Break No Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Climbing to my room, I slid open the glass door and fell into bed. Boyd settled on the floor. For a long time I lay awake, listening to the surf and smelling the ocean.

  At some point, Birdie hopped up and curled at my side. I was thinking about eating something when I drifted off.

  Gullet was right. Nothing more happened that night.

  * * *

  “Pinckney?”

  At shortly after eleven the next morning, Emma and I were in a treatment room at a clinic two blocks east of the main hospital. She wore a hospital smock. An IV ran from her left arm. With her right she held a mobile to her ear. Coroner perk. Dispensation from the no cell phone rule.

  “Landline?” Emma asked.

  Pause.

  “What’s the address?”

  Pause.

  “I know it. I’ll swing by there in about an hour.”

  Emma clicked off and spoke to me.

  “Chester Tyrus Pinckney.”

  “I was close,” I said.

  “The phone’s been cut off, but the address isn’t too far from Rockville.”

  “Isn’t that way south? Down by Kiawah and Seabrook?”

  “Wadmalaw Island. The area’s pretty rural.”

  I thought about that.

  “Mr. Pinckney traveled a long way to hang himself.”

  Before Emma could reply a woman entered the room. She wore a white coat and held a chart in one hand. Her face was friendly but neutral.

  Emma introduced the woman as Dr. Nadja Lee Russell. Despite the bravado she’d been showing all morning, her voice belied nervousness.

  “I understand you had an episode,” Russell said.

  “Just fatigue,” Emma said.

  “You lost consciousness?”

  “Yes,” Emma admitted.

  “Has that happened before?”

  “No.”

  “Any fever? Nausea? Night sweats?”

  “Some.”

  “Which?”

  “All of the above.”

  Russell made notes, then flipped pages in the chart. The room hummed with the sound of the overhead fluorescents.

  Russell read on. The silence grew ominous. I felt cold bands squeezing my chest. It was like waiting out a verdict. You will live. You will die. You are better. You are not. I forced myself to smile.

  Finally, Russell spoke.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have good news, Emma. Your counts still have not improved as much as I would have liked.”

  “They’re down?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not seeing the level of progress I was hoping for.”

  The room seemed to compress around me. I reached out and took Emma’s hand.

  “What now?” Emma’s voice was devoid of emotion. Her face had gone rigid.

  “We continue,” Russell said. “Every patient is different. For some, the treatment takes longer to kick in.”

  Emma nodded.

  “You’re young, you’re still strong. Continue to work if you feel up to it.”

  “I will.”

  Emma’s eyes followed Russell’s retreat out the door. In them I saw fear and sadness. But most of all, I saw defiance.

  “You bet your sweet ass I’ll keep working.”

  * * *

  The travel brochures describe Wadmalaw as the most unspoiled of Charleston’s islands. In this case, also the least alluring.

  Technically, Wadmalaw is an island, carved off from the mainland by the Bohicket and North Edisto rivers. But Wadmalaw is blocked from the ocean by its upscale “barrier” neighbors to the south and east, Kiawah and Seabrook. The good news: Wadmalaw is stable, and rarely suffers the full-frontal blast of a hurricane. The bad news: no sandy beaches. Wadmalaw’s acreage is a hodgepodge of woodland and wetland, ecozones hardly packing in tourists and vacation home buyers.

  Though a few upscale houses have recently gone up on Wadmalaw, the area’s residents remain mostly farmers, fishers, crabbers, and shrimpers. The island’s one attraction is the Charleston Tea Plantation. Begun in 1799, the plantation lays claim to the title of oldest tea farm in America. But then, it’s perhaps the only tea farm in America.

  But who knows? If skinks and cooters ever catch the imagination of ecotourists, Wadmalaw will be golden.

  The small town of Rockville lies at Wadmalaw’s southern tip. It was in the general direction of this metropolis that Emma and I pointed ourselves after leaving the clinic.

