A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Gesturing a take-it-away palm, Slidell stepped sideways to make space for me. Or to give himself more room to sweat.

  A starling chose that moment to land on the car to our right. Tilting, head down and tail up, it observed us with two shiny black eyes.

  Momentary flash of a beheaded goose.

  Forcing the image back to its mental repository, I leaned in and began pulling items from the duffel.

  Not sure what I expected. What I found were a screwdriver with an insulated handle, a butter knife with the blade filed into a shiv, a portable cell phone charger, a flashlight, binoculars, toilet paper, and an empty plastic bottle with a screw cap. I handed each to Slidell. He arranged the collection on the trunk floor. Considered.

  Then, “Looks like a surveillance kit?”

  “For?”

  “Stakeouts, break-ins, whatever.”

  The tools had been lying on a stack of neatly folded clothing. Slidell watched as I inspected the garments. Tan pants with soil in the cuffs; one silk tie, paisley print; two long-sleeved cotton shirts, one denim, one white; two pairs of boxers, both black silk. All labels had been removed, with a single exception. The tie had the letters I-T-O stitched into the lining. The labels had also been cut from the duffel.

  Beneath the clothing was a folded copy of Moskovskij Komsomolets. I can’t read Cyrillic but recognized the logo and knew the newspaper was a Moscow daily with a large circulation. I checked the date. The edition was ten days old.

  Beneath the paper was a six-by-nine spiral, the kind I often use for recording case notes.

  Quick glance at Slidell. His brows were raised as high as mine.

  I lifted the notebook and opened to the first page. Handwritten on top were two Latvian words: Nogrimšanas traǵēdija. Below the words, a name: Felix Vodyanov.

  “It translates ‘sinking tragedy.’ ” I pointed to the heading.

  “The rest in Latspeak?”

  I skimmed. Nodded.

  “That it?”

  I ran my hand around the bottom of the duffel, felt a small rectangular object, and pulled it out. A thumb drive. Across one side was a line of Cyrillic text: Медицинские.

  “What’s the writing?”

  “I don’t read Russian,” I said.

  Using my iPhone, I shot pics of the drive and the articles taken from the duffel.

  “Could be your vic is this Felix Vodyanov?”

  “Many Latvians have Russian names.”

  “Maybe the worm’s KGB.”

  Comedic delivery is not Slidell’s forte. I looked up to see if he was kidding. Wasn’t sure.

  “The KGB ended with the dissolution of the Soviet Union.” I didn’t point out that had happened in ’91, thus the Latvian independence. “An operative planted in the States would probably be with SVR, Russia’s external intelligence service.”

  “You seriously thinking the guy’s some sort of spy?”

  “I’m not thinking anything. I’ll go online for a translation.” Picking up the thumb drive. “Can you run the plate?”

  We were punching keys when the double click of a pump-action shotgun froze us both.

  8

  “One move buys you a butt load of twelve-gauge.”

  “I’m a cop—” Slidell started.

  “Turn around. Real slow.”

  We did.

  The man was bushy-haired and tall, maybe six-five. The stub of a cigar rested in one corner of his mouth. A Remington 870 rested in his hands. Which had fingers long enough to wrap an asteroid.

  The man looked us over impassively. His stubble was dark and abundant, his eyes the faded blue of overwashed denim. I put his age at somewhere between forty and fifty.

  “I got no vehicle come from the likes of you.” Cigar bobbing a little.

  “Let me guess.” Controlled. Even Slidell wouldn’t pick a fight with this guy. “You’re Art.”

  “And you’d be?”

  “Police.”

  “Pass me a flag. We’ll have us a parade.”

  I sensed Slidell stiffen.

  “Detective Slidell and I would like to ask you some questions.” To ease the tension, I voiced the cliché.

  “Don’t talk to cops.” All glare and defiance. And shotgun.

  “It will take just a moment.”

  The pale blue gaze went past me. Slight frown as Art took in the Hyundai with its open trunk. “That your car?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Ain’t my inventory.”

