Bare Bones (24 page)

Pete and I had feasted on Carmel buffets, danced under the twirling New Year’s Eve globes, drunk champagne, admired the ice sculptures. Many of our closest friendships had been formed at the club.

Though I remained legal y married, entitling me to use of al facilities, it felt strange to be there, like revisiting a vaguely remembered place. The people I saw were like visions in a dream, familiar yet distant.

That evening Katy and I ordered pizza and watchedMeet the Parents.I didn’t ask if there was significance to her movie selection. Nor did I query the weekend whereabouts of Palmer Cousins.

Monday morning I rose early and checked my e-mail.

Stil no photos from Cagle or messages from the Grim Reaper.

After spinning Boyd around the block, I headed to the MCME, confident that the Cagle report would be on my desk.

No fax.

By nine-thirty I’d cal ed Cagle four times at each of his numbers. The professor stil didn’t answer.

When the phone rang at ten I nearly burst from my skin.

“Guess you heard.”

“Heard what?”

Slidel picked up on the disappointment in my voice.

“What? You were expecting a cal from Sting?”

“I was hoping it was Wal y Cagle.”

“You stil waiting on that report?”

“Yes.” I twisted the spirals of the cord around my finger. “It’s odd. Cagle said he’d fax it on Thursday.”

“Walter?” Slidel drew the name into three syl ables.

“That was four days ago.”

“Maybe the guy hurt himself pul ing up his tights.”

“Have you considered a support group for homophobics?”

“Look, way I see it, men are men and women are women, and everyone should sleep in the tent he was born with. You start crossing lines, no one’s going to know where to buy their undies.”

I didn’t point out the number of metaphoric lines Slidel had just crossed.

“Cagle was also going to scan photos of the bones and send them by e-mail,” I said.

“Jesus in a fish market, everything’s e-mail these days. If you ask me, e-mail’s some kinda voodoo witchcraft.” I heard Slidel ’s chair groan under the strain of his buttocks.

“If Aiker’s out, what about the other one?”

“Different tent.”

“What?”

“The other FWS agent was female.”

“Maybe you got it wrong with the bones.”

Not bad, Skinny.

“That’s possible for the privy remains, but not for the Lancaster skeleton.”

“Why’s that?”

“Cagle sent a bone sample for DNA testing. Amelogenin came back male.”

“Here we go again. The black arts.”

I let him listen to silence for a while.

“You stil there?”

“Do you want me to explain amelogenin, or do you prefer to remain in the nineteenth century?”

“Keep it short.”

“You’ve heard of DNA?”

“I’m not a total cretin.”

Questionable.

“Amelogenin is actual y a locus for tooth pulp.”

“Locus?”

“A place on the DNA molecule that codes for a specific trait.”

“What the hel ’s tooth pulp got to do with sex?”

“Nothing. But in females, the left side of the gene contains a smal deletion of nonessential DNA, and produces a shorter product when amplified by PCR.

”

“So this pulp locus shows length variation between the sexes.”

“Exactly.” I was incredulous that Slidel had grasped this so quickly. “Do you understand sex chromosomes?”

“Girls got two X’s, boys got an X and a Y. That’s what I’m saying. Nature throws the dice, you stick with the toss.” The metaphor thickened.

“When the amelogenin region is analyzed,” I went on, “a female, having two X chromosomes, wil show one band. A male, having both an X and a Y

chromosome, wil show two bands, one the same size as the female and one slightly larger.”

“And Cagle’s bones came up male.”

“Yes.”

“And your skul is male.”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“My gut feeling is yes, but there’s nothing definitive about it.”

“Genderwise.”

“Genderwise.”

“But it’s not Aiker.”

“Not if we have the right dental records.”

“But the skeleton could be.”

“Not if it goes with the privy skul .”

“And you think it does.”

“It sounds like a fit. But I haven’t seen photos or the original bones.”

“Any reason Cagle might have changed his mind, started avoiding your cal s?”

“He was very cooperative when we talked.”

Now the empty air was of Slidel ’s choosing.

“You game for a little spin down to Columbia?”

“I’l be waiting on the steps.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER LEAVING THEMCME, SLIDELL ANDIwere crossing into South Carolina. To either side of I-77 lay a border sprawl of low-end shops, restaurants, and entertainment emporia, a Carolina version of Nogales or Tijuana.

