Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“Dr. Cagle’s been in the field all summer, only comes in on weekends. Y’all sure he intended to do it right away?”

“Absolutely.”

Two creases puckered the mulberry mushroom. “Man’s usually very predictable and very reliable.”

The deb hunched her whole body when she turned the key, as though revelation of the wrist movement might constitute a security breach. Straightening, she swung the door inward, and pointed a lacquered nail at me.

“Don’t disturb any of Dr. Cagle’s things.” It came out “thangs.” “Some are official police evidence.” It came out “poe-lice.”

“We’ll be very careful,” I said.

“Check with me on your way out.”

Drilling us each with a look, the deb marched off down the corridor.

“Broad missed her calling in the SS,” Slidell said, moving past me through the open door.

Cagle’s lab was an earlier-era version of mine at UNCC. More solid, outfitted with oak and marble, not molded plastic and painted metal.

I did a quick scan.

Worktables. Sinks. Microscopes. Light boxes. Copy stand. Ventilator hood. Hanging skeleton. Refrigerator. Computer.

Slidell tipped his head toward a wall of floor-to-ceiling storage cabinets.

“What do you suppose that meatball keeps locked up in there?”

“Bones.”

“Jay-zus Kee-rist.”

While Slidell went through the unlocked cupboards above the work counters, I checked the room’s single desk. Its top was bare save for a blotter.

A file drawer on the left held forms of various types. Archaeological survey sheets. Burial inventories. Blank bone quizzes. Audiovisual requisitions.

The long middle drawer contained the usual assortment of pens, plastic-headed tacks, paper clips, rubber bands, stamps, and coins.

Nothing extraordinary.

Except that everything was organized into separate boxes, slots, and niches, each labeled and spotlessly clean. Inside the compartments, every item was aligned with geometric precision.

“Fastidious little wanker.” Slidell had come up behind me.

I checked the right two drawers. Stationery. Envelopes. Printer paper. Labels. Post-its.

Same ordinary supplies. Same anal tidiness.

“Your desk look like that?” Slidell asked.

“No.” I’d once found a dead goldfish in my desk drawer. Solved the mystery of its disappearance the previous spring.

“Mine sure don’t.”

Being familiar with Slidell’s car, I didn’t want to imagine the state of his desk.

“Any sign of the report?”

I shook my head.

Slidell moved on to the lower-counter drawers, and I began on the file cabinets to the left of the desk. One held class materials. The other was filled with forensic case reports.

Bingo!

Across the room, Slidell banged a drawer home.

“I’ve gotta get some air.”

“Fine.”

I said nothing about the files. Better to have Slidell outside smoking than breathing down my neck.

The dossiers were organized chronologically. Twenty-three dated to the year Cagle had examined the Lancaster skeleton. I found two for the proper month, but none for a headless body.

I checked the preceding and following years, then scanned the tab on every folder.

The report wasn’t there.

Slidell returned after ten minutes, smelling of Camels, armpits, and sweaty hair cream.

“I found Cagle’s case files.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Slidell leaned over me, breathing cigarette breath.

“The Lancaster report isn’t with the others.”

“Suppose Wally-boy misplaced it?” Slidell asked.

“Doesn’t seem likely, but keep looking.”

Slidell went back to banging drawers.

I returned to the desk and surveyed the bulletin board. Like Mrs. Flowers, Wally Cagle insisted on equidistant spacing and ninety-degree angles.

A postcard sent by someone named Gene. Polaroids taken at an archaeological dig. Three pictures of a cat. A printout of names followed by four-digit university extensions.

The center of the board held a handwritten list of tasks followed by a column of dates. Those up through Thursday had been crossed out.

“Look at this,” I said.

Slidell joined me at the desk.

I pointed to an item among Cagle’s uncompleted tasks: Pull photos and report for Brennan.

“He uses a ruler to cross things out? Jesus, this guy’s one tight spitter.”

“That’s not the point. Even though the secretary didn’t see him, Cagle’s been here as recently as last Thursday. Does the fact the item is not crossed off mean he never pulled the file? Or did he pull it, then forget?”

“Looks like Wally-boy never took a dump without itemizing and crossing it off.”

“Maybe he was interrupted.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe someone else took the file.”

“Who?” Slidell’s voice dripped skepticism.

“I don’t know.”

“Who even knew the damn thing existed?”

“Cagle’s graduate student,” I snapped. Slidell’s attitude was making me churlish. “He read parts to Cagle over the phone.”

“Maybe Cagle took the stuff to a home computer.”

“Maybe.”

“But he never sent you the report.”

Good, Skinny. State the obvious.

“Or the photos.”

“Nothing.”

Slidell hitched his belt. It slid back into the groove below his spare tire.

“So where the hell are they?”

“An astute question.”

“And where the hell is the good professor?”

“And another.”

I was starting to get a bad feeling about Cagle’s safety.

My gaze fell on the computer and its flatbed scanner. The setup looked like it might have been purchased when the Monkees were big.

Slidell watched me walk over and press the “on” button. As the CPU dragged through a boot, the Texas deb receptionist appeared in the doorway.

“What is it you think you’re doing?”

“I located Dr. Cagle’s case files, but the one in question is missing.”

“So you think you’re going to use his computer?”

“It might tell us if the photos were ever scanned.”

As if on cue, the CPU beeped and the monitor flashed a password request.

“Do you have it?” I asked the deb.

“I could never give out a password.” She sounded as though I’d asked for her bank card PIN. “Besides, I don’t know it.”

“Does anyone else use this computer?”

“Gene Rudin.”

“Dr. Cagle’s graduate student?”

The deb nodded. Not a hair moved.

“Gene’s off to Florida until the start of fall term. Left Friday.”

A long, lacquered finger pointed at the computer.

“But that scanner won’t run. I’ve had a work order in to computer services for at least two weeks now.”

Slidell and I exchanged glances. Now what?

“Did Dr. Cagle ask you to send any faxes last week?” I asked.

The lacquered hands vanished in an arm fold across her chest, a hip shifted, and one sandaled foot came forward. The toes were the same brilliant red as the fingers.

“I’ve already told you, I didn’t see Dr. Cagle last week. And besides, do you know how many faculty I’m responsible for? Or how many grads and undergrads and booksellers and visitors and whatever trail through my office?” I guessed Slidell and I fell under the “whatever” heading. “Hells bells, I do half the student advising around here.”

“That can’t be easy,” I said.

“Faculty faxing is not in my job description.”

“You must get a lot of visitors.”

“We get our share.”

“Did Dr. Cagle have any unusual callers last week?”

“That would not be for me to say.”

What the hell did that mean?

“Did Dr. Cagle have any visitors last week?”