A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Following our thoroughly satisfying romp in the sheets, Ryan napped, exhausted from the long overnight flight. I dug out a mask and gloves and resumed my excavation in the upstairs office.

  Ninety minutes later, I’d confirmed my worst fears. I had nothing to show for all my investigative efforts. A destroyed-beyond-hope laptop, no mobile, no file, no photos, no notes. Nothing concrete linking Vodyanov or anyone in his circle to Jahaan Cole. To any missing child.

  All I retained were the memories assembled in my head. But how reliable were those? Would they filter back warped and twisted through a migraine or drug lens?

  I am a scientist. I test hypotheses based on items I can observe, measure, weigh, and photograph. I’d been left with none.

  Could I rely on my stored perceptions? Could I sort what was real from what was not?

  Test run.

  I closed my eyes. Experienced another flash flood of psychedelic images.

  A resurrected murder victim.

  An azure path.

  A tiny emerald orb.

  Rainbow madness.

  Airless captivity.

  A pleading child.

  Holy shitballs!

  I rocketed to my bedroom and yanked open the top dresser drawer.

  Yes!

  * * *

  Gursahani and Bernard had both recommended against operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment for a minimum of forty-eight hours. Out of deference to their training, I allowed Ryan to drive.

  By three, we were at UNCC. Though summer session was in full swing, the lawns and walkways were largely deserted. Finding an ace parking spot was freakishly easy.

  Crossing from the deck to the building housing the bio-anthropology lab, we saw no students throwing Frisbees to each other or to their dogs. No undergraduates shooting the breeze or hurrying between classes. Here and there, we passed a grad student stooped under the weight of an overloaded backpack, a faculty member lugging a battered briefcase. Most of the latter I knew, some I didn’t. One, a physics professor, wished me an uneventful Friday the thirteenth.

  The interior of the Friday Building was blessedly arctic. We rode the elevator to four, and I unlocked the door to the lab. After turning on the overheads, I used another key to open a metal cabinet. Ryan settled in a chair and watched silently.

  I removed a small Dremel cutting tool from the cabinet’s top shelf, the kind used by most DNA labs, and grabbed a packet of Carborundum sandpaper. Taking my supplies to a workstation, I lifted the protective cover from the microscope, readied a set of glass slides, and sat down. Ryan pulled out his phone and began scrolling.

  After gloving, I slipped a small Tupperware tub from my purse and removed its single tissue-wrapped item. The slender segment of long bone looked worryingly less substantial than I remembered.

  Placing the specimen on the scope’s platform, I leaned in to the eyepiece. With a few adjustments to lighting and magnification, details snapped into focus.

  The charring was more superficial than I’d suspected upon first seeing the fragment beside the Cleveland County dumpster. Tooth marks were apparent that hadn’t been visible in the dimness under the camo netting.

  I slid the partial tibia its entire length, millimeter by millimeter, noting details. Then I removed, measured, and photographed it, marveling at my foresight in holding the fragment back from Slidell.

  “Skinny let you keep that?” Ryan was again watching me.

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  Then it was showtime.

  After setting several sheets of sandpaper to soak, I inserted a fine-edged blade into the handheld rotary saw. A quick buzz through the middle of the shaft, then I cut a series of vertical slices. Carefully lining them up on a tray, I began polishing each, starting with rough grit, then easing through sheets with finer and finer coarseness.

  When satisfied that my thin sections were adequately smooth and, well, thin, I inserted the first slide under the lens, set the power to 100X, and maxed the brightness, so light would pass through the specimen.

  “Explain again what you’re looking for.” Ryan had crossed the room to stand behind me.

  “Human cortical bone—”

  “The dense part on the outside.”

  “Yes. It’s made up of Haversian systems, or osteons, each with a central canal surrounded by concentric layers, or lamellae, of compact bone tissue. When magnified, that’s the arrangement.” I pointed to a poster hanging on the wall by the door.

  “Looks like a moonscape of closely packed volcanoes.”

  “Exactly. Ungulate bone, that of hoof-toed mammals, has a plexiform, or columnar, structure. When magnified, it’s more like that.” Pointing to a second poster.

