A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  A woman appeared on the path. She wore teal scrubs and looked like she’d been up for a month. We both watched her trudge the pavement, face lowered and flushed with the heat. A moment of fumbling in a shoulder bag, then she entered a battered Camry and drove toward the exit.

  “I think Vodyanov killed himself,” I said. “And I think you know why.”

  Yuriev’s eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the windshield. His face gave away nothing.

  “He wasn’t being treated for taphophobia, was he?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Felix Vodyanov had Huntington’s.”

  Huntington’s disease is a progressive brain disorder. Typically, signs of HD first appear in midlife. Weight loss. Changes in coordination. Fidgety movements that can’t be controlled. Slowness or stiffness. Trouble thinking through problems. Depression or irritability.

  As the disease advances, often over a span of decades, symptoms worsen. Sufferers may drop things, fall, experience difficulty speaking or swallowing. Many have trouble staying organized.

  “Here’s my take. Vodyanov’s HD was beginning to interfere with his day-to-day life. He was exhibiting abnormal movements he could no longer hide. Stumbling or banging into things. Having memory issues.”

  “How could you know this?” Yuriev’s tone had softened a notch.

  “I studied autopsy photos. Vodyanov’s body had bruises in varying stages of healing. I’ve seen notes he wrote to himself. Information he feared he might forget.”

  “Such a condition is never the patient’s fault. Why hide it?”

  “My take, again. And admittedly, this part is speculation. Vodyanov worked for his brother, Nick Body. I suspect you’re aware of him?”

  Yuriev’s jaw muscles bulged, but he said nothing.

  “Given your training, I’m sure you know that HD is caused by a mutation in either of an individual’s two copies of a gene called HTT or huntingtin. That while some spontaneous mutations do occur, in most cases, HD is passed on from a parent. That since the gene is dominant, the child of an affected person has a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting the disease.”

  “I am quite cognizant of the hereditary nature of Huntington’s. What does this have to do with Felix and his brother?”

  “For years, Body’s been hawking the theory that HD is caused by a microbe. That it’s contagious and can pass between people.”

  “That’s preposterous. You can’t catch HD from another person.”

  “Of course it’s preposterous. But Body and his confederacy of wackos insist that the answer to solving HD is to study it like an infectious disease. They say other scientists know this and are hiding the information.”

  “To what end?” Somewhat less vehement.

  “Either out of embarrassment that their theories are wrong or for various more nefarious reasons.”

  “Nick Body is an unusual man.”

  “Let me take my speculation one step further. I think Body wanted proper care for his brother but couldn’t let it be known that he was following accepted medical protocol. If that came out, he’d look like a fraud. Now, here’s where you come in.”

  Yuriev still refused to make eye contact.

  “I’m guessing Vodyanov checked in at Sparkling Waters periodically under the alias F. Vance. Not for taphophobia, for Huntington’s. My question to you. Why agree to a cover-up?”

  “Celebrities often check into hospitals and hotels under assumed names. It safeguards their privacy. It is not illegal.”

  “Is that it? Compassionate confidentiality? Or were your motives slightly less pious?”

  “How dare you?” Finally swiveling to face me.

  “In the course of our investigation, the rude detective and I found evidence suggesting Vodyanov was harming children. Perhaps at the direction of his brother.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To inflame fear and drive followers to Body’s podcasts and blogs. Maybe you knew about it. Maybe—”

  “No!”

  “Did you know that Vodyanov tried to contact several people before he died? He stalked a man demanding info on kids who’d vanished or been murdered. He pursued me, perhaps to share information about a missing child. He may have visited an old lady, posing as a cop. I think he was feeling terrible guilt. I think the HD was making his life unbearable. He knew that it would only get worse. I think before committing suicide, he wanted to make amends.”

  Silence crammed the small space.

  After a very long moment, Yuriev spoke.

  “You have it all wrong.”

  It was then he produced the missing piece of the jigsaw.

