by Kathy Reichs
“First I heard of Kiley being a model.” Yellen was skeptical.
“That was the thing!” Esther clapped her hands, grief momentarily forgotten. “We wanted a real wrangler, not a model. When we saw Kiley at last year’s hunt award ceremony, we had to have her. Kiley was so real! Pretty face, and a figure that could wear clothing.” Coy tip of the head. “If you catch my meaning?”
Yellen waited for Esther to continue.
“We were just about to sign a male wrangler when we found her. But not one single applicant had a story like Kiley—little woman wrestling snakes bigger than herself, better than men? We didn’t let up until we’d convinced her to be the face of Eugene.” Self-satisfied look. “When the price is right, everyone eventually says yes.”
“So what’s this ad campaign?” Yellen asked.
“The theme is extraordinary.” Esther ran her free hand horizontally through the air, as if mimicking a theater marquee. “Ugliness into beauty. Isn’t that brilliant? Turning the greatest threat the Everglades has ever known into something positive and beautiful.”
“Shoes?” Blurted before I could stop myself.
Esther drew a juddery little breath, then straightened her shoulders and eyed me with distaste. “Making people feel good about themselves puts positive energy into the universe.”
“How ’bout you put some positive energy into this interview and tell me the last time you saw Kiley James?” Yellen’s tone was sharp enough to chisel granite.
Esther considered. Or made a show of doing so. “It would have been two weeks ago. We were going over the shooting schedule. She said she’d be out of pocket for a while.” A red-tipped finger rose in the air. “But, you know, come to think of it, she did seem distracted.”
“How so?”
“I’m not sure. I just sensed she wasn’t paying attention.” Hiccupy little laugh. “Kiley was always a moral little spitfire, refusing to wear certain items, but she was particularly … challenging at our last meeting.” Spoken with synthetic warmth.
“Challenging?” Yellen bounced Esther’s word back to her.
She paused. Then, “Kiley had a strong sense of justice. She was highly principled. And extremely particular.”
“Do you think that could have gotten her killed?”
Esther didn’t hesitate. “I suppose. If she angered the wrong person.”
“Any wrong person you have in mind?”
“No. I mean, competition for the modeling contract was fierce. Some applicants were very unhappy when we went with Kiley out of the blue. People want to be connected to we Eugenes.” She preened. “It didn’t sit well that she swooped in at the last minute and got the job. But I can’t imagine anyone becoming violent because they weren’t chosen.”
“I’ll need a list of names,” Yellen said.
“Of course. Will there be anything else?” The woman was now eager to see us gone.
“We’ll let you know.”
Esther rose. “This is just so distressing. What will we do?”
“Reopen auditions.” Mean, but I found the woman repugnant.
Esther maintained a carefully grieved expression as we walked through the door.
Outside, the mid-morning temperature was already in the high eighties. And the humidity was going for a personal best. Even for Florida.
Yellen started the car and cranked the AC. “You get any message from—”
“No.” I cut him off. “With a child homicide, Barconi’s going to take her time.”
Lips pursed, the sheriff shifted into gear. He knew, was just impatient.
“Where now?” I asked.
“Your favorite place on earth.”
He pointed the cruiser south toward Everglades National Park.
Chapter Eight
“Please don’t tell me there’s another foot,” I said as we drove.
Yellen’s look said he wasn’t in the mood for humor.
“I’ve got a deputy working to find Kiley James’s journal. We’ve searched her house and her car. No luck. Lundberg says she had a locker at the rangers’ station. I want to check it out.”
We were retracing the now-familiar drive south through Homestead. We’d turned right on Ingraham Highway toward the park entrance when Yellen’s mobile rang.
“Sheriff Yellen.” As he listened his mouth bunched even tighter than before. “I’ll head over there now. Get me Scott Pierce.”
He disconnected. Seconds later his phone rang again.
“Thanks for getting right back to me. Listen, I’m on my way to search Kiley James’s locker at the rangers’ station.”
I could hear a tinny voice on the other end of the line. Couldn’t make out the words.