  “That’s why we’re here.” I slanted a quick side-eye to Slidell. His attention never wavered from the man with the gun.

  “How’d it get onto my lot?” Art sounded a little less confident.

  “Last Friday, a body was found beside Buffalo Creek, just past your property line,” I said.

  “Got no knowledge of that.”

  “We don’t know the man’s name. But this may be his Sonata.”

  Art stared, cigar firm in his teeth. Something new in his eyes. “How’d this fella get his self killed?”

  “Cause of death is unclear. The medical examiner—”

  The cigar dipped a hair as Art swallowed.

  “Look. Either you green-light me to toss this car now, or I come back with a warrant this afternoon. Meanwhile, I bide my time checking your business licenses, your taxes, your gun permits. You living in that dung heap?” Slidell cocked his chin toward the trailer. “I get real bored, I might make a few calls, get inspectors out to verify your little slice of heaven meets fire and health codes. You really want to go that route?”

  Typical Slidell bluff. But Art bought it. Nodding once, he lowered the barrel of the Remington. Didn’t even ask for a badge.

  Slidell’s phone was still in his hand. He waved it at the assemblage spread across the trunk. “This shit goes with us.”

  As I began repacking the duffel, Slidell stripped off his gloves, unpocketed a notebook and pencil stub, spit-thumbed to a clean page, and jotted the Hyundai’s tag and license info. Walking toward the 4Runner, he punched keys with one clammy finger. A momentary pause, a click of a conversation, then he disconnected. Butt-leaning the quarter panel, he waited.

  Art watched me, now so close I could smell his sweat and the calamine he must have smeared on a rash. I’d just zipped the duffel when Slidell’s cell exploded into lyrics about a goodhearted woman. He answered, then shoulder-tucked the phone to write. As I joined him, he was assuring someone named Carla of a beer in her future.

  “The car’s registered to a John Ito.” Pocketing the mobile.

  “Ito.” Not the name I expected.

  “India. Tango. Oscar. The same letters stitched into the tie lining.”

  “Not Felix Vodyanov.”

  Slow wag of Slidell’s head.

  “Ito sounds Japanese.” Heavner was right, and I was wrong?

  Shoulder shrug.

  “OK.” At the end of a long breath. “Anything else?”

  “Morgantown address. I’ll check it out when we get back. Seems Ito’s licensed and insured in West Virginia.”

  “Maybe there’s no connection to the faceless man.”

  “Right. Your stiff’s carrying Latvian intel on doomed ships and biochemical weapons. The same jabberwocky’s in the trunk of that car.” Thumb jabbing the Hyundai. “No connection there.”

  Unable to fault Slidell’s logic, I said nothing.

  “Assuming Affordable Art’s being straight, and he and I will definitely be discussing his veracity, either Ito parked here on the sly and walked out, or his killer slipped in and ditched the car.”

  “Both scenarios suggest knowledge of the area.”

  “Not bad, doc. I’ll brief Poston. Ask if he knows a John Ito. Tell him the vehicle’s all his.”

  I peeled off my gloves, feeling unexpected empathy for the Cleveland County sheriff.

  * * *

  Slidell insisted we “stop for slop” en route home. The detour to Hog Heaven added an hour and a half to the trip. The
barbecue was good, the hush puppies outstanding. It was almost two by the time he dropped me at the annex.

  I called Pete straight off. Couldn’t do it from the car since my damn phone had died. His voice mail informed callers that he was away until the middle of the month. The sound effects were either a gun salute or cherry bombs. Patriotic as Art.

  I left a request for help with a Latvian translation. Kept it vague, hoping to tickle his curiosity.

  Ninety minutes later, my partially charged mobile rang. Thinking my ploy had worked, I answered blindly.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  The shot of anger caught me by surprise. I lowered my hand to disconnect.

  Saw the name of the caller.

  “Dr. Heavner.” Heart rate up a notch.

  “What the shuffling fuck?” Lab noises in the background. The metallic clanking of a bay door. The grinding of a transport van in reverse. The fast, resolute click of heels on tile.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Did we not discuss this? Did I change my mind and request a consult? Did I imply, in any way, at any time, that I desired your assistance?”

