Lindsay smiled again. "What do the reporters want? I can't imagine I'm that interesting a news item."
"Denny's lawyer's kind of keeping the whole thing in the news as much as she can. Anytime there's a slow news day, the reporters come over here. I don't think there's much to it. The last time, one called on the phone wanting to know something about a killing at a site you were working on."
How news travels, thought Lindsay. Paul didn't ask Lindsay what it was about, and she didn't volunteer any information.
"Thanks for taking care of my house," she said again.
"No problem. You take care, and don't worry. We have things covered here."
She hung up the phone. Her mind turned to Gil Harris, wondering if his death was connected to the unfortunate Ken Darnell, if Grace Lambert was right, and Ken's wife, or someone, had killed him. Lindsay put on her nightshirt and lay down to a restless sleep. Tomorrow she would drive to Ellis County and talk to the authorities in person about the death of Ken Darnell.
Chapter 8
THE ONLY CORRESPONDENCE the Lamberts had received about the death of Grace's brother came from Tucker Prescott, the coroner of Ellis County, Tennessee. Lindsay doubted that Tucker Prescott would answer any questions from her if she just walked in off the street, so she had asked the coroner of her home county to fax her a letter of introduction. Dressed in beige blouse, light brown skirt, and matching jacket, and her hair up in a French twist, she drove to the Ellis County coroner's office.
The office was in a small white house next to a large redbrick steepled courthouse. The reception area was freshly painted white with robin's-egg blue trim around the windows, the floor, and the ceiling molding. Someone had hung lace curtains. A table by a window held freshly cut flowers in a white hand-painted vase. A woman in her mid-fifties with gray hair wearing a pink polyester pantsuit was sitting behind the desk, typing. Lindsay waited by the woman's desk. When she came to the end of a paragraph, she looked up at Lindsay and smiled.
Lindsay held out her hand. "I'm Lindsay Chamberlain, a forensic anthropologist." She handed the woman the letter of introduction with her card paper-clipped to it. "I don't have an appointment, but I would like to see Tucker Prescott."
"He's not in at the moment. He's due back soon, if you'd like to wait." The woman pointed in the direction of three wooden hardbacked chairs against the wall. Apparently, they discouraged people from waiting very long.
"Thank you," said Lindsay, and took a seat. The woman resumed her typing. "Did you do the china painting?" asked Lindsay, gesturing to the vase. "It's very nice."
The woman stopped typing and gave Lindsay a broad smile. "Yes, I did. I do quite a lot of china painting. It's very relaxing. I'm not a great artist, but it passes the time."
"Oh, I think you have captured the irises very well. You must grow them." Lindsay had a policy of always, whenever possible, making friends with the gatekeepers of the world.
The woman's smile grew broader. "Thank you. Yes, I do grow them. It was so nice of you to recognize it. Mr. Prescott shouldn't be too much longer. He makes a trip down to the drugstore every day at this time. He never stays more than thirty minutes. He left, let me see . . . ," she looked at the round school clock on the wall behind her desk, "about twenty minutes ago." She went on to tell Lindsay about Mr. Prescott, how her mother taught him in school and he was such a bright kid, and that it was a shame he couldn't finish his medical degree because of the quota system. Lindsay listened politely.
This time, Tucker Prescott stayed thirty-five minutes, if his secretary was accurate, for he came strolling in the door fifteen minutes later. Lindsay allowed the secretary to tell him he had a visitor and introduce her before she stood and held out her hand.
Tucker Prescott was in his early thirties, Lindsay guessed. He was heavyset in a way that made him appear chubby. He had dark hair and probably should shave twice a day to appear clean shaven by the late afternoon. He was dressed in a white, short-sleeved shirt, navy blue pants, brown shoes, and white socks. He had no wedding ring, which confirmed the words of her great aunt Margaret that sprang into her mind: "No decent woman would ever let a man out of the house dressed like that."
"Lindsay Chamberlain," he said, as if trying out the name. "What can I do for you?" He gestured into his office. Lindsay entered and he followed, closing the door.
