The Bone Code

by Kathy Reichs

  These terms were self-evident and suggested that the notes had to do with vaccine production. Made sense. The file was labeled InovoVax.

  The remainder of the text was much more cryptic.

  EBFV; CBFV; RFV; WHOGIS&RS; CVV; LAIV; FDA; CDC; HAs; CRISPR; baculovirus; neuraminidase; M2 ion channel; RNP

  Might CDC stand for Centers for Disease Control and Prevention? And FDA be Food and Drug Administration?

  Now I was getting somewhere.

  I knew that a baculovirus is a virus that infects invertebrates. Had Melanie been concerned about the health of worms?

  I was turning to the web when my phone rang. Sang.

  “I have a somewhat more enlightening rundown on Monsieur Murray.” The timbre of Claudel’s voice suggested a morning not going as planned.

  “Docteur,” I corrected.

  “As I mentioned earlier, le docteur has no dossier, though his traffic record is long and sullied. Apparently, the man has quite the leaden foot.”

  I didn’t correct his misuse of the idiom.

  “Murray was born here in ’sixty-seven, grew up in NDG.” Claudel used the nickname for Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, a middle-class residential neighborhood in Montreal’s predominantly English-speaking West End. “He attended public for primary, Loyola for secondary school. Then, apparently having higher aspirations, he went to study in the States.”

  “Where?”

  “Some place called Grinnell. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I have.”

  “Félicitations,” said Claudel. “He was awarded a doctorate at MIT in ’ninety-five, something to do with genes and immune systems. I phoned down there. The biology department has some eighty faculty members, but no one remembers a boy genius from Quebec. At least, no one with whom I connected.”

  “Who was his PhD adviser?”

  “A brainbox by the name of”—I heard rustling, pictured pages flipping—“Hao Jianghong. I think it was a male. Sacré bleu. Who knows with these—”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “He died in 2012.”

  “What did Murray do after leaving MIT?”

  “He went to work at”—more rustling—“The Whitehead Institute at the MIT Center for Genome Research. In Cambridge, Massachusetts.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Call me crazy, but I’m thinking genome research.”

  Easy.

  “Five years in Cambridge, then Murray returned to Canada to take the job with InovoVax,” I said.

  “Oui.” In Quebecois, it sounded like why.

  “Where does he live now?”

  “Laval.”

  “Any joy on the Lexus?”

  “No. But the province has many travail au noir garages. I’m unsure how to say that in English.”

  Claudel was referring to businesses in which the customer pays cash, is charged no tax, and the operator pockets the money.

  “Black market,” I said. “Will you stake out Murray’s home? Get eyes on his car?”

  Claudel made a noise in his throat, noncommittal. Taking this as encouragement, I described my efforts with Melanie’s notes. When I’d finished, Detective Delightful did something quite out of character. Without Taser prodding from me, he volunteered a suggestion. A good one.

  As before, I heard no goodbye, only the three abrupt beeps.

  I looked at the name I’d written. Figured what the hell? After googling, I dialed a 617 area code.

  “Department of Biology.” Clipped and efficient.

  “Dr. Alika Bangoboshe.”

  “Of course. But in future, you might find it more convenient to phone her direct line.” She provided a number. “One moment, please.”

  Two rings, then my call was answered.

  “Dr. Bangoboshe.”

  “Good morning.” I introduced myself, explained that I’d gotten her name from a Montreal PD detective and that I worked as forensic anthropologist for the main medico-legal lab in Quebec.

  “Forensic anthropology involves the skeleton, does it not?” High and pure, with a musical lilt that made me think of a flute.

  “I promise I won’t ask you about bones.”

  “Might be a welcome diversion from host-microbe and host-pathogen interactions.” She laughed. Yep. Flute all the way.

  Without going into detail on the container cases, I explained that I had a matter involving vaccines, maybe, and requested help in interpreting a document.

  “It sounds intriguing, but in ten minutes, I must teach a class.”

