by Kathy Reichs
I was out of the courthouse by ten, rode the Métro to Papineau, then walked the remaining half mile to the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome. The weather was cool and rainy. A pleasant change from the hothouse I’d left behind in Charlotte.
My intent was to erase the stress of the past two weeks by diving straight into my Quebec life. Into whatever awaited me at the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale. That didn’t go well.
My Quebec life was there and happy to welcome me back. My desk with its squeaky file drawer and gouged wood. My view of rue Parthenais and the Fleuve Saint-Laurent twelve stories below. Cases as familiar as the back of my hand. Weathered cemetery bones. A partial skeleton unearthed in an abandoned septic tank. I resolved to focus on the dead in need of my attention.
Try as I might, I couldn’t concentrate. Partly fatigue. My flight had landed late, of course. By the time I’d made it through customs and immigration, gotten an Uber, and ridden from Pierre Elliott Trudeau into Centreville, it was well past midnight.
At one thirty, I gave up and headed home. To my new Quebec digs.
Knowing the larder was bare, I made a quick stop at a noodle shop near the Peel Métro and was back at my condo building by two. Our condo building. Though Ryan wouldn’t be in it. He’d called late Tuesday to say that his return to Montreal would be on Friday. Neville had been reunited with his very grateful mistress, a vineyard worker was behind bars, and a guy in Marseille was stuck with a whole lot of oats.
After winging up in the unfamiliar elevator, I let myself in and dumped my briefcase on the unfamiliar counter in the shiny state-of-the-art kitchen. Lots of marble and stainless steel.
The place was blissfully quiet. Vowing to stay awake at least until sundown, I peeled off my go-to-court suit, pulled on sweats, then ate my pad thai while checking my iPad for news from Charlotte. Found the follow-up coverage I wanted.
April Siler was alive and well. I knew that. Slidell had gotten word just as Kimrey tripped the wire at the Pine Lily Court house. The father’s girlfriend had lured April into her van on a day when Daddy was in Denver, thus providing him with an alibi. They planned to transport the child by private jet to Costa Rica, where the girlfriend owned property.
I learned that Papa and his honey were now in custody, and April was home with her mother.
Hallelujah. One happy ending.
Two, actually.
On Monday and Tuesday, while Slidell was firing questions at his suspects, a CSU unit had been scouring Pine Lily Court, running cadaver dogs over the property and through the surrounding woods. Stoking expectations, a golden retriever named Hilda had grown agitated on approaching a suspicious depression. Unfortunately, excavation revealed that the depression was, in fact, a shallow grave holding only a recently deceased opossum.
Punchy with exhaustion, posttrial letdown, and the metabolic effort of digesting my body weight in carbs, I gave up on my vow to stay up until dusk. After trudging down the hall to the unfamiliar bedroom, I closed the unfamiliar curtains, then fell into the unfamiliar hundred-acre bed. And slept a sleep as secluded and still as the dead I’d left behind in my lab.
I awoke to the chimes of incoming texts. Groggy and confused, I picked up and tapped my phone. 5:52. I’d been asleep barely two hours.
Both messages were from Slidell. In the first, he reported that the search of the Cleveland County bunker was still under way. He included a few photos. The place looked like the before shots of Timmer’s World’s End House.
The second was composed of three words. Nailed Body Call.
I hit speed dial.
“Where’d you get him?” Jumping right in, Slidell style.
“The shit-for-brains was gophered into one of the back tunnels in his underground Shangri-la. Guess Atlas Acres wasn’t all that foolproof after all.”
“Timmer?”
“There’s nothing to tie him to what Peppers uncovered. Besides, I know where to find him. His lawyer’s assured me his client is going nowhere.”
“Unger?”
“Oh, yeah, given his history, I’ll bet my ass he’s dirty. I’m letting Body and Unger simmer a while. From what they’ve let drop so far, each is going to turn on the other like a bobcat on prey.”
