“He’ll go to ground again. You’ll lose him.”
“I won’t lose him.”
I knew Slidell couldn’t detain Blount without grounds. And that he’d put a tail on him. Still, it was frustrating.
“I get a bad vibe from this guy.”
“He’s a loon, but he’s not dumb. He knows I’ll check with Buncombe County. The alibi’s gonna hold.”
“September 8 is the day Edith Blankenship went missing. We don’t know when she died.”
There was a long silence. Then Slidell said, “I need more. Get me cause and time of death.”
“I’m on it.”
Back at the MCME, I inhaled a tuna sandwich, knocked back a Diet Coke, then re-costumed and retuned to autopsy room four. The bones lay as I’d left them.
Rule of thumb. One week aboveground equals two submerged. But a whole lot of variables come into play.
I contacted the National Weather Service. My recollection was correct. The North Carolina Piedmont had experienced a very warm fall.
I called Duke Energy. Discharge from the Riverbend Steam Station raised temperatures in Mountain Island Lake to levels higher than normal. The water was reasonably oxygen-saturated. Aquatic life was abundant.
I reviewed what I knew about underwater decomp. The fat layers in skin expand, deforming a corpse within twenty-four hours. One week out, the flesh and connective tissue loosen and parts begin to fall off.
Packaging slows the process. But the bag that held Edith was badly torn.
Given conditions, and the state of the body, I estimated PMI at roughly four weeks.
Consistent with LSA for Edith Blankenship.
I entered the information onto my form, then moved on to cause of death.
Again, I started with the skull. No bullet entrances or exits. No radiating, depressed, or linear fractures. No cuts, nicks, or slashes.
The hyoid is a small u-shaped bone that hangs between the mandible and the larynx in the soft tissue of the throat. I examined Edith’s for damage indicative of manual strangulation. Saw zip.
No surprise. In younger individuals, bone elasticity allows the hyoid to undergo compression without breaking.
I went to the scope and adjusted focus. Peered through the eyepiece.
Nothing on the right side of the bone. I shifted to the left.
And there it was. A minute fissure jagging the edge of the body where it met the wing.
I straightened, heart beating a little faster.
Edith Blankenship had been strangled.
I pictured the woman’s last moments, body bucking, hands clawing, so desperate for air her nails gouged her own flesh.
Christ.
Shoving my anger to another place, I continued. Ribs. Long bones.
At the pelvis, I got my next shock.
Adhered to the belly side of the right innominate was a small gray mass. Using one finger, I teased it free.
As I probed, the outer casing split, revealing a jumble of delicate bones. A single tooth.
Heat fizzed in my chest. Had Edith been pregnant?
But no. The shapes were off. The half mandible was too oblong, the clavicle too sharply s-curved. Though tiny, the tooth looked fully formed.
I carried my find to the scope. Tweezed out bone after bone.
Was it a tumor? A teratoma gone mad?
Teratomas are tumors that can contain tissues or structures from any of the three cell types into which an embryo differentiates. Hair, teeth, bones. Rarely, a whole organ such as an eye or a hand.
Then realization.
What the hell?
Baffled, I collected the whole assemblage and laid it on a tray. Then I returned to the gurney.
The left innominate produced a second blob similar to the first.
I straightened, running scenarios through my mind.
I’d examined the victims of sexual sadists. Knew the depravity of which humans are capable. Had Edith been tortured? Had some sick bastard forced this obscenity inside her? What was the slang term? Gerbilling?
An idea tugged the sleeve of my consciousness. Psst.
What?
My eyes roved the sink, the cabinets, the stainless steel around me. Returned to the gurney.
I looked at the skeleton. At the sodden attire bisected and splayed beneath it.
Frustrated, I rubbed circles on my temples.
Psst.
Edith’s clothes? Lifting one tattered side of the T, I laid the fabric back across the ribs. Read the faded words.
Of course.
