by Kathy Reichs
“Guy looked like a hemorrhoid gone bad.” Claudel’s smirk made me want to smack it from his face.
“It’s nice to know someone is grieving for Rupert,” I said, recalling the cavalier attitude of his coworkers.
“Heartwarming.”
I glared at Claudel.
“The ladies told us Rupert died on a Monday morning on his way to work.” Charbonneau, the peacemaker. “Normally, he’d return to the trailer park Sunday night, but it was Easter, so he stayed over.”
“What do they say happened?” Ryan asked.
“Same as the police report. The old man swerved off the road and hit a tree.”
“So Agnes will probably get the insurance money.” Ryan ran a hand down the good side of his face. Sighed. “But why the four-year delay in asking for it?”
Seeing that Ryan was fading, I tried to move the conversation along. “How is all this relevant to finding the jerk who blasted Ryan?”
“Breaking news.” Claudel waggled both hands in the air. “Rupert got the policy through work, and Agnes had no idea.”
“No shit?” Ryan perked up. “Who filed?”
“Sonny boy.”
“Zeke?”
“Ezekiel Hoag. Agnes’s pride and joy from a previous marriage.”
“Zeke found out about the coverage and filed the claim without telling his mother?” Ryan sounded incredulous.
“He did.”
“That was wishful thinking. Zeke wasn’t a named beneficiary and not a relative of Rupert. No way he could collect. Still, why wait four years?”
“I’ve only started looking into this shitbird. But when we ran Zeke’s name, a very hefty sheet came back. Listing, among other achievements, a nickel bump for vehicular homicide.”
“Holy crap,” I said.
“Holy crap,” Ryan said.
“At the Northwest State Correctional Facility,” Charbonneau added. “In Swanton, Vermont.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “The claim was filed after Zeke got out?”
Claudel and Charbonneau both nodded.
“Tabarnac!” Ryan was struggling to wrap his battered head around this development. Frankly, so was I.
“Was Zeke into white-collar crime?” I asked.
“No. But his cellmate in Swanton was a guy named Roger Carnegie. Carnegie was doing time for embezzlement and money laundering.”
Everyone took a moment to digest that. Ryan spoke first.
“You think Zeke saw me as an impediment to profiting from his stepfather’s death? He learned I was sniffing around and decided to take me out?”
“That’s our current thinking.”
“That plays,” Ryan said, nodding slowly.
“Like a hooker on a stroll,” Claudel agreed.
* * *
Lizzie Griesser called two days later. I thanked her for the DNA phenotypes and reproductions. Then, barely breathing, I listened to her latest report.
“I received a sample for each of your Charleston vics.”
“Yes.”
“A femur from the older kid, a femur and some tissue from the younger.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“Despite the lengthy immersion in salt water, each was in pretty good condition. And you won’t believe this.”
“Try me.”
“Seems impossible, but traces of dried blood were preserved deep within the medullary cavity of the younger victim’s bone.”
“Enough to do an SNP genotype?”
“Damn tooting.”
“Enough to do a forensic genealogy analysis?”
“Enough to try.”
“Do it.”
Long silence. When Lizzie spoke again, she was clearly uncomfortable.
“Much as I’d like to, Tempe. I can’t slip another one through off the books.”
“I understand. How much?”
She quoted a price. A high one.
I didn’t hesitate.
“If the coroner won’t authorize funding, I’ll pay for the testing.”
“Good enough for me.”
Over the next few days, temperatures in Quebec went polar. Everyone commented on the unseasonable cold. In both languages. The French were particularly creative. Un froid de canard. Duck cold. Un vent à écorner les bœufs. A wind to dehorn the oxen.
Ryan and I stayed home and ordered a lot of takeout.
The world slowly rotated on its axis.
He healed.
I waited.
19
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 9
Dr. Aubrey Sullivan Huger.
It had been so long I’d stopped counting the days. And now there it was. A name. A link.
“Repeat that.” Grabbing pen and paper from the counter.
Lizzie did. “Dr. Aubrey Sullivan Huger.”
“The younger Charleston vic is related to Huger?”
“Don’t have a thrombo.”
Lizzie was right. Her news had me wired to the next galaxy and back.
“Sorry.”
“She is,” Lizzie said.
“What about the older vic?”
“There was too little DNA to do an SNP genotype. Also, forget about radioisotope testing on either.”
“Damn.”
Silence.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled.”
“Could have fooled me.” Prickly.
“It’s just that the older girl is related to my Montreal vics, so info on her could have blown the whole thing wide open.”
“It is what it is,” Lizzie said, a little edge to her voice.
“What do you know about Huger?”
“Nada.”
“He’s alive?”
“I don’t have the genealogist’s report in front of me. I called with the name knowing you’d be eager to hear.”
Eager was an understatement. “How is Huger related? Father? Brother? Cousin?”
