I moved through the pages of the report.
I’d had nothing to enter with regard to weight, facial or body hair, eye or hair color. Nothing on amputations, deformities, scars, tattoos, or piercings. No evidence of medical implants or missing organs. Zilch on clothing, footwear, jewelry, eyewear, or documents. No DNA. No fingerprints. No dentals.
Small wonder the bones still lay on a shelf in my closet. ME229-13 consisted of a headless, limbless, skeletonized partial torso.
Shoving away from my desk, I walked down the corridor to a small room whose walls were lined floor to ceiling with metal shelving. Each shelf was filled with cardboard boxes. Each box was labeled with a case number in bold black marker.
ME229-13 was straight ahead on the door-facing wall, two shelves down from the top. I reached up, slid the box free, and carried it to the “stinky room,” a small autopsy suite with special ventilation to accommodate the more odoriferous dead. The decomps. The floaters. My kind of case.
Placing the box on the autopsy table, I pulled latex gloves and a plastic apron from an undercounter drawer, donned them, and lifted the lid. As expected, the contents of the box consisted of a handful of bones. Except for the ten thoracic vertebrae I’d boiled to clean away soft tissue, all were stained a deep mahogany brown.
One by one, I removed and arranged the bones in anatomical position. When I’d finished, a jigsaw-puzzle rib cage lay on the stainless steel. Gaps left by missing parts looked like pieces not yet plugged in.
Over the next hour, I examined every bone and bone fragment under an illuminated magnifier lens. I saw postmortem trauma—gnawed edges and conical punctures left by the teeth of scavenging animals. A few of the punctures had pale yellow spongy bone deep inside. The absence of staining told me this damage could be credited to Mort.
I saw no evidence of antemortem trauma. No healed or healing broken ribs. No joint remodeling resulting from the dislocation of a clavicle or vertebra.
I saw no evidence of perimortem trauma. No unhealed fractures due to blunt force attack or rapid deceleration impact injury. No bullet entrances or exits. No sharp-instrument nicks or gashes. Nothing to suggest violence at the time of death.
I saw no evidence of illness or abnormality. No porosity, thickening, irregularity, or lesion hinting at malnutrition, infectious disease, or metabolic disorder.
Discouraged, I straightened and rolled my shoulders. As before, I was clueless as to ME229-13’s gender, race, state of health, or manner of death.
The clock now said 2:37 P.M. Larabee was expecting a briefing on the man with the remote.
So what did I know that could shed light on Hazel Strike’s theory?
I looked back at the jigsaw-puzzle torso.
Bone size was average, consistent with that of a large female or a small male. Estimated age at death, seventeen to twenty-four, was consistent with Cora Teague’s age. Height, sixty to seventy-two inches, was consistent with half of North America.
Consistent with. The darling phrase of forensic experts. Not a match, not an exclusion. I made a note to ask about Cora Teague’s height.
Again, I considered. Was Strike a charlatan or a nutcase? Or had she stumbled onto something truly evil?
I saw nothing on the bones to suggest foul play. Except that they had lain miles from anywhere, downslope from a two-lane blacktop.
How had ME229-13 ended up in such a remote spot? Had the victim wandered from the highway? Fallen from the overlook? Jumped?
Or did the explanation involve far more sinister events? Had the body been tossed from the overlook? Dumped from a car in the middle of the night?
In my mind I heard the trembling little voice on the tape. Again felt the chill.
Using a small autopsy saw, I cut a plug from the mid-shaft of the less damaged clavicle, sealed it in a small plastic vial, and marked the lid with the MCME case number, date, and my initials. I wasn’t optimistic the bone would yield DNA, but at least we’d have a sample for testing.
Should Strike’s theory have legs. Should a member of the Teague family provide a comparison sample. Should Larabee agree to foot the bill for analysis.
Aspects of Strike’s story didn’t track. Deputy Ferris had walked the site, found other bones, yet she hadn’t spotted the key chain? And Hazel Strike had?
Above me, the fluorescents hummed softly. My neck and shoulders were knotted, and a headache was tuning up at the base of my skull.
Enough.
After returning ME229-13 to storage, I walked back to my office. Passing the other autopsy rooms, I heard not a single rattle or whine. The pathologists had finished cutting Y’s for the day.
I still keep hard copy on all my cases. Antediluvian, but there you have it. I went straight to my file cabinet and pulled the neon yellow folder with ME229-13 handwritten on the tab. It felt very slim.
I sat at my desk and opened the file. Clipped to the inside front cover was the small brown packet I sought.
Slowly, I worked through Opal Ferris’s “crime scene” pics. As in 2013, I was impressed with the deputy’s grasp of the need for documentation. And unimpressed with her photographic skills.
The first three-by-five captured the overlook, though most detail was fried because the camera had been pointed into the sun. Ditto for the next two. The third showed a flat area with a wooden handrail and a steep drop-off beyond. Forest in the distance. The next several shots panned across trees, mostly pine, and dense mountain laurel, presumably the area of Mort’s find.
The final series were close-ups of bones in situ: a cluster of ribs dappled by shadow, a segment of spinal column half buried in soil, an isolated vertebra protruding from the ground at the base of a pine.