“What more has Peppers learned?” Burning ice below my sternum at recollection of the abhorrent scene that had played on her screen.
“It worked pretty much as she said. They weren’t hiding steg images in the audio files. It was passwords and hookups to a site showing video in real time.” Slidell’s voice darkened with loathing. “You download the link, you buy the password, you get to watch footage of kids being abused live and in color. The buyers are thousands of miles away, so no skin off their noses. No guilt. Also, the sick twists can pursue their sport without actually storing files on their computers. Keep your browser history clean, you’re golden. Or so the morons thought.”
“Livestreaming from where?”
“The Philippines. Some town north of Manila. I gotta say, the vice boys over there jumped right on this when we made contact. Issued warrants, busted the guy running the webcam outta his home. So far, they’ve ID’d a dozen kids between the ages of six and fifteen.”
“The children are OK?”
“Who the hell knows? They’re with social services, or whatever it is the Philippines got. Here’s the part tears your heart out. My contact says a lot of those being arrested are family members.”
“Seriously?”
“He says the parents live in poverty. They got no jobs, no hopes of scoring nothing in life. For a couple hundred bucks, they allow their kids to be sexually abused for the entertainment of pervs all over the globe.”
“It’s that widespread?” The heat-chill expanding across my chest.
“Yeah. The feds are taking over. And Uncle Sam will have lots of help smoking out this pond scum. Britain, Australia, and Germany are already on board.”
“Unger orchestrated the IT for Body?” Pleased with the calm tone of my voice.
“No doubt.”
“What are they facing?”
“For now, possession and distribution of child pornography and exploitation of a minor related to child pornography. The DA is busting ass to make sure these dirtbags get the max possible.”
“Whatever the sentence, it won’t be enough.” If they serve any time at all, I thought, remembering how Aiello had skated.
“Never is,” Slidell agreed.
“Anything on Jahaan Cole or Timmy Horshauser? On any of our kids?” I knew the answer but couldn’t help asking.
“No.”
A long, heavy silence filled the line. Then, “Heavner’s out.”
“Good riddance.” I’d already discovered that via another news feed. In light of the scandal and her connection to Body, Dr. Morgue had resigned as Mecklenburg County’s chief medical examiner. The search for her replacement had begun.
“Here’s a nugget you’ll find rich. You know those pics you got by text? The ones kicked this whole thing off?”
“Yes.” I didn’t recall telling Slidell about the images, but apparently, I had. Or maybe he’d learned of them from Ryan.
“Heavner sent them.”
“What? No way. Why? How do you know?” So shocked I was babbling.
“Because of the Body fiasco, a search was run on Heavner’s computer. Seems she was using a special email account to communicate with a reporter named Breugger.”
“Gerry.” The lizard. The only journalist addressed by name at her presser.
“Whatever. She shared intel with Breugger, probably hoping to see her name in the papers.”
“I’ll bet the farm she hit Brennan instead of Breugger when both names came up as auto-suggested recipients for the text.”
“Ain’t that the kickass of irony? Heavner shares pics hoping for glory and brings a simmering shitpot down on her head.”
Snippets of a conversation floated back from the past. Paulette Youngman, designer light glinti
ng off one unfashionable lens. Morality hijacked by a need for fame and public adulation.
Another happy ending. At least, for me. Hopefully, my exile would soon be at an end.
“What now?” I asked.
“Peppers and the IT guys are going through Body’s computers. Ditto Unger’s. I’m looking at a cell phone turned up when I was with CSU at the Weddington crib. Looks like Body used it strictly for personal stuff. The thing’s not even password protected. No surprises in the contacts, no photos, emails, or text messages. Little in the call history—mostly his kid.”
“Any unusual software?”
“There’s a couple programs I don’t know what the fuck they are. Soon as I hang up, I’ll shoot the device up to Peppers.”
“Text me screen shots of the apps?” Not particularly hopeful, but what the hell? I had nothing else pressing, and a smartphone can tell a lot about a person.
