Bare Bones (16 page)

“Are you thinking leprosy?” he asked.

“Sure looks like it.”

“How the hel does someone get leprosy in North Carolina?”

The question hung in the air as I dug through layers at the back of my mind.

Graduate school. Systematics of bone pathology.

A: anatomical distribution.

I pointed the tip of my pen at the finger and toe bones.

“Other than the nasals, the process seems to be restricted to the bones of the hands and feet, especial y the proximal and middle phalanges.” Larabee agreed.

B: osseous modification. Abnormal size, shape, bone loss, bone formation.

“I see three types of change.”

I pointed to a punched-out-looking circle. “Some lesions look round and cystic, like the one on the nasal.” I indicated a honeycombed pattern in the index finger.

“There’s lacelike coarsening in some phalanges.”

I moved my pen to a phalange whose shape had altered from that of a dumbbel to that of a sharpened pencil.

“Resorption in one.”

“Looks like classic radiology textbook leprosy to me,” said Larabee.

“Did you pick up hints of anything elsewhere in the body?”

Larabee turned both palms up and shrugged in a “not real y” gesture. “A couple of enlarged lymph nodes, but they didn’t strike me as any big deal. The lungs were hamburger, so I couldn’t real y see much.”

“With lepromatous leprosy, the most obvious skin lesions would have been on the face.”

“Yeah. And this guy didn’t have one.”

Back to my hindbrain.

No macroscopical y observable changes in soft tissue.

Diffuse spotty rarefaction, cortical thinning, penciling of at least one phalange.

Down through the mental strata.

Neoplasias. Deficiency diseases. Metabolic. Infectious. Autoimmune.

Slow, benign course.

Hands and feet.

Young adult.

Young adult.

“But you can bet your ass I’l take a close look at the histo when the slides are ready.” Larabee’s words hardly registered as I thumbed through possible diagnoses. Leprosy. Tuberculosis. Spina ventosa. Osteochondromatosis.

“Don’t phone Father Damien yet,” I said, clicking off the light boxes. “I’m going to do some digging.”

“In the meantime, I’l take another look at what’s left of this guy’s skin and lymph nodes.” Larabee wagged his head. “Sure would help if he had a face.” I’d barely settled at my desk when the phone rang. It was Sheila Jansen.

“I was right. It wasn’t coke burned onto the underbel y of that Cessna.”

“What was it?”

“That has yet to be determined. But the stuff wasn’t blow. Any progress on the passenger?”

“We’re working on it.”

I didn’t mention our suspicion about the man’s health. Better to wait until we were sure.

“Discovered a bit more about Ricky Don Dorton,” Jansen said.

I waited.

“Seems Ricky Don got into a slight misunderstanding with the United States Marine Corps back in the early seventies, did some brig time, got the boot.”

“Drugs?”

“Corporal Dorton decided to send a little hash home as a memento of his time in Southeast Asia.”

“There’s an original thought.”

“Actual y, his scheme was pretty ingenious. Dorton was assigned to casualty affairs in Vietnam. He’d slip drugs into coffins in the mortuary in Da Nang, then an associate would remove them on arrival Stateside, before the serviceman’s body was processed on to the family. Dorton was probably working with someone he’d met during his tour, someone who knew the morgue routine.”

“Clever.” Jesus. “Cold, but clever.”

“Except Corporal Einstein got nailed the last week of his tour.”

“Bad timing.”

“Dorton disappeared for a while after his release. Next we see him, he’s back in Sneedvil e running field trips for the Grizzly Woodsman Fishing Camp.”

“Grizzly Woodsman? Is that one of those outfits that helps accountants from Akron reel in the bass of their dreams?”

“Yeah. Guess the GED education and dishonorable discharge limited Ricky Don’s options with the big Wal Street firms. But not his aspirations. Two years as an angling coach, and Dorton opens his own operation. Wilderness Quest.”

“You don’t suppose Ricky Don got some product across before the Corps discovered his little export scheme?”

“Nah. Fine citizen probably set aside a little from every paycheck, worked a civilian job on weekends, that sort of thing. Anyway, by the mid-eighties, Dorton switched from hip waders to pinstripes. In addition to the fishing camp he owns a sporting goods store in Morristown, Tennessee, and the two entertainment palaces in Kannapolis.”

“A respected businessman,” I said.

