Bones on Ice

by Kathy Reichs

  “Nepal.” Jesus. Why did I bother? “What about Damon James?”

  “Hard to say. Malle didn’t have a handle on James. Looks like Hallis kept her cards pretty close to her chest.”

  “They’re sure it wasn’t mismanagement? Gass said Hallis had no head for business.”

  “They claim their evidence is solid. Despite the Hallis name, the kid was facing prosecution. Question was when, not if.”

  “Where’s the money now?”

  “Hadn’t thought of poking down that hole.”

  Dead air.

  I slammed down the handset and rubbed my eyes. Which felt like someone had lit them on fire. Time to go.

  As I packed away the photos, bones, and cast, my gaze fell on the detached face pasted to the inside of the jar.

  Uh-oh, that tiny brain-corner voice whispered.

  What? Was I missing something? Or was it just fatigue?

  I viewed the flat, lifeless features through the liquid and glass. The boneless nose. The shriveled lips. The elongated ears.

  The tiny voice drew in its breath.

  The ears? I looked more closely.

  Sweet God in heaven!

  As before, I flew to my office. This time I pulled out an envelope and jiggled a photo out onto the blotter. A blond young woman smiled in the sunshine under an immaculate blue sky.

  I grabbed a lens and brought her face into focus.

  Son of a bitch!

  Fingers trembling, I logged onto the Internet and googled for more images of Brighton Hallis. Page after page popped up. I clicked through them.

  Son of a freaking bitch!

  In every shot in which her ears were visible, Brighton Hallis wore earrings. Studs mostly, but also loops and a few dangly numbers. It wasn’t her taste in jewelry that had my heart banging. It was the undeniable fact that Hallis had pierced ears.

  The mummy in the cooler did not.

  Back to room five. To the lightboxes. To every X-ray I’d made into hard copy. I stared at the pickup-sticks jumble that contained within it the record of Brighton Hallis’s youthful calamities.

  Or did it? I’d been so focused on cause of death, I’d neglected the question of ID. Taken it for granted. Violated my own first rule.

  Time to fix that.

  Pulling on fresh gloves, I picked up and studied ME215-15’s right ulna. Then I carried the bone to a magnifying scope, leaned into the eyepieces, and adjusted focus.

  At sixteen, Brighton Hallis broke her arm while racing BMX. I searched the entire shaft, looking for gross evidence of an old healed fracture. Saw none. Only damage that was recent and postmortem.

  My scalp tingled.

  At eighteen, Brighton Hallis jumped into a quarry, hit bottom, and cracked her heel. I repeated my actions with the calcaneus.

  No fracture line. No remodeling.

  I checked the X-rays Hawkins had taken. Not a hint of old injury on the foot or arm bone.

  I stood, eyes burning, the undeniable truth slamming home. The woman on the gurney in the cooler was not Brighton Hallis.

  —

  “What about DNA?” Slidell and I were back on the phone. The sports announcer was still sounding frenzied. Surprisingly, Skinny wasn’t taking off my head.

  “I’ll phone in the morning, plead extraordinary circumstances. But I doubt that’ll do any good. Fingerprints are a better bet.”

  “Call me when you have something. Tomorrow.” Slidell hung up.

  I drummed agitated fingers on my desk, recalling my earlier statement to Slidell. Five went up, four came down.

  Was it true? Was Brighton Hallis still on Everest? If so, who was the unnamed guest in our cooler?

  One candidate popped to mind right away.

  The mysterious solo climber of confusing South American origin. The woman last seen with Brighton Hallis? I checked my watch. Checked the Internet, source of all knowledge. Kathmandu was ten hours ahead of Charlotte. Morning. Business hours. I picked up the landline, already hearing Larabee’s lecture about fiscal restraint.

  Slidell was right about both the quantity of numbers and the switching required to reach a knowledgeable official in Nepal. I finally got one in Chitra Adhikari of the Nepal Ministry of Tourism, Mount Everest permit and statistics office.

  Chitra’s English was limited, but eventually we do-si-doed into useful territory. In 2012, his agency issued thirty permits to expedition teams comprising 325 climbers. A veritable conga line up the mountain. They also issued nineteen unguided, or solo, permits.