“How do I do that?”
I explained the key combo and how to send the images. A few more exchanges of info, then we disconnected.
I sat a while cross-legged on the bed, thinking about our conversation. I fervently hoped the DA would succeed in bringing the house down on Unger and his boss. For me, taking a snake like Body off the street and off the internet and airways would be as satisfying as locking up a homicidal felon. I knew Slidell felt the same. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were missing something. That Body was guilty of an offense more sinister than child porn. Why buy off witnesses? Why take the risk of ordering Kimrey to torch my home? To poison me?
Nevertheless, I was pleased with Slidell’s update. And with the fact that he was still digging and had taken the time to brief me. Unanswered questions swirled in my brain for only a few minutes before I drifted back to sleep.
* * *
The next morning, after logging nearly twelve hours with the covers drawn close, I was up and making coffee in the kitchen when I heard more texts chime on my phone. Additional bulletins from Slidell? I walked to the living room and gazed through the floor-to-ceiling window forming one wall. The sun was just clearing the gray skyline in the east, turning the high-rise towers and brownstones lining rue Sherbrooke a misty reddish bronze. Dawn, and Skinny was already awake and revved?
I took my mug to one of two white leather armchairs facing the glass. Traffic on Sherbrooke was light at that hour. I stared out, watching vehicles stream toward me, then away. A lone cyclist was pedaling slowly along the empty sidewalk. Up and down the street, windows winked crimson, reflecting the extraordinarily colorful antics of le soleil. Lights were on in some of the rooms. I sat sipping, wondering fleetingly at the lives filling each.
A little more caffeine to fuel up, then I lifted my phone, confirmed that it was indeed Slidell who’d pinged me, and opened his text.
A pair of screenshots showed the apps on Body’s mobile. All but two were standard issue—settings, calendar, contacts, phone, text messages, and so on. One of the oddballs was a program designed to intercept telemarketers. I had the same blocker on mine.
The other unique app was orange with two teepees, one upright and white, one inverted and peach. I stared at the icon, feeling that little tingle deep down in my id. I’d seen it before. Where?
I made a visit to the App Store. Scrolled. Didn’t find it. The app wasn’t trending. I had no keyword or suggestive phrase with which to search.
My eyes drifted to the scene far below. The cyclist had stopped outside the Musée des Beaux-Arts gift shop. He was squatting by his rear wheel, adjusting something only cyclists understand.
The tingle released random bytes into the wilds of my brain. Keesing’s reference to “places that lit up bright on some kind of maps.” Body Language rants about a fitness app revealing the location of secret military bases. A bent bicycle wheel shadowed under camo netting. A racing bike pressed to a wall at Pine Lily. Body’s sunbaked neck.
Acceleration.
Supercollision at one of those trillion cerebral synapse points.
Barely breathing, I went back to the App Store and searched using the keyword biking.
I recognized the icon instantly. Strava, a mobile fitness app used by cyclers and runners to keep track of their distances, speeds, and routes. Larabee had relied on it to log his runs.
Easy, Brennan. It could be nothing.
I bolted for my laptop.
Two hours later, I was punch-dialing Slidell.
39
“Will you please stop barking and listen?”
“I’m listening. You ain’t making sense.”
“Do you have your computer open to the Strava website?” Between Skinny’s churlishness and my own excitement, I was finding it hard to stay civil.
“Yeah. But I—”
“The user logs on with a smartphone, or Apple Watch, or Fitbit, or whatever.” I explained the application once more. Slowly. “As he bikes or—”
“You’re sayin’ Body did this?”
“He has a verified account.” Resolutely controlled. “As Body bikes, GPS tracks his location and draws a line following his path.” Out of habit with Skinny, keeping it simple.
“He don’t have a million privacy settings hiding where he goes?”
“Strava allows access for any registered user, so information on routes is publicly available.” To clarify. “Profiles are public by default. Though privacy settings are offered, Body set none.”
