by Kathy Reichs
“I may have implied that you were cooperating.”
The little snake had lied to Tyrell.
“How did you get this number?” I was squeezing the phone so hard it was making small popping noises.
“Takeela Freeman.”
“You tricked her, too.”
Stallings neither acknowledged nor denied the accusation.
“Did you imply to Takeela that I’d want her to help you?”
“The kid’s not the sharpest tack in the drawer.”
Anger made my voice sound high and stretched.
“Never call me again.”
When I turned Ryan was staring at me through the partially open swinging door.
“I heard a noise.”
The handheld lay on its convex back, wobbling like an upended turtle. Unconsciously, I’d slammed it to the table again.
“You’re hard on equipment,” Ryan said.
I didn’t answer.
Ryan’s mouth turned up at the corners. “But easy on the eyes.”
“Jesus, Ryan. Is that all you think about?”
“Incoming.” Hunching his shoulders, Ryan ducked from the room.
I sat a moment, wondering. Call Tyrell? Explain that Stallings had lied about our conversation?
Not now. Now, fired though I might be, Jimmy Klapec deserved my full attention. And his father.
And Asa Finney.
I spent another ten minutes puzzling over the SEM scans.
And came up empty.
Frustrated, I decided on a gambit that occasionally worked. When stumped, start over at the beginning.
Opening my briefcase, I pulled out the entire file on Jimmy Klapec.
First I reviewed the scene photos. The body was as I remembered it, flesh ghostly pale, shoulders to the earth, rump to the sky.
I viewed close-ups of the anus, the truncated neck, the carvings in the chest and belly. Nothing but fly eggs.
I shifted to the autopsy shots. Y incision. Organs. Empty chest cavity. Strange striated bruise on the back.
I noted the atypical decay pattern, with more aerobic decomposition than anaerobic putrefaction. As though the body was rotting from the outside in rather than the inside out.
Spreading my bone photos, I reexamined the cut mark in the fourth cervical vertebra. Concave bending. Fixed radius curvature sweeping from, not around, the breakaway point.
The fifth vertebra had one false start. I checked my notes: 0.09 inch in width.
Both neck bones exhibited polish on the cut surfaces. Neither showed entrance or exit chipping.
I slumped back in my chair. The entire exercise had triggered no epiphany with regard to cracking in Haversian canals.
Discouraged, I got up and paced the kitchen.
Why wasn’t Slidell calling back? Had further questioning of Klapec, senior verified or disproved his story? Had they found the gun in the Dumpster? Had they talked to Mrs. Klapec?
I felt genuine sorrow for Jimmy’s mother. First her son, now her husband. The future held no rainbows for Eva Klapec.
I paced some more. Why not? Nothing else was working.
Ryan chose that moment to test the waters.
“All clear?” he asked from the safety of the dining-room side of the door.
“Yes.”
“Permission to come aboard?”
“Granted.”
Ryan came into the kitchen, followed by Birdie.
“Got it all figured out?”
“No.”
“Chocolate.” Ryan turned to Birdie and repeated the pronouncement. “Chocolate.”
The cat raised a skeptical brow. If a cat can be said to do so.
Turning back to me, Ryan tapped a finger to one temple. “Brain food.”
“There may be a Dove bar in the freezer.”
“What’s a Dove bar?”
“Only the best ice cream treat on the planet.” Then I remembered. “That’s right. They’re not available in Canada.”
“Admittedly, we have some holes in our culture.” Ryan began rummaging in the freezer.
I recalled Tuesday’s morning-after mess in my sink. Maybe not, I thought.
“Yes!” Ryan slammed the door, turned, and flourished two bars. “Two frozen delights.”
I took one and began peeling the wrapper.
Frost cascaded onto my hand.
I stared at it, remembering Ryan’s flip answer.
Water.
Expansion.
Cracking.
Ping!
I flew to the phone.
34
THIS TIME, SLIDELL TOOK MY CALL. HOT DAMN. I WAS AVERAGING two for four.