  On the walk to my car I tried broaching the subject of NHL. Emma made it clear that the topic was off-limits. Initially, her attitude annoyed me. Why ask for my company then close me out? But then, wasn’t that exactly how I’d behave? Nullify weakness by refusing to grant it the validation of the spoken word? I wasn’t sure, but I yielded to Emma’s wishes. Her illness, her call.

  I drove, Emma rode shotgun. Her directions took us southwest across James and Johns islands, onto the Maybank Highway, then onto Bears Bluff Road. Except for navigational commands, and a few exchanges concerning road signs, we rode in silence, listening to the air conditioner and to bugs slapping the windshield.

  Eventually, Emma directed me to turn onto a small road lined with live oaks dripping Spanish moss. Shortly, she ordered another right, then, a quarter mile later, a left onto a rutted dirt lane.

  Ancient trees leaned inward from both sides, drawn through decades to the ribbon of sunlight created by the lane’s passage. Beyond the trees were trenches, black-green with moss and brackish water.

  Here and there, a battered mailbox marked the opening to a driveway snaking off from one shoulder or the other. Otherwise, the narrow track was so overhung with vegetation, I felt like I was piloting through a leafy green wormhole in space.

  “There.”

  Emma pointed to a mailbox. I pulled up beside it.

  Metallic letters formed an uneven row, the kind you buy at Home Depot and paste on. PINCKNEY.

  On the ground, a homemade sign leaned against the box’s upright. Rabbits for Sale. Good bait.

  “What do you catch with rabbits?” I asked.

  “Tularemia,” Emma answered. “Turn here.”

  Thirty yards in, the trees yielded to tangled scrub. Ten more and the scrub dissolved into a small dirt clearing.

  No developer’s dream had reworked this place. No condos. No tennis courts. No Dickie Dupree.

  A small clapboard house occupied the center of the clearing, surrounded by the usual piled tires, auto parts, broken lawn furniture, and rusted appliances. The house was single story, raised above the ground on crumbling brick pilings. The front door was open, but I could see nothing through the outer screening.

  A steel cable ran between two uprights on the clearing’s right side. A leash hung from the cable, a choke-chain collar clipped to its lower end.

  An unpainted wooden shed stood at the clearing’s left. Barely. I assumed this was home to the unfortunate rabbits.

  I watched Emma draw a long, deep breath. I knew she hated what she was about to do. She got out. I followed. The air was hot and heavy with moisture and the smell of rotting vegetation.

  I waited at the foot of the steps while Emma climbed to the porch. I kept my eyes roving, alert for a pit bull or rottweiler. I’m a dog lover, but a realist. Rural canines and strangers spell stitches and shots.

  Emma knocked.

  A large black bird cawed and darted low over the shed. I watched it spiral upward, then disappear into the loblolly pines behind the clearing.

  Emma called out and knocked again.

  I heard a male voice, then the thrup of rusty hinges.

  I glanced back toward the house.

  And saw the very last person I expected to see.

  11

  EMMA’S KNOCK HAD BEEN ANSWERED BY A MAN in baggy yellow pants, homemade tire-tread sandals, and an apricot T that said: Go home. Earth is full. The man had black-rimmed glasses and hair greased into the worst comb-over I’d ever seen.

  “Who’s banging on my damn door?”

&nbs
p; I froze, mouth open, staring at Chester Pinckney.

  Emma had not seen Pinckney’s license, and had no idea she was addressing the man pictured on it. She proceeded, unaware of my reaction.

  “How do you do, sir. May I ask if you’re a member of the Pinckney family?”

  “Last I looked, this was my damn house.”

  “Yes, sir. And you would be?”

  “You ladies needing crawlers?”

  “No, sir. I’d like to talk to you about Chester Tyrus Pinckney.”

  Pinckney’s eyes slithered to me.

  “This some kinda joke?”

  “No, sir,” Emma said.

  “Emma,” I whispered.

  Emma shushed me with a low backward wave of one hand.

  A smile crawled Pinckney’s lips, revealing teeth browned by smoking and years of neglect.

  “Harlan send you?” Pinckney asked.

  “No, sir. I’m the Charleston County coroner.”

  “We got a girl coroner?”

  Emma badged him.

