Bare Bones (30 page)

“Extensive adipocere formation. Lungs are col apsed and putrefied. Liquid putrefaction in the airways.” Larabee sounded as frustrated as I felt. “What air spaces remain look diluted, but that may be due to air bubbles.”

I waited while Larabee squeezed Aiker’s stomach contents into a jar and handed the specimen to Joe Hawkins.

“Accidental drowning?”

“I’m not finding anything to suggest otherwise. Fingernails are broken, looks like the hands may have been abraded. The poor bastard must have struggled to get out of the car, probably tried to break a window.”

“Is there any way to determine absolutely that death was by drowning?”

“Pretty tough cal after five years in the drink. Could test for diatoms, I suppose.”

“Diatoms?”

“Microorganisms found in plankton and freshwater and marine sediments. Been around since shortly after the big bang. Exist by the zil ions. In fact, some soils are formed entirely of the little buggers. Ever hear of diatomaceous earth?”

“My sister uses DE to filter her pool.”

“Exactly. The stuff is mined commercial y for use in abrasives and filtering aids.” Larabee continued talking as he opened and inspected Aiker’s stomach.

“It’s real y a kick to look at diatoms under magnification. They’re beautiful little silica shel s in al sorts of shapes and configurations.”

“Remind me what diatoms have to do with drowning.”

“Theoretical y, certain waters contain certain genera of diatoms. So, if you find diatoms in the organs, the victim has drowned. Some forensic pathologists even think you can tie a drowning victim to a specific body of water.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“Some of my col eagues hold a lot of stock in diatoms. I don’t.”

“Why?”

Larabee shrugged. “People swal ow diatoms.”

“If we could find diatoms in the marrow cavity of a long bone, couldn’t we conclude they’d gotten there by cardiac action?” Larabee thought about that.

“Yeah. We probably could.” He pointed a scalpel at me. “We’l have a femur tested.”

“We should also send a sample of the lake water. If they find diatoms in the femur they can compare the profiles.”

“Good point.”

I waited while Larabee cut lengthwise along Aiker’s esophagus.

“Is it significant that he was found in the rear seat?”

“The weight of the engine would have pul ed the front of the vehicle down, leaving the last bubble of air trapped against the roof in back. When victims can’t get car doors open, they crawl back and up to keep breathing as long as possible. Or sometimes the corpse just floats to the rear.” I nodded.

“We’l run a tox screen, of course. And crime scene’s processing the car and boat ramp. But I’m not finding anything suspicious.” Aiker’s clothing and personal effects were drying on the counter. I walked over for a look.

It was like telescoping the agent’s last morning on earth into a few soggy, mud-coated items.

Jockeys. T. Blue-and-white-striped long sleeve shirt. Jeans. Athletic socks. Adidas cross trainers. Black Polarfleece hooded jacket.

Did Aiker put his socks on before his jeans? His pants before his shirt? I felt sadness for a life so suddenly ended.

Beside the clothing lay the contents of Aiker’s pockets.

Comb. Keys. Miniature Swiss army knife. Twenty-three dol ars in folding money. Seventy-four cents in coins. Wal et-sized bil fold with FWS badge and ID.

Leather cardholder.

In addition to a North Carolina driver’s license, Hawkins had removed a long-distance cal ing card, a US Airways Frequent Flyer card, and Diners Club and Visa credit cards from the rectangular leather pouch.

Gloving my right hand, I ran a finger across the photo on the driver’s license. The steady, brown eyes and sandy hair were a long way from the grotesque distortion lying on Larabee’s table.

Leaning close, I studied the face, wondering what Aiker had been doing on a boat landing at Crowder’s Mountain. I picked up the license and flipped it.

Another card was adhering to the back. I peeled it off with my thumbnail. A Harris-Teeter supermarket VIC card. I laid the card on the counter and glanced back at the license.

And caught my breath.

“There’s something stuck to the back of this,” I said.

Both men turned to look at me. Digging forceps from a drawer, I peeled a limp, flat sheet from the back of the license.

