Bare Bones (17 page)

“You need an ornithologist.”

“Know any?”

“I can make a few cal s.” I gave Rinaldi a look that had talons. “But first let’s talk headless bodies.” Rinaldi’s arms folded across Brooks Brothers linen.

“I don’t like being kept in the dark, Detective.”

“And we don’t like wool y thinking, Doc.” Slidel .

I turned to him.

“Is there something you’re not sharing?”

“Nothing gained by a lot of pointless wheel spinning.” Slidel scowled at me.

I scowled back.

“When we’ve verified what we’re looking at, we’l pass it on.” Slidel .

Rinaldi picked at a cal us on his thumb. Between the spiky hairs, his scalp looked pale and shiny.

Larabee’s voice drifted down from his office.

Slidel held my look. I wondered if he could hang on to it with my boot up his ass.

Rinaldi broke the silence.

“I see no harm in including Dr. Brennan in our thinking.”

Slidel ’s eyes rol ed to his partner, snapped back to me.

“What the hel .” Slidel sighed. “No skin off my nose.”

“Three, four years back. I can’t precisely recal . An inquiry came across my desk.”

“About a body with no head or hands.”

Rinaldi nodded.

“Where?”

“South Carolina.”

“It’s a big state.”

“Fort Mil . Gaffney. Chester.” Rinaldi flapped a long, bony hand. “Nothing is centralized down there, it’s hard to backtrack.” Unlike the Tarheel State, South Carolina relies on a coroner system, with practitioners operating independently in each county. Coroners are elected. A nurse, a funeral director, a cemetery owner. Few are trained in medicine, fewer stil in forensic pathology. Autopsies are farmed out to local doctors.

“Most South Carolina coroners don’t have the facilities to keep a corpse very long.”

“Got that damn straight,” Slidel snorted. “Gave Michael Jordan’s daddy, what, three days before they smoked him?” Slidel had the tact of a sledgehammer. But he was right.

“I’ve sent out a query,” Rinaldi said. “I hope to hear back by the end of the day.”

“Was this headless, handless body in good shape?”

“As I recal , the remains were skeletonized. But it wasn’t relevant to anything we were investigating at the time, so I didn’t take much notice.”

“Black or white?”

Rinaldi raised then dropped his shoulders.

“Male or female?”

“Definitely,” Rinaldi said.

When the detectives had gone I phoned the university. A col eague could look at the feathers the fol owing day.

Next I went to the cooler and rol ed out the gurney with the animal remains. I packaged everything that looked like bird, and placed the bundle in a sack with Rinaldi’s baggie of feathers.

Exchanging the animal gurney for that holding the privy remains, I spent the next several hours doing as thorough an analysis as possible.

My initial impressions changed little, though I was able to be more precise on the age estimate.

Race: white.

Age: twenty-five to forty years.

Sex: rol the dice.

When I returned to my office, Ryan was leafing through a copy ofCreative Loafing,Nikes resting on the edge of my desk. He was wearing the same luau shirt and shorts he’d had on that morning and a Winston Cup cap. He looked like Hawaii Five-O does NASCAR.

“Have a good day?”

“Latta Plantation then Freedom Park.”

“Didn’t know you were such a history buff.”

“Hooch can’t get enough of the stuff.”

“Where is he?”

“The cal of Alpo overpowered the cal of the wild.”

“Surprised he let you out on your own.”

“When last seen, man’s best friend was investigating the contents of an Oreo bag.”

“Chocolate is bad for dogs.”

“We discussed that. Hooch thought he could handle it.”

“If Hooch guessed wrong, you’re cleaning the carpet.”

“Making progress with privy man?”

“Apt segue.” Tossing the privy case folder onto my desk, I dropped into my chair. “I just finished.”

“That took a while,” Ryan said.

“Toody and Muldoon came by twice today.”

“Slidel and his partner?”

I nodded.

“Aren’t you kind of hard on the guy?”

“Slidel probably needs instructions to make ice cubes.”

“Is he real y that stupid?”

I thought about that.

Slidel was not actual y stupid. Not in the way that a fern is stupid. Or a wood frog. Slidel was just Slidel .

“Probably not. But he’s off the bel curves for uncouth and annoying.”

“What did they want?”