  “Can you fax me a list of those names?” I asked.

  Chitra could. “Two thousand twelve, very bad year. Eleven people die on Everest.”

  It took a lot of repetition and word searching, but in the end I learned that seventeen climbers were airlifted alive to Kathmandu that season. Only one on May 20, 2012. The day Brighton Hallis died.

  “Viviana Fuentes.” The name sounded odd with Chitra’s lilting accent. “Solo climber. Very sick.”

  “Did she survive?”

  “Big puzzle. Woman disappear.”

  “On the mountain?”

  “No. After. Helicopter fly woman to Kathmandu Medical College Teaching Hospital. So sick, carried on stretcher. Doctor arrives, patient is gone.”

  “She was dead?” Wanting to be clear.

  “No. She walk out.”

  “She could walk?”

  “Maybe she not so sick at lower elevation. This happens. Maybe she confused. This also happens. No one knows.”

  “Then, nothing?”

  “Not quite nothing.” I could almost hear his smile. “Chitra, he a curious guy. I call a friend in Immigration. Learn someone using Viviana Fuentes’s passport fly from Kathmandu, Nepal, to Santiago, Chile.” I heard paper rustle. A lot of it. Then, “That happen on June 5, 2012.”

  After thanking Chitra, I disconnected. Thought. Rubbed my temples. Thought some more. Then I hit the keyboard.

  The images weren’t as numerous, but they were there. Praise the Lord for social media.

  A woman smiled at a camera from the deck of what looked like an Alpine ski lodge. Her blond hair was a little shorter, her frame a smidge stockier. Otherwise, the resemblance between Viviana Fuentes and Brighton Hallis was startling. I clicked more images. The two could have been twins.

  I learned that Viviana Carmen Fuentes was born in Santiago, Chile, in 1987, a year before Brighton Hallis entered the world. She attended the University of Santiago and, after graduation, worked as an independent software consultant.

  I learned that Viviana’s resemblance to Brighton Hallis went beyond the physical. An avid climber since her youth, she’d attained brief notoriety at age nine as the youngest person to summit Ojos del Salado in the Andes. Viviana was taught to climb by her father, Guillermo Fuentes, an accomplished mountaineer in his own right. Fuentes Sr. died in a storm on Denali when Viviana was fifteen.

  I learned that a charitable website linked Viviana’s summiting endeavors to Alzheimer’s fundraising efforts in honor of her afflicted mother. Viviana’s Facebook page boasted that Everest would complete her Seven Summits. Surprisingly, the page went silent after 2012.

  I also learned that Viviana Fuentes was dead.

  Fuentes fell while attempting to summit Aconcagua, a mountain she’d successfully climbed in the past. The accident had taken place four months earlier.

  I don’t trust coincidence.

  A new series of Google searches yielded what I needed. I again checked the clock. Revisited the time conversion site. Mendoza, Argentina, was one hour ahead of EST. Far too late to call at that hour. And far too late for me to still be working.

  Frustrated and exhausted, I logged off the computer. I’d never hit so many twists in one case. As I drove home, questions swirled in my overwrought, overtired brain.

  Had Brighton Hallis swapped identities with Viviana Fuentes? Why? To avoid prosecution? Had the trade been made willingly? Was Viviana Fuentes the woman lying in my cooler? If not Fuentes, who?
And whom had the killer intended to put there?

  Chapter 10

  I was back at it early. Before making calls, I educated myself about Aconcagua. Located in Argentina, east of the Chilean border, the 6,900-meter peak is the tallest in the world outside the Himalayas. Though technically an uncomplicated climb, Aconcagua sees multiple casualties each year, and holds the dubious distinction of having the highest mountain death rate in South America. The most recently recorded was that of Viviana Fuentes.

  Aconcagua also happened to be one of the Seven Summits still on Brighton Hallis’s bucket list. A theory was congealing in my brain.

  “Couldn’t resist, could you?” I reached for my phone and dialed a lengthy string of numbers. Listened to a harsh international brrrrppp. “Had to make Daddy proud.”

