by Kathy Reichs
Margot Heavner hadn’t once challenged or contradicted Body.
And something else infuriated me.
Hardin Symes’s murder was an open case.
Jahaan Cole’s disappearance was an open case.
The faceless man was an open case.
Heavner was exhibiting the same self-serving disregard for his privacy that she had for the others. And reaching beyond her area of expertise. The man wasn’t Asian. Heavner was mistaken.
In my gut, I knew that the man on my front lawn was the man logged into the morgue as MCME 304-18. That his body had been scavenged by hogs near Buffalo Creek. That the Hyundai was his. That he was not John Ito. Felix Vodyanov? Maybe, but gut instinct was far from evidence.
That man had my number and had tried to contact me. Perhaps concerning Jahaan Cole. I had to learn who he was.
Screw Heavner. Her warnings. Her threats. I’d pin a name on this man if it killed me. Get him home to whoever was out there wondering where he’d gone. Then I’d resign.
Returning to bed, I found Birdie stretched out on my pillow, paws in the air.
I displaced the cat. He curled in the crook of my knee.
I fell asleep picturing my report on MCME 304-18 on Heavner’s desk, my employee ID and keys lying on top.
10
FRIDAY, JULY 6
Three days passed with nothing much happening.
Ryan was asked to investigate the theft of a horse named Neville. Neville had gone missing from a vineyard outside Bordeaux. He offered to decline the case, suggested a visit to Charlotte instead. Though his words were sincere, his tone suggested a real desire to get involved. And earn the fee, which would be substantial. I told him to accept. It meant he’d be going to France.
Katy Skyped from Bagram. Not sure why she was back at that airbase. She couldn’t elaborate but confirmed that she was still scheduled to rotate stateside in October. Reassured me she wouldn’t volunteer for another war-zone deployment.
My sister, Harry, flew to Iceland with a guy named Mookey. Mama went to the mountains with Sinitch.
My blood continued flowing through the proper arterial pathways.
The heat wave steamrolled on over the Carolinas, suffocating mountains, piedmont, and low country with temperatures and humidity more suited to Darwin or Bangkok.
For me, Independence Day was flags and sparklers and the Colonel’s chicken with friends at Lake Norman. A brief respite from days of tension and frustration.
The faceless man began his second week on a stainless-steel gurney in the morgue cooler. Still nameless.
Heavner didn’t call. Ditto Slidell. Pete.
The annex remained unnervingly quiet. My only progress came with the thumb-drive photo I’d snapped and then forgotten thanks to Art and his shotgun. The Cyrillic word Медицинские translated to “Medical.” I had no idea the significance of that.
Friday, everything changed.
It started with an early-morning email from Lizzie Griesser. A one-line message. Cactus time!
I clicked open the attachment. And actually did an arm-pump in the air.
Of course, Slidell didn’t answer his phone. He returned my call at nine thirty.
Before I could share my news, he let fly.
“Don’t chew my ass. I didn’t check in because I been busy.”
“You ran the name Felix Vodyanov?”
“No missing-persons report. No BOLO. No criminal record. No military. No passport or visa info. No prints. Nothing in any database I checked.”
“No dental or medical dossiers.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Did you reach out—”
“To Timbuktu and back. Local, state, federal. It’s like the asshat doesn’t exist.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Eh.”
“Could it be Vodyanov’s a foreign national?”
“There’s no record of anyone with that name entering the U.S. But my guy came through on the thumb drive. Gonna cost me a bottle of Stoli.” Slidell paused. Messing with my head? “The thing had one file, not password-protected, not encrypted.”
“Not a list of Russian sleeper cells.”
“A list of prescription drugs.” I heard paper rustle. “Depacon, Zoloft, Seroquel, couple others.”
Depacon is an anticonvulsant sometimes used as a mood stabilizer. Zoloft is an antidepressant. Seroquel is an antipsychotic. “Vodyanov must have had mental issues,” I said.