Paramount’s Carowinds. Outlet Market Place. Frugal MacDougal’s Discount Liquors. Heritage USA, abandoned now, but once a mecca for Jim and Tammy Faye’s PTL faithful intent on God, vacation, and bargain basement clothes. Opinions varied as to whether PTL had stood for Praise the Lord or Pass the Loot.

Rinaldi had opted for a trip to Sneedvil e, Tennessee, to do some digging on Ricky Don Dorton and Jason Jack Wyatt. Rinaldi also planned to run a background check on the pilot, Harvey Pearce, and was intent on a meaningful conversation with Sonny Pounder.

Jansen had headed back to Miami.

Slidel had spoken little since picking me up, preferring the sputter of his radio to the sound of my voice. I suspected his coolness derived from my homophobia crack.

OK by me, Skinny.

We were soon rol ing between heavily wooded, kudzu-draped hil s. Slidel alternated between drumming the steering wheel and patting his shirt pocket. I knew he needed nicotine, but I needed O2. Through a lot of sighing and throat clearing and drumming and patting, I refused to give the go-ahead to light up.

We passed the exits for Fort Mil and Rock Hil , later Highway 9 cutting east to Lancaster. I thought of Cagle’s headless skeleton, wondered what we would find at his lab.

I also thought of Andrew Ryan, of times we’d been rol ing toward a crime scene or body dump together. Slidel or Ryan? Who would I rather be with? No contest there.

The University of South Carolina system has eight campuses, with the mothership parked squarely in the heart of the state capital. Perhaps the Palmetto State founders were xenophobic. Perhaps funds were limited. Perhaps they simply preferred to have their offspring educated in their own backyard.

Or perhaps they foresaw the bacchanalian rite of spring break at Myrtle Beach, and tried reaching across the centuries to discourage a very different type of haj .

In Columbia, Slidel took Bul Street and turned left at the edge of campus. Failing to locate a spot in the visitor-metered parking area, he pul ed into a faculty lot and cut the engine.

“Some egghead gets me ticketed, I’l tel him to stick it up his PHD.” Slidel pocketed the keys. “You know what those letters stand for, don’t you, Doc?” Though I indicated no interest, Slidel provided his definition.

“Piled higher and deeper.”

Exiting the Taurus was brutal. The sun was white-hot, the pavement rippling as we crossed Pendelton Street. Overhead, leaves hung motionless, like damp nappies on clotheslines on a windless day.

The USC anthropology facilities were located in a dishwater-blond building named Hamilton Col ege. Built in 1943 to spur the war effort, Hamilton now looked like it could use some spurring of its own.

Slidel and I located the departmental office and presented ourselves to the secretary/receptionist. Dragging her eyes from a computer screen, the woman regarded us through Dame Edna glasses. She was in her fifties, with a mulberry mushroom on her forehead and hair piled higher than a Texas deb’s.

Slidel asked for Cagle.

The deb informed him that the professor was not in.

When had she last seen him?

A week ago Friday.

Had Cagle been on campus since?

Possible, though their paths hadn’t crossed. Cagle’s mailbox had been emptied the immediate past Friday. She hadn’t seen him then or since.

Slidel asked the location of Cagle’s office.

Third floor. Entrance was impossible without written permission.

Slidel asked the location of Cagle’s lab.

Second floor. The deb reiterated the point about written permission.

Slidel flashed his badge.

The deb studied Slidel ’s shield, lipstick crawling into the wrinkles radiating from her tightly clamped lips. If she noticed the words “Charlotte-Mecklenburg,” she didn’t let on. She turned a shoulder, dialed a number, waited, disconnected, dialed again, waited again, hung up. Sighing theatrical y, she rose, walked to a filing cabinet, opened the top drawer, unhooked one of several dozen keys, and checked its tag.

Keeping several steps ahead to minimize opportunity for conversation, our reluctant hostess led us to the second floor, down a tiled corridor, and around a corner to a wooden door with a frosted-glass window. The wordsHUMAN IDENTIFICATION LABORATORYwere stenciled on the glass in bold, black letters.

“What exactly is it you need?” The deb ran a thumb back and forth across the smal round key tag.

“Last Thursday Dr. Cagle promised he’d send me a case report and photos,” I said. “I haven’t received them. I can’t reach him by phone and it’s quite urgent.”