“And Ricky Don’s military experience taught him wel . If Dorton’s into something il egal, he operates from a distance now. Stays so cool the cops can’t make him flinch.”

Something moved in the sludge at the back of my brain.

“Did you say Dorton’s from Sneedvil e?”

“Yeah.”

“Tennessee?”

“Yeah. Mama Dorton and about a tril ion kin stil live there.”

The sludge thought rol ed over, sluggish and lazy.

“Any chance Dorton’s a Melungeon?”

“How did you guess that?”

“Is he?”

“Sure is. I’m impressed. Until yesterday I’d never heard of Melungeons.” Jansen may have picked up on something in my voice. “That trigger a line of thought?”

“Just a hunch. Could be nothing.”

“You know how to reach me.”

I sat a moment when we’d disconnected.

Dig.

Upper layers. Recent deposits.

American Academy of Forensic Sciences. Scientific session.

What year? What city?

I turned to the AAFS programs on my shelf.

Within ten minutes I found what I was looking for. Twelve years back. A graduate student presentation on disease frequencies among Melungeon populations.

As I read the abstract, the sludge thought lumbered to its feet and slowly took form.

“Sarcoidosis.”

When Larabee looked up, his desk lamp threw shadows across the lines in his face.

“That would take us back to lymph nodes, lungs, and skin.”

“Approximately fourteen percent of sarcoidosis cases show skeletal involvement, mostly in the short bones of the hands and feet.” I laid a pathology textbook on the desk in front of him. Larabee read a moment, then leaned back, chin on palm. His expression told me he was unconvinced.

“Most cases of sarcoidosis are asymptomatic. The disease pursues a slow, benign course, usual y with spontaneous healing. People don’t even know they have it.”

“Until they get an X ray for some other reason,” he said.

“Exactly.”

“Like being dead.”

I ignored that.

“Sarcoidosis primarily affects young adults,” I said.

“And is most evident radiographical y in the lungs.”

“You said the lungs were hamburger.”

“Sarcoidosis is mainly seen among African-Americans.”

“There’s a high incidence among Melungeons.”

Larabee looked at me as though I’d said Olmec warriors.

“It al fits. There’s an Anatolian bump on the back of the passenger’s head and modified shoveling on his incisors. His cheekbones are flaring, otherwise the guy looks like Charlton Heston.”

“Refresh me on Melungeons.”

“They’re fairly dark-skinned people with European-looking features. Some have an Asian eye fold.”

“Living where?”

“Most are in the mountains of Kentucky, Virginia, West Virginia, and North Carolina.”

“Who are they?”

“Survivors of the lost colony of Roanoke, Portuguese shipwrecks, the lost tribes of Israel, Phoenician seamen. You can take your pick of theories.”

“What’s the current favorite?”

“Descendants of Spanish and Portuguese colonists who abandoned the settlement of Santa Elena in South Carolina during the late sixteenth century.

Supposedly these folks mingled with the Powhatans, the Catawbas, the Cherokees, and a number of other tribes. There may even have been some input from Moorish and Turkish gal ey slaves and from Portuguese and Spanish prisoners left on Roanoke Island in 1586.”

“Left by whom?”

“Sir Francis Drake.”

“Who doMelungeonsthink they are?”

“They claim to be variously of Portuguese, Turkish, Moorish, Arabic, and Jewish origin mixed with Native Americans.”

“Any evidence to support that?”

“When first encountered back in the sixteen hundreds they were living in cabins, speaking broken English, and described themselves as.

‘Portyghee.’ ”

Larabee made a give-me-more gesture with his hand.

“A recent gene-frequency study showed no significant differences between Melungeon populations in Tennessee and Virginia and populations in Spain, Portugal, North Africa, Malta, Cyprus, Iran, Iraq, and the Levant.”

Larabee shook his head. “How do you remember stuff like that?”

“I don’t. I just looked it up. There are lots of Melungeon Web sites.”

“Why is this relevant?”

“There’s a large population of Melungeons living near Sneedvil e, Tennessee.”

“And?”

“Remember Ricky Don Dorton?”

“The owner of the Cessna.”

“Dorton’s from Sneedvil e, Tennessee.”

“That works.”

“Thought it might.”

“Give Sheila Jansen a cal . I’l get on the horn to Sneedvil e.”

I’d just completed my cal to the NTSB agent when Slidel and Rinaldi made their second appearance of the day.

“Ever hear of a man named J. J. Wyatt?” Rinaldi asked.