  Another brrrrppp, then a woman answered speaking shotgun Spanish. “Centro de Visitantes de Aconcagua Parco Nacional.”

  I replied in Spanish, considerably more slowly.

  “Yes, please may I help you?” She shifted to flawless English.

  Fine. My Spanish was rusty. Taking the hint, I rolled with her and stated the reason for my call.

  “Let me find the dossier.” I heard the squeak of a drawer. Flipping. Shuffling. Actual paper files. “Ah yes, so tragic. Ms. Fuentes purchased an unguided, high-season Valle de la Vacas permit.”

  “Can you explain that?” Por favor.

  “Of course. The park has two entry points and multiple climbing options. Permit prices vary depending on the season and whether a trip is guided. Ms. Fuentes intended a solo ascent along the Direct Polish Glacier. It is our most difficult route.”

  “How difficult?”

  “The Direct Polish Glacier is secluded and significantly more challenging than the Ruta Normal. It has fifty- to seventy-degree snow and ice gradients requiring technical ice mounting skills, protection, and roped climbing. Few climbers choose this path. Ms. Fuentes did. Her résumé qualified her for such a permit.” More shuffling. “According to our records, she entered the park at Pampa de Lenas station on December twenty-eighth.”

  “How many others were on the mountain during the period of her climb?”

  This time keys clicked. “Three groups were up the Polish Glacier when Ms. Fuentes entered the park. We registered one other new climber that same day. An American. He ascended solo.”

  “Do you have the name of the other climber?”

  “I have aggregated data with numbers and nationalities. Individual permits are filed by name rather than date. To match them up requires hand-sorting through records.” She sighed. “If you leave contact information, I will phone you back.”

  I accepted her offer and provided my mobile number. “I’d appreciate the names of anyone summiting around the same time as Fuentes.”

  “According to the aggregate data, no one else checked in for the Polish Glacier until December thirtieth, when a German team began the trek up.”

  “The Germans found her body?”

  “No. When Ms. Fuentes didn’t return within an expected time, a ranger went looking. The German crew reported seeing a male climber descending solo, but never encountered Ms. Fuentes. It is presumed she perished shortly after summiting.”

  “Do I understand correctly? Rangers track the climbers?”

  “Formally, there is no monitoring on the mountain. Permits are valid for twenty days. Climbers are encouraged to carry radios. If concerns are raised, a ranger will deploy.”

  “In Ms. Fuentes’s case, concern was raised by…” I let the question hang.

  “Pace is dictated by weather and ability. Most climbers arrive at the park acclimatized and ready to proceed. From the ranger station at Pampa de Lenas, it’s a two-day trip up to base camp. It’s another day to Camp One, and another to Camp Two. Summit day, departing from Camp Two, should take no more than twelve hours.”

  I did the math. Nine to twelve days.

  “So the ranger went looking after two weeks?” I hazarded.

  “Exactly. He located the body on January sixteenth at an altitude of sixty-four hundred meters, in a deep channel. It appeared Ms. Fuentes had fallen to her death. The remains were retrieved and transported to authorities in Mendoza.”

  “How was identity confirmed?”

  “Identity was never in question.” Puzzled. “Ms. Fuentes was carrying her permit and her passport.”

  “Do you have the number of the Mendoza morgue?”

  I scribbled the information, hung up, and immediately punched in more digits. Minutes later I was connected to Dr. Ignacio Silva of the Cuerpo Médico Forense, Morgue Judicial. Again, I started in Spanish. Again the reply came in English. Well, muchas friggin’ gracias.

  “I remember the case.” Silva’s words were music to my ears. “It is a great pity when such a young woman dies.”

  “Can you describe Ms. Fuentes?” Barely breathing.

  “Caucasian female, blond, approximately one hundred and seventy-three centimeters in height.”

  More quick math. Sixty-eight inches.

  “Fit, no signs of disease or abnormality. Or course, there were significant injuries resulting from her fall. The drop was estimated to be a minimum of twenty meters.”

  “Did you take X-rays?”

  A moment of hesitation. When Silva spoke again, there was a very slight edge to his perfectly honed English. “Due to budgetary constraints, there are times when we must make difficult decisions. I deemed X-ray unnecessary in this case. It was clear to me that the victim had died as a result of a fall followed by exposure.”