“Klapec was frozen.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know how I could have been so dense. It explains everything. The distorted decomp. The lack of scavenging. The paucity of insect activity. The cracking within the Haversian systems.”
“Whoa.”
Ryan was listening while eating his ice cream.
“Of course Klapec decomposed from the outside in. The pattern makes sense if he was frozen. His outer surfaces would have warmed faster than his core.”
“What’s this Haversham thing?”
“Haversian. With the SEM zoomed to a magnification of one thousand, I could see cracks in the tiny tunnels in Klapec’s bones. I couldn’t understand what had caused them.”
“Now you do.”
“What happens when water cools?”
“You get out of the shower.”
I ignored that.
“Most liquids shrink. So does water, until it reaches approximately four degrees Celsius. After that, it expands. When frozen it has expanded roughly nine percent.”
“And this is relevant why?”
“The microfracturing in Klapec’s bone is due to pressure created by ice crystal formation deep in his Haversian canals.”
“You’re saying Klapec was a Popsicle when he was dumped.”
“The killer must have stored his body in a freezer.”
Slidell made the link.
“Meaning Klapec could have died long before Funderburke spotted him at Lake Wylie.”
“Maybe in September, when Gunther saw him arguing with Rick Nelson. Where was Finney around that time?”
“Home alone. And Lingo was ping-ponging all over the state.”
“Did Finney have a freezer in his home?”
“You can bet your ass I’ll find out.”
“It doesn’t confirm that either Lingo or Finney’s our guy.”
“It stretches our window for time of death. That’s something.”
I heard choked inhalation, then a sort of growl.
“I hope that was a yawn.”
“I got zero shut-eye last night. I’m going ten-oh-two for a couple hours. You gonna be at your lab later today?”
“Tyrell fired me.”
“No way.”
I told him about the call from Allison Stallings.
“That should clear the air.”
“Maybe. Tyrell’s still peeved about my on-camera spat with Lingo. For now I’d better lay low.”
“I knew that opportunistic bitch was trouble. Anyway, good one, doc.”
I hung up and, you guessed it, began pacing. I felt frustrated with the investigation, guilty over Finney’s death, and unsettled by the presence of my unexpected houseguest.
I was checking containers in the fridge for unwanted life forms when that houseguest reappeared wearing running shoes, shorts, and the green lizard T.
“Going for a run?”
Idiot. Of course he was going for a run.
“I’m glad you found your workout gear.”
“I’m glad I left it here.”
There was an awkward beat.
“When do you fly back to Montreal?” I asked.
“As things stand, Sunday.”
“Will you be returning to the Sheraton?”
“I can.” Sad face.
&n
bsp; I hesitated. Why not? You’d do the same for any old friend.
“You’re welcome to stay here.”
Big Ryan smile. “I can cook.”
I smiled, too. “I like that in a”—I started to say man—“friend.”
Ryan asked if I’d like to join him on his run. I declined.
Through the kitchen window, I watched him fall into in an easy, loping stride, long, ropy legs barely straining.
I remembered those legs intertwined with mine.
My stomach did a handspring.
Oh boy.
I had to do something. But what? I didn’t want to antagonize Tyrell further by going to the MCME. Slidell was power napping.
I tried grading student lab exercises from my forensics class.
Couldn’t concentrate.
I tried outlining my next lecture.
No go on that either.
Phone Katy?
There was a call I’d been putting off.
I dialed. Got voice mail. Had she not taken her phone to Buncombe County? Was it not working up in the mountains? Was she still mad?
I was gathering hand washables when I spotted Ryan walking up the drive, shirt pasted to his chest, face flushed with exertion. He was speaking into his mobile. I could tell he was agitated.
Ryan rounded the corner of the Annex, out of my sight line.
Without thinking, I moved toward the back door.
“I know, sweetheart.”
Ryan was speaking English, not French. Lutetia?
Cold bloomed in my chest.