  32

  “It wasn’t Felix.”

  The sun was skimming the horizon, painting the car’s interior a soft tangerine. “It was the brother.”

  “Body had Huntington’s?”

  “No. No. You were correct on that point.” Yuriev’s face looked like a sandstone mask. “But then, I don’t care about Nick Body.”

  “Very compassionate.”

  “May I indulge?” Tapping a finger to his upper lip. “It calms me.”

  I shrugged.

  Withdrawing the familiar blue tin from the center console, he pinched a little white packet and thumbed the snus up against his gum.

  “I won’t apologize. It is my sole addiction.”

  Yuriev closed his eyes and concentrated on controlling his breathing. I sensed an easing of anxiety. When he resumed speaking, his voice sounded steadier.

  “You were also correct that Felix took his own life. His symptoms had become so severe that he no longer wished to live. Upon his last visit to the ashram, he asked that I assist him with suicide. I refused. He asked that I prescribe drugs to enable him to overdose. I refused that request also.”

  I nodded, wondering how much of this I could trust.

  “You are an astute woman, Dr. Brennan. It is Brennan?”

  “The rude detective helped a lot. His name is Slidell.”

  “Felix was employed doing research for his brother. He traveled the world finding unconventional ideas and looking for evidence to support them.”

  “Unconventional?”

  Yuriev tipped his head, acknowledging a valid point. “Some concepts were more controversial than others.”

  “Such as?”

  For the next ten minutes Yuriev relayed material I already knew from the blogs and podcasts. I listened, mostly to evaluate his candor.

  As he spoke, his gaze remained fixed on the windshield. Not once did he again make eye contact. Not once did he show even a nodding acquaintance with sentiment. Not once did he touch on the topic of kids.

  “And Body’s crackpot theories about the abduction of children?” I asked when he’d finished.

  “I reject them.”

  “As does anyone with an IQ higher than a mushroom. But Vodyanov had no qualms about supporting his brother’s lunatic ravings. Body’s hate and fear mongering.”

  “Call it weak, call it flawed. Felix was devoted.”

  “Most people love their siblings. But most place limits on what they will do for them.”

  “I will share a few facts Felix revealed concerning his childhood. He is dead now. Ethically, I’m allowed to do so. And I believe he would approve, as the story may provide insight into his character. Perhaps into his brother’s.”

  Yuriev took a moment to collect his thoughts. Or sift through ethics.

  “Felix and Nick were born four years apart to a woman named Tatiana Yanova. Tatiana fled Petropavlovsk, Kamchatka, in the late sixties after being abandoned by her lover following the stillbirth of a child. Though uneducated, unskilled, and speaking no English, Tatiana managed to get herself across the Bering Sea and to a tiny community called the Russian Old Believers in Nikolaevsk, on Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula.

  “How did she manage that?”

  “According to Felix, his mother was a large woman. She buzz-cut her hair, wore men’s clothing, and hired on as cre
w to a fishing vessel. I suppose border control was less stringent back then.

  “In Nikolaevsk, Tatiana met an unemployed miner named Aleksandr Vodyanov. The couple married and, after Felix came along, made their way south to the lower forty-eight, hoping to find employment. On May 2, 1972, Aleksandr was one of ninety-one miners killed in a fire at the Sunshine Mine in Kellogg, Idaho. Alone, impoverished, and pregnant a third time, Tatiana was once again forced to rely on her own wits.

  “I forget the details, probably not pertinent, but in Idaho, Tatiana threw in with another miner, a Russian, of course, and the family eventually ended up somewhere in West Virginia. I don’t know the man’s name or his fate, only that he drank, was violent, and eventually left.”

  When Yuriev didn’t continue. “What happened to Tatiana?”

  “Felix said she’s alive and in some sort of assisted-living facility near Morgantown, West Virginia.”

  “I understand how difficult life must have been for Tatiana and her children. But how is this relevant?”