  Shit.

  “Next of kin had no reservations?”

  “Sadly, there really were no next of kin. Ms. Fuentes had a mother who was institutionalized with advanced Alzheimer’s disease. But identity was never in question.” He paused. “We did take fingerprints, for our records, before cremating the body.”

  “Is there any way you could share those?” Masking my excitement.

  “Certainly. Provide an email address and I’ll send you images.”

  Silva was true to his word. And efficient. Minutes after we disconnected, my inbox pinged notice of an incoming message. I opened the file and took a quick look. Then I sat awhile. Thinking and sipping coffee.

  When that approach triggered no hundred-watt lighting up over my head, I pushed from my desk and went to make hard copy of the image Silva had sent. When the machine spit out its product, I checked the detail. Each dark little oval was full of loops or swirls or arches or whatever.

  On to autopsy room five. I looked at the cast. The isolated bones. The card showing the prints taken from the mummy in the cooler. I lay Silva’s prints next to those obtained by Joe Hawkins.

  Considered.

  Quick call to Blythe Hallis. Decision. I dialed Slidell to explain what was winging his way. And what I needed.

  “Get someone to run them through AFIS.”

  I was asking that the prints I was sending be input into the FBI’s Automated Fingerprint Identification System.

  “The guys in the lab ain’t gonna like it.”

  “Then you do it.”

  “What’re the chances she’ll be in the system?”

  “She could be.” It was a long shot, but I was hoping.

  “Eeyuh.”

  “Look, only law enforcement can submit prints to AFIS.”

  “No shit.”

  “Tell them it’s for me.”

  “That should do the trick.”

  It did. Or maybe it was Slidell’s captivating personality. Ninety minutes later I had my answer.

  I leaned back in my chair. Stunned. Not really believing.

  I’d learned from Blythe Hallis that Brighton had interned with the National Park Service during her college summers. And I knew the AFIS database includes prints of individuals employed by the federal government. My long shot had paid off. One of the candidate “matches” generated by the search was Brighton Hallis.

  Brighton Hallis had indeed perished atop a trea
cherous Seven Summit peak. But not on Everest. And not in 2012.

  Brighton Hallis had died four months ago on Aconcagua. She’d been autopsied and cremated under the name Viviana Fuentes.

  —

  More phone time with Slidell.

  “You’re saying Brighton Hallis offed Viviana Fuentes to steal her identity?” Slidell sounded as though I’d suggested the outlawing of soup.

  “The physical resemblance is remarkable. If they’d switched outerwear, it could easily fool the casual observer.”

  “I change jackets all the time. My ma still knows it’s me.”

  Skinny had a mother? I stored that away for future consideration.

  “Neither of the women encountered a KA after Brighton’s death.” I used cop lingo for known associate. “A woman wearing Viviana’s jacket was airlifted to Kathmandu and subsequently disappeared. A woman wearing Brighton’s jacket and gear was found by strangers, frozen to death. People see what they’re told they see. And in Viviana’s case there was no one to raise questions.”

  “What the flip does that mean?”

  “Her only relative was a mother with late-stage dementia. Fuentes worked as a software contractor for herself, alone, from home.” Slidell tried to interrupt. I rolled on. “And even if someone did raise questions, there was no body to exhume.”

  “How’d Hallis get Fuentes’s passport?”

  “Unguided climbers carry their own. Brighton probably helped herself when she switched gear.”

  “The two were pals?”

  “I found nothing to suggest they’d met before Everest. It could have been a crime of opportunity. Brighton saw her chance to start a new life with a new name and a cool million. Took it.”

  Slidell made that throat noise he makes.

  “That late in the day, they’d have been the only climbers foolish enough to remain that high up. It explains why Brighton loitered at Hillary Step, waiting for Fuentes.”

  “Not to help her, but to bash her.” Slidell was coming around. “So Hallis arranges to be alone up top with Fuentes, takes her down with an ice axe, cracks her skull, maybe twice, smashes her teeth, switches gear, and skips on down the mountain with a fake Spanish accent, a new name, and a feigned case of the dizzies.”