Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

Larabee thought about that.

“Yeah. We probably could.” He pointed a scalpel at me. “We’ll have a femur tested.”

“We should also send a sample of the lake water. If they find diatoms in the femur they can compare the profiles.”

“Good point.”

I waited while Larabee cut lengthwise along Aiker’s esophagus.

“Is it significant that he was found in the rear seat?”

“The weight of the engine would have pulled the front of the vehicle down, leaving the last bubble of air trapped against the roof in back. When victims can’t get car doors open, they crawl back and up to keep breathing as long as possible. Or sometimes the corpse just floats to the rear.”

I nodded.

“We’ll run a tox screen, of course. And crime scene’s processing the car and boat ramp. But I’m not finding anything suspicious.”

Aiker’s clothing and personal effects were drying on the counter. I walked over for a look.

It was like telescoping the agent’s last morning on earth into a few soggy, mud-coated items.

Jockeys. T. Blue-and-white-striped long sleeve shirt. Jeans. Athletic socks. Adidas cross trainers. Black Polarfleece hooded jacket.

Did Aiker put his socks on before his jeans? His pants before his shirt? I felt sadness for a life so suddenly ended.

Beside the clothing lay the contents of Aiker’s pockets.

Comb. Keys. Miniature Swiss army knife. Twenty-three dollars in folding money. Seventy-four cents in coins. Wallet-sized billfold with FWS badge and ID. Leather cardholder.

In addition to a North Carolina driver’s license, Hawkins had removed a long-distance calling card, a US Airways Frequent Flyer card, and Diners Club and Visa credit cards from the rectangular leather pouch.

Gloving my right hand, I ran a finger across the photo on the driver’s license. The steady, brown eyes and sandy hair were a long way from the grotesque distortion lying on Larabee’s table.

Leaning close, I studied the face, wondering what Aiker had been doing on a boat landing at Crowder’s Mountain. I picked up the license and flipped it.

Another card was adhering to the back. I peeled it off with my thumbnail. A Harris-Teeter supermarket VIC card. I laid the card on the counter and glanced back at the license.

And caught my breath.

“There’s something stuck to the back of this,” I said.

Both men turned to look at me. Digging forceps from a drawer, I peeled a limp, flat sheet from the back of the license.

“Looks like folded paper.”

Again using forceps, I teased free an edge and tugged back a layer. One more tug, and the paper lay unfolded on the counter. Though blotchy and diluted, lettering was visible.

“It’s some sort of handwritten note,” I said, easing the paper onto a tray to carry it to the fluorescent magnifier. “Maybe an address or phone number. Or road directions.”

“Or a last will and testament,” said Hawkins.

Larabee and I looked at him.

“More likely a shopping list,” Larabee said.

“Guy could’ve scribbled something then shoved it in between his plastic thinking maybe it’d survive.” Hawkins sounded defensive. “Hell, that’s probably exactly what did happen. Paper was protected from the water because it was sealed between the cards.”

Hawkins had a point about the mode of preservation.

As I clicked on the tube light surrounding the lens, Hawkins and Larabee joined me. Together we viewed the writing under illumination and magnification.

Even under ideal conditions, the scrawl would have been hard to decipher.

“The first part is probably ‘No question,’ ” Larabee said.

Hawkins and I agreed.

“Something to Columbia?” I suggested.

“Sending?”

“Lending?”

“Heading?”

“Landing?”

“Something’s dirty.” Hawkins.

“Clowns?”

“Collins?”

“Maybe that’s not a C. Maybe it’s an O or a Q.”

“Or a G.”

I positioned the magnifier closer to the paper. We leaned in and stared, each of us trying to make sense of the blotches and smears.

It was no good. Parts of the message were illegible.

“See you somewhere on some day,” I said.

“Good,” Hawkins and Larabee said.

“Charlotte?” I said.

“Possible,” Larabee said.

“How many places end in tte ?”

“I’ll check an atlas,” Larabee said, straightening. “In the meantime, the Questioned Documents guys might be able to do something with this. Joe, call over to QD and ask if we should keep this thing wet or let it dry.”

Hawkins removed gloves and apron, washed his hands, and headed for the door. I clicked off the lamp.

As Larabee proceeded with his autopsy, I told him about Cagle’s coma, and about my discussion with Terry Woolsey. When I’d finished, he looked up at me over his mask.

“Think maybe you’re working with a lot of what-ifs, Tempe?”

“Maybe,” I said.

At the door I turned for one last comment.

“But what if I don’t?”

31

AND WHAT IF I’D MISSED SOMETHING?

Instead of furthering my frustration with more computerized exercise, I went to the cooler, pulled out the privy skull and hand bones, and did a full reanalysis.

The remains still whistled the same tune: thirty-something white boy.

But it wasn’t Brian Aiker.

Back to the laptop.

The privy skull and hand bones turned up at the Foote farm. Bear bones and macaw feathers turned up at the Foote farm. Coincidence?

The Lancaster skeleton turned up sans head and hands. Coincidence?

The Lancaster skeleton was found three years ago. Brian Aiker vanished five years ago. Coincidence?

Brian Aiker and Charlotte Grant Cobb disappeared around the same time. Coincidence?

Bear bones and feathers from endangered bird species. Missing FWS agents. Coincidence?

Think outside the box, Brennan.

I was prying off the lid when the phone rang.

“Yo.” Slidell.

“What’s up?”

“Pounder’s singing like a canary on crack.”

“I’m listening.”

“Tyree was serving coke for Dorton.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“Dorton got the blow from a South American connection, Harvey Pearce made pickups somewhere down east near Manteo, hauled the stuff up to Charlotte from the coast. From there it went to points north and west.”

“Tyree paid Pounder to use Mama Foote’s farm as a relay point,” I guessed.

“Bingo.”

“And Dorton’s cousin J.J. made his living in the family business.”

“Here’s the part you’re really going to like. Seems Pearce got talked into buying a bird from one of the South Americans some time back, sold the thing for a nice profit. Dorton got wind of it. Ever the entrepreneur, Mr. Strip Club and Drug Lord decided to branch out.”

“Let me guess. Ricky Don took advantage of little J.J.’s hunting skills.”

“Pearce also supplied product from the Low Country.”

Product. Rare and special animals being slaughtered for profit. What noble creatures we hominids are.

“Dorton hooked himself up with an Asian connection, became the king of gall.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Pounder didn’t have a name. Said he thought the mutt was Korean. Had some kind of inside line.”

“Inside line on what?”

“Dick-brain wasn’t sure. Don’t worry. We’ll nail the guy’s ass.”

“What’s Tyree saying?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“How does Tyree explain the calls between his cell phone and J. J. Wyatt’s?”