Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

He pointed at a computer screen linked to the gas chromatograph.

“We'll have those shortly. Second, the National Weather Service data at the location where the corpse was found.”

He held up the printout.

“Third, information on the weight and condition of the corpse. And you ain't got no body.” He sang the last.

“Everyone's a comedian.”

“Two variables are important: the amount of moisture in the soil, and the weight of the body prior to decomposition. Because everyone has a different ratio of fat and muscle tissue, if I don't have a body, I use a standard of one hundred fifty pounds, then apply a correction factor. I think we're safe in assuming your deceased weighed between one hundred and three hundred pounds?”

“Yes. But in doing this, our range broadens, right?”

“Unfortunately. Did you try a rule-of-thumb estimate?”

Since volatile fatty acid liberation ceases at accumulated degree days 1,285 plus or minus 110, it is possible to obtain a rough estimate of time since death by dividing the average daily temperature on the day a corpse is found into 1,285. I'd done this for Lucy Crowe. Yesterday's average temperature in Bryson City was 18°C (64°F), yielding a maximum time since death of seventy-one days.

“That would be the date on which full skeletonization had taken place, and no more VFAs would be detectable.”

Laslo looked at the wall clock.

“Let's see how accurate you were.”

He rose, filtered and vortexed the soil solution sample, tested its acidity, then placed the tube into the gas chromatograph. After closing and sealing the chamber, and adjusting the settings, he turned back to me.

“Let's give this a few minutes. Coffee?”

When we returned the screen showed a series of peaks in varying colors, and a list of components and their concentrations.

“Each curve shows the concentration of a volatile fatty acid per gram of dry weight of soil. First I'll correct for dilution and soil moisture.”

He hit a few keys.

“Now I can calculate an ADD for each VFA.”

He started with butyric acid.

“Seven hundred accumulated degree days.”

He performed more calculations, using each acid. With one exception the ADDs fell within the 675 to 775 range.

“Now I'll use the National Weather Service data to determine the number of days needed to obtain 675 to 775 accumulated degree days. We may have to adjust later if the readings at your body site differ from the officially recorded temperatures. Normally, I like to know that in advance, but it's not a major problem.”

A few more keystrokes. I held my breath.

“Forty-one to forty-eight days. That's your range. According to your calculation, full skeletonization would have taken place in seventy-one days.”

“So death occurred six to seven weeks ago.”

He nodded. “But keep in mind that this time frame is based on an estimated, not an actual, predeath weight.”

“And at the time the stain was produced, the body was fleshed and actively decomposing.”

He nodded.

“But I ain't got no body.”

“And nobody cares for me.”

* * *

I drove straight to Lucy Crowe's office. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds shouldered each other low over the mountains, jockeying for position with their heavy loads.

I found the sheriff eating a corn dog behind the Civil War desk. Seeing me, she wiped crumbs from her mouth, then arced the stick and wrapper into a trash can across the room.

“Two points,” I said.

“All net. No rim.”

I laid hard copy in front of her and took a chair. She studied the VFA profile a full minute, elbows splayed on the desktop, fingers on her temples. Then she looked up.

“I know you're going to explain this.”

“Volatile fatty acids.”

“Meaning?”

“A body decomposed inside that wall.”

“Whose?”

“The VFA ratios suggest a time since death of six to seven weeks. Daniel Wahnetah was last seen in late July, reported missing in August. It's now October. Do the math.”

“Assuming I accept that premise, which I don't necessarily, how did Wahnetah's foot get to the crash scene?”

“If Boyd smelled decomposition, so could coyotes. They probably dragged the foot from under the wall. There's room where the foundation has crumbled.”

“And left the rest of him?”

“They probably couldn't detach anything else.”

“And how did Wahnetah get inside the courtyard?”

I shrugged.

“And how did he die?”

“That's sheriffing. I do the science.”

Down the hall Hank Williams crooned the “Long-Gone Lonesome Blues.” Static made the music sound like it was coming from another era.

“Is this enough for a warrant?” I asked.

The sheriff studied the paper for another full minute. Finally she looked up, the eyes to die for hard on mine. Then she reached for the phone.

* * *

By the time I left the sheriff 's office a light rain was falling. Headlights, stoplights, and neon signs twinkled and shimmered in the dusk of early evening. The air was heavy with the smell of skunk.

Outside at High Ridge House, Boyd lay in his doghouse, chin on paws, gazing at the raindrops. He raised his head when I called and gave me a look to indicate I should do something. Seeing that I wasn't, he sighed noisily and settled back down. I filled his dish and left him to ponder his sodden world.

Inside, the house was still. I climbed the stairs to the slow ticktick-tick of Ruby's hall clock. No sound came from any bedroom.

Rounding the corner at my end of the hall, I was surprised to see the door to Magnolia slightly ajar. I pushed it inward. And froze.

The drawers in my room had been rifled, the bed stripped. My briefcase had been emptied, and papers and manila folders lay scattered across the floor.

My mind locked on one word.

No! No! No!

I tossed my purse on the bed, flew to the wardrobe, and threw open the doors.

My laptop sat tucked in back, exactly as I'd left it. I pulled it out and clicked it on, my mind still racing.

What was in the room? What was in the room? What was in the room?

Quick mental inventory. Car keys. Credit cards. Driver's license. Passport. All had been with me.

Why? Why? Why?

A quick ransack for valuables, or was someone after something specific? What was there that anyone would want?

What? What? What?

When the computer booted I checked a few files. Everything seemed fine.

I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Then I closed my eyes and played a childhood game I knew would calm me. Silently, I ran through the lyrics of the first song to come to mind. “Honky Tonk Women.”

The time-out with Mick and the Stones worked. Steadier, I returned and began gathering papers.

I was still filing when I heard a knock, and opened the door to Andrew Ryan. He held two DoveBars in his right hand.

Ryan's eyes swept the mess.

“What the fuck went on in here?”

I just looked at him, not trusting my voice.

“Is anything missing?”

I swallowed.

“The only thing of value was the computer, and they left that.”

“Pretty much rules out robbery.”

“Unless the intruder was interrupted.”

“Looks like they tossed the place looking for something.”

“Or just to be ornery.”

Why?

“Ice cream?” Ryan offered.

We ate our DoveBars and considered possible explanations. None was persuasive. The two most likely were someone looking for money or someone letting me know he or she didn't care for me.

When Ryan had gone, I stacked the remaining folders and went to run a bath. Throwing back the shower curtain, I got my next shock.