Fatal Voyage tb-4

by Reichs, Kathy

  Oh, boy.

  “I'm Ruby McCready, and I'm honored to have you at High Ridge House. I intend to look after each and every one of you.”

  I wondered who else was quartered there, but said nothing. I would find out soon enough.

  “Thank you, Ruby.”

  “Let me take that.” She reached for my bag. “I'll show you to your room.”

  My hostess led me past a parlor and dining room, up a carved wooden staircase, and down a corridor with closed doors on either side, each bearing a small hand-painted plaque. We made a ninetydegree turn at the far end of the hall and stopped in front of a single door. Its nameplate said Magnolia.

  “Since you're the only lady, I put you in Magnolia.” Though we were alone, Ruby's voice had become a whisper, her tone conspiratorial. “It's the only one with its own WC. I reckoned you'd appreciate the privacy.”

  WC? Where in the world did they still refer to bathrooms as water closets?

  Ruby followed me in, placed my satchel on the bed, and began fluffing pillows and lowering shades like a bellman at the Ritz.

  The fabric and wallpaper explained the floral appellation. The window was draped, the tables skirted, and ruffles adorned every edge in the room. The maple rocker and bed were stacked with pillows, and a million figurines filled a glass-fronted cabinet. On top sat ceramic renderings of Little Orphan Annie and her dog, Sandy, Shirley Temple dressed as Heidi, and a collie I assumed to be Lassie.

  My taste in home furnishings tends toward the simple. Though I have never cared for the starkness of modern, give me Shaker or Hepplewhite and I am happy. Surround me with clutter and I start to get itchy.

  “It's lovely,” I said.

  “I'll leave you to yourself now. Dinner's at six, so you missed that, but I left stew to simmerin'. Would you like a bowl?”

  “No, thank you. I'm going to turn in.”

  “Have you eaten dinner?”

  “I'm not very hungr—”

  “Look at you, you're thin as the broth at a homeless shelter. You can't go with nothin' on your stomach.”

  Why was everyone so concerned with my diet?

  “I'll bring up a tray.”

  “Thank you, Ruby.”

  “I don't need thankin'. One last thing. We've got no locks here at High Ridge House, so you come and go as you like.”

  Though I'd showered at the site, I unpacked my few things and took a long, hot bath. Like rape victims, those who clean up after mass fatalities often overbathe, driven by a need to purge mind and body.

  I came out of the bathroom to stew, brown bread, and a mug of milk. My cell phone rang as I was poking at a turnip. Fearing the messaging service would kick in, I lunged for my purse, dumped its contents onto the bed, and fished through hair spray, wallet, passport, organizer, sunglasses, keys, and makeup. I finally found the phone and clicked on, praying the caller was Katy.

  It was. My daughter's voice triggered such emotion in me, I had to struggle to keep my voice steady.

  Though evasive about her whereabouts, she sounded happy and healthy. I gave her the number at High Ridge House. She told me she was with a friend and would return to Charlottesville on Sunday night. I didn't request, nor did she offer, the gender specifics of her pal.

  The soap and water, combined with the long-awaited call from my daughter, had done the trick. Almost giddy with relief, I was suddenly famished. I devoured Ruby's stew, set my travel alarm, and fell into bed.

  Maybe the House of Chintz wouldn't be so bad.

  The next morning I rose at six, put on clean khakis, brushed my teeth, dabbed on blush, and drew my hair up under a Charlotte Hornets' cap. Good enough. I headed downstairs, intending to ask Ruby about laundry arrangements.

  Andrew Ryan occupied a bench at a long pine table in the dining room. I took a chair opposite, returned Ruby's cheery “Good morning,” and waited while she poured coffee. When the kitchen door swung closed behind her, I spoke.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Is that all you ever say to me?”

  I waited.

  “The sheriff recommended this place.”

  “Above all others.”

  “It's nice,” he said, gesturing around the room. “Loving.” He raised his mug to a message above our heads: Jesus Is Love had been burned into knotty pine and varnished for posterity.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “Cynicism causes wrinkles.”

