Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

Twenty minutes after finally donning the panties, I pulled into the MCME lot. Across College, the homeless were being served hot dogs and lemonade from folding tables. Blankets covered the moss strip between sidewalk and curb, displaying shoes, shirts, and socks for the taking. A score of indigents milled about, nowhere to go, in no hurry to get there.

Locking the car, I walked to the low-rise redbrick structure and was buzzed through the glass doors. After greeting the ladies up front, I checked in with Tim Larabee, the Mecklenburg County ME. He led me to a computer that had been set aside for crash victim processing and pulled up case number 387. It was probably violating the terms of my banishment, but I had to take the chance.

DNA testing was being done at the Charlotte-Mecklenburg crime laboratory, and those results were not yet available. But the histology was ready. The samples I'd cut from the ankle and foot bones had been shaved into slivers less than one hundred microns thick, processed, stained, and placed on slides. I got them and settled at a microscope.

Bone is a miniature universe in which birth and death occur constantly. The basic unit is the osteon, composed of concentric loops of bone, a canal, osteocytes, vessels, and nerves. In living tissue osteons are born, nourished, and eventually replaced by newer units.

When magnified and viewed under polarized light, osteons resemble tiny volcanoes, ovoid cones with central craters and flanks that spread out to flatlands of primary bone. The number of volcanoes increases with age, as does the count of abandoned calderas. By determining the density of these features one arrives at an age estimate.

First I looked for signs of abnormality. In the cross-section of a long bone, thinning of the shaft, scalloping of its inner or outer edges, or abnormal deposition of woven bone can indicate problems, including fracture healing or unusually rapid remodeling. I saw no such anomalies.

Satisfied that a realistic age estimate was possible, I increased the magnification to one hundred and inserted a ruled ocular micrometer into the eyepiece. The grid contained one hundred squares, with each side measuring one millimeter at the level of the section. Moving from slide to slide, I studied the miniature landscapes, carefully counting and recording the features within each grid. When I'd finished and plugged my totals into the proper formulae, I had my answer.

The owner of the foot had been at least sixty-five, probably nearer to seventy.

I leaned back and considered that. No one on the manifest was close to that age range. What were the options?

One. An unlisted traveler was on board. A septuagenarian deadheader? A senior citizen stowaway? Unlikely.

Two. A passenger had carried the foot on board. Ryan said they'd found no one whose profile suggested an interest in body parts.

Three. The foot was unrelated to Air TransSouth 228.

Then where did it come from?

I dug a card from my purse, checked the number, and dialed.

“Swain County Sheriff 's Department.”

“Lucy Crowe, please.”

“Who's calling.”

I gave my name and waited. Moments later I heard the gravelly voice.

“I probably shouldn't be talking to you.”

“You've heard.”

“I've heard.”

“I could try to explain, but I don't think I understand the situation myself.”

“I don't know you well enough to judge.”

“Why are you talking to me?”

“Gut instinct.”

“I'm working to clear this up.”

“That'd be good. You've got 'em buzzing at the top of the heap.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just had a call from Parker Davenport.”

“The lieutenant governor?”

“Himself. Ordered me to keep you off the crash site.”

“Doesn't he have better things to worry about?”

“Apparently you're a hot topic. My deputy took a call this morning. Fellow wanted to know where you live and where you were staying up here.”

“Who was he?”

“Wouldn't give a name, hung up when my deputy insisted.”

“Was he press?”

“We're pretty good at spotting that.”

“There's something you can do for me, Sheriff.”

I heard the sound of long-distance air.

“Sheriff?”

“I'm listening.”

I described the foot, and my reasons for doubting its association with the crash.

“Could you check on missing persons for Swain and the surrounding counties?”

“Got any descriptors besides age?”

“Sixty-three to sixty-six inches in height, with bad feet. When the DNA's in I'll know the gender.”

“Time frame?”

Despite the soft tissue preservation, I decided on broad parameters.

“One year.”

“I know we've got some here in Swain. I'll pull those up. And I suppose there's no harm in sending out a few queries.”

When we'd disconnected, I sealed the slide case and returned it to the technician. As I drove toward home new questions burned in my brain, fanned by feelings of anger and humiliation.

Why wasn't Larke Tyrell defending me? He knew the commitment I felt to my work, knew I'd never compromise an investigation.

Could Parker Davenport be Tyrell's “powerful people”? Larke was an appointed official. Could the lieutenant governor be putting pressure on his chief medical examiner? Why?

Could Lucy Crowe's reaction to Davenport be accurate? Was the lieutenant governor concerned with his image and planning to use me for publicity purposes?

I remembered him at the crash site, hanky to his mouth, eyes down to avoid the carnage.

Or was it me he was avoiding? An unpleasant feeling shifted inside me, and I tried to erase the image. It was no good. My mind was like a computer with no delete button.

I thought of Ryan's advice. Pete's. Both were saying the same thing.

I dialed Information, then placed a call.

Ruby answered after two rings.

I identified myself and asked if Magnolia was available.

“The room's empty, but I offered it to one of the downstairs boarders.”

“I'd like to check back in.”

“They told me you were gone for good. Cleared the bill.”

“I'll pay you for a week in advance.”

“Must be the Lord's will the other 'un hasn't moved up there yet.”

“Yes,” I answered, with an enthusiasm I didn't feel. “The Lord's will.”

CHARLOTTE IS A POSTER CHILD FOR MULTIPLE PERSONALITY DISORder, the Sybil of cities. It is the New South, proud of its skyscrapers, airport, university, NBA Hornets, NFL Panthers, and NASCAR racing. Headquarters to Bank of America and First Union, it is the nation's second largest financial center. It is home to the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. It yearns to be a world-class city.

Yet Charlotte remains nostalgic for the Old South. In its affluent southeast quadrant, it is stately homes and tidy bungalows garnished by azaleas, dogwoods, rhododendrons, redbuds, and magnolias. It is winding streets, front porch swings, and more trees per square mile than any burg on the planet. In spring, Charlotte is a kaleidoscope of pink, white, violet, and red. In fall it blazes with yellow and orange. It has a church on every corner and people attend them. The erosion of the genteel life is a constant topic of conversation, but the same folks lamenting its passage keep one eye on the stock market.

I live at Sharon Hall, a turn-of-the-century estate in the elegant old neighborhood of Myers Park. Once a graceful Georgian manor, the Hall had fallen into disrepair by the 1950s and was donated to a local college. In the mid-eighties the two-and-a-half-acre property was purchased by developers, upfitted, and reincarnated as a modern condominium complex.