“I think the genealogist said third cousin at the closest. Or something. But you’ll have to talk to him.”
“Where does Huger live?”
“Genealogist.”
“Is Huger a physician? What does he do for a living?”
“Are you listening to me?”
I drew a deep, calming breath. Exhaled. Poised pen over paper.
“What’s the genealogist’s name.”
“Bando Slug.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“How do I contact him?” Jotting Slug’s name below Huger’s.
Lizzie gave me a number. “Don’t expect a warm reception.”
“Meaning?”
“The guy’s personality tallies with his name.”
“Thank you thank you thank you,” I said.
“You are welcome. Thrice.”
As soon as we’d disconnected, I punched in Slug’s number.
“Hello. You’re hearing this because I’m probably trying to avoid you. Leave as brief a communication as possible.”
A beep sounded. Another followed shortly after the first, truncating most of my message.
I called back and, speaking shotgun, left only my name and number.
I was dialing Vislosky when Ryan wandered into the kitchen. He was featuring a retro crew cut, and it didn’t look bad.
I disconnected.
“What was that all about?” Ryan asked.
“Lizzie’s genealogist got a hit. Or whatever they call it.”
“Calm down.” Noting my agitation.
“A man named Huger,” I said. “A distant cousin.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
“What do you know about him?”
“His full name is Aubrey Sullivan Huger. He’s a doctor of some sort.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You should speak to the genealogist.”
“He’s not taking calls.”
Ryan inclined his head toward my laptop. “Do what you do so well, buttercup.
”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll run the name. Shot in the dark, but maybe he’s in some database.”
I raised a hand. Ryan high-fived it.
* * *
Within two hours, I had a sketchy picture of Dr. Aubrey Sullivan Huger. Or, more correctly, of his public persona as reflected on Google and the other search engines I used.
I was still at it when Ryan reappeared. Not sure where he’d been.
“Anything pop?” I asked.
“Nada. The guy’s clean. At least, in Canada. Did Vislosky run him?”
“I was so caught up here I forgot to call her.”
“She won’t like that.”
“Nope,” I agreed, feeling a bit guilty.
“Did you find him?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Joining me at the table, Ryan leaned back and assumed a listening expression.
“Huger goes by Sullie.”
“Of course he does.”
“I found quite a few articles about him. Most include the words ‘genius’ and ‘brilliant’ somewhere in the text.”
“Genius at what?”
Picking up my semi-shorthand notes, I cherry-picked highlights.
“Huger was born in 1964. Earned two PhDs from UNC–Chapel Hill in 1990 and 1991.”
“At the ripe old age of twenty-six.”
“Yep.”
“In what?”
“Biochemistry and software engineering.”
“So the guy’s no dummy.”
“I told you. He’s a genius.”
“And brilliant.”
“Right out of grad school, Huger went to work for the Human Genome Project, which was just starting up.”
Ryan looked a question at me.
“You’ve not heard of it?”
“Heard, yes. Taken notes, no.”
“The goal was to sequence the whole human genome and identify all the genes it contains.”
“Ambitious.”
“It was.”
“Who ran it?”
“The National Institutes of Health and the U.S. Department of Energy coordinated, but the effort was international in scope.”
“Did they succeed?”
“The project finished in 2003, two years ahead of schedule.”
“A blueprint to build a human being. I’d score that as a win.”
I hadn’t thought of it quite that way. “A big one. Better understanding of the functions of genes and proteins is having an enormous impact on medicine and biotechnology.”
“But we digress.”
“We do.” More triaging. “Huger left the project in 1995 to take a position at GlaxoSmithKline, also known as GSK.”
“Big pharma. Suppose he was lured by the bucks?”
“Who knows? But given that Huger was a biochemistry wunderkind, I suspect the offer was substantial.”
“Can one still qualify as a wunderkind at age thirty-one?”
“I think so.” Skimming. “Huger was also an entrepreneur. In 1999, he launched a company called GeneMe.”
“Purveyors of blue jeans?” Ryan deadpanned.
After giving Ryan “the look,” “GeneMe was one of the very earliest DTC genetic testing companies.” Even as the words left my lips, I sensed I was coming across as a genetics know-it-all. How did that happen? A month ago, I couldn’t have cited more than a few facts on the topic.
“DTC?”
“Direct-to-consumer. In the early days, they did paternity testing and such. In 2000, the company won some sort of invention of the year award. Looks like users were supposed to submit DNA to trace their ancestors.”
“Mine would arrow straight back to one of the Louises. Maybe all of them.”
My eyes rolled without input from me.
“Is GeneMe still operating?” Ryan asked.
“No. At some point, it morphed into GeneFree.”
“Tabarnac! The jeans are free?”
“The GeneFree website is still active.”
“Where does the boy genius live?”
“I found almost zilch on his personal life. And not that.”
“Doesn’t everyone on the planet have a Facebook page?”
“You don’t.”