  “Looks like layers of sausage with bubbles trapped in and between.”

  I’d never thought of it that way but couldn’t disagree. Barely breathing, I reengaged with the eyepiece and fine-tuned the focus.

  “Crap.”

  “What?”

  “Sausage all the way.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Based on estimated size and shape were the bone complete, I think it belonged to a young Odocoileus virginianus.”

  “Which is?”

  “Bambi.”

  “A white-tailed deer.”

  I nodded, emotions circling, unsure where to land. Mercifully, the fragment hadn’t come from an immature human skeleton.

  “So it’s not a kid,” Ryan said.

  “No. But that’s not true of the incisors and molars in that duct-taped pouch.”

  “Those teeth definitely came from a child?”

  “Yes. Damn it to hell!” Way too harsh.

  “It’s not the end of the world.” Ryan placed a calming hand on my shoulder.

  “But it is. What physical evidence do I have? This fragment was my last hope, and it’s from an animal. The human teeth were snatched before I could even take pictures. I photographed the folder and the articles on missing kids, but those images are gone with my laptop.”

  “You have—”

  “I have zero!”

  The lab hummed quietly. The building.

  “I know what you need,” Ryan said, tightening his fingers.

  “How can you think about sex?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Frustrated, I packed up, and we left.

  And discovered where the entire population of Charlotte was spending its hot and steamy Friday the thirteenth.

  28

  The Apple Store at SouthPark Mall was elbow-to-earlobe. Ryan’s idea of a cure for my needs, not further afternoon delight. While I was cutting bone, he’d called ahead to the Genius Bar.

  I gave my name to the lady in the official blue shirt. A screen listed my queue position as twenty-seven. That number was called, or projected, an hour after our arrival.

  Twenty minutes of discussion, then I headed out with a spanking new MacBook Air and the latest-model iPhone, each equipped with every innovation known to the cyber-mind.

  God bless credit cards.

  Back home, with phone coaching from Apple Support and from Ryan, I downloaded all the old files and photos I had stored in the cloud, most of which were personal, and reinstalled several essential apps. Then I initiated my new phone, which deactivated the old one.

  Two hours after starting, woefully lacking in content but functional, I was good to go.

  The onward march of civilization.

  First off, I left a message for Slidell. I am home. I have news. Call me.

  “Now,” Ryan encouraged. “Open a new dossier on the faceless man.”

  “What’s the point?” Sounding like a sulky kid. “I’ve got nothing to put in it.”

  “Yes. You do.”

  I just looked at him.

  “Enter everything that’s in your head.”

  Grudgingly, I had to admit the logic of his suggestion. But not out loud.

  “What will you do?” I asked.

  “I have a long list of calls to make.�
��

  “To a man about a horse?”

  “Something like that.”

  I opened a blank document on the laptop, titled it Timeline. Then, working from memory, I began entering data.

  TIMELINE

  June 22: Midnight. Temperance Brennan observes a trench-coated man at Sharon Hall.

  June 29: An anonymous source texts Brennan images of a Cleveland County corpse.

  June 30: Brennan reviews her criticism of Margot Heavner. Heavner calls a press conference re ME 304-18 (the faceless man from Cleveland County), erroneously suggests ME 304-18 is of Asian ancestry. Brennan takes pics and a DNA sample from ME 304-18. Joe Hawkins provides Brennan photocopies of docs. Lizzie Griesser agrees to perform an off-the-books phenotype analysis of ME 304-18.

  July 1: Brennan finds errors in Heavner’s notes (age, ancestry), observes bruising on corpse missed by Heavner. Brennan deciphers coded note found on ME 304-18.

  July 2: Brennan learns that back of scrap found on faceless man has reference to sinking of ferry Estonia/biochemical weapons. Skinny Slidell and Brennan find Hyundai at Art’s Affordable Garage, near creek where ME 304-18 was discovered, duffel in trunk. Duffel contains: (a) more Russian and Latvian notations, some regarding Estonia/biochemical weapons; (b) names Felix Vodyanov and John Ito; (c) thumb drive labeled in Russian. Slidell determines John Ito is an alias, Hyundai registered to nonexistent West Virginia address. Slidell spots indented writing, delivers torn page to Mittie Peppers at CMPD forensics lab for QD analysis. Analysis reveals: (a) Brennan mobile phone number; (b) second phone number, local 704; (c) reference to missing child Jahaan Cole. Brennan and Slidell determine Vodyanov had tried to contact Brennan shortly before his death.