“Looks like folded paper.”

Again using forceps, I teased free an edge and tugged back a layer. One more tug, and the paper lay unfolded on the counter. Though blotchy and diluted, lettering was visible.

“It’s some sort of handwritten note,” I said, easing the paper onto a tray to carry it to the fluorescent magnifier. “Maybe an address or phone number. Or road directions.”

“Or a last wil and testament,” said Hawkins.

Larabee and I looked at him.

“More likely a shopping list,” Larabee said.

“Guy could’ve scribbled something then shoved it in between his plastic thinking maybe it’d survive.” Hawkins sounded defensive. “Hel , that’s probably exactly what did happen. Paper was protected from the water because it was sealed between the cards.” Hawkins had a point about the mode of preservation.

As I clicked on the tube light surrounding the lens, Hawkins and Larabee joined me. Together we viewed the writing under il umination and magnification.

Even under ideal conditions, the scrawl would have been hard to decipher.

“The first part is probably ‘No question,’” Larabee said.

Hawkins and I agreed.

“Something to Columbia?” I suggested.

“Sending?”

“Lending?”

“Heading?”

“Landing?”

“Something’s dirty.” Hawkins.

“Clowns?”

“Col ins?”

“Maybe that’s not aC.Maybe it’s anOor aQ.”

“Or aG.”

I positioned the magnifier closer to the paper. We leaned in and stared, each of us trying to make sense of the blotches and smears.

It was no good. Parts of the message were il egible.

“See you somewhere on some day,” I said.

“Good,” Hawkins and Larabee said.

“Charlotte?” I said.

“Possible,” Larabee said.

“How many places end intte?”

“I’l check an atlas,” Larabee said, straightening. “In the meantime, the Questioned Documents guys might be able to do something with this. Joe, cal over to QD and ask if we should keep this thing wet or let it dry.”

Hawkins removed gloves and apron, washed his hands, and headed for the door. I clicked off the lamp.

As Larabee proceeded with his autopsy, I told him about Cagle’s coma, and about my discussion with Terry Woolsey. When I’d finished, he looked up at me over his mask.

“Think maybe you’re working with a lot of what-ifs, Tempe?”

“Maybe,” I said.

At the door I turned for one last comment.

“But what if I don’t?”

AND WHAT IFI’D MISSED SOMETHING?

Instead of furthering my frustration with more computerized exercise, I went to the cooler, pul ed out the privy skul and hand bones, and did a ful reanalysis.

The remains stil whistled the same tune: thirty-something white boy.

But it wasn’t Brian Aiker.

Back to the laptop.

The privy skul and hand bones turned up at the Foote farm. Bear bones and macaw feathers turned up at the Foote farm. Coincidence?

The Lancaster skeleton turned up sans head and hands. Coincidence?

The Lancaster skeleton was found three years ago. Brian Aiker vanished five years ago. Coincidence?

Brian Aiker and Charlotte Grant Cobb disappeared around the same time. Coincidence?

Bear bones and feathers from endangered bird species. Missing FWS agents. Coincidence?

Think outside the box, Brennan.

I was prying off the lid when the phone rang.

“Yo.” Slidel .

“What’s up?”

“Pounder’s singing like a canary on crack.”

“I’m listening.”

“Tyree was serving coke for Dorton.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“Dorton got the blow from a South American connection, Harvey Pearce made pickups somewhere down east near Manteo, hauled the stuff up to Charlotte from the coast. From there it went to points north and west.”

“Tyree paid Pounder to use Mama Foote’s farm as a relay point,” I guessed.

“Bingo.”

“And Dorton’s cousin J.J. made his living in the family business.”

“Here’s the part you’re real y going to like. Seems Pearce got talked into buying a bird from one of the South Americans some time back, sold the thing for a nice profit. Dorton got wind of it. Ever the entrepreneur, Mr. Strip Club and Drug Lord decided to branch out.”