“Dr. Cagle’s been in the field al summer, only comes in on weekends. Y’al sure he intended to do it right away?”

“Absolutely.”

Two creases puckered the mulberry mushroom. “Man’s usual y very predictable and very reliable.” The deb hunched her whole body when she turned the key, as though revelation of the wrist movement might constitute a security breach. Straightening, she swung the door inward, and pointed a lacquered nail at me.

“Don’t disturb any of Dr. Cagle’s things.” It came out “thangs.” “Some are official police evidence.” It came out “poe-lice.”

“We’l be very careful,” I said.

“Check with me on your way out.”

Dril ing us each with a look, the deb marched off down the corridor.

“Broad missed her cal ing in the SS,” Slidel said, moving past me through the open door.

Cagle’s lab was an earlier-era version of mine at UNCC. More solid, outfitted with oak and marble, not molded plastic and painted metal.

I did a quick scan.

Worktables. Sinks. Microscopes. Light boxes. Copy stand. Ventilator hood. Hanging skeleton. Refrigerator. Computer.

Slidel tipped his head toward a wal of floor-to-ceiling storage cabinets.

“What do you suppose that meatbal keeps locked up in there?”

“Bones.”

“Jay-zus Kee-rist.”

While Slidel went through the unlocked cupboards above the work counters, I checked the room’s single desk. Its top was bare save for a blotter.

A file drawer on the left held forms of various types. Archaeological survey sheets. Burial inventories. Blank bone quizzes. Audiovisual requisitions.

The long middle drawer contained the usual assortment of pens, plastic-headed tacks, paper clips, rubber bands, stamps, and coins.

Nothing extraordinary.

Except that everything was organized into separate boxes, slots, and niches, each labeled and spotlessly clean. Inside the compartments, every item was aligned with geometric precision.

“Fastidious little wanker.” Slidel had come up behind me.

I checked the right two drawers. Stationery. Envelopes. Printer paper. Labels. Post-its.

Same ordinary supplies. Same anal tidiness.

“Your desk look like that?” Slidel asked.

“No.” I’d once found a dead goldfish in my desk drawer. Solved the mystery of its disappearance the previous spring.

“Mine sure don’t.”

Being familiar with Slidel ’s car, I didn’t want to imagine the state of his desk.

“Any sign of the report?”

I shook my head.

Slidel moved on to the lower-counter drawers, and I began on the file cabinets to the left of the desk. One held class materials. The other was fil ed with forensic case reports.

Bingo!

Across the room, Slidel banged a drawer home.

“I’ve gotta get some air.”

“Fine.”

I said nothing about the files. Better to have Slidel outside smoking than breathing down my neck.

The dossiers were organized chronological y. Twenty-three dated to the year Cagle had examined the Lancaster skeleton. I found two for the proper month, but none for a headless body.

I checked the preceding and fol owing years, then scanned the tab on every folder.

The report wasn’t there.

Slidel returned after ten minutes, smel ing of Camels, armpits, and sweaty hair cream.

“I found Cagle’s case files.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Slidel leaned over me, breathing cigarette breath.

“The Lancaster report isn’t with the others.”

“Suppose Wal y-boy misplaced it?” Slidel asked.

“Doesn’t seem likely, but keep looking.”

Slidel went back to banging drawers.

I returned to the desk and surveyed the bul etin board. Like Mrs. Flowers, Wal y Cagle insisted on equidistant spacing and ninety-degree angles.

A postcard sent by someone named Gene. Polaroids taken at an archaeological dig. Three pictures of a cat. A printout of names fol owed by four-digit university extensions.

The center of the board held a handwritten list of tasks fol owed by a column of dates. Those up through Thursday had been crossed out.

“Look at this,” I said.

Slidel joined me at the desk.

I pointed to an item among Cagle’s uncompleted tasks:Pul photos and report for Brennan.

“He uses a ruler to cross things out? Jesus, this guy’s one tight spitter.”

“That’s not the point. Even though the secretary didn’t see him, Cagle’s been here as recently as last Thursday. Does the fact the item isnotcrossed off mean he never pul ed the file? Or did he pul it, then forget?”

“Looks like Wal y-boy never took a dump without itemizing and crossing it off.”