Each image contained a small plastic evidence marker, but no scale or directional arrow. Some were sharp, others blurred due to inadequate lighting or instability of the camera. And it was obvious that Ferris had done a bit of cleaning and arranging before taking some shots.
The last picture featured the right clavicle full-frame, the squiggly fusion line in sharp focus. I stared at the telltale indicator of youth. When last seen, Cora Teague was eighteen years old. Did the bone belong to her? If not Teague, whose kid had ended up dead on that mountain?
Time to talk to Opal Ferris. Then I belonged to Recliner Man.
After checking the number in my file, I dialed. The phone was answered on the first ring.
“Burke County Sheriff’s Department. Is your situation an emergency?” The voice was female, the words robotic.
“No. I’d like—”
“Hold, please.”
I held.
“Okay, ma’am, may I have your name?”
“Dr. Temperance Brennan.”
“What is the reason for your call?”
“I’d like to speak to Deputy Opal Ferris.”
“Can you describe the nature of your business?”
“Human remains found off Highway 181.”
“Hold, please.”
I held. After a full minute, I switched to speaker and set down the handset.
“Okay. When were these remains found?”
“August of 2013.” More clipped than I intended. But my head hurt. And I was finding the grilling annoying as hell.
“Can you tell me anything else?”
“No.” Sharp.
A slight hesitation. Then, “Hold, please.”
I held. Longer than either of the previous times.
I was finger-drumming the blotter with one hand, rubbing circles on my right temple with the other, when something clicked on the other end of the line. Then the same voice came through the phone’s little square holes.
“Deputy Ferris is unavailable. Would you like to provide contact information?”
I gave her both the MCME main line and my mobile number. And pointed out that the former was a medical examiner facility. Brusquely.
The woman wished me a good day and was gone.
I jabbed the disconnect button. A pointle
ss attempt at maintaining control.
The world beyond my door had grown quiet. The death investigators were either out bagging bodies or doing “paperwork” in their cubicles. The pathologists had retreated to their offices or departed for other tasks.
My eyes dropped to the file on my blotter. Shifted to my watch. 3:55 P.M.
I wanted to go home, share dinner with my cat, Birdie, spend time chatting with Ryan. Appeasing?
I pictured Larabee’s face. The slow, concerned-but-unconcerned look I’d get for snubbing the mummy.
“Fine.”
I scooped up the folder, intending to return to the stinky room. I was swiveling my chair when my iPhone rang. Thinking it might be Opal Ferris, I picked up.
It wasn’t.
The call kicked the headache into overdrive.
“It’s Allan.” The voice was Carolina with an undertone of the Bronx.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“Hey, Allan.” With an enthusiasm I reserve for slugs in my garden.
“I’m sure you know why I’m calling.”
“I’m working on it.” Untrue. I hated the thought of “it.” Had been avoiding “it” for months.
“Today is March thirtieth.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure you know what that means.”
My upper and lower molars reached for each other. That was twice. Allan Fink used the phrase repeatedly in each conversation.
“I’m sure I do.” Perky as Tinker Bell’s toes.
“This is serious.”
“Lighten up, Allan. We have more than two weeks until the filing deadline.”
“Tempe.” Faux patient sigh. “I need those materials to calculate the total owed.”
“I’ll get everything to you by Friday.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m really slammed at the lab.”
“I’m a tax accountant. This is my slammy season.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve been asking since November.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You are not my only client.”
In my head I added, “I’m sure you know.” He’d reminded me at least a zillion times.
“Charity donations, business and travel expenses, 1099s for any honoraria or fees I was paid. Anything else?”
Censorious pause, then, “I will resend the list of items I’m lacking.”
“I know I saved the receipts.” Somewhere.
“That would be good.”
“Is it really so important?”
“The IRS tends to believe that it is.”
“I make less than a circus chimp.”
“What do performing primates earn these days?”
“Peanuts.”
“Must irritate the elephants.” Allan hung up.
—
It was past eight by the time I finished. As I rolled Recliner Man back to the cooler, the MCME hummed with that exaggerated quiet unique to buildings abandoned after an all-day buzz.
Based on skeletal and dental indicators, the mummified remains were those of the elderly tenant in question. I found nothing on his bones or X-rays to suggest foul play. The old gent had kicked while OD’ing on The Sopranos or soaps.
Though Larabee might be annoyed with the tardiness of my preliminary report, he’d be pleased with the content. The rest was now his show.
Outside, the air was warm and very damp, the horizon fading from ginger to gray. Serpentine clouds stretched sinewy dark above the telephone wires lining both sides of Queens Road.
Allan’s call had me edgy and cross. The last thing I wanted was to spend the night digging for old restaurant receipts and boarding passes. Every year I vow to be more organized. Every year I fail. Recognizing that the problem was self-created only irritated me further.
I made one stop for takeout sushi and arrived home as dusk was yielding the last of its sway. The manor house looked like a hulking black bunker in the deepening twilight, the magnolias and live oaks like giant sentinels guarding the lawn.
I took the circle drive past Sharon Hall and the coach house to the smallest structure on the grounds. Two stories, five rooms and a bath. The annex, original purpose forever lost to history.