  “May I send you excerpts from a set of notes? Perhaps you could give the material a quick read, then ring me back?”

  A beat, then, “I’ll do what I can.”

  I spent time copying portions of Melanie’s notes into a Word document. Sent it off as an email attachment.

  * * *

  Bangoboshe was true to her word. She phoned back shortly after three.

  “I apologize for taking so long. Are you on faculty at a university, Dr. Brennan?”

  “UNC–Charlotte.”

  “Then you understand that students can sometimes be—” She searched for a descriptor.

  “They can,” I agreed.

  “And it took a while to get through your document.”

  “I apologize for that.”

  “I agree, the excerpts have to do with vaccines. Mostly.”

  I readied paper and pen. “Go on.”

  “Where to begin?”

  “Wherever you like.”

  “What do you know about vaccine production?”

  “Let’s assume nothing.”

  “First off, all commercially available vaccines in the U.S. are made by private-sector manufacturers. For influenza vaccines, each company uses one of three production technologies. I believe EBFV refers to egg-based flu vaccine, CBFV to cell-based flu vaccine, and RFV to recombinant vaccine. Do you understand the difference?

  “No.” Scribbling like mad.

  “The EBFV method has been around for more than seventy years and is currently the most frequently employed. It’s used to make the common flu shot, an inactivated or killed vaccine, and the live attenuated or weakened vaccine used in nasal sprays.”

  “How does it work?”

  “The process begins with the CDC or some accredited partner laboratory providing a private-sector company with what’s called a CVV, a candidate vaccine virus. The company injects these CVVs into fertilized hen’s eggs, then incubates them to allow time for replication. They then harvest fluid from the eggs, inactivate the viruses, and purify the antigen. Do you know what an antigen is?”

  “A protein that triggers the production of an antibody.”

  “Yes. So that’s the process for flu shots. For nasal sprays, the live attenuated influenza vaccines—”

  “LAIVs?”

  “Yes. The viruses are alive but weakened. Are you still with me?”

  “I am.”

  “You understand that I am greatly oversimplifying.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  A beat to appraise my response. Then, “The cell-based method is also used to make inactivated flu vaccines.”

  “The flu shot again.”

  “Yes.”

  “As with EBFV, CBFV production is multiphased. First, the CDC provides influenza viruses that have been grown in cells, not eggs. The manufacturer then injects the CVVs into cultured mammalian cells and allows them to replicate. The liquid is then collected, and the antigen is purified.”

  “The difference is the use of animal cells versus chicken eggs.”

  “Exactly. Recombinant flu vaccines are made synthetically and do not require a CVV. First, scientists obtain DNA, meaning genetic instructions, for making something called hemagglutinin, HA in your notes. HA is an antigen found on the surface of influenza viruses. It triggers the human immune system to create antibodies that specifically target that virus. Do you follow?”

  “I do.” I actually did.

  “The DNA for making
the flu virus HA antigen is then combined with baculovirus, a virus that infects invertebrates. The result is an RFV.”

  “A recombinant flu vaccine.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why baculovirus?”

  “Its role is to transport the DNA instructions for making the flu virus HA antigen into the host cell.” When I didn’t reply, “Once the recombinant virus enters an approved FDA host cell line, it gives instructions to produce HA. The antigen is grown in bulk, collected, purified, then packaged as flu vaccine.”

  “People get the flu shot, produce antibodies, and voilà! Immunity.”

  “Basically.”

  “Is there an advantage to the RFV method?”

  “Speed.”

  “Because it isn’t limited by the selection of viruses adapted for growth in eggs or by the time needed for the development of cell-based viruses.”

  “You are very astute, Dr. Brennan.”

  I scanned Melanie’s notes. Bangoboshe had clarified virtually every coded reference.

  “Can you comment on the terms neuraminidase, M2 ion channel, and RNP?”

  “They are parts of an influenza virus. Would you like me to explain?”

  “I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” I said. Definitely not, I meant.

  For a moment, the line went silent, then I thought of something I remained curious about.

