A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “I’d have to figure out where to show it around.”

  Our eyes met. I could almost hear the gears clicking in her head.

  “It’s a long shot,” she said.

  “To Uranus and back.”

  “Won’t be worth a frog’s dick in court.”

  “I know.”

  “Joe Hawkins?” Gesturing again toward the envelope.

  I didn’t confirm or deny.

  “Who took the sample?” Meaning: it was collected covertly, so can the swab be trusted?

  “I did.” Meaning: yes.

  “Going off script could get you permanently canned,” Lizzie said.

  “I don’t see Heavner featuring me on future rosters.”

  Until then, the ugly prospect had only hovered, black and fluttery, at the periphery of my perception. Voicing the words brought the concept into stark reality. After decades, I’d be permanently out at the MCME.

  “We’d be talking hypotheticals,” Lizzie said, voice low.

  “I’d owe you big-time.”

  Lizzie shotgunned the last of her coffee. Crossed her arms and sat still as a bonsai. Seconds passed. A full minute. Then, “You’re gonna love yacking prickly pear and aloe with Mom.”

  The comment sounded just the wrong side of a promise.

  * * *

  I kept the papers. Lizzie took the tube.

  It was past eleven when I got back to the annex. Pumped on adrenaline and coffee, which I’d been advised by my neurologist to avoid, I knew sleep wasn’t on the radar.

  After changing into a clean tee and boxers, propped against bed pillows, I began going through Hawkins’s ex officio dossier.

  I approached the contents chronologically, starting with the incident report from the Cleveland County Sheriff’s Department. Case number: 18-36-4129. Date: June 29, 2018. Time: 1121. Location: Earl, NC. Lead Detective: Ben Spevack, Criminal Investigation Division. Incident Type: Death investigation. Decedent’s Name: Blank. Eyewitnesses: Blank.

  A hand-scrawled summary stated the following.

  At approximately 0645, June 29, 2018, Ardis Goncalves, age 14, and Jaden Fazio, age 13, arrived by bicycle at a point where Lick Branch cuts south off Buffalo Creek, east of NC-198, just north of the South Carolina state line. The boys had gone to the location for the purpose of fishing. Upon arrival, they spotted two feral hogs at the water’s edge, threw rocks, approached when the hogs ran off. Observing a dead body, the boys pedaled to the Fazio home. At 0736 Dodie Fazio dialed 911 to alert the authorities.

  The decedent was initially observed by first responder Sheriff’s Deputy Cory Jenkins to be clothed, of medium build, with dark hair, lying supine, with feet toward, head oriented away from the creek. No appearance of projectile, sharp or blunt instrument, or vehicular trauma. No signs of defense wounding on lower arms. (Hands not observable.) Mutilation of face, midsection, and hands due to hogs. Blood staining on clothing, soil and vegetation under head, and midsection suggestive of massive bleeding. No attempt made to move body to observe lividity.

  Decedent was wearing cream-colored shirt, brown pants, black shoes, no socks. No jewelry, wallet, or keys in vicinity. No drugs or weapons. No suicide note. No signs of foul play. Decedent is believed to have reached the site on foot.

  I leaned back, skin twitchy. What were my instincts telling me now?

  I reread the summary, more slowly. No epiphany. But I was more wide awake than ever.

  Shocked that Hawkins had managed to sneak them, I shifted to the photocopy of Heavner’s preliminary autopsy notes.

  DECEDENT

  Case Number: MCME 304-18. Name: Unknown. Next of Kin: Unknown. Location Last Seen Alive: Unknown. Vehicle Involved: Unknown. Reporting Agency: Cleveland County SD. Case Type: Unidentified fresh body.

  EXTERNAL EXAM

  Body Condition: Intact save for significant postmortem damage to face, hands, and abdomen due to animal scavenging. Feral hogs reported at body location. Rigor: Full: Livor: Posterior, purple, fixed.

  Body Length: 68.5 inches. Weight: 158 pounds. Hair: Black and abundant, cut short. Eyes: Unobservable. Nasal Cavities and Other Facial Features: Unobservable. Ears: Clotted blood on external ears, otherwise unremarkable. Teeth: Anterior damaged and incomplete (postmortem), posterior natural, in good repair. Glasses/contacts: Unknown.