“Yeah, she had a locker. Brain Trust Lundberg just told me last night. I have a warrant, but I’ve gotta get back to district. If Doc Brennan brings the paper, can you toss the thing then get her home afterward?”
The buzzy staccato sounded again.
“I owe you one.” Yellen ended the call.
To me, “Change of plans. Dawn raid on a Florida City meth lab spat out a tweaker that’s my favorite for a series of arsons. I’ll drop you. Scott Pierce will get you home.”
“My car’s at the morgue.”
“Just tell Pierce where you want to go.”
A few minutes later we pulled up to the main entrance of Everglades National Park. Yellen drove past the visitors’ center, and down a road behind a sign that warned PARK RANGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. The squat frame building at the end served as a rangers’ station. The flag out front looked as limp as I felt.
As I got out, Yellen lowered his window. I circled to his side of the cruiser.
“You’ll get to that foot ASAP?” he asked.
“As soon as I can.” I meant it. No one was more eager to finish this than I was.
The window rose with a hum and Yellen was gone.
I climbed the steps and entered the rangers’ station.
Unlike the visitors’ center, the place was stark and functional. Desks and filing cabinets dotted the room, chosen for function over form. A collection of rescue equipment was stacked to my left, and a handful of park radios were propped in chargers to my right. At the back of the room, a stuffed alligator wore clown-size sunglasses and a University of Florida cap.
A green-uniformed woman occupied a desk near the door. Her name tag said H. FLORES. Dark brown hair knotted at the nape of her neck. Harry Potter glasses. A face that was neither friendly nor unfriendly.
“I’m looking for Scott Pierce,” I said.
“And you are?”
“Temperance Brennan.”
Flores made a call, listened, disconnected. “Sorry. No answer.”
“He must be on his way,” I said.
“You can cop a squat over there.” Flores pointed to a collection of plastic chairs that looked decidedly uncomfortable. They were.
Five minutes passed.
I read the warrant. Kiley James had been assigned locker 53.
I drummed impatient fingers on the unyielding armrest. Eyed a wall clock that told me three more minutes had passed. I told myself I’d wait fifteen. Inspected my nails. Studied the park maps and pictures of local wildlife adorning the walls.
At fourteen minutes fifty-five seconds I popped to my feet and crossed to Flores.
“I have a warrant.” I held up the judge’s paper. “If you could point me to the lockers, I’ll get out of your hair.”
She looked at the paper and nodded. “Okay, locker room’s down that hall, fourth door on your left.”
“Tell Pierce where I’ve gone when he gets here.”
“Will do.”
I turned the knob and entered. The room was square, with linoleum underfoot and fluorescents overhead. Beige metal lockers lined three walls.
Movement to my right startled me.
Scott Pierce seemed equally surprised at my entrance. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, frowning.
Odd. Pierce h
ad gotten a heads-up from Yellen. He should have been expecting me. “I’ve got the warrant for Kiley James’s locker.” I produced the document again.
“Great. I’ll take that,” Reaching out. “You can wait up front.”
A tiny alarm pinged in my head.
“Thanks, but I’ll stick around.” Tucking the warrant back into my pocket.
Pierce’s eyes bore into mine. They were dark. Unreadable. I realized I’d never seen them before. They’d always been hidden by dark lenses.
“This is my beat.” Pierce gave what I’m sure he considered a lady-killer smile. Probably practiced in the mirror every time he shaved. “We do things my way.”
“Yellen asked me to inventory the contents of the locker.” Not exactly, but the arrogant prick was pissing me off.
Another long stare. Then, “Fine. But you look when I’m done. And touch nothing.”
“I work with law enforcement in two countries.” I issued an abbreviated form of a smile. “I know evidence collection protocol.”
Before Pierce could reply, the door opened and a ranger walked in.
“Hey, Scott.” The kid looked twelve, with shaggy blond hair and acned skin.
Pierce gave a curt nod.
“What’s up?” the kid asked, oblivious to the tension. “You doing an inspection or something?”
