Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“Little ragnose says things ain’t always what they seem. I’m paraphrasing.”

I was almost afraid to ask the next question.

“What about Tamela Banks and her family?”

“Tyree claims to know zip.”

“What about the baby?”

“DOA.”

Slidell’s callousness curled the fingers of my free hand into a ball.

“We’re talking about a dead newborn, Detective.”

“Excuse me.” Singsong. “I missed my charm school class this week.”

“Call me when you know more.”

Slamming the receiver, I leaned back and closed my eyes.

Images skittered through my mind.

Eyes devoid of caring, irises swallowed by drug-dazed pupils.

Gideon Banks’s tortured face, Geneva hovering silent in a doorway.

Charred and fragmented baby bones.

I thought of my daughter.

Infant Katy in soft, footed pj’s. Toddler Katy in pink ruffled swimsuit, chubby feet splashing in a plastic pool. Young woman Katy in shorts and tank, long brown legs pushing a front porch swing.

Scenes of normalcy. Scenes in which Tamela’s baby would never have a part.

Needing something, but unsure what, I reached for the phone and dialed my daughter. Her roommate answered.

Lija thought Katy had gone to Myrtle Beach with Palmer Cousins, wasn’t sure because she’d been away herself.

Was Katy answering her cell phone?

No.

I hung up, feeling scared.

Wasn’t Katy working as a temporary receptionist at Pete’s firm? This was Tuesday.

Didn’t Cousins have a job to go to?

Cousins. What was it about the guy that made me uneasy?

Thinking about Cousins brought me back to Aiker.

Back to the box.

Paw your way out.

I began typing random ideas onto the screen.

Premise:The Lancaster remains and the privy remains were one person.

Deduction:That person is not Brian Aiker.

Deduction:That person is not Charlotte Grant Cobb. DNA testing confirmed that the Lancaster remains were male.

Slidell’s DOA comment had me angry and on edge. Was I being unfair to him? Maybe. Still, I kept losing my train of thought.

Or was it anxiety over my daughter?

It was Slidell. The man was a bigoted, homophobic cretin. I thought about his tactless treatment of Geneva and Gideon Banks. I thought about his insensitive digs at Lawrence Looper and Wally Cagle. What was that metaphoric quagmire about sleeping in tents and buying undies? Or his pearl concerning gender roles? Oh, yeah. Nature throws the dice, you stick with the toss. Embryonic brilliance.

Outside the cube.

What appeared to be coke turned out to be goldenseal.

What appeared to be leprosy turned out to be sarcoidosis.

Another Slidellism: Things ain’t always what they seem. Or was that a Tyreeism?

Outside the four squares.

An idea. Improbable, but what the hell.

I went to my purse, pulled out the card I’d taken from under Cagle’s blotter, and dialed.

“South Carolina Law Enforcement Division,” a female voice answered.

I made my request.

“Hold, please.”

“DNA.” Another female voice.

I read the name from the card.

“He’s out this week.”

I thought for a moment.

“Ted Springer, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

I identified myself.

“Hold on.”

Seconds passed. A minute.

“Madam Anthropologist. What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Ted. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“Your section did a case for the Lancaster County coroner about three years ago, headless, handless skeleton.” Again, I read the name from the card, explained that the man wasn’t in. “Walter Cagle did the anthro.”

“Do you have a file number?”

“No.”

“Makes it tougher, but God bless computers, I can track it down. What do you need?”

“I wonder if you could take a look at the amelogenin profile in the case, see if anything looks odd.”

“How soon do you need this?”

I hesitated.

“I know,” Springer said. “Yesterday.”

“I’ll owe you,” I said.

“I’ll collect,” he said.

“Margie and the kids might not approve.”

“Point taken. Give me a few hours.”

I gave him my cell phone number.

Next I called Hershey Zamzow at his FWS office in Raleigh.

“I’m curious. Do you know the whereabouts of any of Charlotte Grant Cobb’s family?”

“Cobb grew up in Clover, South Carolina. Parents were still living there when Charlotte went missing. As I recall, they weren’t too cooperative.”

“Why?”

“Insisted Cobb would turn up.”

“Denial?”

“Who knows. Hold on.”

I twisted the phone cord as I waited.

“I think they were real active in some church group down there, so I suppose it’s possible they’re still at this address. I only heard Charlotte mention her folks once. Got the impression they didn’t have much to do with each other.”

As I jotted the number, a question occurred to me.

“How tall was Cobb?”

“She wasn’t one of those petite, little things. But she wasn’t what you’d call an Amazon, either. Guess you heard about Brian Aiker?”

“Tim Larabee did the autopsy here today,” I said.

“Poor bastard.”

“Was Aiker working on something at Crowder’s Mountain?”

“Not that I knew of.”

“Any idea why he might have gone there?”

“Not a clue.”

I looked at my watch. Six-forty. I’d eaten nothing since breakfast at the Coffee Cup with Woolsey.

And Boyd hadn’t been out in thirteen hours.

Oh, boy.

Boyd charged the lawn like the Allies hitting Normandy. After devouring the cheeseburger I’d bought him at Burger King, he spent ten minutes trying to stare me out of my Whopper, and another five licking both wrappers.

Showing somewhat more restraint and considerably more dignity, Birdie nibbled the corner of a French fry, then sat, extended one hind leg, and diligently cleaned between his toes.

Cat and dog were sleeping when Ted Springer called from Columbia at eight.

“Microbiologists put in a long day,” I said.

“I was running some samples. Listen, I found the file on your Lancaster skeleton and there may be something.”

“That was quick,” I said.

“I got lucky. How much do you know about the amelogenin locus?”

“Girls show one band, boys show two, one the same size as the ladies, one slightly larger.”

“B-plus answer.”

“Thanks.”

“Amelogenin appears as two bands on a gel, but there’s one nifty little variation not everyone recognizes. With normal males, the two bands are of similar intensity. You with me?”

“I think ‘normal’ is going to be the operative word,” I said.

“With Klinefelter’s males, the band representing the X chromosome is twice as intense as that representing the Y chromosome.”

“Klinefelter’s males?” My brain was grinding, refusing to shift into gear.

“The XXY karyotype, where there are three sex chromosomes instead of two. My colleague didn’t pick up on the intensity difference.”

“The unknown had Klinefelter’s syndrome?”

“The system’s not one hundred percent.”

“But KS is a good possibility in this case?”

“Yes. That help any?”

“It just might.”

I sat motionless, like a hunting trophy that’s been stuffed and mounted.

Klinefelter’s syndrome.

XXY.

A bad roll of Slidell’s embryonic dice.

Booting up the computer, I began surfing. I was working through the Klinefelter’s Syndrome Association Web site when Boyd nudged my knee.

“Not now, boy.”

Another nudge.

I looked down.