  Small raised brown mole below right nipple.

  No evidence of disease, congenital abnormality, or medical intervention.

  INTERNAL EXAM

  Heavner noted that the man’s heart weighed 270 grams and was grossly unremarkable. His pericardial sac was free of fluid and adhesions. His cardiac vessels were patent and followed the usual distribution with no evidence of atherosclerosis or thrombosis. His lungs were normal, his airways free of obstruction or foreign debris.

  The man’s brain weighed 1,360 grams and was grossly unremarkable. His adrenal and thyroid glands, immunological system, musculoskeletal system, and skin were grossly unremarkable. Ditto the one remaining kidney.

  The liver, spleen, pancreas, gall bladder, appendix, stomach, intestines, and left kidney were not present for observation or weighing.

  Radiographs were taken. Aortic and inferior vena cava blood samples were retained for toxicologic analysis. Microscopic analysis to follow.

  Heavner’s notes concluded with:

  The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished adult Asian (?) male appearing compatible with an estimated age of 25 to 35 years.

  CAUSE/MANNER OF DEATH: Undetermined.

  Bottom line. Heavner hadn’t a clue who the guy was or what had killed him. Yet there she was, talking him up to the media. Would an interview with Nick Body be next?

  Leaving Barrington’s, I’d felt psyched. Certain I could slap a name on the faceless man. Certain that if he’d been murdered, I could help nail the bastards who did it.

  While I had been en route to the annex, bubble-wrapped in the dark stillness inside my car, Lizzie’s question had arrowed back, tough and unbending.

  Why did I care so deeply about this case? Was I really driven by a desire to do right by the victim? To return his body to those who’d loved him? To gain justice for his death?

  Or was the truth somewhat less admirable? Was I on a personal crusade to destroy Margot Heavner? To punish her for supporting Nick Body and the malice that he and his kind represented?

  Was my goal purely selfish? Was I dragging colleagues into my private drama to irk the patootie out of my new boss and impress the big enchilada in Chapel Hill?

  I turned to the photos on my phone.

  Had been scrolling a while when I spotted an image that froze my breath.

  6

  SUNDAY, JULY 1

  I’d examined the photos over and over. Then transferred them to my Mac and sharpened each pic individually with Photoshop. I’d zoomed in and out on varying details. Tried black-and-white, different hues, saturations, and levels of contrast. Compared what I was seeing against Heavner’s notes.

  By three a.m., my head was throbbing, and my eyes felt like hot balls of gravel behind my lids. Not a migraine but painful enough. I’d steeled myself for one quick run through the faceless man’s clothing and possessions, then lights out.

  Didn’t happen. The fourth of those images had jolted me alert. A close-up of a tattered scrap of paper. I stared, puzzled and confused.

  An online search had provided a partial answer. But no clue to the meaning of that answer.

  The images had stormed unchecked throughout the three hours of sleep my hyper-jazzed brain had allowed. The blood-soaked clothing. The gutted body. The scrap. I awoke, still headachy and exhausted.

  Strong gusts were spitting leaves and other missiles against the black rectangle that was my window. The mockingbird was playing elsewhere. Or hunkered down, awaiting sunrise or calmer headwinds.

  I thought about lying in bed all day. About abandoning my illicit crusade for the faceless man. About sucking up to Heavner, maybe dropping by on Monday with a toe
-in-the-water attempt at détente. Then I remembered her tone and the look of loathing on her face. And her self-serving interviews with Nick Body.

  I got up and put on my running gear. Slipped out into the warm, windy predawn blackness.

  Shapes bobbed on the choppy surface of the pond, heads tucked, necks forming inverted U’s against the buffeting blasts.

  Skin-puckering flashbacks. Glinting teeth. Bloodied feathers. Sightless eyes.

  A trench-coated silhouette.

  I left Sharon Hall, ran past Queens University and on to Freedom Park. The place was deserted, all night creatures still burrowed deep in their nests, dens, and holes—the opossums, foxes, junkies, and drunks. The only sounds were my footfalls, the pummeling air, and the twitching branches and vegetation.