  “Throughout their childhood, Tatiana ingrained an old Russian proverb into her boys’ thinking.”

  Yuriev reached into his pocket, withdrew pen and paper, jotted, and handed the note to me. I read: всевозможное.

  I looked a question at Yuriev.

  “Do whatever it takes,” he translated. “For Felix, that meant he was to do anything necessary to protect his little brother. He took the mandate literally, interpreted it to mean total loyalty and devotion.”

  “Detective Slidell and I suspect Felix’s support of Nick went far beyond brotherly support.”

  “Lest you judge Felix too harshly, know that Tatiana’s approach to parenting was nothing short of brutal. She kept a large wooden spoon on a hook in her kitchen, threatened its use constantly. And followed through. Some examples. When Nick broke a vase at age three, both he and Felix were beaten, then made to kneel on the shards. When Nick wet his bed at age four, the spoon was applied, then the brothers were forced to wear the urine-soaked pajamas around their necks for days. When, at age six, Nick returned home from a playground with a bloodied nose, Tatiana beat Felix, then ordered him to stand under a freezing shower for hours. When the brothers snuck a stray kitten into the house, they were beaten—”

  “I get the picture.”

  “—then required to watch as Tatiana boiled the young cat alive. Felix was forced to wear the corpse around his neck, as he had the pajamas.”

  I was too appalled to speak.

  Yuriev went silent. Maybe assessing the impact of what he was saying. Maybe enjoying the snus. Then, “It is my professional opinion that Felix was incapable of hurting a child.”

  “Why reach out to strangers before killing himself?”

  “Most people have regrets at the end of their lives.”

  “Most talk to a rabbi or priest.”

  “Felix was not an evil man. He wished to die with a clear conscience.” Yuriev drew a breath as if to add something, changed his mind, and closed his lips.

  “Go on.”

  He didn’t.

  “Detective Slidell can compel you to talk,” I said.

  “No. He cannot.”

  He had me there. I didn’t like it.

  “Who paid for Vodyanov’s stays at Sparkling Waters?”

  “Mr. Body.”

  “Did he come to visit his brother?”

  “Never.”

  “Did Vodyanov mention Hardin Symes? Jahaan Cole? Timothy Horshauser?”

  “No.”

  A tightening at the corners of the hard little eyes. There, then gone. I suspected Yuriev was lying.

  “They are kids who were murdered or who vanished without a trace. Their parents have no idea what happened to them.”

  “I’m very sorry—”

  “Vodyanov supported his brother in exploiting those tragedies.”

  Yuriev sat stiffly. His features were fast receding into shadow.

  “Detective Slidell and I suspect Felix’s support went beyond mere exploitation.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Here’s one. Ever hear of Holly Kimrey?”

  “No.”

  “Yates Timmer?”

  “No.”

  More lies?

  “Another child disappeared yesterday.” No reason to bring that up, but the arrogant bastard was pissing me off. “Her name is April Siler. She’s eight. Know anything about her?”

  Yuriev’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “Why are you badgering me in this way?”

  “Because I think you’re a lying sack of shit.”

  Deep sigh. Slight wag of the head. Then, “Felix was a very circumspect man. That he revealed anything about his childhood, even in counseling, was surprising to me. Normally, he spoke little of his personal affairs or acquaintances. But there was one name he mentioned occasionally. Another of his brother’s employees. Floy Unger.”

  Not the answer I’d expected. “Unger was employed to do what?”

  “As I understand it, he would receive the podcasts as audio files, encrypt them, decrypt them, whatever one does, then set them up for broadcast. Besides Felix, I believe he was one of the few people to interact face-to-face with Mr. Body.”

  “And?” Sensing that Yuriev was again holding back.

  “I have only Felix’s version. His personal view. I’ve never met Mr. Unger.”

  “Go on.”

  “From Felix’s comments, I must conclude that the man is odious.”

  “Odious?”

  “Dishonest and capable of violence.”

  “Your point?”