  “What is WHOGIS&RS?”

  “Probably an abbreviation for the World Health Organization Global Influenza Surveillance and Response System. It is they, their partner labs, more precisely, who provide private-sector manufacturers with CVVs.”

  I was about to thank Bangoboshe when I recalled her earlier modifier.

  “What did you mean by ‘mostly’?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You said the notes were mostly about vaccines.”

  “There was one term whose presence puzzled me.”

  That term had puzzled me, too.

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  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 16–WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17

  “CRISPR.”

  “Why does that one term seem out of place to you?”

  “I don’t see its direct relevance to vaccine production.”

  I heard a voice in the background. The flute muffled as she responded, then was back.

  “I’m afraid I must go.”

  “Of course. I apologize for taking so much of your time.”

  I thanked Bangoboshe and asked that she keep our conversation confidential. She gave me her assurance, and we disconnected.

  I sat a while, assessing what I’d learned.

  Melanie was keeping a file on vaccine production. Nothing sinister, given her job at InovoVax. But why was she interested in CRISPR?

  I spent time surfing the web. My usual fallback when I could think of no other path forward.

  Flash thought. Do people still say “surfing” these days? If not, would Harmony Boatwright mock my use of outdated lingo? Would Katy?

  Suddenly, I missed my daughter terribly. Opening the Photos app, I brought up Katy’s most recent pic. How long ago had she sent it? Two weeks? Three? An eon?

  Wearing head-to-toe camo, Katy sat on a rock, endless blue sky brilliant overhead, arid desert stretching forever at her back. Her M4 carbine lay dark and deadly across her knees. Her helmet rested upside down by her boots.

  “Stay safe, baby girl,” I said to the empty room.

  Birdie rolled over.

  I wrote a long reply to Katy describing Hurricane Inara, Anne’s quest to crack the mystery of Polly Beecroft’s death mask, my ping-pong travels between Charleston, Charlotte, Nashville, and Montreal. I kept it light, mentioned nothing about the hit-and-run or Ryan’s injuries. Nothing about three women—two still teenagers—and a child slaughtered and stuffed into bins.

  After hitting send, I checked my in-box.

  There were ads from every business at which I’d ever made an online purchase. From charities soliciting donations. From people seeking my friendship on Facebook. From my neurosurgeon. From the MCME.

  After deleting the junk mail, I opened the message from my boss in Charlotte. Bones had turned up in a suitcase behind a Chinese restaurant in Gastonia. Nguyen wanted my take. Said the case wasn’t urgent. I composed a brief response, explaining that I was in Montreal and that I’d be back in town soon.

  I turned to Dr. Bernard’s message, certain of its contents. Yep. He wanted to schedule an MRI. Since my surgery for an unruptured cerebral aneurysm, I’d had to submit to the scans at regular intervals. Not my idea of a rollicking good time but a minor inconvenience given the alternative.

  When I’d finished with email, lacking a more creative idea, I returned to the web and began visiting sites devoted to influenzas, vaccines, and baculoviruses. Panning for gold?

  I googled InovoVax, Mélanie Chalamet, Melanie Chalmers, Arlo Murray. Learned nothing I didn’t already know.

  I was about to type in CRISPR when Birdie stretched, hopped from the table, and padded to the kitchen.

  The screen digits said six thirty, and the condo was dark.

  “You’re right, Bird. It’s my turn to cook.”

  After checking the larder, I decided on linguine with clam sauce, a green salad, and a warmed baguette. One of my old reliables. Plus, we had the ingredients. Things went reasonably well.

  Over dinner, Ryan described what he’d unearthed on Melanie Chalmers, in some cases using sources available only to law enforcement. I didn’t query his means of finagling access.

  “Did you find anything surprising?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  Ryan took a bite of salad. Chewed. Downed a long slug of Moosehead. Twirled a generous helping of pasta.

  I watched him.

  “This is delicious,” he said.

  I refused to be baited.