Expecting to be home long before dark, I’d left no lights burning. Every window stared darkly opaque. Though I couldn’t see his furry white face, I knew that through one pane a very hungry cat tracked my approach.
I gathered the sushi, got out, and crossed my patio to the back door. As I jiggled the proper key forward on the overburdened ring, I could hear cars starting up across the way at Myers Park Baptist Church. A dog barking. A siren wailing far off in the distance.
“Hey, Bird.” I thumbed a switch and placed the bag on the counter. Birdie worked figure eights around my ankles. “Sorry, big guy. You must be starving.”
Birdie sat and regarded me with disapproval. I think. Then, catching a whiff of raw tuna, he forgot his grievance and hopped onto the counter.
I filled his bowl, certain he’d ignore the crunchy pellets and focus instead on cadging from me. Then I got a plate and a Diet Coke and settled at the table. Birdie jumped onto the chair beside mine.
“So.” Placing a sliver of hamachi in front of him. “Tell me about your day.”
Birdie scooped the offering with one delicately curled paw, sniffed, then downed it. No comment on his diurnal activities.
“Mine did not go exactly as planned.”
While eating California roll, I described my encounters with Lucky Strike and Recliner Man. Cats don’t care if you talk with your mouth full. A character trait I much admire.
“Got a call from Allan Fink.” I shared my feelings on filing deadlines.
Bird listened, eyes following my chopsticks as I dipped and downed two amago. I gave him an ebi and ate the rice. He did the paw thing and wolfed the shrimp in one gulp.
Admission. Above all others, one issue was making me churlish. Andrew Ryan’s startling proposal.
“What do you think? Should I marry the guy?”
Bird looked at me but offered no input.
“I agree. Later. You up for digging through boxes?”
Same nonresponse.
I climbed the stairs, took a quick shower, and changed into a tee and pajama pants. Then I headed for the attic at the end of the hall.
Here’s my three-step filing system. Which would never be disclosed to Allan Fink. Got a receipt, canceled check, or document that might later be needed? Toss it in a box, date the box, shove the box into the attic at the end of the year.
I found the carton quickly, between a stack of obsolete textbooks and two tennis rackets I would never restring. I hauled it to the dining room, slightly uneasy at its lack of poundage.
Seated at the table, I lifted the lid. I needn’t have worried. The thing was crammed with more paper than a pulp mill generates in a decade. Inwardly groaning, I started unfolding, deciphering, and sorting into piles. Taxi. Hotel. Humane Society. Animals Asia. Trash.
As my eyes struggled to make out faded credit card numbers and cash register print, my mind veered back to Lucky Strike. To the recording. The girl had seemed terrified, the men horrendously cruel. The voices rang in my head, sharp and jagged as broken glass.
Had the girl on the audio really been Cora Teague? If not Teague, then who? Who had ended up below that Burke County overlook?
I should have confiscated the recorder. Sure, I’d asked and Strike had refused. But I could have been more persuasive if I’d used my wits. Why hadn’t I?
Why hadn’t Opal Ferris returned my call?
Round and round. Guilt. Irritation. Agitation over the prospect of vows.
After an hour, I’d made maybe a two-inch dent in the mountain of paper. And my headache was back with bells. Screw it.
Shifting to the study, I booted my Mac and googled the term “websleuth.” I was astounded at the number of links that came up. Articles. Videos. Sites with names like Websleuths. Official Cold
Case Investigations. Justice Quest.
I clicked through page after page, intrigued. At one point Birdie joined me and curled on the desk. His steady purring provided a tranquil backdrop to the staccato clicking of the keys.
There was a similarity from one site to the next. Chat rooms. Forums. Discussion threads following particular cases or lines of inquiry. Unsolved homicides and missing persons seemed to attract the most attention.
The rules varied. Some sites required “verification” of persons claiming to be professionals and having inside information—doctors, journalists, cops, et cetera. Others did not. Some prohibited “inviting”—a request from one poster to another for private contact. Others allowed it.
I scanned an article about Websleuths.com, learned that the site was started in the 1990s as an online forum for discussion of the JonBenét Ramsey murder. That it took credit for uncovering a vital clue in the Casey Anthony case, and for helping solve the murder of Abraham Shakespeare, a Florida laborer killed after a lottery win of $30 million. According to one comment I read, the hosts claimed 67,000 registered members, and up to 30,000 daily hits. No telling if those numbers were true.
I provided the information needed to join and chose a thread at random. The discussion concerned a twenty-nine-year-old hairdresser missing from Lincoln, Nebraska. The MP, Sarah McCall, had left her place of employment the previous January intending to have drinks with friends. Her car was found two days later in a rest area on Interstate 80. No purse. No keys. No sign of McCall.
The number of people tracking the case was truly astonishing. As was the amount of intel they claimed to have gathered. Over the course of two months, websleuthers had found McCall’s Facebook page and online videos, and figured out her various Twitter handles, including @singleandfree, @silverlining, and @curlupanddye. An IT specialist named candotekkie had retrieved thousands of deleted Twitter posts. Other websleuths had waded through the content to sort what was relevant from what was not.