  “It doesn't. Who told you?”

  “Crowe.”

  “What's wrong with the Comfort Inn?”

  “Full.”

  “Who else is here?”

  “There are a couple of NTSB boys upstairs and a special agent from the FBI. What makes them special?”

  I ignored that.

  “I'm looking forward to guy-bonding in the bathroom. Two others are on the main floor, and I hear there are some journalists squeezed into a bonus room in the basement.”

  “How did you get a room here?”

  The Viking blues went little-boy innocent. “Must have been lucky timing. Or maybe Crowe has pull.”

  “Don't even think about using my bathroom.”

  “Cynicism.”

  Ruby arrived with ham, eggs, fried potatoes, and toast. Though my normal routine is cereal and coffee, I dug in like a recruit at boot camp.

  Ryan and I ate in silence while I did some mental sorting. His presence annoyed me, but why? Was it his supreme self-confidence? His custodial attitude? His invasion of my turf? The fact that less than a year ago he'd prioritized the job over me and disappeared from my life? Or the fact that he'd reappeared exactly when I'd needed help?

  As I reached for toast I realized he'd said nothing about his stint undercover. Fair enough. Let him bring it up.

  “Jam, please.”

  He passed it.

  Ryan had gotten me out of a nasty spot.

  I spread blackberry preserves thicker than lava.

  The wolves weren't Ryan's fault. Nor was the crash.

  Ruby poured refills.

  And the man has just lost his partner, for God's sake.

  Compassion overrode irritation.

  “Thanks for your help with the wolf thing.”

  “They weren't wolves.”

  “What?” Irritation boomeranged back.

  “They weren't wolves.”

  “I suppose it was a pack of cocker spaniels.”

  “There are no wolves in North Carolina.”

  “Crowe's deputy talked about wolves.”

  “The guy probably wouldn't know a wombat from a caribou.”

  “Wolves have been reintroduced into North Carolina.” I was sure I'd read that somewhere.

  “Those are red wolves and they're on a reserve down east, not in the mountains.”

  “I suppose you're an expert on North Carolina wildlife.”

  “How did they hold their tails?”

  “What?”

  “Did the animals hold their tails up or down?”

  I had to think.

  “Down.”

  “A wolf holds its tail straight out. A coyote keeps its tail low, raises it to horizontal when threatening.”

  I pictured the animal sniffing, then raising its tail and locking me into its gaze.

  “You're telling me those were coyotes?”

  “Or wild dogs.”

  “There are coyotes in Appalachia?”

  “There are coyotes all over North America.”

  “So what?” I made a mental vow to check.

  “So nothing. I just thought you might want to know.”

  “It was still terrifying.”

  “Damn right. But it's not the worst thing you've ever been through.”

  Ryan was right. Though frightening, the coyote incident was not my worst experience. But the days that followed were contenders. I spent every waking moment up to my elbows in shattered flesh, separating commingled remains and reassociating body parts. As part of a team of pathologists, den
tists, and other anthropologists, I determined age, sex, race, and height, analyzed X rays, compared antemortem and postmortem skeletal features, and interpreted injury patterns. It was a gruesome task, made even grimmer by the youth of most of those being analyzed.

  For many, the stress was too much. Some hung in, running on the rim until tremors, tears, or unbearable nightmares finally won out. These were the ones who would require extensive counseling. Others simply packed up and slipped back home.

  But for most, the mind adjusted and the unthinkable became the ordinary. We mentally detached and did what needed doing. Each night as I lay in bed, lonely and exhausted, I was comforted by the day's progress. I thought of the families, and assured myself that the system was working. We would grant them closure of sorts.

  Then specimen number 387 arrived at my station.

  I'D FORGOTTEN THE FOOT UNTIL ABODY TRACKER BROUGHT IT TOME.