  Pinckney ignored it.

  “Emma,” I tried again.

  “That’s dead bodies, right, like I seen on TV?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you know Chester Pinckney?”

  Maybe Emma’s question confused him. Or maybe Pinckney was working on his idea of clever riposte. He gave her a blank stare.

  “Mr. Pinckney,” I jumped in.

  Emma and Pinckney both looked at me.

  “Any chance you’ve lost your wallet?”

  Emma’s brows dipped, rose, then her eyes rolled skyward. Giving a small head shake, she turned back to Pinckney.

  “That what this is about?” Pinckney asked.

  “You are Chester Tyrus Pinckney?” Emma’s tone was somewhat more relaxed.

  “I look like Hillary damn Clinton?”

  “You don’t, sir.”

  “You finally nail the little pissant what fingered my wallet? Am I getting my money back?”

  “When did you lose your billfold, sir?”

  “Didn’t lose the damn thing. It was stole.”

  “When was that?”

  “Been so long I hardly remember.”

  “Please try.”

  Pinckney gave the question some thought.

  “Afore the truck got drove into the ditch. Didn’t sweat the license none after that.”

  We waited for Pinckney to continue. He didn’t.

  “The date?” Emma prompted.

  “February. March. It was cold. Nearly froze my ass walking home.”

  “Did you file a police report?”

  “Weren’t worth spit. Sold it for scrap.”

  “I’m referring to your wallet.”

  “Damn right I filed a report.” It came out “ree-port.” “Sixty-four bucks is sixty-four bucks.”

  “Where did the loss take place?” Emma was now scribbling notes.

  “It weren’t no loss. I was robbed.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I look like some kinda damn bonehead can’t retain his own belongings?” Ree-tain.

  “No, sir. Please describe the incident.”

  “We was out looking to meet some ladies.”

  “We?”

  “Me and my buddy Alf.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Not much to tell. Alf and me had us some barbecue, knocked back some beers and shots. I woke up the next morning, I got no wallet.”

  “Did you inquire at each of the establishments you’d visited?”

  “Ones as we could remember.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Think for a while we was at the Double L.” Pinckney shrugged. “Alf and me was drinking pretty heavy.”

  Emma slid her notepad into a shirt pocket.

  “Your property has been located, Mr. Pinckney.”

  Pinckney hooted. “Already kissed that sixty-four smackers good-bye. Don’t need the license. Got no truck.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Pinckney’s eyes narrowed. “Why’s a coroner come calling to tell me this?”

  Emma regarded Pinckney, considering, I suspected, how much to disclose about the recovery of his billfold.

  “Just lending the sheriff a hand,” Emma said.

  Thanking Pinckney for his time, Emma descended the steps. When she joined me, we both turned to cross the yard.

  Blocking our path was a mangy gray poodle in a studded pink collar. Between its forepaws lay a dead squirrel.

  The poodle regarded us with curiosity. We reciprocated.

  “Douglas.” Pinckney gave a short, sharp whistle. “Get in here.”

  Douglas rose, clamped the squirrel in his teeth, and circled us.

  I heard a thrup, then a bang as Emma and I continued toward the car.

  “Nice old coot,” Emma said.

  “Douglas?”

  “Pinckney.”

  “Travels with Squirrely.”

  Emma shot me a look.

  I started the car, made a U-ey, and plowed up the drive.

  “Douglas?” Emma asked.

  “Collar’s a bit of a fashion risk, but Doug makes it work. Color highlights his eyes.”

  “What are the chances the old coot was robbed?” Emma asked.

  “What are the chances I’ll be this year’s American Idol?” I replied.

  “And then there were two,” Emma said when we’d reached the blacktop.

  “The man in the trees. The man on Dewees.”

  “Nice rhyme.”

  “Irish blood. By the way, how’s yours today?”

  “I’m a little tired, but OK.”

  “Honestly?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  Emma didn’t ask if I’d help with the skeletal analysis of the man in the trees. We both knew the answer. We also knew that Gullet would be doing some leg-work, and that he’d be skeptical of my involvement in yet another case.