  Two more forkfuls, then, “The Massachusetts Department of Vital Statistics has a birth certificate on file for a Melanie Judith Chalmers. Born in Boston on March 22, 1969, the baby is described as a white female. The parents are entered as Verner and Patrice Chalmers.”

  My butter knife froze in midair.

  “A 1986 piece in the Boston Globe lists a Melanie Chalmers as one of that year’s honor graduates of the Boston Technical High School. In an online version of the yearbook, Melanie’s bio states her career goal as biochemist.”

  I was too stunned to respond.

  “Your mouth is open.”

  I closed it. Opened it to ask, “Is there a student pic?”

  “Apparently, Melanie skipped the bothersome senior photo bit.”

  “Does the bio say where she planned to attend university?”

  “No.”

  “Arlo Murray thought she had a degree. So did Florence Sorg.”

  “Am I the most talented and beguiling man you’ve ever laid eyes on?”

  I rolled those eyes.

  “In the fall of 1986, a Melanie Judith Chalmers enrolled on full scholarship at American University in Washington, D.C. She graduated in 1990 with a BS in biology and was accepted into a graduate program at—”

  Ryan slowly and carefully finished his pasta, laid down his fork, and dabbed his lips with his napkin.

  “I could hurt you,” I said.

  “In the fall of 1990, a Melanie Chalmers began graduate studies in molecular biology and genetics at Tufts University.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “Sadly, she dropped out after two semesters.”

  “Poor grades?” I asked.

  “Her transcript says otherwise.”

  I gave that some thought.

  “Ella must have been born in 1991. Perhaps the pregnancy forced Melanie to quit. Maybe the demands of motherhood.”

  “Perhaps the academic disappointment was what left her ‘bitter and unhappy.’ ” Ryan hooked quotes around the two adjectives.

  “If she was.”

  “Murray described her that way. Eisenberg didn’t refute it.”

  Unabl
e to disagree, I let it go.

  Instead, I asked, “Did you find anything on Melanie’s children, Ella and Lena? Their father’s name? Did they have the same father? Did she marry the guy? Guys? Is he still around?”

  “Take a deep breath.”

  I did.

  “Tomorrow I’ll float more queries for government documents, school registrations, whatever.”

  “Lena would have been born in 1999, maybe as late as 2000. If it was 2000, Melanie may already have been living in Canada. You found no birth certificate here.”

  “None. I’ll start with Massachusetts and D.C., but Melanie could have gone anywhere after dropping out of Tufts. Not knowing for sure the city or even the state, it may take a while.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments. I thought about Ryan’s findings.

  “Didn’t Sorg say Melanie worked for an outfit called HGP?”

  “Could start with that,” Ryan said. “Eat.”

  I did.

  “There’s more.”

  I stopped.

  “Verner and Patrice Chalmers died in 1992. Both death certificates bear the same date, and both categorize manner of death as undetermined. An obit in the Globe provides no detail concerning the circumstances of their passing.”

  “That’s not uncommon.”

  “No.” I heard an unvoiced but. Didn’t ask.

  “You found her, Ryan. I’m sure of it. Melanie Judith Chalmers must be our Melanie Chalmers. Mélanie Chalamet.”

  “One bitsy detail I haven’t mentioned. Melanie’s birth certificate provides her mother’s maiden name. Are you ready for it?”

  “I’m warning you, bucko.”

  “Patrice Sorg Chalmers.”

  “Holy hell! Everything fits.”

  “Like an Armani suit. Your food’s getting cold.”

  I ate some more linguine, my mind pinwheeling. I returned to Ryan’s opening comment.

  “You said something surprised you.”

  “In 2000, the screen fades to black.”

  “Meaning?” I asked.

  “Melanie Chalmers has absolutely no footprint after 2000.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Zero. Zip. Nada. Rien. There was no social media back then. Nevertheless, though meager, her early life left a trail. Her birth certificate, her parents’ death certificates, record of her high school graduation, the yearbook, the files at American University and Tufts. Once Melanie moved north, it’s as if she ceased to exist.”