His office had not been recently painted. It was covered in inexpensive brown paneling, scratched and worn with age. His desk was not an antique, but it was old and as worn as the walls and the same color of brown. He gestured to a chair, the same kind of hard chair that sat in the reception area. The only new piece of furniture in the room was his Naugahyde executive office chair. A degree hung on the back wall, a B.S. from the University of Tennessee. In this county the coroner was an elected official, just as in Lindsay's home county, and was not required to have an advanced degree.
"Thank you for seeing me," she said. "Miles and Grace Lambert asked me to find out what I can about the death of Grace's brother, Ken Darnell."
"I pronounced the death an accident." Tucker Prescott swiveled slowly back and forth in his chair. He studied Lindsay as he tapped his pen on the desk, letting his finger slide down the shaft, then turning it over and repeating the process.
Lindsay chose her words carefully. "You were the only official kind enough to give them any information at all. That's why I came to you. The Lamberts know very little about his death. Mrs. Lambert loved her brother and feels a need to know more. Is there anything you can tell me?"
He shrugged. "I am aware that Mrs. Lambert thinks her brother was murdered. There was absolutely no evidence that supported that. He was a caver who made a mistake. We get our share of caving mistakes in this region. I understand there were some bad feelings between Mrs. Lambert and her sister-in-law."
"Who identified the bones?"
"Is there some suspicion that the bones were not Ken Darnell's?"
"They haven't expressed any." Lindsay smiled. "When a body has been skeletonized..." She searched for words that wouldn't offend him. "I'd like to know the identification process, so that I can explain the entire procedure to the Lamberts. Understanding how things are done will help them understand why the death was declared an accident."
"There was no question of the identification. I am very careful about those things," he said, as if he hadn't heard Lindsay or didn't believe her motives. "The Lamberts themselves identified the jewelry as belonging to Darnell. The wife identified the clothes. I sent the bones to the University of Tennessee to Nigel Boyd. He used dental charts. I believe there was also a broken left arm in the Darnell case. Dr. Boyd said that there was no doubt about any of them."
"I know Nigel. He is very good."
"Then you can put their minds at ease that no one got away with murder in this county."
"Do you happen to have any close-up pictures of the bones?"
"No. The sheriff probably has them."
"Was Ken Darnell well known here?"
"No. He just happened to get killed in one of our caves. He picked the most dangerous to explore. As I said, we are not strangers to caving accidents. Karst topography, they call it. It's what we have here. There's Hell Slide, where Darnell and his two friends were killed. There's the Grand Serpentine, Bone Cave, and, of course, Cumberland Caverns in the next county. We've got dozens in this area. People come from all over to explore 'em, and some of them are either unlucky, stupid, or both." He stopped moving his chair and looked straight at Lindsay. "I got a call the other day from the FBI. Wanted to know if the name Gil Harris surfaced in connection with Ken Darnell. Now that I think about it, the FBI agent may have mentioned your name."
"I see. Were you able to tell him anything?"
"Just what I told you. The guy died through misadventure. Never heard of a Gil Harris."
Lindsay could sense that she was not going to get any more information from Tucker Prescott. She thanked him for his time and went back to her motel. She chang
ed into more comfortable clothes and stretched out on the bed to think. She knew Nigel. He was very competent. He would have examined the bones thoroughly, and if he didn't find anything suspicious, then there probably wasn't anything to find.
She dug out her address book and found Nigel's office number. He did not answer his phone. She left a message and her motel phone number, then decided to get something to eat and try him again later. First, however, she tried Derrick. She let the phone ring until it turned over to the answering service. She left him a short message with her phone number.
Lindsay walked to a restaurant across the street and had a salad. Though she hadn't eaten since breakfast, she had no appetite. What, she wondered, is making me so restless. The image of Marilee appeared unsummoned in her mind. She had seen a bookstore about a block away. She thought that after she ate she would look there for some books for Marilee.