“The thing also had info on a doc.”
“Name?”
“A. Yuriev. He’s licensed but does mostly homeopathic wellness and stress-management crap.”
“Where does Yuriev practice?” I was surprised my voice sounded so calm.
“You’re gonna love this. He’s on staff at some sort of Buddhist monk spa outside Winston-Salem. A joint called Sparkling Waters.”
“An ashram?”
“Advertises itself as a spiritual retreat and healing center. Whatever. Yuriev don’t sound Indian to me. I’ll drop a dime.”
“No.” Too quick. “We should drive up there.”
“He’ll pull that doctor-patient crap.”
“That’s why we should go. Catch Yuriev off guard.”
No response.
“We have to give it a try. Felix Vodyanov could be the first break in the Jahaan Cole case.”
“We don’t know who wrote the code for the kid in the notebook.”
“You got any better leads?”
Again, he said nothing.
“I have something that could resolve whether Vodyanov is the faceless man.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain on the way.”
A stretch of decidedly dubious silence. Then, “This better be good.”
* * *
Slidell tossed the printouts sideways. I caught them as he put the SUV into gear and gunned from the annex.
“You’re blowing my mind, doc. For years, you been preaching that DNA’s only good for comparing.”
“Until recently, that’s been the case. An unknown sample was useless in the absence of a ‘possible.’ A name. We had to know whose home or family to go to. Whose toothbrush to collect.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know the drill.” Circling a wrist. “Cops bag leftovers from a scene, a vic, or a suspect, then some lab rat compares the sequencing from that stuff to sequencing from stuff obtained from a known person. The profiles match or they don’t.” More wrist. “A billion to one this, a billion to one that.”
“Yes. Comparative results are stated as statistical probabilities that the materials came from the same individual or a related individual.”
“So what’s this face you got from Lizzie whoever?”
“Lizzie Griesser.”
“She produce those pics?” he asked, gesturing at the pages in my lap.
“And the profile.”
“Yeah?”
Interpreting this as interest, I took a moment to simplify in my head.
“The power of DNA is expanding beyond mere comparison. Lizzie and her colleagues have identified SNPs, single nucleotide polymorphisms—”
Slidell’s Ray-Bans swung my way. “Don’t do it, doc.”
“Think genes that affect facial features and shape, skin, eye, and hair color, that kind of thing.”
“You saying what I think you’re saying? They can tell an unsub’s race?”
“They prefer to think in terms of biogeographic ancestry.”
“Starting with just blood, semen, spit, sweat—the usual?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be damned.” Clearly not interested in the specifics of methodology.
“Using algorithms and mathematical modeling—”
Slidell shot me another lose the jargon frown.
“—which are beyond my ability to explain, they generate a composite image of the unknown subject.”
“Like those little beauties.” Another thumb jab at the pages I’d printed.
> “The technique is called DNA phenotyping.”
“It works?”
“It’s been used to successfully ID suspects in several cases that I know of, including serial killers in Louisiana and California and a double murderer right here in North Carolina. The NCMEC is starting to use images from Lizzie’s lab for their internet postings.” I was referring to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
“News flash. They’ve been putting up sketches of unidentified kids for years.”
“Facial approximations derived solely from skull features. Usually in black-and-white. The DNA-based reconstructions are more detailed, more lifelike, and in color.”
“Why isn’t every coroner and cop shop in the country jumping on this?”
“It’s pricey.”
“That why you leaned on your BFF?”
“Lizzie and I support each other professionally.” Curt. Though, in fairness, Skinny was right.
I lifted the top sheet and studied the face for the hundredth time. It was realistic enough, though overly symmetrical in the way of all computer-generated portraits.
The man stared straight ahead, features devoid of expression. His eyes were bluish gray and close-set, his nose prominent and narrow throughout its length. His upper lip was unusually long, the philtrum strikingly deep.