I lifted the leg and pelvic bones, scooched the jeans free, and cut away the back pockets. More gray masses. I opened and emptied each.
“Bingo.”
I yanked off a glove and dialed Slidell. He actually picked up.
“I’ve got something.
“What?”
“Get over here. Now.”
I disconnected.
I could have explained by phone. Skinny at the morgue would be much more amusing.
THE DOOR OPENED. SLIDELL strode in and tossed an envelope onto the counter. A hint of BO competed with l’eau de floater.
“Lemme tell you. This guy Chou is a real wanker.”
I pitied the hapless dentist, Dr. Chou. His morning had not been a good one.
Without comment, I popped Edith’s dental X rays onto the light box beside the postmortem shots Joe had taken. On one of the little black squares in each set, two snowy white caps sat atop molars. Restorations. I compared their positioning, their shapes. The root configurations.
“We’ll need confirmation by an odontologist, but I’ll bet the farm it’s a match.”
Slidell nodded, already all sweat and heartbeat. Decades on the murder desk, yet an autopsy room still set him on edge.
“Whatcha got that’s so important?”
I showed him my Lilliputian osteology collection.
Slidell studied the bones, then his eyes rolled up.
“Rats,” I said.
Grunting a comment I couldn’t hear, he refocused on the tray.
“And voles, maybe a few mice.” I indicated the gray masses, now disemboweled. “The bones came from these.”
“And they are?”
“Owl pellets.”
“What the hell?”
“Not what, whoooo. Come with me.”
I led him to my office and logged onto a website using my laptop.
“Carolina Raptor Center?” Slidell sounded light years beyond dubious. “Like eagles and hawks?”
I nodded. “Raptors are amazing carnivores. They consume the whole animal—bones, organs, flesh. Kind of like you at a barbecue.”
“You’re a laugh riot, doc.”
“Thanks. Owls are different from other raptors. They can’t digest fur, teeth, bones, claws, or feathers.”
“You got a point?”
“As indigestible materials pass through the digestive tract, the gizzard compacts them into a pellet that the owl regurgitates.”
“You’re showing me bird barf.”
“I found two owl pellets in Edith Blankenship’s pelvic cavity, below where her front jeans pocket would have been.”
Slidell said nothing.
“She had four more pellets in a back pocket. I suspect she was researching owls.”
“And hit this raptor center.”
I nodded.
“You know where the place is?”
“Mountain Island Lake.”
“Oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at your crib.”
• • •
Slidell was twenty minutes early. I left my unfinished Cheerios and took my coffee in a travel mug.
Full-body latex is as appropriate for Skinny’s car as it is for autopsy room four. Fast-
food cartons. Cigarette butts. Remnants of old bagged lunches. I perched gingerly, minimizing contact with the seat and floor.
We drove north out of town on Route 16. Soon the high-rise condo and office buildings gave way to suburban homes and strip malls, then to fields and the occasional muffler shop, church, or barbecue joint.
Forty-five minutes out, Slidell turned from the highway onto a narrow two-lane. Nothing but shoreline, woods, and pasture. Here and there a startled equine, a boat access ramp.
Soon we saw an arrow pointing to our destination. Slidell hooked left into a gravel parking area and cut the engine. A sign warned PROTECTED BY ALARMS, CAMERAS, AND SHARP TALONS.
The Carolina Raptor Center was bright and airy, festive with photos and avian carvings. Eagle replicas hung from the ceiling. Baskets overflowed with tourist goodies—stuffed peregrines, owl key chains, T-shirts proclaiming BIRD NERD and GIVE A HOOT. On one wall a verdant mural depicted the life cycle of the red-tailed hawk.
“Hello!” chirped a septuagenarian with an astonishingly hot pink smile. “I’m Doris. May I help ya’ll?”
Doris looked like a character straight from The Far Side. Cat-eye glasses, bouffant gray hair, cable-knit cardigan with more pills than a Walgreens. Small but stocky. Fit.