  Ryan and I had rarely crossed paths since our first breakfast. I'd been up and gone each day before seven, returning to High Ridge House long after dark to shower and collapse into bed. We'd exchanged only “Good morning” or “Have a good one,” and we'd yet to discuss his time undercover or his role in the crash investigation. Because a Quebec law officer had been on the plane, the Canadian government had asked that Ryan be involved. All I knew was that the request had been granted.

  Blocking thoughts of Ryan and coyotes, I emptied the body bag onto my table. In recent days I'd processed dozens of severed limbs and appendages, and the foot no longer seemed macabre. In fact, the frequency of lower leg and ankle trauma was so high it had been discussed at that morning's meeting. The pathologists and anthropologists agreed that the injury pattern was disturbing.

  There is little one can say from eyeballing a foot. This one had thickened yellow nails, a large bunion, and lateral displacement of the big toe, indicating an older adult. The size suggested female gender. Though the skin was the color of toast, I knew this meant nothing since even short-term exposure can bleach or darken flesh.

  I popped the X rays onto a light box. Unlike many of the films I'd viewed, these revealed no foreign objects embedded in the foot. I noted that on a form in the disaster victim packet.

  The cortical bone was thin, and I could see remodeling at many of the phalangeal joints.

  O.K. The lady was old. Arthritis and bone loss fit with the bunion.

  Then I got my first surprise. The X ray showed tiny white clouds floating among the toe bones, and scooped-out lesions at the margins of the first and second metatarso-phalangeal joints. I recognized the symptoms immediately.

  Gout results from inadequate uric acid metabolism, leading to the deposition of urate crystals, particularly in the hands and feet. Nodules form adjacent to joints, and, in chronic cases, the underlying bone is eroded. The condition is not life-threatening, but those affected experience intermittent periods of pain and swelling. Gout is relatively common, with 90 percent of all cases occurring in men.

  So why was I seeing it in a female?

  I returned to the table, picked up a scalpel, and got my second surprise.

  Though refrigeration can cause drying and shrinkage, the foot looked different from the remains I'd been seeing. Even in the charred bodies and body parts I'd examined, the deep tissue remained firm and red. But the flesh inside the foot was soupy and discolored, as though something had accelerated its rate of decomposition. I made a note, planning to seek other opinions.

  Using my scalpel, I teased back muscle and tendon until I could position my calipers directly against the largest bone, the calcaneus. I measured its length and breadth, then the length of a metatarsal, and jotted the figures onto a form in the disaster victim packet, and onto a page in a spiral pad.

  Stripping off my gloves, I washed, then took the tablet to my laptop in the staff lounge. I called up a program called Fordisc 2.0, entered the data, and asked for a discriminant function analysis using the two calcaneal measurements.

  The foot classified as that of a black male, though the typicality and posterior probabilities indicated the results were meaningless. I tried a male–female comparison, independent of ancestry, and the program again placed the foot in the male range.

  O.K. Jockey shorts fit with gout. Maybe the guy was small. Atypical size could explain the weakness of the racial classification.

  Returning for the packet, I crossed to the identification section, where a dozen computers sat on tables, and bundled wires snaked across the floor. A records specialist worked at each terminal, entering data obtained from the family assistance center and information provided by the forensic specialists, including fingerprint, X ray, anthropology, pathology, and dental details.

  I spotted a familiar figure, half-moon glasses on the end of her nose, upper teeth nibbling her lower lip. Primrose Hobbs had been an ER nurse for over thirty years when she switched from defibrillators to data sets and moved to the medical records department at Presbyterian Hospital in Charlotte. But she hadn't severed herself completely from the world of traumatic injury. When I joined DMORT, Primrose was already a seasoned member of the Region Four team. Past sixty, she was patient, efficient, and shocked by absolutely nothing.

  “Can we run one?” I asked, dragging a folding chair next to hers.

  “Hang on, baby.” Primrose continued to type, her face illuminated by the screen's glow. Then she closed a folder and turned to me.

  “What have you got?”

  “A left foot. Definitely old. Probably male. Possibly black.”

