“Yes. Then there's a rapid fall-off at the onset of stage four.”
“No flesh, no bacteria.”
“The soup kitchen closes.”
Behind us the centrifuge hummed softly.
“I've also found that all fatty acid values are highest just after maggot migration.”
“When larvae abandon the corpse to pupate.”
“Yes. Until that point the presence of the insects tends to restrict the flow of body fluids into the soil.”
“Doesn't pupation occur at approximately four hundred ADD?” ADD stands for “accumulated degree days,” a figure calculated by summing average daily temperatures.
“With some variation. Which brings up a good point. VFA production is temperature dependent. That's why it can be used to determine time since death.”
“Because a corpse will produce the same ratios of propionic, butyric, and valeric acids for any given accumulated degree days.”
“Exactly. So the volatile fatty acid profile can provide an estimate of TSD.” TSD is the investigator's shorthand for “time since death.”
“Did you get the National Weather Service data?”
He went to a set of shelves and returned with a printout.
“It was amazingly fast. Normally it takes much longer. But we do have a slight problem. For a really accurate TSD estimate I need three things. First, the specific fatty acid ratios.”
He pointed at a computer screen linked to the gas chromatograph.
“We'll have those shortly. Second, the National Weather Service data at the location where the corpse was found.”
He held up the printout.
“Third, information on the weight and condition of the corpse. And you ain't got no body.” He sang the last.
“Everyone's a comedian.”
“Two variables are important: the amount of moisture in the soil, and the weight of the body prior to decomposition. Because everyone has a different ratio of fat and muscle tissue, if I don't have a body, I use a standard of one hundred fifty pounds, then apply a correction factor. I think we're safe in assuming your deceased weighed between one hundred and three hundred pounds?”
“Yes. But in doing this, our range broadens, right?”
“Unfortunately. Did you try a rule-of-thumb estimate?”
Since volatile fatty acid liberation ceases at accumulated degree days 1,285 plus or minus 110, it is possible to obtain a rough estimate of time since death by dividing the average daily temperature on the day a corpse is found into 1,285. I'd done this for Lucy Crowe. Yesterday's average temperature in Bryson City was 18°C (64°F), yielding a maximum time since death of seventy-one days.
“That would be the date on which full skeletonization had taken place, and no more VFAs would be detectable.”
Laslo looked at the wall clock.
“Let's see how accurate you were.”
He rose, filtered and vortexed the soil solution sample, tested its acidity, then placed the tube into the gas chromatograph. After closing and sealing the chamber, and adjusting the settings, he turned back to me.
“Let's give this a few minutes. Coffee?”
When we returned the screen showed a series of peaks in varying colors, and a list of components and their concentrations.
“Each curve shows the concentration of a volatile fatty acid per gram of dry weight of soil. First I'll correct for dilution and soil moisture.”
He hit a few keys.
“Now I can calculate an ADD for each VFA.”
He started with butyric acid.
“Seven hundred accumulated degree days.”
He performed more calculations, using each acid. With one exception the ADDs fell within the 675 to 775 range.
“Now I'll use the National Weather Service data to determine the number of days needed to obtain 675 to 775 accumulated degree days. We may have to adjust later if the readings at your body site differ from the officially recorded temperatures. Normally, I like to know that in advance, but it's not a major problem.”
A few more keystrokes. I held my breath.
“Forty-one to forty-eight days. That's your range. According to your calculation, full skeletonization would have taken place in seventy-one days.”
“So death occurred six to seven weeks ago.”
He nodded. “But keep in mind that this time frame is based on an estimated, not an actual, predeath weight.”
“And at the time the stain was produced, the body was fleshed and actively decomposing.”
He nodded.
“But I ain't got no body.”
“And nobody cares for me.”
* * *
I drove straight to Lucy Crowe's office. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds shouldered each other low over the mountains, jockeying for position with their heavy loads.
I found the sheriff eating a corn dog behind the Civil War desk. Seeing me, she wiped crumbs from her mouth, then arced the stick and wrapper into a trash can across the room.
“Two points,” I said.
“All net. No rim.”
I laid hard copy in front of her and took a chair. She studied the VFA profile a full minute, elbows splayed on the desktop, fingers on her temples. Then she looked up.
“I know you're going to explain this.”
“Volatile fatty acids.”
“Meaning?”
“A body decomposed inside that wall.”
“Whose?”
“The VFA ratios suggest a time since death of six to seven weeks. Daniel Wahnetah was last seen in late July, reported missing in August. It's now October. Do the math.”
“Assuming I accept that premise, which I don't necessarily, how did Wahnetah's foot get to the crash scene?”
“If Boyd smelled decomposition, so could coyotes. They probably dragged the foot from under the wall. There's room where the foundation has crumbled.”
“And left the rest of him?”
“They probably couldn't detach anything else.”
“And how did Wahnetah get inside the courtyard?”
I shrugged.
“And how did he die?”
“That's sheriffing. I do the science.”