  “Do you?” Carefully neutral.

  “You have no idea how vehemently I do not.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Tell me it’s bullshit.” So furious she was practically spitting her words. “Tell me you did not go to Cleveland County asking about one of my cases.”

  “I was asking about a car.”

  “My John Doe is none of your business.”

  “So the body is still not ID’d?”

  “Are you hearing my voice?”

  “Did you try CODIS? NDIS?” I was asking about the Combined DNA Index System, the FBI’s database, and the National DNA Index System, the part of CODIS containing profiles contributed by federal, state, and local forensic labs. It took a while, but sometimes you got a cold hit.

  A long second of silence as Heavner weighed options.

  “I have no obligation to tell you anything, Dr. Brennan.” Oh, so measured now. “But as a professional courtesy, and to persuade you to desist, I will share that we believe the man’s name is John Ito. But due to your meddling, you already know that.”

  “You still think he’s Asian.”

  “I do.”

  “Based on?”

  “It would be unethical for me to reveal personal details about a deceased.”

  It took everything I had not to point out that she’d done exactly that. On air. And not to argue that her assessment of the man’s ancestry was incorrect. But Heavner couldn’t know that I’d shot pics of her case. Or that Hawkins had leaked me the file.

  “Of course.”

  “We should have confirmation shortly.” Curt. “I trust you’ll keep this information to yourself.”

  “As would any professional.” Reckless. But my patience was rubbing thin.

  Three beeps, then empty silence. Heavner knew I’d been alluding to both the present and the past.

  I sat a moment, wondering. Was Heavner right, and I was utterly wrong? She’d done the autopsy, explored every inch of the man’s anatomy. I’d seen only the jpgs texted to me and my own hastily shot cell-phone pics.

  I went to the guest room/study and pulled every image up on my laptop. Printed some.

  For the next hour, I reexamined the mutilated craniofacial features. Took what measurements I could and calculated indices—ratios between one dimension and another.

  Birdie joined me at some point. Hopped onto the desk and performed complicated hygiene involving inter-toe spaces.

  Finally, I sat back, more firmly convinced than ever. MCME 304-18 had no ancestors in Yokohama, Shanghai, or Pyongyang.

  I checked the time. 4:40. Still no call from Slidell. Or Pete.

  Mainly to keep busy, I got online and researched John Ito. Google. Facebook. LinkedIn.

  The name was not uncommon. A financial adviser in Hawaii. A music professor at Carnegie Mellon University. A student at UNLV. An independent farming professional in Ontario. Whatever that meant.

  What interested me most were the photos. Every John Ito was Asian.

  I inputted the word combination John Ito West Virginia. Got nothing.

  Then I tried the name Felix Vodyanov.

  Found not a single link. Anywhere.

  Curious, I went to Truthfinder.com, a site claiming to have the goods on every living being in the western hemisphere. After entering Felix Vodyanov as the name and West Virginia as the geographic location, I checked the box indicating male gender and watched, simultaneously fascinated and horrified, as the screen whiz-zipped through data sets. Mug shots, online profiles, address information, sexual offenses, traffic offenses, arrest records, phone numbers, court records, felonies, relatives, misdemeanors, birth records. You get it.

  Nothing.

  Leaving the geographic location blank, I tried again.

  Zip.

  I was thinking about that when my mobile rang. This time, I checked caller ID. Slidell.

  “Yo.”

  “Detective.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser.” The Lewis Carroll reference surprised me. Probably coincidence, though four-syllable words were impressive for Slidell.

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “Did some follow-up on this guy, John Ito.”

  Sounds of crinkling, then chewing. Farther distant, what I took to be squad-room noises. Phones. Keyboards. Voices. I made myself wait.

  “The address listed on the car registration is phony.”

  “Seriously? You ran it that fast?”

  “Nah. I just threw up a pin, watched where it came down on a map.”

  Throw one up your ass, I thought.