“That’s the way it’s got to be.”
Breath frozen, I leaned closer to the door.
Pause.
“No.”
There was another, longer pause. Then the knob turned.
Skittering backward, I gathered the abandoned laundry into my arms.
Ryan came through the door. Met my eyes. Waggled his free hand in irritation.
“Not a chance,” he said into the phone.
Lily, he mouthed to me.
“We’ll talk later.”
Snapping the lid, Ryan reclipped the mobile to his waistband.
“Problem?” I asked, casual as hell.
“Lily wants to go to Banff. The terms of her probation restrict her to Quebec.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” He smiled at the bras and teddies pressed to my chest. “Planning a garage sale?”
“I don’t do garage sales.”
“Keep the leopard-skin thong. It was always my favorite.”
I felt my face color.
“Mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Please. Do you want anything?”
Ryan flashed lascivious brows.
My innards went for a full double flip.
I looked at the clock. Two thirty. Dear God. What would we do all afternoon?
Remembering my quarrel with Katy, I had an idea. It would require little focus and might channel my restless energy. It would also keep me and my houseguest on neutral ground.
I flapped a hand at Ryan’s shirt. “You really don’t know who the Dead Milkmen are?”
Ryan shook his head.
“My daughter claims I’m abysmally ignorant of today’s rock music.”
“Are you?”
“Abysmal is a bit strong.”
“Kids can be harsh.”
“Tyrell canned me,” I said. “Slidell’s down for beauty rest.”
“Don’t want to interrupt that.”
“Definitely not. After you shower, let’s log on and look up the Milkmen.”
I made popcorn to create a festive atmosphere.
Ryan and I learned that the Dead Milkmen were a satirical punk group whose first official album, Big Lizard in My Backyard, was released in 1985.
“Your shirt could be a classic,” I said.
“Might earn my fortune on Antiques Roadshow.”
My mind flashed an image of April Pinder.
“Do you know the Cheeky Girls?” I asked.
“I’d like to,” Ryan said, giving an exaggerated wink.
My eyes executed a hall-of-fame roll.
We learned that the Cheeky Girls were Romanian-born twins, Gabriela and Monica Irimia. Their first single, “Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum),” spent five weeks in the top five on the UK singles chart. In a Channel 4 poll, it was then voted worst pop record of all time.
“I’ve got to see the words to that,” Ryan said, reading the title.
Finding a site that listed rock-and-roll lyrics, I scrolled down and positioned the cursor over Cheeky Girls.
“Cheap Trick!” Ryan exclaimed.
“What did I do?”
“I want you to want me,” Ryan sang. Badly.
“Did you just do air guitar?”
Ryan pointed to the group directly above Cheeky Girls. Cheap Trick.
“I love those guys,” Ryan said.
Total blank.
“Abysmal may be generous,” Ryan said.
I linked over to the Cheap Trick Web site.
And felt my adrenals fire into overdrive.
“Cheap Trick has been an institution since the seventies. ‘Dream Police.’ ‘The House Is Rockin’.’ You know Comedy Central’s Colbert Report? Cheap Trick wrote and performed the theme song. Also the one for That ’70s Show.”
Ryan’s voice was barely registering. Synapses were exploding in my head like fireworks.
Rinaldi’s call to Slidell, relaying information about his informant.
Rinaldi’s cryptic notes. RN. CTK.
Glenn Evans flanking his boss on the courthouse steps.
“Going to a party,” Ryan sang.
My attention was riveted on a man holding a black-and-white-checkered guitar shaped like roadkill. A caption identified him as Rick Nielsen, lead guitarist.
Ryan misread my interest. “That’s a seventy-eight Hamer Explorer checkerboard. Awesome.”
Normally, I’d have wondered at Ryan’s knowledge of guitars. Not then.
I stared at Nielsen, unbelieving. High, broad cheekbones. Close-set eyes. Sharply sloping jaw. Prominent chin. Baseball cap.