Slidell flashed his badge.
“Oh my!” The woman pressed a liver-spotted hand to her heart, eyes darting left and right as if fearful of a SWAT team hit. “Is there a problem?”
“That would be Doris . . . ?” Slidell dipped his chin in question.
“Kramer. Doris Kramer.”
Slidell pulled a photo from an inside jacket pocket. “Do you recognize this woman?”
“Of course. That’s Edith.” Doris frowned. “Such a puzzle. I’d never have believed she’d just leave us like that.”
“She was a frequent visitor here?” I asked.
“Many of Professor Olsen’s students do projects at the center. He brings a group every Tuesday afternoon. Edith loved our birds so much she stayed on as a hospital volunteer.”
“Hospital?”
“More than seven hundred injured and orphaned raptors come to our facility every year. We’re one of the few centers in the southeast that rehabilitates the American bald eagle.” If people really can beam, Doris was doing it. Then her face collapsed. “It’s horrible that so many of these majestic creatures are hit by cars and electrocuted by power lines.”
“Power lines?” I said
“Electrocuted?” Slidell said.
Doris nodded solemnly. “Because their wing span is so broad they can touch two lines at once. It near broke Edith’s heart. She’d sit hours in the ER with injured birds. She was on our ambulance team, too, responded to calls about feathered friends in trouble. But mostly she tended our residents.”
“Residents?” Slidell’s tone suggested fast-dwindling patience.
“We house over a hundred raptors that can’t be released due to injury, amputation, or human imprinting. Visitors can observe twenty-three different species by walking our raptor trail.”
“What did Edith do?” I asked.
“She cleaned cages, filled feeders, performed routine health checks.” Doris laughed, a sound halfway between a hiccup and a cough. “I swear that girl liked birds more than people. Especially owls. They were her favorite.” Doris’s smile crumpled again. “I mean are.” She shook her head. “Oh, dear. It’s just so troubling.”
A couple entered carrying a beagle puppy. Doris jumped as though tasered.
“Excuse me! Absolutely no dogs allowed!” Moving faster than I thought someone her age could move, she hustled the offenders back out the door.
I nudged Slidell. Pointed to a bulletin board beside a nest big enough to accommodate pterodactyls. A thumb-tacked flier proclaimed “Fight Back At Duke Energy—Learn To Live Off The Grid.” The contact listed was
[email protected].
Doris returned to her counter, vivid lips smashed up into a scowl. “Really. There are signs everywhere. Don’t people understand that dogs are dreadful for birds?” She rotated her upper arm to display a bruise, an eggplant arch curving the pallid flesh. “A dog bit me last week. Truth be told, I don’t trust the creatures.”
“Did Edith know a man named Herman Blount?” I tried to steer the interview back on track.
“Yes.” Wary.
“Not a fan?”
“I can’t fault Herman’s love of animals. Though it’s poor judgment to own a Rottweiler, any bird’s worst nightmare. But he’s a bit . . . extreme for my taste.” Doris’s eyes went wide. “Has Herman done something wrong?”
Slidell ignored her question. “How well did Blount know Blankenship?”
“He once brought in an injured barred. That’s an owl. Edith helped nurse it. Poor thing didn’t survive. Edith and Herman were both passionate about forcing power companies to make their lines safer for birds. And, well, if you’ve met him, you know. Herman isn’t hard on the eyes.” Doris flicked her brows in a “get my drift?” message that was quite unsettling.
“Did they spend time together?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Shrug. “I mind my own.”
Skinny went straight for the kill. “Is Blankenship capable of violence?”
“Like what?”
“Like screwing with power lines? Blowing stuff up?”
Doris looked away.
“What?” Slidell pressed.
“I don’t want to speak ill. But that girl might do anything to protect her birds.”
“Do you have any idea what might have happened to her?” I asked gently.
Doris looked at me blankly.