  Imagining the conversation he and Emma would have, I drove straight to the morgue.

  * * *

  After Emma called Gullet to give him the news, Tuesday afternoon was a replay of Saturday morning. Same morgue cooler. Same tile and stainless steel autopsy room. Same smell of disinfected death.

  Miller had logged the hanging victim as CCC-2006020285.

  After changing into scrubs, Emma and I transferred CCC-2006020285 from his bag to the autopsy table. First the articulated portions, next the skull, finally the body parts that had fallen or been yanked free and dragged off by scavengers.

  The brain and internal organs were gone. The torso, arms, and upper leg bones remained encased in muscle and ligament, at some points putrefied, at others browned and toughened by sun and wind. Though inconvenient for skeletal analysis, the flesh was a potential bonus for a quick ID. Tissue means skin. Skin means prints.

  A jacket sleeve had protected the right hand, sparing it full-out mummification. But decomposition had rendered the tissue extremely fragile.

  “Got TES?” I asked Emma. Tissue Enhancing Solution, a citric acid–buffered salt solution useful for restoring dried or damaged tissue.

  “Courtesy of my favorite embalmer.”

  “Warm it to about fifty Celsius, please.” As with the Dewees case, Emma had made me head honcho during examination of these bones. I wasn’t sure how long she’d get away with it, but I was determined to do the job until someone pulled the plug.

  “Microwave?”

  “Fine.”

  While Emma was gone, I removed each of the right digits at the level of the first interphalangeal joint. When she returned, I placed the severed fingers in the solution and set them aside to soak.

  “Mind if I slide out for a while? There’s a construction site death needs my attention. When the prints are ready, give them to the tech and he’ll shoot them to Gullet.”

  “No problem.”

  The skeletal exam was straightforward enough. And, save for the tedium of cutting and stripping tissue, somewhat reminiscent
of Saturday’s analysis of the Dewees unknown.

  The vertebral column was the most difficult to separate into component parts. While it soaked, I began with those bones less tenaciously imprisoned in flesh.

  Skull and pelvic shape said this vic was male.

  Dental, rib, and pubic symphyseal indicators said he’d lived thirty-five to fifty years.

  Cranial and facial architecture said his ancestors came from Europe.

  Another white guy in his forties.

  There the physical similarities ended.

  While the man from Dewees was tall, long-bone measurements said the man from the trees stood only five-six to five-eight.

  The former had long blond hair. This guy sported short brown curls.

  Unlike the man from Dewees, the man from the trees had no dental work, and was, in fact, missing three upper molars and an upper bicuspid. The lowers were a mystery since I had no jaw. Tongue-side staining suggested the deceased had enjoyed cigarettes.

  When I’d completed the biological profile, I began my search for skeletal abnormalities. As usual, I was looking for congenital oddities, bony remodeling due to repetitive activities, healed injuries, and evidence of medical history.

  The man from the trees had taken his lumps, including a broken right fibula, fractured cheekbones, and some type of injury to his left shoulder blade, all healed. The X-rays showed an abnormal opacity on the left collarbone, suggesting the possibility of another old fracture.

  The guy wasn’t big, but he was a scrapper. And a great mender.

  Straightening, I rolled my shoulders, then my head. My back felt like the Panthers had run scrimmages on my spine.

  The wall clock said four forty. Time to check the digits.

  The tissue had softened nicely. Using a small syringe, I injected TES beneath the dermal pads. The fingertips plumped. I wiped each with alcohol, blotted, ink-rolled, then printed. The ridge detail came out reasonably clear.

  I called the tech. He collected the prints and I went back to the bones.

  Postmortem damage was limited to the lower legs. Gnawing and splintering, coupled with the presence of small circular puncture wounds, suggested the culprits were probably dogs.

  I found no evidence of perimortem injury, nothing to suggest that death had resulted from anything but the obvious: asphyxiation due to compression of the neck structures. In laymen’s terms, hanging.

  Emma called at seven. I updated her. She said she planned to swing by the sheriff’s office shortly to “goose” Gullet. Her words.