I shook my head.

“Looks like Wyatt was on Darryl Tyree’s speed dialer.”

“Meaning Tyree cal ed Wyatt frequently?”

Rinaldi nodded. “From his cel phone.”

“Recently?”

“The final three cal s were placed just before seven last Sunday morning.”

“To?”

“Wyatt’s cel phone.” Slidel face looked poached with heat.

“Which was located where?” I asked.

“Most likely in Wyatt’s hand.” Slidel mopped his brow.

I was biting back a reply when Larabee joined us wearing a smile wider than a lean face such as his could support.

“Guys,” the ME said to Slidel and Rinaldi, “you are in the presence of genius.”

Larabee did a half-bow in my direction, then waggled a slip of paper in the air.

“Jason Jack Wyatt.”

Absolute quiet crammed my little office.

Puzzled by our nonreaction, Larabee looked from Slidel to Rinaldi to me.

“What?”

Slidel spoke first.

“What about Jason Jack Wyatt, Doc?”

“Twenty-four-year-old male Melungeon from Sneedvil e, Tennessee. Wyatt was reported missing three days ago by a worried grandma.” Larabee glanced up from his notes.

“Granny says young J.J. suffered from ‘the arthrity’ in his hands and feet. Dental records are in transit, and it looks good for a match on the Cessna passenger.”

No one said a word.

“Ready for the best part?”

Three nods.

“Grandma’s name is Effie Opal Dorton Cumbo.”

Larabee’s impossibly wide smile broadened.

“J. J. Wyatt and Ricky Don Dorton are Tennessee kissin’ cousins.”

THIRTY SECONDS PASSED BEFORE ANYONE SPOKE.

Rinaldi stared at the ceiling. Slidel studied his shoes. Both looked like they were doing complicated math in their heads.

Knowing he was out of the loop, but not knowing why, Larabee waited us out, the smile gone. His slack face looked like it had spent a lifetime baking in an oven.

I started the dialogue by holding up an index finger.

“Jason Jack Wyatt might be the passenger on the Cessna.”

“The Cessna was owned by Ricky Don Dorton,” Rinaldi said.

I added a finger.

“Wyatt was Dorton’s cousin,” Slidel offered.

Ring man.

“Darryl Tyree made frequent cal s to Wyatt, including three on the morning the Cessna crashed.” Rinaldi.

Pinky.

“Having off-loaded at least four kilos of blow.” Slidel .

My thumb went up.

“Tyree is a dealer,” Rinaldi said, “whose girlfriend has recently gone missing.”

I started on a second hand.

“Having offed her own kid.” Slidel .

“Maybe,” I said.

“Two members of Tamela’s family are also missing.” Rinaldi ignored our exchange about the baby.

My second middle finger went up.

“And sweet cheeks’ license turned up in a house with two kilos of snort and a dead guy in the privy.” Slidel .

Ring man number two.

“A house in the possession of Sonny Pounder, a low-level dealer who snitched to the cops about Tamela’s baby.” Pinky number two.

“A house with bears interred in the yard,” I added, dropping both hands.

Slidel tendered an emphatic expletive.

I suggested one of my own.

A phone rang in Larabee’s office.

“You’re going to fil me in on al of this,” the ME said to me, then shot out the door.

Rinaldi reached into an inside pocket, withdrew a Ziploc baggie, and tossed it onto my desk.

“CSU found this stashed with the cocaine. Thought it might mean something to you.” Before reaching for the bag I glanced at Rinaldi.

“Trace analysis has already gone over it.”

Unzipping the seal, I studied the contents.

“Feathers?”

“Very unusual feathers.” Rinaldi.

“I know nothing about feathers.”

Slidel shrugged. “You were al over Yogi and his friends, Doc.”

“That’s bone. These are feathers.”

Rinaldi withdrew an eight-inch plume and twirled it. Even under fluorescent light the blues looked rich and iridescent.

“It’s no song sparrow,” he said.

“I’m not fol owing this,” I said.

“Why would someone hide avian plumage with il egal drugs?”

“Maybe the feathers were already in the basement and the coke was accidental y parked on top of them.”

“Maybe.” Rinaldi replaced the feather.

I flashed on the bear bones.

“Actual y, there was some kind of bird mixed in with the bears.”

“Tel me more.”

“That’s al I know.”

“Identifying the species might not hurt.”