I told Ryan about Jason Jack Wyatt and the cel phone link to Darryl Tyree.

“The boyfriend of the lady with the dead baby?”

I nodded.

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

“Here’s another flash. Rinaldi remembers a headless, handless body inquiry a few years back. He and Slidel are tracking it down.”

“Descriptors match your privy guy?”

“Rinaldi’s recol ection is a bit vague.”

“Isyours a guy?”

“I think so.”

Ryan raised his brows in a question.

“There’s not a single cranial feature that’s definitive for gender. I ran every measurement possible through the Fordisc 2.0 program.”

“Let me guess. The skul fal s into the overlap range.”

I nodded. “Though closer to the male than the female end.”

“Ditto for measurements on the hand bones?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your gut feeling?”

“Male.”

“A young-adult white person who probably used the little boys’ room. That’s not a bad start.”

“With lousy teeth.”

“Oh?”

“Lots of decay. At least on the teeth we recovered.”

“Missed a few?”

“Yeah.”

“Shitty job.”

“How did I know you would say that?”

“Any dental work?”

I shook my head. “The victim was not a believer in regular checkups.”

“Anything else?”

“Maybe some slight bone demineralization.”

“I think you’ve made an excel ent start, Dr. Brennan.”

“Rinaldi also had feathers.”

“Doesn’t seem like his style.”

“They turned up with the coke in the cel ar.”

“What kind of feathers?”

“He wants me to find out.”

“Do you know any big birdbrains?”

“I know you, cowboy.”

Ryan made a pistol with his hand and pointed it at me.

“Ready for another field trip tomorrow?”

“Hee-haw.”

This time the finger made a lasso.

We were passing Mrs. Flowers’s desk when the phone rang. She answered, then flapped a hand in my direction.

I waited while she spoke, then placed the cal on hold.

“It’s Detective Slidel .”

I felt a sigh elbowing up my chest, but resisted the impulse toward melodramatics.

Mrs. Flowers smiled at me, then at Ryan. When he grinned back, a pink spot blossomed on each of her cheeks.

“He sounds like the cat that swal owed the canary.”

“Not a pretty picture.” Ryan winked.

Mrs. Flowers giggled, and her cheeks went raspberry.

“Do you want to take it?”

Like I wanted Ebola.

I reached for the receiver.

“LANCASTER.”

“Lancaster who?”

“South Carolina.”

I heard cel ophane crinkle, then the sound of chewing.

“That’s about forty minutes south of Charlotte.”

“Uh-huh. Straight down five twenty-one.”

Pause.

“WhataboutLancaster, South Carolina?”

“Skeleton.” Garbled through what sounded like caramel and peanuts.

“Three”—crinkle—“years back.”

Slidel was in Snickers mode. My grip tightened on the receiver.

“Hikers.”

A lot of crinkling, and a comment I couldn’t make out.

“Park.”

“Hikers found a headless, handless skeleton in a park near Lancaster?” I prompted.

“Yep.”

A click, as though Slidel were picking a tooth with a thumbnail.

“Were the remains ID’ed?”

“Nope.”

“What happened to them?”

“Packed up and shipped to Columbia.”

“To Wal y Cagle?”

“He the anthropologist down there?”

“Yes.”

“Stubby little fruit fly, goatee looks like a mal ard’s arse?”

“Walter Cagle is a highly qualified, board-certified forensic anthropologist.” It took an effort to keep my voice level. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Probably.”

“What does that mean?”

“Fine citizens of Lancaster County elected themselves a new coroner two years back. New kid claims his predecessor didn’t keep real good records.”

“Who circulated the query?”

“Sheriff.”

“What does he say?”

“Says talk to the former coroner. Sheriff ’s new, too.”

“Have you done that?”

“Tough order. Guy’s dead.”

I was gripping the receiver so tightly the plastic was making smal popping sounds.

“Does the current coroner have any information on the case?”

“Unknown. Partial skeleton with animal damage.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s what’s in the original police report. Nothin’ else in the file.”

“Is someone checking with Dr. Cagle?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you pul ing up missing persons for an ID on the privy skul ?”

“Hard to do with nothing to go on.”

Slidel had a point.

“White male, twenty-five to forty. Bad teeth, four restorations.” I kept my voice even.