Down the hall Hank Williams crooned the “Long-Gone Lonesome Blues.” Static made the music sound like it was coming from another era.
“Is this enough for a warrant?” I asked.
The sheriff studied the paper for another full minute. Finally she looked up, the eyes to die for hard on mine. Then she reached for the phone.
* * *
By the time I left the sheriff 's office a light rain was falling. Headlights, stoplights, and neon signs twinkled and shimmered in the dusk of early evening. The air was heavy with the smell of skunk.
Outside at High Ridge House, Boyd lay in his doghouse, chin on paws, gazing at the raindrops. He raised his head when I called and gave me a look to indicate I should do something. Seeing that I wasn't, he sighed noisily and settled back down. I filled his dish and left him to ponder his sodden world.
Inside, the house was still. I climbed the stairs to the slow ticktick-tick of Ruby's hall clock. No sound came from any bedroom.
Rounding the corner at my end of the hall, I was surprised to see the door to Magnolia slightly ajar. I pushed it inward. And froze.
The drawers in my room had been rifled, the bed stripped. My briefcase had been emptied, and papers and manila folders lay scattered across the floor.
My mind locked on one word.
No! No! No!
I tossed my purse on the bed, flew to the wardrobe, and threw open the doors.
My laptop sat tucked in back, exactly as I'd left it. I pulled it out and clicked it on, my mind still racing.
What was in the room? What was in the room? What was in the room?
Quick mental inventory. Car keys. Credit cards. Driver's license. Passport. All had been with me.
Why? Why? Why?
A quick ransack for valuables, or was someone aft
er something specific? What was there that anyone would want?
What? What? What?
When the computer booted I checked a few files. Everything seemed fine.
I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Then I closed my eyes and played a childhood game I knew would calm me. Silently, I ran through the lyrics of the first song to come to mind. “Honky Tonk Women.”
The time-out with Mick and the Stones worked. Steadier, I returned and began gathering papers.
I was still filing when I heard a knock, and opened the door to Andrew Ryan. He held two DoveBars in his right hand.
Ryan's eyes swept the mess.
“What the fuck went on in here?”
I just looked at him, not trusting my voice.
“Is anything missing?”
I swallowed.
“The only thing of value was the computer, and they left that.”
“Pretty much rules out robbery.”
“Unless the intruder was interrupted.”
“Looks like they tossed the place looking for something.”
“Or just to be ornery.”
Why?
“Ice cream?” Ryan offered.
We ate our DoveBars and considered possible explanations. None was persuasive. The two most likely were someone looking for money or someone letting me know he or she didn't care for me.
When Ryan had gone, I stacked the remaining folders and went to run a bath. Throwing back the shower curtain, I got my next shock.
Ruby's ceramic figurine of Orphan Annie lay at the bottom of the tub, her face smashed, her limbs shattered. Sandy dangled from the showerhead, a makeshift noose tight around his neck.
Again, my mind flew, my hands trembled. This message had nothing to do with money. Someone clearly didn't care for me.
Suddenly, I remembered the Volvo. Was that episode a threat? Was this intrusion another? I fought the impulse to run down the hall to Ryan's room.
I considered the lockless doors and thought about bringing Boyd inside. Then who would be threatened?
An hour later, lying in bed and somewhat more logical, I reflected on the strength of my reaction to the invasion of my space. Had it been anger or fear that had sent me over the edge? At whom should I be angry? What should I fear?
Sleep did not come easily.
WHEN I CAME DOWNSTAIRS THE NEXT MORNING, RYAN WAS questioning Ruby about my intruder. Byron McMahon sat across from him, dividing his attention between the interrogation and a trio of fried eggs.
Ruby had one comment.
“Satan's minions are among us.”
I was annoyed by her nonchalance toward the rifling of my possessions, but let it go.
“Was anything taken?” asked McMahon. Good. The FBI was on my case.
“I don't think so.”
“Been irritating someone?”
“I suspect my dog has. Dogs bark.” I described what had been done to Annie and Sandy.
Ryan looked at me oddly but said nothing.
“This place isn't exactly Los Alamos. Anyone could walk in and out of here.” McMahon forked up fried potatoes. “What else have you been up to lately? I haven't seen you around.”
I told him about the foot and the courtyard house, ending with the VFA profile I'd gotten the day before. I did not tell him about my current status in the crash investigation, but left that gap for him to fill. As I spoke, his grin slowly dissolved.
“So Crowe is going for a warrant?” he asked, cop cool.
I was about to answer when my cell phone sounded the William Tell Overture. The men looked at each other as I clicked it on.
The call was from Laslo Sparkes at Oak Ridge. I listened, thanked him, and rang off.
“Rossini calling?” Ryan asked.
“I was testing the ring options and forgot to change it back.” I jabbed my egg and yolk spurted onto the table. “I wouldn't have pegged you as an opera buff.”
“Zinger.” McMahon reached for a slice of toast.
“It was the anthropologist at Oak Ridge.”
“Let me guess. He's profiled the soup, and the missing body is D. B. Cooper.”