  “If anyone harmed children, it was Unger.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Any further comments would be pure speculation.” Another pause as Yuriev sat staring through the glass. Or at it. “Read Mr. Body’s blogs.”

  “I’ve done that.”

  “His most recent ones. Listen to his latest podcasts.”

  I studied the side of Yuriev’s face. He was right, of course. As Vodyanov’s treating physician, he was bound by confidentiality. Still, I was pissed.

  “One question,” I said. “In your professional opinion, what drives Body?”

  A long moment, then, “I suspect Mr. Body applies his mother’s directive in a very different way.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He does whatever it takes to succeed and make money.”

  “Do you know where I can find Floy Unger?” Unable to think of further questions to pose.

  Yuriev slowly nodded.

  Driving away, I wondered. Why so little emotion? Was Yuriev cold by nature? Or had years of dealing with the disturbed and depressed totally drained the man?

  * * *

  I phoned Slidell while waiting for my takeout order at Baoding. Of course, he didn’t answer.

  Once home, while sharing cashew chicken and Hunan beef with my feline companion, I did as Yuriev suggested. The experience left me feeling like I’d swum through raw sewage.

  Slidell called as I was stashing the little white cartons in the fridge. He listened as I briefed him on my conversation with Yuriev.

  “A bad gene that makes a bad protein that makes you sick and wastes your brain cells.”

  “Yes.” Way to go, Skinny. I’d never heard a more concise definition of Huntington’s.

  “And you get it from a parent.”

  “Usually.”

  “And it kills you.”

  “It does.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Very much.”

  I described Body’s latest tantrums.

  “So the world’s about to end.”

  “Nuclear war, natural disaster, pandemic. Pick your calamity. And a new twist. The bastard’s saying his brother was murdered.”

  “Why?”

  “Felix had uncovered secret information about the government kidnapping kids.”

  “That’s bullshit.” Slidell sounded as repulsed as I felt.

&nbs
p; “It is.”

  “But I meant, why go there at all?”

  “Typical media ploy. Get out ahead of a scandal.”

  “But why?” Added hours without sleep hadn’t improved Slidell’s disposition.

  “How the hell would I know?” Or mine. We were both edging toward shrill. “Maybe he thinks we’re closing in. Maybe he thinks Heavner’s about to release the tox report.”

  “Is she?”

  “You think she’d tell me?” Hearing my tone, I brought it down a level. “Whatever Body’s provocation, these tirades make his earlier ones sound like yogic meditation.”

  “What’s your read on Yuriev?” Also more controlled.

  “The bastard knew those kids’ names.”

  “He admitted that?”

  “No. But I could sense it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Look, it all ties together. Cole. Horshauser. Maybe this new one.”

  “That’s going a stretch.”

  “Body renews his crusade about child abductions. Voilà! Another kid disappears in his own backyard.”

  “You’re really liking Vodyanov for these disappearances?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “He definitely didn’t snatch April Siler.”

  “No. Yuriev fingered a guy named Floy Unger.”

  “Hold on.”

  I heard protesting springs, then the slow, two-fingered clicking of keys.

  “Unger’s in the system. The FBI investigated him for running an investment-pool scam. Hold on.” More keys. “He was collecting money to build apartments in storm-ravaged areas, assuring a twenty-two percent return. The first wave of investors were getting paid, but off the backs of later victims.”

  “Sounds like a Ponzi scheme.”

  “Then there’s something about an impersonation and advance-fee scheme—”

  “The Nigerian email-type crap?”

  “Yeah. Not much stuck. He did a nickel at Butner for a pump-and-dump securities fraud.”

  “Sounds like Unger is strictly white-collar.”

  “Well hell-o. Floy Unger was charged with assault in ’09. Pleaded out to a lesser.” Another, longer pause. “Nothing since then.”

  I heard the whir of a printer. The unhappy springs. Wondered at the absence of background noise.

  “Any progress on April Siler?”