“Let me guess. Ricky Don took advantage of little J.J.’s hunting skil s.”

“Pearce also supplied product from the Low Country.”

Product. Rare and special animals being slaughtered for profit. What noble creatures we hominids are.

“Dorton hooked himself up with an Asian connection, became the king of gal .”

“Who?” I asked.

“Pounder didn’t have a name. Said he thought the mutt was Korean. Had some kind of inside line.”

“Inside line on what?”

“Dick-brain wasn’t sure. Don’t worry. We’l nail the guy’s ass.”

“What’s Tyree saying?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“How does Tyree explain the cal s between his cel phone and J. J. Wyatt’s?”

“Little ragnose says things ain’t always what they seem. I’m paraphrasing.”

I was almost afraid to ask the next question.

“What about Tamela Banks and her family?”

“Tyree claims to know zip.”

“What about the baby?”

“DOA.”

Slidel ’s cal ousness curled the fingers of my free hand into a bal .

“We’re talking about a dead newborn, Detective.”

“Excuse me.” Singsong. “I missed my charm school class this week.”

“Cal me when you know more.”

Slamming the receiver, I leaned back and closed my eyes.

Images skittered through my mind.

Eyes devoid of caring, irises swal owed by drug-dazed pupils.

Gideon Banks’s tortured face, Geneva hovering silent in a doorway.

Charred and fragmented baby bones.

I thought of my daughter.

Infant Katy in soft, footed pj’s. Toddler Katy in pink ruffled swimsuit, chubby feet splashing in a plastic pool. Young woman Katy in shorts and tank, long brown legs pushing a front porch swing.

Scenes of normalcy. Scenes in which Tamela’s baby would never have a part.

Needing something, but unsure what, I reached for the phone and dialed my daughter. Her roommate answered.

Lija thought Katy had gone to Myrtle Beach with Palmer Cousins, wasn’t sure because she’d been away herself.

Was Katy answering her cel phone?

No.

I hung up, feeling scared.

Wasn’t Katy working as a temporary receptionist at Pete’s firm? This was Tuesday.

Didn’t Cousins have a job to go to?

Cousins. What was it about the guy that made me uneasy?

Thinking about Cousins brought me back to Aiker.

Back to the box.

Paw your way out.

I began typing random ideas onto the screen.

Premise:The Lancaster remains and the privy remains were one person.

Deduction:That person is not Brian Aiker.

Deduction:That person is not Charlotte Grant Cobb. DNA testing confirmed that the Lancaster remains were male.

Slidel ’s DOA comment had me angry and on edge. Was I being unfair to him? Maybe. Stil , I kept losing my train of thought.

Or was it anxiety over my daughter?

It was Slidel . The man was a bigoted, homophobic cretin. I thought about his tactless treatment of Geneva and Gideon Banks. I thought about his insensitive digs at Lawrence Looper and Wal y Cagle. What was that metaphoric quagmire about sleeping in tents and buying undies? Or his pearl concerning gender roles? Oh, yeah. Nature throws the dice, you stick with the toss. Embryonic bril iance.

Outside the cube.

What appeared to be coke turned out to be goldenseal.

What appeared to be leprosy turned out to be sarcoidosis.

Another Slidel ism: Things ain’t always what they seem. Or was that a Tyreeism?

Outside the four squares.

An idea. Improbable, but what the hel .

I went to my purse, pul ed out the card I’d taken from under Cagle’s blotter, and dialed.

“South Carolina Law Enforcement Division,” a female voice answered.

I made my request.

“Hold, please.”

“DNA.” Another female voice.

I read the name from the card.

“He’s out this week.”

I thought for a moment.

“Ted Springer, please.”

“Who’s cal ing?”

I identified myself.

“Hold on.”

Seconds passed. A minute.

“Madam Anthropologist. What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Ted. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“Your section did a case for the Lancaster County coroner about three years ago, headless, handless skeleton.” Again, I read the name from the card, explained that the man wasn’t in. “Walter Cagle did the anthro.”