No response. I assumed Slidell was studying the screen on his end.
“I created an account, made up a profile—”
“This Agnes Pipehead dame.”
“Yes.”
“Why the hell’d you pick the name Agnes—”
“Then I went outside and walked around, to test the program for accuracy. What you’re seeing is the publicly accessible route report generated by Strava on my account.”
“That squiggly red line.”
“Yes. Now, do this.” I gave instructions on how to get to Body’s profile. Then on how to bring up stored routes. I waited out the slow clicking of keys.
Then, “Body’s had an account since 2013.”
“At least that long.”
“He’s stored a shitload of outings.”
“He has. Open this one.” I provided more guidance, then waited, confident Slidell would grasp the import. He did.
“Sonofafreakinbitch.”
The route map included a neighborhood painfully familiar to both Skinny and me. A segment of street. A corner with a library stand once offering a copy of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie.
“Body pedaled his skanky ass through Jahaan Cole’s hood.” Simmering rage in his voice.
“He did.”
I waited out a long stretch of agitated breathing. “DA’ll say his being there don’t mean squat.”
“Check the date.”
“October 6, 2013. Fuckin’ hell.”
“Four days before Jahaan Cole disappeared.”
“So even if the DA drags ass about charges, I maybe could use the info to get one of these turds to junk his jeans.”
“Exactly.”
“Vodyanov registered the Hyundai in West Virginia, right down the road from where the Horshauser kid went missing. You find anything tying Body to him?”
“Not with Strava.” I’d looked.
“I’m on it.”
And Skinny was gone.
* * *
At nine that night, he called again, sounding like a bundle of jolting nerves.
“I been alternating working Unger and Body, letting one sweat while grilling the other. You know the deal, find the weak link, push for the flip. At first, I low-keyed it, then I turned the screws hard, asking about Jahaan Cole, dropping hints on this Strava joy, mentioning little things like the death penalty and the longevity of child killers inside the can.”
“And?” Wanting new info, not a review of Slidell’s interrogation tactics.
“Hot-fuckin-diggety.”
“You g
ot a confession?”
“By the time their windbag lawyers showed up, both were looking to deal. I made no promises but implied things might go better if one of their clients had something to trade.”
I waited out a pause while Slidell performed some complicated maneuver, probably rotating his head to relieve tension in his neck.
“Bottom line. According to Unger, Body grabbed Cole, intending to hold her for a few days, then free her. Things went south, and the kid died. Like we thought, Body wanted the publicity to drive audiences to his shitpods, generate distrust in the government, and goose the sale of his underground crash pads. Unger admits to setting up the kiddie-porn op but says he had nothing to do with snatching any kid.
“Body’s version differs on a few key points.” Oozing sarcasm. “He says he made an innocent off-the-cuff remark to the effect that wouldn’t it be perfect if some kid disappeared and the public went apeshit. He claims Unger, being a dolt, took him at his word and followed through, an outcome he never intended. He claims Unger told him what he’d done, that the kid had died, and that he’d disposed of her body. Body claims he was unaware of the kidnapping until after the fact.”
“Who do you believe?” My impatience leaking through.
“Your Strava stuff seems to back Unger’s version. At this point, who the hell knows?”
“Timothy Horshauser?”
“Both deny knowing anything about him.”
A sensation of strobing emotions, shutter-quick feelings vying for ascendancy. Abhorrence. Relief. Anger. Sadness.
“Do you think either can be persuaded to reveal the location of Jahaan’s body?”
“Both claim they know zip. I think there’s some lawyerly advice operating there. Hold back that intel to score a sweeter deal. But don’t worry. I’ll pry it loose. Before I’m done, this case will be wrapped tighter than a mummy’s dick.”
“Good job, detective. The Cole family may finally get some closure.”
“Yeah.” Dejected. “Trust me, doc. At least one of these shitstains is going away for the whole ride. Maybe both.”