  “It’s an abandoned airfield on the outskirts of Morgantown,” Slidell said.

  “To register a vehicle, you have to have a valid driver’s license or state ID of some sort, right?” I asked.

  Skinny refilled his mouth and chewed. Doritos, I guessed, based on the wet crunch. Mid-mastication, “And proof of insurance. The DMV checks all that.”

  “Then isn’t it hard to register a car with a fake ID?”

  “Hard but not impossible.”

  “You’re talking about ghosting?” I was referring to a type of identity theft in which the profile of a dead person is stolen. Usually the “ghoster” is the same age as the “ghost,” had that person lived, so that birthdates on the fake documents are believable.

  “You know the right sources, you can get the job done,” Slidell said.

  “You think John Ito is an alias?”

  “I got a guy working on it.”

  “When will you know?”

  “I could ring him every few minutes the next couple of days, see if that gooses his nuts.”

  Easy, Brennan.

  “I did some digging on Ito and Vodyanov.” I described my internet searches.

  A few seconds of squad-room noise, then, “You busy right now?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  “Get your ass down here.”

  * * *

  The Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department operates out of the Law Enforcement Center, a concrete-and-glass complex stretching along East Trade Street in the heart of uptown. Thanks to the brief presence of the 2012 Democratic National Convention and a security budget of $50 million, the ground floor, once an open lobby, now looks like the bridge of a starship charting the outer reaches. Circular wooden barrier. Bulletproof glass. Monitors displaying the building’s every millimeter, inside and out.

  After signing the register, I swiped my security card and rode to the second floor. Directly across from the elevator, signs with arrows indicated Crimes Against Property to the left, Crimes Against Persons to the right. Above the arrows, the hornet’s-nest symbol of the CMPD.

  I passed through a doorway and turned right into a corridor remarkably bereft of detectives, two in shirtsleeves and ties, one in khaki pants and a navy
golf shirt featuring the intrepid wasp logo. Khakis carried coffee. All three carried a whole lot of firepower.

  I proceeded past interview rooms running along the right side of the hall. A second sign ID’d a section on the left, 2220: Violent Crimes Division. Homicide and assault with a deadly. I entered.

  For years, Slidell held title to coveted real estate at the back of the squad. Now he was stuck in a corner by the copy machine. His volunteer status with the cold-case unit scored him the space.

  I wormed through the maze of cubicles, accompanied by the same symphony I’d heard via phone thirty minutes earlier. Slidell was seated at his desk, a phone shoulder-clamped to one ear. As I approached, he cradled the receiver.

  “Yo, doc.” He stood. “Got something’s gonna curl your shorts.”

  Slidell headed for the elevator. Like a well-trained puppy, I followed. We ascended without speaking, Slidell’s eyes glued to the digits lighting up to mark our ascent.

  “We’re going to the crime lab?” I recognized the floor he’d chosen. Had been there many times.

  “QD.” Slidell used the acronym for Questioned Documents, one of five specialty sections in the CMPD crime lab. But why?

  A woman was waiting when the doors hummed open. Tiny, with tightly cropped black hair and cocoa skin. I didn’t know her, figured she must be new.

  “Mittie Peppers.” Smiling with teeth too small for her mouth. Made me think of Chiclets lined up on her gums.

  “Temperance Brennan.” Smiling back. We shook hands. Peppers’s grip could have crushed dandelion fluff.

  “She’s been looking at the notebook,” Slidell said. To Peppers. “Brief her.”

  “I prefer to show her.”

  “We ain’t got all day.”

  “It won’t take all day.” Not a single Chiclet in sight. I liked this woman.

  Peppers chatted as we walked down a corridor that was totally empty. “I’m a bit nerd forward. My heart’s with digital—the internet and cybercrime—but I also work traditional QD evidence. Are you familiar with document examination?”

  “The analysis of handwriting, typewriting, inks, counterfeiting.”

  “Here we mostly look at forged or altered checks. Occasionally threatening letters, bank robbery notes, yada yada. But indented writing isn’t uncommon.”