“Any tiny detail could be a big help.” I smiled what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
“Judge not lest ye be judged.” Mumbled.
“If someone has hurt Edith, we need to find out in order to bring him to justice.”
Doris sighed. “No good ever comes from sleeping with a married man.”
Not what I expected.
Ditto Slidell. “Edith was hooked up?”
Doris’s hands started worrying the edge of the counter. “I’ve said too much.”
“I’m gonna need a name.” Slidell whipped out his spiral.
“Edith only mentioned him once, in the very strictest confidence. They’d fought, and she was upset. I think she realized he was never going to leave his wife.”
“A name!” Barked.
“She was seeing her professor. Dr. Jack Olsen.”
SLIDELL ASKED A FEW more questions, then we returned to the Taurus. While gunning from the lot, he called the biology department at UNCC. From his end of the conversation, I guessed he wasn’t getting what he’d hoped.
I was totally amped by the lead Doris had given us. Wanted to jump straight on it. Slidell had another target on his mind.
Minutes after leaving raptorville, Skinny parked in front of a squat building with a sign featuring a grinning pig in a puffy chef’s hat. Lancaster Barbecue. I’ve never understood why BBQ joints put cheery smiles on the farmyard friends they serve up for lunch.
Entering was like crossing from Kansas to Oz, lackluster exterior yielding to NASCAR wonderland. Neon signs, antique gas pumps, vintage car paraphernalia adorning every surface, including the ceiling. A zillion TVs broadcast race reports in keeping with the stock car theme.
I didn’t need a menu. Pulled pork sandwich, hush puppies, slaw. North Carolina gold. Slidell was on the same page.
Our food had just arrived when Slidell’s phone rang. He listened, said “yeah” a lot. I watched him scribble an address on a paper napkin.
“Olsen finishes class at two, usually heads straight home.” Shoving the phone back into his jacket. Which was maroon polyester, a good choice given the sauce he was dribbling. “I’m thinking we drop by for a little chat.”
&nbs
p; I checked my watch. Just past noon. “That works.”
“You know this jackass?”
“Only by reputation. We’ve never met.”
Slidell wiped grease from his chin. Chins.
“Living-thing departments don’t mingle with dead-thing departments?”
“Only when there’s free food.”
Slidell’s understanding of academia is limited at best. I wasn’t in the mood to explain the complexities of a major university.
“So what’s the campus scuttlebutt on this guy?”
“Earnest type. Go-getter. No rumors about sex with students, if that’s what you mean.”
“How’s this track? He and Blankenship get it on. She threatens to dime the wife, he caps her.”
“Other than Doris Kramer’s statement, we have no proof Edith and Olsen were involved.”
Slidell made an indeterminate noise in his throat.
“Strangling’s not like shooting a bullet or stirring poison into your boss’s tea,” I said. “It’s hands-on, up-close and personal. So I agree. We could be looking at a crime of passion. Still, I like Blount.”
“If Blount and Blankenship were birding pals, why kill her?”
“She has a change of heart, threatens to expose him for something he’s done? Maybe it’s an accident? Who knows?”
But with homicide you have to know. Murder’s not like B&E, extortion, or rape. With other crimes the endgame is clear. A murder investigation is always about motive.
Slidell’s next comment suggested he was reading my mind.
“Killing’s simple. Sex or money.”
“Maybe their passion for birds bound their hearts in love.”
“Who the hell you talking about, Blount or Olsen?”
Good point, Skinny. I’d tossed the comment out in jest.
“In my view, the easy answer is usually the right one.”
Another good point. Though he couldn’t have named it, Slidell was summarizing Occam’s razor, a principle stating that the cleanest hypothesis is usually the correct one.
“And that would be?” I finished the dregs of my lemonade.
“Married guy enjoys a little poontang with young honey. Honey wants more. Honey ends up in a bag in a lake.”
Though I agree with ol’ Occam, Skinny’s tunnel vision irked me.