“Because I have you.” Choirboy grin.
“Huger has zero presence on social media. No personal website. No Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter account. Though he could tweet using any handle.”
Ryan thought a moment. “Huger earned his doctorates at the University of North Carolina?”
“He did.”
“GlaxoSmithKline has facilities all over the country. Where did Huger work for them?”
I checked my notes.
“Zebulon, North Carolina.”
“And where is GeneFree based?”
It took me another few seconds on Google.
“Charleston.”
Ryan and I looked at each other.
“Looks like Sullie may be a Carolina boy.”
“Time to call Vislosky?” Ryan asked.
“Past time,” I said.
Before dialing, I sat a moment studying one of the many images the World Wide Web had happily supplied. In the shot, Huger sat at a microscope, test tube held high in his gloved left hand. A blue lanyard looped his neck, its ID badge tucked into a lab-coat pocket, unreadable.
Huger looked like half the fifty-something men in Dixie, with standard-issue gray hair sweeping his forehead and curling behind his ears. A trim build suggesting hours in a gym. A deep tan suggesting days on beaches, ski slopes, or golf courses.
Bottom line. Huger resembled a gracefully aging tennis coach rather than a lab rat.
I hit speed dial. Vislosky answered in her usual brusque manner.
“Vislosky.”
“It’s Temp—”
“I know.”
I told her about Lizzie’s call.
“Bando Slug?”
“That’s his name. And Aubrey Sullivan Huger.”
“Gimme a few.”
The line went dead.
An hour and a half later, Vislosky called back.
“Other than traffic tickets, Huger’s clean. He’s involved in some philanthropy, donates to about a half-dozen charities.”
“Does Huger live in Charleston?”
“I found an address on James Island. A local number, possibly a mobile.”
“Where does he work?”
“He’s self-employed, runs his own internet companies.”
“GeneFree?”
“Yeah, that’s one. And others. One’s some sort of bullshit holistic food operation.”
“What now?”
“I’ll drive out there, ask about the kid.”
“I have a better idea. Invite him to the station.”
“Why?”
“I can observe via Zoom.”
A hitch, then, “I might consider it, seeing as you found the guy.”
“What reason will you give him?”
“I’ll think of one.”
“And if he won’t come to you?”
“He will.”
I didn’t doubt that for a second.
“Could be the breakthrough we need,” I said.
“If not a breakthrough, at least it’s a crack.”
20
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 10
Vislosky had placed a laptop on the far side of a two-way mirror. Before joining Huger, she’d emailed me a Zoom link. Not sure of the legality of that, but I didn’t ask.
The image was shadowed, the sound hollow and staticky. Still, the feed was good enough to provide a sense of Huger and to follow the conversation.
The interview room resembled scores of others I’d seen over the years. Cinder-block walls. Tile floor. Scarred gray metal table, three metal chairs. Wall phone. Recording equipment high up in one corner.
Huger was seated at the table wearing an ecru linen blazer over a pink knit shirt with a perky palm tree emblem on his left chest pocket
, tan chinos, and loafers. No socks. Passing time with his iPhone, he seemed surprisingly relaxed for a guy called into a cop shop.
Huger looked up when the door opened. Even with the lousy feed, I could tell that his tanned face was far too smooth for a man of fifty-seven. He’d obviously had work done. And done well. Groomed and plucked brows curved above very blue eyes. I couldn’t tell if the startling turquoise was the real deal or courtesy of tinted contact lenses.
“Thank you so much for coming in.” Vislosky was uncharacteristically pleasant. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It’s no problem at all, detective.” Huger’s vowels were as thick as day-old grits. “Though I must admit I’m baffled.” Baffled smile.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you for offering.”
Huger watched Vislosky cross the room, take the chair opposite his, and place a mug and a file folder on the table. Then his eyes rose to the video camera.
“Will you be recording our conversation?”
“Would you prefer that I do?”
Huger flapped a hand, the gesture balletic in its fluidity. “What’s all this about? Safety at my place of business?”
“No, sir. It’s nothing like that.” Vislosky sipped her coffee, then cocked her head in satisfaction. “Gotta have that jolt in the morning. Are you certain you don’t want a cup?”
Huger shook his head. Certain.
“It’s doctor, right?”
“It is. But there’s no need for formalities.”
“Doctor of what?”
“Biochemistry and software engineering.”
“Impressive.”
Huger gave a small, humble shrug.
“Did you know, doctor”—she raised her mug in tribute to the titles—“that the number of hate crimes in our state has skyrocketed recently? That several transgender women of color have actually been killed?”
“That’s mighty sad.” Huger’s friendly expression rearranged into one of concern. “But how does that involve me?”
“The CPD is launching a safe-place initiative. No points for originality. The idea originated with the Seattle PD.”
“I see.”
“We’re asking local business owners to display stickers indicating that they offer safe havens for LGBTQ residents who might feel threatened.”