  By the time I headed home, windows were glowing, and headlights were slicing the slowly yielding darkness. To the east, a buttery crack was wedging open the meeting point between earth and sky.

  After a long, hot shower, I fed Birdie, then brewed coffee strong enough to revive roadkill. Armed with my notes, I dialed Hawkins.

  Got the recorded voice I expected.

  Left a message.

  Next, I sent a text to another area code.

  Talk when you’re awake?

  Ten minutes later, Ryan phoned.

  “Bonjour, ma chère.”

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Feeling all right?” Besides Mama, Ryan was the only person who knew of my recent diagnosis. Sometimes I regretted looping him in.

  “It’s an aneurysm, not bubonic plague.”

  “I’m happy to pop down early.”

  “I’m fine. Stop asking.”

  “Got it. Are you up with the birds because you miss me so badly?”

  “Something like that.”

  “My toes go all sweaty when you talk mushy.”

  “Happy Canada Day.”

  “Merci, madame.”

  “Doing anything special to celebrate?” Polite for: Why have you gone incommunicado?

  “Yesterday I was at Fer a Cheval, a hunting and fishing camp near Mont-Laurier.”

  “In pursuit of?”

  “Walleye and trout.”

  “Catch anything?”

  “A cold. I’m home now.”

  “Bad weather?”

  “Chilly and rainy.”

  “It’s July.”

  “Thus, the absence of snow. No matter, I’m jammed with work.”

  “Business is still booming?”

  “I’ve got a builder convinced his lawyer is defrauding him out of billions, a single mom wanting the entire life story of a nanny applicant, and parents terrified that their son may be shacking up with his former high school biology teacher.”

  “How old is the teacher?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “And the kid?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “He’s legal to shag the vicar’s grandmère if he wants. Assuming she’s mentally competent and willing.”

  “So I’ve informed them. I’m also doing some digging for the SQ.”

  Since police detectives are restricted in ways private investigators are not, they sometimes turn to PIs when a case has dead-ended. Ryan didn’t elaborate, so I didn’t ask.

  He went on, “I saw LaManche while riding up to the squad room Friday morning. He mentioned some joy waiting in your lab.”

  “We talked on Thursday. The case isn’t urgent, probably old cemetery remains.”

  “How’s Daisy?”

  “Chemo-peachy.”

  “Let me guess. She’s considering nuptials in Uganda. Maybe hiring mountain gorillas as waiters.”

  “Ushers.” Though currently she’s too busy banging Sinitch to dream up harebrained travel possibilities. I kept that to myself.

  “Got big plans for July Fourth?” Ryan asked.

  “My stockpile of sparklers is quite impressive.”

  “Did you lay in Valium for the birdcat?”

  “It’s not Birdie’s favorite holiday. Assuming he doesn’t need therapy, I may bring him along when I fly north.”

  “My toes go all—”

  “My relationship with Heavner has become a real train wreck.”

  Ryan knew our history. “And?”

  “I’m considering something that may send it right off the rails.”

  I heard faint moaning up the line between Charlotte and Quebec. The hypothetical preacher’s granny?

  “Are you still there?” I asked.

  “I’m listening.”

  I laid down the full version, holding nothing back. As I spoke, I could feel my voice tighten, thread by thread. Ryan didn’t interrupt.

  I started with the mysteriously texted images, concluded with the leaked dossier and Lizzie Griesser.

  “You don’t know the source of the pics?”

  “No clue. I suspect someone was giving me a heads-up.”

  “Why?”

  “If I knew that, I’d probably know who sent them. Anyway, I spent hours with those and with my photos. None is first-rate. I had to snap mine quickly with just my phone. But it’s obvious Heavner’s wrong on some points.”

  “Such as?”

  “In one shot, I can see the left upper posterior dentition.”

  “The molars.”

  “Yes. Every occlusal surface is worn. In another shot, I can see the superior portion of the right pubic symphyseal face. The hogs yanked the two pelvic halves apart, gnawed one, bypassed the other in favor of the viscera.”

  “Very accommodating.”