The man’s skin was pale, his brown-black hair cropped short in back and above the ears, details observable on the corpse. Though facial hair is anybody’s guess, Lizzie had gone with medium brows and clean-shaven jaws and cheeks showing moderate shadowing.
Below the image, colored bar graphs put the man’s skin color in the very fair to fair range, his eye color in the blue to green range, and his hair color in the brown to black range, all with greater than 90 percent confidence. The program was equally certain the man had no freckles.
A box to the upper right of the face contained a map highlighting countries in northern and eastern Europe. Colored boxes below the map identified probable ancestry as European: Eastern: 76.37%; European: Northern: 20.98%.
The faceless man was definitely not of Asian heritage.
“Want me to explain how they arrived at the profile?” I asked Slidell.
“No.”
Alrighty.
Ninety minutes of humming highway, then we pulled into a small parking lot off a street called Sally Anne Lane that cut south from NC Business 40. We were just east of Winston-Salem. I think. Lost in thought, I hadn’t paid much attention.
Sparkling Waters Ashram looked like a cross between a resort in Goa and a summer camp in Sheboygan. Brightly painted buildings with elaborate wood trim and peaked roofs sat among live oaks and pines, reasonably well-trimmed hedges, and gravel walking paths. Most buildings were single-story; one rose three floors. In the distance, mud-green water was doing its best to fulfill the promise of the facility’s name.
“Can’t accuse them of slacking off on security.” Slidell was eyeing the twelve-foot-high fence surrounding the grounds. A dome-roofed guardhouse stood sentry at its only gate.
Through the fencing, I could see people sitting on vibrantly colored Adirondacks or on the lawn, others strolling the paths. They wore light summer clothing, yoga gear, or colorful robes or saris. Most were alone. One was in a wheelchair and accompanied by a man in white with the demeanor of an orderly or nurse. I admired the collective stamina. The mercury was at 92°F and climbing.
Slidell and I followed arrows pointing toward Administration, which turned out to be a one-story pink cinder-block box on the parking lot side of the fence. Kashmir carpets on the floor, Hindu and Buddhist art on the walls. A real mishmash. Buddha, Shiva, Vishnu, a portrait of Ganesha seated on a neon throne. Made me think of the small stone version of the elephant-headed god at home in my dresser drawer.
A receptionist looked up when we entered. A name bar on her desk said E. Desai.
“May I help you?” E. Desai was saggy-breasted and middle-age loose in the arms. Her eyes were brown, her hair black and slicked back into a lank braid. Though her feet weren’t visible, below her sari I knew were sensible sandals.
“We’re here to see Dr. Yuriev.” Slidell badged her, returned the holder to his pocket in one quick move.
“Is he expecting you?” E. Desai’s teeth were artificial and spectacularly white. She showed a lot of them while awaiting a response.
“He’ll see us.”
“May I ask what it’s about?” Dentition showing no sign of subsiding.
“No.” Slidell, face sweaty and flushed with heat.
That caught her by surprise. Taking advantage, I unfolded and laid the composite on her blotter.
“Do you know this man?”
E. Desai looked down, and for the first time, the smile seemed to falter. Eyes resolutely not on us, she turned one shoulder, punched keys on her desk phone, and whispered, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but a police officer is asking to speak with you.”
Pause.
“A certain guest.” Very low, hand cupping the mouthpiece. Then words I couldn’t make out.
E. Desai was cradling the receiver—gingerly, as though it might break—when I felt a change in the air pressure at our backs. We turned.
A man stood eyeing us dispassionately. Through the open doorway framing him, I could see a carved and painted wooden desk. On it, a bronze of Rabindranath Tagore, the Indian philosopher and poet. Facing it, a pair of mahogany chairs upholstered in red velvet. Behind it, a chair whose back brought to mind a male peacock in full display. Behind the chair, ivory inlaid shelving displaying a collection of brass and silver objects. An Agra rug on the floor. Stacked silk-covered cushions in one corner. The office appeared designed to persuade visitors they were actually in turn-of-the-century Jaipur.