Mrs. Flowers’s fingers were flying over her keyboard. Now and then she’d glance up at Ryan. He’d smile, and the color in her cheeks would deepen.

“That helps.”

“But don’t rule out a female if everything else works.”

“The hel are you saying? Don’t a person got to be one or the other?”

“Yes. One does.”

I looked at Ryan. He grinned.

“I’l keep my cel turned on,” I said to Slidel . “Cal me when you know something.” Normal y my refrigerator contains leftover carryout, frozen dinners, condiments, coffee beans, Diet Coke, and milk, with a smattering of slimed-out produce in the bins. That night it was uncharacteristical y ful .

When I opened the door, a Vidalia onion dropped to the floor and rol ed to a stop against Boyd’s haunch. The chow sniffed, licked, then relocated himself under the table.

“Been foraging?” I asked.

“Hooch pointed me to the Fresh Market.”

Boyd’s ears rose, but his chin stayed on his paws.

I picked up a package wrapped in butcher paper.

“You know how to cook swordfish?”

Ryan held out both arms.

“I am a son of Nova Scotia.”

“Uh-huh. Would you like a Sam Adams?”

“Generations of my people have made their living from the sea.”

I real y could love this guy, I thought.

“Your parents were born in Dublin, trained in medicine in London,” I said.

“They ate a lot of fish.”

I handed him the beer.

“Thanks.”

He twisted off the lid and took a long swig.

“Why don’t you—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “Why don’t I take a shower while you and Hooch rustle up some vittles.” Ryan winked at Boyd.

Boyd wagged at Ryan.

“OK.”

That’s not how it went.

I’d just lathered my hair when the shower door opened. I felt cool air, then a warm body.

Fingers began massaging my scalp.

I pressed into Ryan.

“Have you started the fish?” I asked, without opening my eyes.

“No.”

“Good.”

We were cuddled on the couch when the phone rang.

It was Katy.

“What’s up?”

“Just finished dinner.”

“Now?”

I looked at the mantel clock. Ten-thirty.

“Some things, uh, came up.”

“You need to ease back, Mom. Take some time for yourself.”

“Um.”

“Are you stil working on Boyd’s big score?”

“Boyd’s big score may actual y turn out to be something.”

“Such as?”

“I found human bones mixed in with the animal remains.”

“You’re kidding.”

Ryan tickled behind my ear. I brushed his hand away.

“I’m not kidding. Anyway, where have you been hiding out?”

“Subbing at Dad’s firm while the receptionist is on vacation. It is so boring.”

She gave the “so” at least three syl ables.

“What do they have you doing?”

Ryan blew air onto the nape of my neck.

“Licking envelopes and answering the phone.‘Bialystock und Bloom. Bialystock und Bloom.’” She imitated the Swedish receptionist fromThe Producers.

“Not bad.”

“Lija and I thought we’d throw a dinner party.”

“That sounds like fun.”

Ryan unwrapped his arm from my shoulders, stood, and waggled his coffee cup. I shook my head and mouthed “no thanks.”

“Is someone else there?”

“Who do you plan to invite?”

Short pause.

“When I cal ed, some guy answered your phone.”

Slightly shorter pause.

“That guy’s staying with you, isn’t he? That’s why you sound funny. You’re playing tonsil tennis with the studmuffin from Montreal.”

“Are you talking about Andrew Ryan?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about.” Sudden recol ection. “Wait a minute. It’s been bugging me, but I just figured out who that is. I met that guy when I visited you in Montreal and some serial kil er tried to reconfigure your larynx with a chain.”

“Katy—”

“Anyway,le monsieurwas there when I dropped Boyd off. Whoooo, Mom. That guy’s a player.” I heard her shout across the apartment.

“My mom’s shacking up with a gendarme.”

“Katy!”

Muffled comment.

“Oh, yeah. This dude makes Harrison Ford look like Freddy Geek-meister.”

More muffled commentary.

Katy spoke into the phone.

“Lija says keep him.”

Again, a voice in the distance.

“Good idea.” Katy reengaged. “Lija says bring him to the party.”

“When is this gala?”

“Tomorrow night. We thought it might be fun to dress up.”

I looked at Ryan. After our shower, the studmuffin had swapped the luau shirt and shorts for cutoffs, tank, and flip-flops.