Lindsay returned to her motel room with three books: one on Native Americans, one on archaeology, and one on identifying rocks and minerals. The archaeology book came with its own miniature "dig"-a box with some "artifacts" buried in plaster for a child to unearth, as if at an archaeological site. When she laid them on the bed, she wondered how she was going to explain to Marilee's parents why she'd bought so many gifts for her, especially since she didn't get any for Joshua. Lindsay wasn't sure she could explain it to herself. She could deliver them, she thought, when she brought back Joshua's Spanish knife, all cleaned up. She could also fib and tell Marilee's parents they were on sale really cheap. She couldn't pass them up, but didn't know who she could give them to, and thought of Marilee. "That is stupid," Lindsay said aloud to herself. "I probably should just save them for Christmas and give them to Derrick's youngest brother." He was about the same age as Marilee and would enjoy them. The phone rang in the middle of her thoughts, and she picked it up.
"Just what the hell do you think you are doing?" The voice was so full of anger that for a moment Lindsay didn't recognize it.
"Kelley? Is that you?"
"What are you doing to my aunt? You have her thinking now that Ken may still be alive somewhere."
"What? I've done no such thing!" exclaimed Lindsay.
"No? Then why did the coroner of Ellis County call and explain to her that no matter what Dr. Chamberlain's suspicions, it was Ken's remains he had identified?"
"He did that? When?" asked Lindsay.
"About an hour ago," said Kelley
"He completely misrepresented what I said to him. I voiced no such suspicions."
"Then why did he call?" asked Kelley.
"I don't know. It was a very cruel, irrational, and unfounded thing to do."
"Then you really didn't tell him you doubted the identification of the bones?"
"Of course not," said Lindsay.
Kelly was silent for a moment. When she spoke she seemed calmer. "Aunt Grace doesn't know what to think."
"May I talk to her?"
"I don't want you to upset her further."
"I won't."
"Just a minute."
Grace Lambert came on the line. She did not seem as upset and confused as Kelley described, just puzzled. "Hello, Lindsay. Kelley told you about the strange call we got?"
"Yes, and I'm so sorry. When I talked to him, the identity of the remains was not an issue. I don't know why he thought it was." Lindsay suspected that simple paranoia on his part made him think he was hearing something different from what she was saying to him.
"I had kind of hoped-"
"I know. I asked him who identified the remains so that I could talk to them about any marks that might indicate what happened to Ken. As it turned out, I know the person well, and he is very competent. I'll talk to him, unless you would like me to stop altogether."
"No. Please continue. Please. I want to know everything I can find out."
"All right. Bear in mind, there may not be much to know."
"I know, but I'll have tried everything I could to find out what happened to Ken. I have to do that."
"Very well. I'll keep in touch."
The phone rang immediately, just as Lindsay hung it up. When Nigel said hello, she realized she had hoped it was Derrick.
"Lindsay, love. Great to hear from you. How about coming over to England? I'll take you over to Paris, and we can fly back to the States together."
"You're in England?" said Lindsay.
"Visiting the folks, catching up on my culture," he said.
"Sounds nice, Nigel. How are they?"
"Good as ever. You still seeing that Derrick fellow?"
"Yes."
"Rats."
"He's kind of mad at me at the moment."
"Great, there's hope. Why's he mad?"
"I kind of stood him up to do detective work."
"Uh, oh, I see his point already. You mentioned something about a Ken Darnell case?"
"Yes. Do you remember it?"
"Didn't do it."
"You didn't. But the coroner-"
"They contacted my office about it, but I wasn't available."
"Well, I wonder why Prescott said you did?"
"Probably knew I was out of town and couldn't deny it. I've worked with Tucker Prescott occasionally. We have a mutual dislike for each other. He's a paranoid beggar. Flunked out of med school and tells everybody it was the quota system that knocked him out-too many women and foreigners trying to be doctors these days, a man just doesn't stand a chance, it seems."
"He believes that?"
"I don't think he does, actually. I think he's just trying to save face, and that's a hot button for a lot of folks. Gets him sympathy."
"Do you know who identified the bones?" asked Lindsay.
"No, sorry, I don't."