According to Slidell, Vince Gunther had described Klapec’s violent john as Rick Nelson in a baseball cap.
Had Rinaldi actually said Rick Nielsen? Nielsen’s resemblance to Glenn Evans was striking. Had Slidell gotten the name wrong? Someone Gunther’s age would more likely know an active band like Cheap Trick than a dead sixties teen idol.
“Rick Nielsen,” I asked, pointing at the screen. “Does he often wear a cap?”
“Always.” Ryan picked up on the tension in my voice. “Why?”
I told him my thinking.
“Could be big,” he said.
“Before bothering Slidell I have to be sure.”
Ryan and I surfed through dozens of images. Concert shots. Album covers. Promotional pictures.
An hour later, I sat back, impressed but dubious. Unquestionably, Glenn Evans looked like Rick Nielsen. But was it merely coincidence?
Nope, I told myself. No such thing.
I dialed.
Amazingly, Slidell picked up.
“What.” Barked.
I explained the resemblance between Rick Nielsen and Glenn Evans.
“Might you have misunderstood Rinaldi?” I asked.
Slidell made one of his hrlf noises. I pictured him sitting on a bedside in his underwear, struggling to wake up. Not pretty.
“Maybe Klapec’s violent john is actually Glenn Evans.” Another synapse fired. “Holy shit. Maybe CTK wasn’t an airport code. Maybe that was Rinaldi’s abbreviation for Cheap Trick.”
Slidell started to talk. I cut him off.
“Maybe Rinaldi had Lingo’s phone number because he was looking at Evans.”
Slidell thought about that.
“Evans alibis out for the time Klapec’s body was dumped. And for the day Klapec argued with someone and disappeared.”
I had no answer for that.
“I did some checking on Evans and Lingo. Both are clean as a vicar’s ass. No drugs, hookers, or little girls. Besides, where’s motive?”
I started throwing things out, not really convinced.
“Maybe Evans is a closet gay. Maybe he picked Klapec up, things went south, Klapec ended up dead.”
“And the Mephistopheles motif?”
I was too pumped to be surprised at Slidell’s Faust reference.
“Maybe Evans is in some kind of cult.”
“And maybe he runs bare-ass in crop circles under full moons. Think about it. Evans works for Lingo, a power-hungry Bible-thumper with an appetite for airtime. There are whole zip codes who hate the guy. If Lingo’s aide swings with Satan, that fact would hardly stay hidden.”
I had no answer for that, either.
“Now, since you won’t let me sleep, I’m going back to goddamn headquarters.”
35
“WHAT DID HE SAY?” RYAN WAS STILL AT THE COMPUTER. SOMETHING punk was blasting from the speakers. Or was it heavy metal?
“He was unconvinced. Jesus. Can you turn that down?”
“What would you like to hear?”
“The music’s fine. Just lower the volume a few squillion decibels.”
“Seriously. Who do you like?”
“You’ll mock me.”
“I won’t. Well, unless you say Abba. Come on. Choose one of your CD’s. You do have CD’s?”
“Of course I have CD’s.” Two of Abba. I didn’t fess up.
“Choose one.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Running a finger along my music shelf, I made a selection and handed it to Ryan.
“Yes! A Canadian.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Disapproving look. “Neil Young makes up for the national flaw of not having Dove bars.”
Ryan slipped the disc into the PC.
First acoustic guitar, then the familiar nasal tenor issued forth.
Synapse trip down memory lane. Pete in his marine dress whites. In jeans playing backyard croquet with Katy. In plaid flannel PJ bottoms watching TV.
This had been Pete’s favorite CD.
Somewhere on a desert highway…
I studied the album’s cover art. A scarecrow, backlit by an orange and red sunset.
Or was it a native dancer in a fringed coat?
A witch?
And there it was again. The subliminal sneeze that wouldn’t break.
Witch? Pete?
She rides a Harley-Davidson…
I flipped the case and looked at the title. Harvest Moon.