  July 6: Brennan and Slidell learn Vodyanov is absent from all databases, has zero profile on internet. Brennan gets phenotype sketch from Griesser. Slidell obtains name of physician and ashram from thumb drive. Slidell and Brennan go to Sparkling Waters Ashram. Aryan Yuriev is uncooperative. Receptionist E. Desai IDs Vodyanov from sketch, says Vodyanov was registered under name F. Vance. Brennan interviews Vodyanov/Vance caretaker, Asia Barrow. Barrow says Vodyanov/Vance suffered from taphophobia. Barrow reveals Vodyanov/Vance researched kiddie porn, missing kids using her laptop. Barrow says Vodyanov was a Russian operative. Brennan interviews Vodyanov/Vance landlady, Marguerite Ramos. Ramos IDs Vodyanov/Vance, says he was terrified government was out to kill him.

  July 7: Brennan finds items in coat taken from antiseptically clean Vodyanov/Vance apartment: list of codes, info on Project MKUltra, receipt that leads to fenced Cleveland County property. Brennan goes to property, unable to enter. Brennan interviews neighbor, Duncan Keesing. Keesing IDs Vodyanov, says he was crazy. Says when high, Vodyanov talked about MKUltra, other covert ops. Keesing witnessed frightened child being driven onto fenced property. Brennan learns more about MKUltra from Andrew Ryan. Brennan emails Heavner. Brennan visits websites, reads Body conspiracy theory blogs, listens to podcasts.

  July 8: Brennan visits deep/dark web, site DeepUnder (a) old info and photos about conspiracy theories; (b) photo of Vodyanov with Body and Yates Timmer. Brennan visits site Homes at the End of the World. Brennan returns to fenced property, finds: (a) file with clippings about missing kids; (b) reference to DeepHaven (pic viewed later); (c) child dentition; (d) bone fragments. Attacked. Slidell runs name Holly Kimrey. Sex trade/drug dealer.

  July 9: Brennan and Slidell go to DeepHaven (Lake Wylie). Realtor office/club. Meet Bing, Timmer. Learn: (a) Felix Vodyanov is older brother of Nick Body; (b) Vodyanov fought with Vince Aiello, aka Twist, was banned from DeepHaven; (c) Aiello has reputation for kiddie porn.

  July 10: Fire at Brennan condo. B&E? Arson? Accidental? Laptop and all materials pertaining to Vodyanov investigation destroyed.

  July 11: Slidell interrogates Aiello, patent attorney with two kiddie-porn busts. Aiello says Vodyanov (a) was paranoid; (b) accused him of kidnapping and killing kids, suddenly dropped allegations; (c) resumed stalking him shortly before his death. Brennan has migraine or is poisoned/drugged and disappears for ten hours.

  July 12: Heavner tells Slidell that Vodyanov died of fentanyl overdose.

  July 13: Brennan makes thin sections from bone fragment found at fenced property/bunker in Cleveland County. Deer bone.

  I scanned the timeline. Mostly, it reflected my actions and those of Slidell. Lots of digging, little result.

  Ryan returned to find me slumped back, frowning at the screen. At his prompting, I explained my frustration.

  “Try a new angle,” he suggested.

  “Such as?”

  “Retrace the movements of your faceless man. Track what Vodyanov did in the weeks leading up to his death.”

  “Sadly, I know very little.”

  “Hit me with it.”

  “According to Asia Barrow, Vodyanov had repeatedly checked into Sparkling Waters because of stress related to taphophobia, was discharged for the final time in late May or early June.”

  Something niggled at a corner of my brain. What? I tried to pry the thought loose. It wouldn’t budge. I continued.

