is a veggie squad.” Slidell pooched out his cheeks and wagged his head, like one of those dogs in an auto rear window.

“The task force is made up of agents from the National Park Service, U.S. Forestry Service, North Carolina Department of Agriculture, North Carolina Wildlife Service, and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. It’s headed by the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”

The group went mute as each of us tried to integrate Jansen’s report with my findings. Slidell broke the silence.

“Some mope was dealing snort out of the Foote farm. We know that ’cause we found product in the basement. You’re saying the place was also used for trafficking dead animals?”

“I’m suggesting it’s a possibility,” I said.

“As a sideline to the coke?”

“Yes,” I said coolly. “And the bird was probably alive.”

“And this Agent Aiker might have been closing in,” said Rinaldi.

“Maybe,” I said.

“So the perp gets spooked, kills Aiker, dumps his head and hands in the privy, and hauls his body to Lancaster County?” Slidell sounded unconvinced.

“We’ll know when we get the dental records,” I said.

Slidell turned to Jansen.

“Your Cessna was also flying a cargo of snort. Snort’s heavy time. You get nailed, you do a long stretch inside. Why bother with herbs?”

“Entrepreneurial sideline.”

“Like Brennan’s birds.”

I didn’t bother to comment.

“Yes,” Jansen said.

“Why goldenseal? Why not ginseng, or something grows you hair or perks up your pecker?”

Jansen looked at Slidell like she might have eyed a dead spider in her cat’s litter.

“Goldenseal makes more sense.”

“Why’s that?”

“Some people think it masks certain drugs in your urine.”

“Does it?”

“Does a line of coke turn you into a rock star?”

Jansen and Slidell locked eyes. For a few seconds neither spoke. Then Slidell rethumbed his waistband.

“We’ve been grilling Pounder.”

“And?”

“Maroon’s got the brains of a carp. We’re still liking Tyree or Dorton.”

“Might have to rethink that.”

The five of us turned as one. Joe Hawkins was standing in the doorway.

“You’d better come see this.”

23

WE FOLLOWED HAWKINS DOWN THE CORRIDOR AND AROUNDthe corner to the intake bay, where a gurney had been rolled onto the weigh-in scale. The pouch it held showed a very large bulge.

Wordlessly, Hawkins unzipped the body bag and laid back the flap. Like a class on a field trip, we leaned in.

Gran called it fay, claimed prescience as a family trait. I call it deductive reasoning.

Perhaps it was Hawkins’s demeanor. Perhaps it was the image I’d conjured in my mind. Though we’d never met, I knew I was staring at Ricky Don Dorton.

The man’s skin was the color of old leather, creased by vertical lines beside his eyes and ears and at the corners of his mouth. The cheeks were high and broad, the nose wide, the hair dead black and combed straight back. Irregular, yellowed teeth peeked from purple, death-slacked lips.

Ricky Don Dorton had died bare-chested. I could see two gold chains in the folds of his neck, and the Marine Corps emblem on his right upper arm, the words SEMPER FI circling below.

Larabee scanned the police report.

“Well, well. Mr. Richard Donald Dorton.”

“Son of a bitch.” Slidell spoke for us all.

Larabee handed the paper to me. I stepped close to Jansen so we could read together.

Larabee asked Hawkins, “You just bring him in?”

Hawkins nodded.

According to the report, Ricky Don was found dead in his bed in an uptown motel.

“Dorton checked in with a woman around one-thirty A.M.,” Hawkins said. “Desk clerk said they both looked hammered. Maid found the body about eight this morning. Knocked, got no answer, figured the room had been vacated. Poor thing’s probably looking through the want ads even as we speak.”

“Who caught the case?” Slidell asked.

“Sherrill and Bucks.”

“Narco.”

“Room held enough pharmaceuticals and hypodermics to stock a Third World clinic,” said Hawkins.

“Suppose Dorton’s midnight companion was Sister Mary Innocent working to save his soul?” Slidell asked.

“Desk clerk suspected the woman was a hooker,” said Hawkins. “Thought Dorton had been there before. Same deal. Late-night checkin. Floozy date.”

“Get hopped. Get lucky. Get a room.” Larabee.

“Guess Ricky Don’s luck ran out.” Slidell tossed the report onto the body bag.

I watched the paper slip to the gurney and settle against Ricky Don’s pricey gold neckwear.

Before his departure, Ryan extracted a promise that I would discuss the previous day’s e-mails with Slidell or Rinaldi. Though my anxiety had diminished considerably overnight, my nerves were still on edge. I was inclined to view the messages as the work of some warped cyber-moron, but had promised myself not to let fear alter my life. Business as usual. But I agreed with Ryan on one point.