"Sorry you had to call me all the way from England for nothing," she said.
"It's not for nothing when I get to hear your lovely voice. How about it? Paris is beautiful this time of year."
"It's tempting, but I'll have to pass." She heard Nigel sigh.
"I'll come to Knoxville sometime and take you out to dinner. Goodnight."
"I'll hold you to it," he said.
Lindsay thought briefly of calling Tucker Prescott at home and telling him what she thought of his lack of professionalism. But she could imagine his bureaucratic mentality concocting some paranoid reasoning, blaming her. It was best to ignore him.
Lindsay hung up and tried Derrick's number again. He didn't answer.
She would talk to Jennifer Darnell, then go to Derrick's site and forget about Ken Darnell. Lindsay put the gifts back in the sack and got ready for bed.
Piaquay looked out over the valley at the village of Chilhaxul. It appeared peaceful. He surveyed the landscape as far as lie could see from his high mountain perch and saw no sign of the coming Spaniards. He had left the trail of Calderon days before the Spaniard was to catch up to Pardo and took the trail to Chilhaxul. He had expected to arrive before them.
Chilhaxul was located at a bend in the river. From this vantage it looked much like his village, except for the seven mounds. Chilhaxul had enemies to the north and west, Piaquay knew. Evidence of this was the tall wall around the village made from timber covered with dried clay, guard towers, and a moat connected to the river surrounding all. Inside the wall the houses, the wall-less shelters, and the plaza were like those in his village. This would be a town the Spanish would like, for the soil was rich and corn grew well. Chilhaxul was the main village of at least eight other lesser villages. It was powerful. It was a good place for Piaquay to seek allies for his plan.
"Some have said they are turtles because they live inside a hard shell," said a young man sitting on his haunches, scraping the shaft of an arrow with a piece of flint.
"No," said another, taking one of his arrows, rolling it in his hands and looking down the shaft. "They are bears. They are lazy and have much hair covering their bodies. I've seen them."
"1 believe," said a younger man, sitting cross-legged, watching his fr
iends, "that they are Uktena or the water cougar. I have heard their odor is foul and they bring death. They sometimes walk on four feet and sometimes two."
"They are none of these things." The three young men looked up to see a stranger in their midst. "I am Tesca, brother of Piaquay of Calusa." He squatted down beside the youths. "The creatures you speak of are men. They come from a place where all men are hairy and wear metal to protect them in war. They stink because they do not bathe. They are men," he repeated. "They rule because they have the four footed beasts as servants, or they are the servants of the four footed beasts who rule. I do not know. They care for the beasts and feed them as an apprentice prepares and serves food to a warrior. The beast in return carries them on its back. When they fight on the back of the beast, they are invincible. When they fight on the ground, they are weaker."
"How do you know these things?" said the youth, who was straightening his new arrows.
"They came to our village, took our women and children, and said they would kill them unless we gave them much wealth. We did, but they killed them anyway."
"And you took revenge?" asked one of the youths.
"We're on a war party now."
"You're far from home," said another youth. "Can you not find them?"
"We can find them. They have to be approached with care. They have magic that can kill people from a distance." Tesca had the attention of the youths. They all sat down, cross-legged, to listen to the stranger. "They have two ways they kill from a distance. They have invisible warriors that they send to weaken a village. This sometimes takes many seasons. When a village is weak, they come and ask for food because they cannot feed themselves, nor can they hunt animals of the woods. Maybe they have to promise the beasts food to get them to carry them; I don't know. But when you give them corn, they also take the women and children. There is another weapon they use then. It is long and looks like a thick hollow reed. It's not a reed, though; it's made from something like copper, but harder and black. This weapon is so heavy, they cannot lift it and must support it with a stick stuck in the ground." Tesca showed the braves with gestures how they used the weapon. "When they command it, it vomits fire and smoke, spitting a gizzard stone made of itself. If this stone hits you, it rips the flesh like the point of an arrow and must be dug out. You either die or suffer much pain."
LC 02 - Questionable Remains Page 11
