Bare Bones (19 page)

“Is there a market for live Spix’s?”

“The Spix’s was already rare in the eighteenth century because it was so highly valued by col ectors.” She virtual y spat the last word. “Today, a live Spix’s could bring a hundred thousand dol ars or more from a wel -heeled buyer.”

Like matter, an idea exploded into being.

I couldn’t wait to phone Slidel .

There was no need. My cel rang as I was turning from campus onto University Boulevard. It was Slidel .

“Talked with the Lancaster County sheriff.”

“What did he have?”

“Mostly holes.”

“Meaning?”

Ryan reached out and reduced the volume of his Hawksley Workman and the Wolves CD to background.

“No one knows nothing much.”

That was not what I wanted to hear.

“The bones did go down to your buddy Cagle.”

“You contacted him?”

“Ever try getting an academic on the horn in August?”

“Did you try his home?”

“His home. His office. His lab. Thinking about setting up a séance with his dead granny.” Slidel spoke to someone else, came back to me.

“Department secretary final y hooked me up with his top-secret, tel -you-and-I’l -have-to-kil -you cel phone number. Guy sounded like he was wearing fuchsia tights.”

“And?”

“Walter”—Slidel gave the name a three-note tril —“was excavating on some island off Beaufort, South Carolina. Said he’d get hold of his grad student to read him the Lancaster report as soon as he finished digging up some dead Indian.”

“That was nice of him.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking of mailing him some chocolate chips.”

“Did you run the descriptors through NCIC?”

“Not sure about sex, not sure about time of death. No dentals, tattoos, prints, height, weight. I’d get a printout the length of Soldier Field.” Slidel was right. Based on what we knew, a national database search of missing persons would be pointless. I changed tacks.

“Ryan and I just met with an ornithologist. Your feathers come from a bird that’s been extinct in the wild since 2000.”

“How’d they get into Pounder’s basement?”

“Good question.”

“Got a good answer?”

“These birds can go for a hundred thousand dol ars.”

“You’re shitting me. Who’d pay a hundred grand for a bird?”

“People with more money than brains.”

“That legal?”

“Not if the bird is wild.”

“You’re thinking black market?”

“Could explain why the feathers were hidden with the coke.”

“Doesn’t Tweetie have to be chirping to bring the bucks?”

“It could have died in transport.”

“So the mope saves the feathers thinking they might be worth something.”

“And buries the carcass with the other animals he’s slaughtered.”

“The bear bones?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Thought you said they were garden-variety black bears.”

“I did.”

“That an endangered species?”

“No.”

A moment of empty air.

“Doesn’t hang,” Slidel said.

“Why so many bears?”

“Where’s the money?”

That had been Ryan’s question, too.

“I’m not sure, but I intend to find out.”

And I knew just whom I was going to ask.

FOR THE FIRST DAY IN ALMOST A WEEK,THERE WAS NO NEED TOgo to the MCME. I’d done what I could with the privy remains, the Cessna passenger, and the bears. Slidel could get the feathers personal y if he needed them quickly.

Over gril ed cheese sandwiches at Pike’s Soda Shop, Ryan and I discussed the wisdom of leaving for the beach. We decided it was better to hold off for a few days than to be yanked back to Charlotte.

We also discussed my suspicions concerning the il egal trade in wildlife. Ryan agreed my theory posed a possibility given the feathers found with the cocaine, and the large number of black bears buried at the farm. Neither he nor I had any idea how the bears figured in, nor what the link was among the farm, Tamela Banks and Darryl Tyree, the privy victim, and the Cessna’s owner, pilot, and passenger, though there was clearly a cocaine connection to Tyree.

After an hors d’oeuvre run to Dean & DeLuca’s at Phil ips Place, we returned to the annex. While Ryan changed into running gear, I phoned Mrs. Flowers.

Wal y Cagle, the forensic anthropologist who’d done the headless, handless skeleton from Lancaster County, had cal ed. She gave me the number.

Next I checked my voice mail messages.

Katy.

Harry.

Harry’s son, Kit, warning that his mother would be cal ing.

Harry.

Harry.