  “Let's see who needs a foot.”

  DMORT relies on a software package called VIP, which tracks the progress of remains, stores all data, and facilitates the comparison of antemortem and postmortem information. The program handles more than 750 unique identifiers for each victim, and stores digital records such as photographs and radiographs. For each positive identification, VIP creates a document containing all parameters used.

  Primrose worked the keys and a postmortem grid appeared. The first column showed a list of case numbers. She moved sideways through the grid to a column headed “Body Parts Not Recovered” and scrolled down. To date, four bodies had been logged without a left foot. Primrose moved through the grid, highlighting each.

  Number 19 was a white male with an estimated age of thirty. Number 38 was a white female, with an estimated age of twenty. Number 41 was an African-American female with an estimated age of twenty-five. Number 52 was a male lower torso, African American, with an estimated age of forty-five.

  “It could be fifty-two,” I said.

  Primrose scrolled to the height and weight columns. The gentleman tagged as number 52 was estimated to have stood six feet two inches and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds.

  “No way,” I corrected myself. “This is not a sumo tootsie.”

  Primrose leaned back and removed her glasses. Frizzy gray hairs spiraled out at her forehead and temples, escapees from the bun atop her head.

  “This event is more dental than DNA, but I've logged quite a few isolated body parts.” She let the glasses drop onto a chain around her neck. “So far we've had few matches. That will improve as more bodies flow through, but you may have to wait for DNA.”

  “I know. I hoped we might get lucky.”

  “You're sure it's male?”

  I explained the discriminant function analysis.

  “So the program takes your unknown and compares it to groups for whom measurements have been recorded.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And this foot fell in with the boys.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe the computer got it wrong.”

  “That's very possible since I'm not sure about the race.”

  “That matters?”

  “Sure. Some populations are smaller than others. Look at the Mbuti.”

  She raised gray eyebrows.

  “The pygmies of the Ituri rain forest,” I explained.

  “We've got no pygmies here, sugar.”
r />   “No. But there might have been Asians on board. Some Asian populations are smaller than Westerners, so they'd tend to have smaller feet.”

  “Not like my dainty size tens.” She lifted a booted foot and laughed.

  “What I do feel certain about is the age. This person was over fifty. Quite a bit over, I think.”

  “Let's check the passenger list.”

  She replaced the glasses, hit keys, and an antemortem grid appeared on the screen. This spread sheet was similar to the postmortem grid except that most of its cells contained information. There were columns for first name, last name, date of birth, blood type, sex, race, weight, height, and myriad other variables. Primrose clicked to the age column and asked the program to sort by that criterion.

  Air TransSouth 228 had carried only six passengers over the age of fifty.

  “So young for the good Lord to be callin' 'em home.”

  “Yeah,” I said, staring at the screen.

  We were silent a moment, then Primrose moved the cursor and we both leaned in.

  Four males. Two females. All white.

  “Let's sort by race.”

  The antemortem grid showed sixty-eight whites, ten African Americans, two Hispanics, and two Asians among the passengers. The entire cabin crew and both pilots were white. None of the blacks was over forty. Both Asians were in their early twenties, probably students. Masako Takaguchi had been lucky. She'd died in one piece and was already identified.

  “I guess I'd better try another approach. For now you can enter an age estimate of fifty plus. And the victim had gout.”

  “My ex has gout. Only human thing about that man.” Another laugh, straight from the belly.

  “Mmm. Could I ask one other favor?”

  “Sure, baby.”

  “Check Jean Bertrand.”

  She found the row and moved the cursor to the status column.

  To date, Bertrand's body had not been identified.

  “I'll be back when I know more on this one,” I said, collecting the packet for number 387.

  Returning to the foot, I removed and tagged a small plug of bone. If a reference sample could be found, an old gallstone, a Pap smear, hair or dandruff from a brush or comb, DNA might prove useful in establishing identity. If not, DNA testing could determine gender, or could link the foot to other body parts, and a tattoo or dental crown might send the victim home.