For the first time, I noted that a number of locker doors stood ajar.
Pierce shrugged. “No clue. They were open when I got here. Probably maintenance.”
The kid went to a locker, twisted the dial on a combo lock, and flipped the door wide.
Pierce and I both waited him out. Couldn’t say why. Maybe respect for the woman whose belongings we were about to rummage.
The kid took something from his locker, slammed and relocked it, then left, calling over one shoulder, “Catch ya later!”
When the door closed, Pierce refocused on me.
“Locker number?” Glacial.
Again, I hesitated, wishing Yellen were there. Even Lundberg. Why the apprehension? Just because he was an asshole didn’t mean he wasn’t good at his job.
“Fifty-three,” I said.
Pierce picked up a bolt cutter I hadn’t noticed and crossed to the specified locker.
“Stay back.” With an effortless move he severed one of the double prongs, maneuvered the lock free, and opened the door. His body blocked my view of the locker’s interior. Intentional?
“Shouldn’t you wear gloves?” I asked his back.
Without replying, he held up the pen he was using to sift through things I couldn’t see.
A full minute passed, then he paused and looked over his shoulder. “Actually, I could use gloves. Do you mind? They’re in the supply cabinet out in the hall.”
Again the ping. Why couldn’t Pierce get his own damn gloves? I wasn’t his gofer. But I was on his turf. And clearly unwelcome.
“Sure,” I agreed. Reluctantly.
“Grab a pair for yourself.” Suddenly Mr. Congenial.
I went to the corridor, found the cabinet, and returned two minutes later. Pierce hadn’t moved.
“Here.” I held out a pair of green surgical gloves.
“Thanks.”
As Pierce pivoted, took the gloves, and snapped them on, I looked past him to the locker’s interior. A fleece jacket hung from a hook. A pair of flip-flops lay on the bottom. The shelf held sunscreen, a box of tissues, a hairbrush, and a small stack of magazines. I couldn’t see what was stored behind the front row of items.
“There’s not much.” Pierce followed my gaze.
“The journal?”
Pierce shook his head. “Damn shame. I was hoping it might help catch this bastard.”
I felt a twinge of guilt for my unkind thoughts. The guy was probably just doing his job.
“You want help with the inventory?” Pierce asked.
“Thanks.” I dug a pen and small spiral from my purse.
Pierce called out articles as he removed them from the locker. I recorded each. In addition to what had been obvious at first glance, there were granola bars, a box of tampons, lip balm, dirty socks. Mundane stuff.
“Scott?” Ranger Flores’s head was poking through the partially open door. “Can I borrow you a minute?”
“Be right back.” Thrown to me as he followed her out.
I stepped to the locker and lifted the magazines. Nothing hidden below. Balancing the pile on one palm, I ran the fingers of my other hand along the locker’s metal seams. Zilch.
What had I expected? Geo-coordinates for the journal’s hiding place etched on the shelf? Notes secreted in a crack?
As I was replacing the magazines, the top three slid to the floor. I bent to retrieve them, and spotted a corner of paper sticking from the pages of one. I tugged the paper, and two sheets slid out. One looked like a page torn from a magazine. The other was lined in blue, filled with girlish handwriting. Jotted letters and numbers, not sentences. Identical crease patterns suggested the two sheets had been folded together.
The doorknob clicked. I quickly slipped the papers into my notepad. A violation of scene protocol, but I wanted to examine them in private.
Pierce joined me and eyed the escapee magazines.
“Sorry.” Chilly grin. “They slid.”
A curt nod was his only reply. So much for conviviality.
Wordlessly, Pierce gathered and shook each fallen magazine. I watched, anxious. Nothing fluttered out.
Pierce set the magazines on a bench and straightened to face me. “That’s it.”
I nodded. “I’ll get this list to Yellen.”
Pierce studied me for a very long moment. Appeared to dislike what he saw.
I stripped off my gloves and tossed them into a trash bin.
“It’s been real.” I turned to leave.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Pierce’s tone stopped me at the door.