  “According to Vince Aiello, Vodyanov’s stalking resumed in late May or early June, continued over the next several weeks.”

  “Coincidence?”

  I shrugged. Who knows?

  “Go on.”

  “According to Bing, Vodyanov and Aiello had their fight at DeepHaven on June 20. I spotted Vodyanov skulking around Sharon Hall on June 22. He was dead of a fentanyl overdose by June 29.”

  We both considered the dates, looking for a pattern. Ryan spoke first.

  “After leaving the ashram, Vodyanov repeatedly tried to connect with Vince Aiello. Resumed harassing him for information on missing kids.”

  “Yes. And Vodyanov was also watching me.”

  “Why?”

  “To share intel? Ask for intel?”

  “Concerning?”

  “No idea.”

  “What could have triggered Vodyanov’s desire to contact a forensic anthropologist and a patent lawyer with a taste for child porn? Might something have happened during his last stay at Sparkling Waters?”

  “Felix Vodyanov was Nick Body’s older brother,” I said, having no answer to Ryan’s question.

  “Nick Body, the egomaniacal provocateur.”

  “Yes. New angle. How about we take a look at Body?”

  We revisited the timeline. Found not the slightest hint to the whereabouts or actions of Vodyanov’s younger sibling.

  I sat back, thinking about that. About the hours of digging that Slidell and I had done.

  Was I wearing blinders? Was I missing one big-ass exhibit A?

  I was defining evidence as that which I had. That which I’d lost. Objects. Images. But what about all those tiny facts bearing witness to a life? The personal minutiae stored in millions of archives in dozens of countries?

  “Vodyanov left virtually no internet footprint,” I said. “Slidell and I both researched the guy. He wasn’t in any database.”

  “Little brother?”

  “Same story. Body has a public profile, still he managed to keep his private life hidden. In today’s interconnected, digitized world, that kind of anonymity is almost impossible.”

  Realization. The absence of data can be as important as that which is present. That absence is evidence.

  I straightened in my chair and tapped the space bar.

  “Going to have another go at him?”

  I nodded.

  First off, I spent a little more time at Body Language. What the hell? I’d already forked over the fee. Body was as nauseating as I recalled. I was switching from a rant on fraudulent voting in the last election to one suggesting that the recent wildfires in California were the result of a government conspiracy to clear land for a rapid-transit system when my new phone chimed an incoming call.

  29

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “They didn’t serve Jell-O.”

 
“For shit’s sake. For once, can’t you just chill?” Slidell’s voice sounded like battery acid burning through rust. The stress and fatigue told me he’d been up all night.

  “Yes, I am feeling better. Thanks for asking.”

  My eyes met Ryan’s. I mouthed the name Slidell. He gestured that he was going back upstairs and waggled his phone. I nodded.

  “Ryan get in OK?”

  “Yes. I bought a new mobile and laptop.” Reporting my histology caper would have required a confession of withholding half the bone fragment. No way.

  “You lost your phone?”

  “Or someone took it. It was missing from my purse. Thanks for stowing that and the file, by the way. And for bringing my keys to the hospital.”

  “Looks like some asshat maybe did torch your place.”

  I didn’t interrupt.

  “CSU lifted one print had no business being there.”

  “Where?”

  “Ledge outside the kitchen window.”

  “You got a hit?”

  “Holly Kimrey.”

  “No shit.”

  “No shit.”

  “Have you found him?”

  “We will. If the little cretin did set that fire, we’re talking B and E, arson, assault, maybe manslaughter, attempted murder—”

  “I doubt anyone wanted to kill me.”

  “You know where you were those ten hours?”

  I didn’t. “Were you able to test the sun tea?”

  “The jar was in the sink. You probably poured or spilled the stuff down the drain, so that won’t be happening.”

  “Are you questioning Kimrey’s associates? Other dealers? Sex workers?”

  “I don’t know how I’d do this job without you.” A small, tired pause, then, “We’re poking down every hole. Hooking every snake squirms up.”

  “How can someone just vanish like that?”

  “You managed.”

  “If Kimrey did bust into my place, torch it, I doubt he was acting on his own. Who do you suppose directed him?”