Pierre LaManche, the chef de service for the medicolegal section at the crime lab in Montreal. An informant had led police to a woman buried seven years in a sandpit. The case was not urgent, but he wanted me to know that an anthropological analysis was required.

My arrangement with the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale was that I would rotate through the lab on a monthly basis, doing al cases for which my expertise had been requested, and that I would return immediately should a critical investigation, disaster, or subpoena demand my presence. I wondered if the sandpit case could wait until my planned return to Montreal at the end of the summer.

Two hang-ups.

Knowing the Harry-Kit-Harry-Harry sequence meant my sister and twenty-something nephew were arguing, I put that conversation off.

As I disconnected, man and his best friend entered the kitchen, Boyd trailing like a shark on a blood scent. Ryan wore running shorts, a sweatband, and a T that suggestedPERFORM RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS AND SENSELESS BEAUTY.

“Nice shirt,” I said.

“Half the proceeds went toward saving the Karner Blue.”

“What’s a Karner Blue?”

“Butterfly.” Ryan unpegged the leash. The chow went berserk. “It’s in trouble and the salesperson was deeply concerned.” Smiling, I waved the two off and dialed my daughter.

She requested hors d’ouevres for the evening’s soiree. I told her I had purchased stuffed mushrooms and cheese sticks.

She asked if I was bringing the French Foreign Legion. I told her I’d be accompanied.

I cal ed Montreal. LaManche had departed the lab for an afternoon of administrative meetings. I left a message about my scheduled return date.

I hadn’t seen Harry since the family beach trip in early July. Knowing this would be a long one, I got a Diet Coke from the refrigerator and dialed my sister’s number.

The fight concerned my sister’s latest boyfriend, a massage therapist from Galveston. Thirty minutes later I understood the issue.

Kit didn’t like him. Harry did.

I was dialing Wal y Cagle when a series of beeps indicated another cal er was trying to reach me. I clicked over.

“Checked your e-mail, Dr. Brennan?” The voice was high and warbly, like an electronic dol ’s.

Tiny hairs rose on the nape of my neck.

“Who is this?”

“I know where you are. I know al about you.”

Annoyance alternated with anger. And fear. I searched for a snappy response, found none, repeated myself.

“Who is this?”

“The face in the glass.”

My eyes flew to the window.

“The dust bunny under your bed.” Singsong. “The beastie in the closet.”

Unconsciously, I drifted to the wal and pressed my back to it.

“Welcome.” The child-voice mimicked AOL. “You’ve got mail.”

The line went dead.

I stood rigid, clutching the phone.

This case? Some other case? A random nut?

I jumped when the ringer sounded in my hand. The cal er-ID window indicated a private number.

My finger sought the “connect” button. Slowly, I raised the receiver to my ear.

“Hel o?” A man’s voice.

I waited, breath stil frozen in my throat.

“Ye-ho? Someone there?”

High-pitched Boston accent.

Walter Cagle.

Slow exhale.

“Hey, Wal y.”

“That you, Tempe?”

“It’s me.”

“You al right, princess?” Wal y cal ed most women he liked. “princess.” Some were offended. Some weren’t. I saved my ire for bigger issues.

“I’m fine.”

“You sound edgy.”

“I’ve just had an odd cal .”

“Not bad news, I hope.”

“Probably just a crank.” Dear God, what if it wasn’t?

“Guy wanted to see you in hip waders and a Dale Evans bra?”

“Something like that.”

A tap at the window. My eyes whipped back up.

A chickadee was perched on the bird feeder. As it dipped for seed, the feeder rocked gently against the glass.

I closed my eyes and steadied my voice.

“Listen, I’m glad you cal ed. Did Detective Slidel fil you in on what’s going on?”

“He said you needed information on an old case.”

“A partial skeleton, found near Lancaster about three years back.”

“I remember it. No skul . No hand bones. Coroner should have my report on file.”

“That coroner is dead. The current coroner has nothing but the original police report, which is useless.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Deep sigh. “Guy struck me as one notch above simpleminded. A teensy notch.”

“Do you mind discussing your findings?”

“Of course not, princess. Case went nowhere, as I recal .”

“We think we may have found the head and hands up here in Mecklenburg County.”

“No kidding.”