Ryan was on a roll. Ignoring him, I directed my response to McMahon.
“He found something while filtering the remaining soil.”
“What's that?”
“He didn't say. Just that the item might be useful. He's going to stop by Bryson City sometime later in the week on his way to Asheville.”
Ruby returned, cleared plates, left.
“So you're off to the courthouse?” Ryan.
“Yes.” Terse.
“Sounds like detecting.”
“Somebody's got to do it.”
“It can't hurt to know who owns that property.” McMahon drained his cup. “After today's briefing I have to shoot down to Charlotte to interview some asswipe claiming to have information about a militia group up here in Swain. Otherwise, I'd tag along.”
He drew a card from his wallet and placed it in front of me.
“If they're uncooperative at the courthouse, wave this. Sometimes the acronym induces a mood swing.”
“Thanks.” I pocketed the card.
McMahon excused himself, leaving Ryan and me and three empty mugs.
“Who do you think tossed your room?”
“I don't know.”
“Why?”
“They were looking for your shower gel.”
“I wouldn't belittle this. How about I poke around, ask a few questions?”
“You know that'd be a journey into pointlessness. These things are never solved.”
“It would let folks know that someone is curious.”
“I'll talk with Crowe.”
I rose to leave and he took my arm.
“Do you want backup at the courthouse?”
“In case of an armed attack by the recorder of deeds?”
He looked away, back at me.
“Would you like company at the courthouse?”
“Aren't you going to the NTSB briefing?”
“McMahon can fill me in. But there's one condition.”
I waited.
“Change your phone.”
“Hi-Ho, Silver,” I said.
The Swain County Administration Building and Courthouse replaced its predecessor in 1982. It is a rectangular concrete building, with a low-angled roof of red galvanized metal, that sits on the bank of the Tuckasegee River. Though lacking the charm of the old domed courthouse at Everett and Main, the structure is bright, clean, and efficient.
The tax office is located on the ground floor, immediately off a tiled octagonal lobby. When Ryan and I entered, four women looked up from computers, two behind a counter directly ahead, two behind a counter to our left.
I explained what we wanted. Woman number three pointed to a door at the back of the room.
“Land Records Department,” she said.
Eight eyes traveled with us across the floor.
“Must be where they archive the classified stuff,” Ryan whispered as I opened the door.
We entered to find another counter, this one guarded by a tall, thin woman with an angular face. It brought to mind my father's old picture of Stan Musial.
“May I help you?”
“We'd like to look at the county tax index map.”
The woman put a hand to her mouth, as though the question startled her.
“The tax map?”
I began to suspect my request was a first. Taking Byron McMahon's card from my pocket, I walked to the counter and handed it to her.
Madam Musial eyeballed the card. “Is this, like, the actual FBI?”
When she looked up, I nodded.
“Byron?”
“It's a family name.” I smiled winningly.
“Do you have a gun?”
“Not here.” Not anywhere, but that would tarnish the image.
“Does this have to do with the airplane crash?”
I leaned close. She smelled of
mint and overperfumed shampoo. “What we're looking for could be critical to the investigation.”
Behind me, I heard Ryan's feet shift.
“My name is Dorothy.” She handed back the card. “I'll get it.”
Dorothy went to a map case, pulled out a drawer approximately two inches high, withdrew a large sheet, and spread it on the counter.
Ryan and I bent over the map. Using township boundaries, roads, and other markers, we pinpointed the section containing the courtyard house. Dorothy observed from her side of the divide, vigilant as an Egyptologist displaying a papyrus.
“Now we'd like section map six-two-one, please.”
Dorothy smiled to indicate she was part of the sting, went to another case, and returned with the document.
Earlier in my career as an anthropologist, when I had done some archaeology, I'd spent hours with U.S. Geological Survey maps and knew how to interpret symbols and features. The experience came in handy. Using elevations, creeks, and roads, Ryan and I were able to zero in on the house.
“Section map six twenty-one, parcel four.”
Keeping my finger on the spot, I looked up. Dorothy's face was inches from mine.
“How long will it take to pull up the tax records for this property?”
“About a minute.”
I must have looked surprised.
“Swain County is not a pumpkin patch. We are computerized.”
Dorothy went to a rear corner in her “secure” area and lifted a plastic cover from a monitor and keyboard. Ryan and I waited as she fastidiously folded the plastic, placed it on an overhead shelf, and booted the computer. When the program was up and running she keyed in a number of commands. Seconds passed. Finally, she entered the tax number and the screen filled with information.
“Do you want hard copy?”
“Please.”
She unveiled a Hewlett-Packard bubble-jet printer similar to the first one I'd ever owned. Again we waited while she folded and stored the plastic cover, took one sheet of paper from a drawer, and placed it in the feeder tray.
Finally, she hit a key, the printer whirred, and the paper disappeared then oozed out.
“I hope this helps,” she said, handing it to me.
The printout gave a vague description of the property and its buildings, its assessed value, the owner's name and mailing address, and the address to which the tax bills were being sent.
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