  “The angle’s not perfect, but magnified, I can read the age indicators.”

  “It’s Johnny Appleseed.”

  “Do you want to hear this?”

  Chastened silence.

  “The man was older than Heavner implied, I’d say in the thirty-five-to-fifty range, probably the upper end of that. And other than black hair, I can’t imagine how she concluded he might be Asian. His features were toast, but the hogs had yanked his scalp back far enough to expose most of his frontal bone—his forehead, orbital ridges, and the area above his nose. The upper nasal aperture, interorbital distance, and orbital shape all suggest the man was Caucasoid. White.”

  Ryan blew out a long breath. Disinterested? Disapproving? I didn’t care. I pressed on.

  “Also, one shoulder, one hip, and both upper arms have dark blotches I’d bet the farm are hematomas.”

  “Bruises.”

  “In varying stages of healing.”

  “Meaning the guy had either fallen or been struck on more than one occasion. How could Heavner have missed something like that?”

  “Who knows? In her defense, the body was pretty mangled, and the lividity was spectacular.” I was referring to the purple discoloration caused by blood pooling in a corpse’s downside.

  Ryan started to speak. I cut him off before his question was out.

  “But that’s not all. Along with the money and the chewing tobacco—”

  “Snus.” Pronounced with Ryan’s version of a Scandinavian lilt.

  “What?”

  “You said he had an empty tin of Göteborgs Rapé, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a brand of snus.” Lilty.

  “I know you’ll explain that.”

  “It’s a spicy, smokeless tobacco. Sometimes comes in little paper packets.”

  “To stick in your gums.”

  “Yes. You don’t chew it or spit it. I think snus is illegal in some parts of Europe. But the Swedes are apeshit over the stuff.”

  “Right.” I didn’t ask how Ryan knew that. Or why anyone would want to suck on tobacco. “Along with the snus”—appropriately lilting—“and the cash, there was a scrap of paper in one of the man’s pockets. Looked like part of a blank page torn from a book. One Russian word was scribbled on it. I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll forward the pic.”

  I put Ryan on hold, clicked over, and fired off the image. Seconds later, I heard the text
ping in.

  Законченный.

  Ryan didn’t try voicing it, either.

  “Meaning?” he asked.

  “ ‘Finished.’ According to three separate internet translation sites. One suggested the word could also mean ‘ended.’ ”

  “Note d’adieu?” He used the French phrase for suicide note. No lilt.

  I shrugged. Wasted effort. Ryan couldn’t see me. “Or it could refer to the book from which the page was taken. An affair. A trip. A job. A—”

  “I get it.” Pause. “Is that writing running sideways down the right edge?”

  My reaction, too. “I’m not sure. It’s too smudgy and faint to make out. Think it could be some sort of code?”

  “Or blood. Spaghetti sauce. Hog poop. A—”

  “Touché.”

  “What’s on the flip side?”

  “I was hurrying and didn’t turn the scrap over. I’ll ask Hawkins to snap a shot.”

  “If Heavner learns about the photocopies, Hawkins’s ass will be on the line.”

  “Only Lizzie and you know.”

  “And what happens when you start poking around?”

  “You’re a detective, right?”

  “For years, it said so right on my badge.”

  “I’m hoping you can provide pointers on detecting discreetly.”

  “This case is that important to you?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  A long, empty silence hummed down from Canada. Then, “First off, I wouldn’t go diming Detective Spevack out in Cleveland County.”

  “What would you do?”

  * * *

  Having come from the pocket damp, the scrap had been spread on a drying tray while the autopsy proceeded. The reverse side had not been examined. Hawkins was going into the MCME early Monday morning and agreed to inspect and photograph the back.

  I started with my single close-up of the front. Felt the same spark of excitement. The staining definitely looked like lettering.

  Barely breathing, I returned to Photoshop and enlarged the image again and again. Thought I could make out an E, maybe an 8 or a 3. Couldn’t be sure. Magnification caused the shapes to blur and go grainy.

  I used tools to sharpen the edges and reduce background noise. Then, by creating a brightness/contrast layer, I worked to whiten the paper while darkening the writing. Maybe writing.