The line was silent a moment. I could picture Wal y crossing his legs, kicking one foot, composing his thoughts.

“I’m down in Beaufort, but I cal ed my lab, had a graduate student read me the highlights from my report. It was a complete skeleton lacking the head, mandible, first three cervical vertebrae, and al hand bones.”

Pause.

“Wel preserved, devoid of soft tissue and odor, some bleaching. Extensive animal damage. Time since death at least one year, probably longer.” Wal y was summarizing in speech as he might have on paper. Or perhaps he was reading from notes he’d jotted during the cal with his student.

“Male. Thirty years old, plus or minus five years. Age based on ribs and pubic symphyses. Or at least on what was left of them.” Pause.

“Caucasoid.”

Pause.

“Height seventy-three inches, plus or minus. Can’t remember that exactly. Muscle attachments slight.”

“Any evidence of trauma?” I asked.

“Just postmortem. Animal damage. Cut marks on the third cervical vertebra suggestive of decapitation by a sharp instrument with a nonserrated blade.

That’s about it.”

“Did you have any feel for the case at the time?”

“A tal white boy pissed somebody off. That somebody kil ed him and whacked off his head and hands. That in accord with what you’re seeing?”

“Pretty much.”

I looked out my window. The trees around my patio shimmered in the heat. My heartbeat had returned to normal. Concentrating on Cagle’s narrative, I’d nearly forgotten the prior cal .

“I had a tough time determining sex with this skul . Didn’t fal on either side of the line,” I said.

“I had the same problem,” Cagle said. “Sheriff ’s deputies recovered no clothes or personal effects. Dogs and raccoons used the body as carryout for a goodly period of time. Pelvis was badly chewed, so were the ends of the long bones. Had to calculate stature from one relatively complete fibula. Except for that height estimate, I saw zilch with regard to sex.”

“There are tal women,” I said.

“Look at professional basketbal ,” Cagle agreed. “Anyway, I thought I had a tal male, but wasn’t one hundred percent sure. So when I sent a femoral sample off for DNA profiling, I requested an amelogenin test.”

“And?”

“Two bands.”

“Male.” I said it more to myself than to Cagle.

“X and a Y, holding hands.”

“The state lab agreed to do a blind DNA?”

“Of course not. The sheriff ’s query turned up a missing person as a possible match. DNA said otherwise.”

“What happened to the skeleton?”

“I shipped it back to Lancaster when I mailed my report. Coroner sent me a receipt.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Snow. Murray P. Snow. Probably held the bones a week then torched them.”

“Did you take pictures?” I asked.

“They’re on file in my lab at the university.”

I thought a moment.

“Is there any way you could scan the images and transmit them to me electronical y?”

“No problem, princess. I’l be back in Columbia by late this afternoon. I’l do it toot sweet, and fax you a copy of the report.” I thanked him, disconnected, and went straight to my computer. Though Cagle’s cal had distracted me for a time, I was anxious to see what kind of e-mail stalker wanted to be my chat buddy.

What kind of psychopath knew my home phone number.

The flag on my inbox was straight up. A cheery voice told me I had mail.

Barely breathing, I double-clicked the icon.

Forty-three e-mails.

I scrol ed downward.

And my heartbeat ratcheted up.

Twenty-four messages had been sent by someone using the screen name Grim Reaper. Each file carried an attachment. Each subject line held the same message in bold caps:BACK OFF!

I recoiled from the monitor.

Breathe in.

Out.

In.

My hand shook as I double-clicked one of the Grim Reaper subject bars.

The message window was blank. The attachment was a numbered graphics file, 1.jpg. Download time was estimated at less than a minute.

I hit “download.”

AOL asked if I knew the sender.

Good point.

I went to the member directory. No profile on Grim Reaper.

Back to the e-mail.

A moment of hesitation.

I had to know.

I clicked “yes,” told the download manager to save.

Slowly, an image unfolded down the screen. My face, a hash-marked circle superimposed.

My subconscious knew instantly as my conscious mind moved toward comprehension.

My left hand flew to my mouth.

I was viewing myself through the scope of a high-powered rifle.

For a moment I could only stare.

Seriously frightened now, I closed that e-mail and opened another.