I turned, mind scrambling for an excuse to justify confiscating the papers.
Pierce dangled his keys. “I’m your ride.”
I exhaled breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “So you are.”
Chapter Nine
The call came shortly after we exited the park. Decomp room two was at my disposal until eight the next morning.
I left Pierce with a quick “Thanks for the ride.” I didn’t like him. All ego.
Once I was safely alone in the autopsy room, I used forceps to transfer James’s tear sheet and paper from my notepad into a Ziploc. I studied what I could see through the plastic.
The first sheet was a page torn from a magazine or catalogue. It depicted a model, not James, wearing a pair of albino-python-skin pants. Nothing sinister there. I must have ripped out hundreds of magazine pages depicting coveted items. I noted the pants were manufactured by the Eugene sisters.
The second was the lined notebook page filled with handwritten letters and numbers that looked like some sort of code. Occasionally a word popped out. Old Ingraham. Pearl Bay. Buttonwood.
Did the words have meaning? Or did James have her own special shorthand? What did the number and letter sequences signify? Frustrated, I set the sheets aside. I wanted to study them more, but analysis of the second victim took priority.
I composed a text to Lisa, telling her to contact me should she need her car and suggesting dinner around 7:00 P.M. I’d been the worst houseguest in planetary history. On the other hand, it was Lisa who’d gotten me into this mess.
It was only after hitting send that I looked at my watch: 1:30. An on-time dinner was iffy, but doable.
I gloved, tied an apron at my neck and waist, then retrieved the second victim’s bones from the cooler. Standing at the counter, I reviewed what I had.
Arranged on four trays were two complete sets of hand bones: ten each of the distal, middle, and proximal phalanges, ten metacarpals, and fourteen carpals. I also had a complete left foot, and a partial right forearm.
Moving two trays to the autopsy table, I sta
rted with the hands. As I touched them, I noticed a roughening of the subperiosteal surface at points. I ran a gloved fingertip over a metacarpal, then carried it to the dissecting scope. Fine pitting covered most of the cortical exterior. Magnified, the surface looked like a moonscape.
I straightened. Puzzled. The porosity wasn’t consistent with aging, or with any disease process I could recall. Too uniform. Too minute.
The python? Call Lundberg?
That would result in a nine-yard lecture. I opted to begin with the font of all knowledge. Google. Shifting to the computer terminal on the anteroom desk, I began working the keys.
It took a lot of cyber-looping, but I finally hit pay dirt. An article in the Journal of Herpetology. God bless the Society for the Study of Amphibians and Reptiles.
I cut and pasted relevant sections into a document for future reference. Basically, I’d learned that pythons have cells in their small intestines that optimize the absorption of calcium from the skeletons of their prey.
That tracked. Absorption of calcium would cause degradation of bone.
I returned to the cooler and pulled a formalin-filled jar labeled with the case number assigned to the second of the two Hardwood Hammock pythons. After unscrewing the lid, I tweezed out the sample of small intestine that Lundberg had snipped. Dropping it onto a glass slide, I observed the specimen under high magnification.
Small white particles dotted the tissue walls.
I repeated the process with the sliver of colon. Saw the same inclusions.
Microscopic bone particles. The results of specialized cells absorbing calcium. The pitting on the human bone was a by-product of digestion in the python, not an indicator of disease in her meal. The added barrier of the vulture explained the absence of these indicators in James’s foot bones.
Satisfied with my diagnosis, I resumed my analysis, running through the same steps that I had with James, and recording my observations. Bone quality was good. No arthritis. No recent epiphyseal fusion. Young adult. Early to mid-twenties.
Next, I examined the ulna and radius. Immediately, I spotted antemortem trauma. Both bones had been broken in two places. Spiral fracturing indicated a twisting force of high magnitude. Nevertheless, each fracture had healed with good alignment. Though there was no pin or plate, I guessed orthopedic surgery had taken place shortly after the injury. Remodeling suggested a time frame of approximately two to three years before death.