The man’s gaze shifted from Slidell to me and back. Remained expressionless as he directed a question to his receptionist.
“Were you shown proper identification?”
E. Desai nodded, lips now tightly compressed.
“I’m Dr. Aryan Yuriev.” Yuriev was short, with curly brown hair, an off-angle nose and upper lip, and a chin showing a whole lot of attitude.
“How may I help you, Detective … ?” Voice rising in question.
Slidell snatched the composite from the desk and held it up. “I’ll make it quick. You know this guy?”
Yuriev glanced at the sketch for a full half second. Then, “Do you have a warrant, sir?”
“Do I need a warrant?”
“You surprise me, detective.” Not looking surprised. “We both know I’m not at liberty to discuss a guest.” Realizing his mistake. “Had that man been a guest here.”
“And you’re thinking your ‘guests’ ”—using air quotes—“enjoy doctor-patient privilege?”
“The ashram provides many services for those seeking spiritual healing. Among them is medical care should the need arise. That is my function. And as a licensed physician, my interactions with those I treat are strictly confidential.”
“How about I refresh your memory?” Slidell’s tone was taking on a familiar edge. He suspected Yuriev was lying. “The name Felix Vodyanov mean anything?”
Yuriev said nothing.
“Felix Vodyanov. You wrote him script for—” Slidell curled upturned fingers in my direction.
“Depacon, Zoloft, Seroquel,” I supplied.
Yuriev continued to stare coolly.
Slidell waggled the sketch. “Suppose I tell you the guy’s dead. That put a new spin on your doctor-patient bullshit?”
Hearing a sharp intake of breath, I reoriented subtly. E. Desai was still avoiding eye contact, but a red blossom was spreading on each of her cheeks.
A few beats as Yuriev decided his course. Behind me, E. Desai had gone very still.
“Sparkling Waters is a private facility, detective. You have no warrant. I have explained my position, and now I am asking you to leave. Should you not comply, you will be trespassing, and I will call security to have you escorted fro
m the grounds.”
“We’re going. But take it to the bank, asshole.” Slidell now sounding dangerous. “I’ll be back.”
“An occasion to which I look forward with relish.” Flash of unhealthy gums, then Yuriev placed his palms together, bowed slightly, retreated into his office, and closed the door.
Slidell and I were crossing the parking lot when a voice called softly. “Wait.”
We turned. E. Desai was hurrying toward us with all the grace of a startled wombat. I was right about the sandals. Birkenstocks.
Slidell checked his watch. A mannerism to redirect frustration. We both knew it was noon.
E. Desai closed in, breathing hard, face now homogeneously red. I could smell her patchouli cologne and the perspiration it was meant to conceal.
Slidell crossed his arms, spread his feet, and eyed her impatiently. A sheen of sweat made his face look like shiny red plastic.
“It’s him,” she said, casting a quick look behind her. “He was a guest.”
“You’re certain?” My pulse tripping.
E. Desai nodded, eyes wide. “Is he really dead?”
“What can you tell us about him?” I asked.
“I don’t interact with the guests.” Slight dip of her brows. “Was his name Vodyanov? Oh, dear.”
“When was he here?”
“More than once. Last year, for sure.”
“He just come for the monk junk? Or was something more wrong with him?” Slidell, sharp. The sun was directly overhead, a hot white ball in a sky hosting very few clouds.
“I don’t interact—”
“Why was Yuriev treating him?”
“I don’t know. I swear.”
“Do you have contact information for Mr. Vodyanov?” I asked gently.
She shook her head.
“A phone number? An address?”
Another head shake.
Slidell shifted his weight and fist-jammed his hips. A dark green crescent circled each underarm. The rest of his shirt resembled wilted lettuce.
“You should talk to Asia Barrow.” Lowering her voice to the same hush she’d used on the phone. “She was his primary counselor.”
“Was?”
“She’s doing something else now.” Furtive glance over one shoulder. An evasion? A lie?
