Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

“Turns out Ralph Stover is no hayseed. The gentleman owned a company in Ohio, holds patents on a number of microchips. In eighty-six Ralph underwent a metamorphosis following a cardiac event. He sold out for megabucks and bought the Riverbank. Been a country motel owner ever since.”

“Any police record?”

“Two DWIs back in the seventies, otherwise the guy's clean.”

“Does it make sense to you?”

“Maybe he watched too many Newhart reruns, dreamt of being an innkeeper.”

The next to ring was my friend at Oak Ridge. Laslo Sparkes asked if I'd be available in the morning. We made a date for nine o'clock. Good. Maybe he had some more results from the soil samples.

The final call came from my department chair. He opened by apologizing for his abruptness Tuesday night.

“My three-year-old put our kitten in the Kenmore to dry it after a fall into the toilet. My wife had just rescued the poor thing, and everyone was hysterical. Kids crying. Wife crying, trying to get the cat to breathe.”

“How awful. Is it all right?”

“The little guy pulled through, but I don't think he's seeing too well.”

“He'll come around.”

There was a pause. I could hear his breath against the receiver.

“Well, Tempe, there's no easy way, so I'm just going to say it. The chancellor asked me to meet with him today. He's received a complaint about your behavior during the crash investigation and has decided to suspend you pending a full inquiry.”

I remained silent. Nothing I was doing in Bryson City was under the auspices of the university, though I was on its payroll.

“With pay, of course. He says he doesn't believe a word of it but has no choice in the matter.”

“Why not?” I already knew the answer.

“He's afraid of the negative publicity, feels he has to protect the university. And apparently the lieutenant governor is on his case directly and being a real hard-ass about this.”

“And, as everyone knows, the university is funded by the legislature.” My hand was clenched on the phone.

“I tried every argument I could think of. He wouldn't budge.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

“You're welcome back in the department anytime. You could file a grievance.”

“No. I'm going to sort this out first.”

I went through my bedtime ritual with toothpaste, soap, Oil of Olay, hand cream. Cleansed and lubricated, I turned off the lights, crawled under the blankets, and screamed as loud as I could. Then I hugged knees to chest and for the second time in two days began to cry.

It was time to give up. I'm not a quitter, but I had to face reality. I was getting nowhere. I'd uncovered nothing persuasive enough to obtain a warrant, discovered little at the courthouse, struck out with the newspapers. I'd stolen from a library and had almost committed breaking and entering.

It wasn't worth it. I could apologize to the lieutenant governor, resign from DMORT, and return to my normal life.

My normal life.

What was my normal life? Autopsies. Exhumations. Mass fatalities.

I am constantly asked why I've chosen such a morbid vocation. Why I work with the mutilated and decomposed.

Through time and introspection, I have come to understand my choices. I want to serve both the living and the dead. The dead have a right to be identified. To have their stories drawn to a close and to take their places in our memories. If they died at the hands of another, they also have a right to have those hands brought to account.

The living as well deserve our support when the death of another alters their lives: The parent desperate for news of a missing child. The family hopeful of remains from Iwo Jima or Chosin or Hué. The villagers bereft at a mass grave in Guatemala or Kurdistan. The mothers and husbands and lovers and friends dazed at an overlook in the Smoky Mountains. They have a right to information, explanations, and also a right to have murderous hands brought to account.

It is for these victims and the mourners that I tease posthumous tales from bones. The dead will remain dead, whatever my efforts, but there have to be answers and accountability. We cannot live in a world that accepts the destruction of life with no explanations and no consequences.

Of course, an ethics violation would end my career in forensics. If the lieutenant governor had his way, I would effectively be barred from pursuing my profession. An expert witness under an ethical cloud is roadkill on cross-examination. Who would have confidence in any opinion of mine?

Anger replaced self-pity. I would not be driven out of forensics by unfounded accusations and innuendo. I couldn't give in. I had to prove that I was right. I owed it to myself. Even more, I owed it to Primrose Hobbs and her mourning son.

But how?

What to do?

I tossed and turned, feeling like that spider in the rain. My world was under attack by forces stronger than me, and I lacked the power to keep it together.

Sleep finally came, but there was no relief.

When agitated, my brain weaves thoughts into psychedelic collages. All night disjointed images floated in and out of focus.

I was in the incident morgue, sorting body parts. Ryan ran past. I called out, asking what had happened to the foot. He didn't stop. I tried to chase him, but my feet wouldn't move. I kept shouting, reached out, but he drew farther and farther away.

Boyd raced around a cemetery, a dead squirrel hanging from his mouth.

Willow Lynette Gist and Jonas Mitchell posed for a wedding picture. In her hand the Cherokee bride clutched the foot I'd taken from coyotes.

Judge Henry Arlen Preston held a book out to an old man. The man started to walk away, but Preston followed, insisting he take the offering. The old man turned and Preston dropped the book. Boyd snatched it up and ran down a long gravel road. When I caught up and took the object from him, it was no longer a book but a stone tablet, the name “Tucker Adams” carved on its face, and 1943, the year they both died, one a prominent citizen, the other obscure.

Simon Midkiff sat on a chair in the P & T garage office. Next to him was a man with long gray braids and a Cherokee headband.

“Why are you here?” Midkiff asked me.

“I can't drive,” I replied. “There was a crash. People were killed.”

“Is Birkby dead?” asked gray braids.

“Yes.”

“Did they find Edna?”

“No.”

“They won't find me either.”

Gray braid's face morphed into that of Ruby McCready, then into the bloated features of Primrose Hobbs.

I screamed and my head jerked from the pillow. My eyes flew to the clock. Five-thirty.

Though the room was chilly, my back was slick with perspiration, my hair plastered to my head. I threw back the covers and ran on tiptoes for a drink of water. Gazing into the mirror, I rolled the glass across my forehead.

I returned to the bedroom and flicked on a light. The window was opaque with predawn blackness. Frost spiderwebbed the corners of the glass.

I pulled on sweats and socks, took out a tablet, and settled at the table. After dividing several sheets into thirds, I began writing down images from my dream.

Henry Arlen Preston. The coyote foot. The braided old man in Cherokee headgear. Had that been Charlie Wayne Tramper? I wrote the name, followed by a question mark. Edna Farrell. Tucker Adams. Birkby. Jonas and Willow Mitchell. Ruby McCready. Simon Midkiff.

Next, I added what I knew about each character.

Henry Arlen Preston: Died 1943. Age eighty-nine. Attorney, judge, writer. Birds. Family man.

Coyote foot: Elderly male. Native-American ancestry. Height approximately five foot six. Dead last summer. Found near Arthur/ H&F property. TransSouth passenger?