Brian Decker, halfway through his slab of ribs, had been there on that prior occasion, eating exactly the same meal, I seemed to recall, of ribs, fries, and coleslaw. Beside him, Meffert picked at a chicken salad; he was still gaunt and haggard from his chemo, but he looked a hell of a lot stronger than he had at the FBI task force meeting a few weeks earlier. Meffert also, for that matter, looked more robust than the man seated on his left, Sheriff Jim O’Conner, who was clearly devastated by the death of Waylon.
The gathering felt momentous, but not celebratory. We had survived Satterfield’s onslaught—those of us gathered around the table had—and we’d narrowly averted a mass-casualty act of domestic terrorism. But the events of the past few weeks had been harrowing, and all of us, I felt sure, would carry scars—figurative or literal—for the rest of our lives. But we would heal, too, in part or in full, because the human body and the human heart are remarkably resilient. Case in point: In the space of a week, the gash Satterfield had raked down Miranda’s cheek had already shed its scab, leaving only a thin pink line, one that would steadily fade. My hunch—my hope—was that her scar would be gone by the time winter gave way to spring: roughly the same time, I suspected, that it would take for Satterfield’s unclaimed mortal remains—laid out at the Body Farm—to be reduced to bare bone. Satterfield would be an interesting addition to our forensic teaching collection: a robust male specimen, the postcranial skeleton unblemished, the skull marked by three holes: a small, circular entry wound in the frontal bone, a large, irregular exit wound in the occipital, and a two-inch hole in the left temporal bone—a signature fracture, I would explain to students, as I demonstrated how neatly and perfectly the hole meshed with the spherical head of the Arikara Indian femur that had punched through the thinnest part of the skull.
I tapped my knife on the side of my glass of iced tea. The subdued voices around the table fell silent, the faces turned toward me. I hesitated, knowing that my words would surely fall short of the momentous things that ought to be said. I cleared my throat, which was already constricting. “To all of you,” I began, “who showed such courage and perseverance in the midst of darkness and danger. To friends present, and friends absent.” I thought first, and mainly, of Waylon, but I also thought of Shafiq, the murdered young Egyptian, whose DNA the TBI had managed to match with the bones, and whose parents had been notified, perhaps sneeringly, by the authorities in Egypt. “To Waylon,” I said, “gentle giant, guardian angel, and fallen comrade. ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’ My family and I will always, always . . .” I stopped, unable to speak. Across the table, Jim O’Conner wept openly, unashamedly, and Miranda—seated on his left—stood up, moved behind him, and bent forward, enfolding him in a fierce hug.
I felt a hand take hold of mine and squeeze. I glanced to my right—at Peggy, smiling through tears—then took a deep breath to steady myself. “To Waylon,” I resumed, “who died, that we might live.” Around the table, glasses were raised and clinked in a toast, the name murmured softly all around, sounding rather like a collective “a-men.”
I took another breath, blew it out as a way of shifting gears. “Today marks a painful end, but also a new beginning. And so I have another toast to make, a happier toast. To Miranda, who defended her dissertation this morning—with such clarity and brilliance that for one brief shining moment, even I seemed to grasp the wonders and forensic capabilities of elliptic Fourier analysis.” The group laughed, no one harder than Miranda. I raised my glass high. “To my irreplaceable assistant, amazing colleague, and dear friend, off to a stellar career at the FBI. To Dr. Miranda Lovelady!” Miranda blushed and beamed, to the accompaniment of whoops, whistles, and clinking glasses.
To new beginnings, I silently toasted once more—thinking not just of Miranda’s job, but also of the sabbatical I had requested, and the leave of absence Peggy had been granted.
As if reading my thoughts, Peggy gave my hand another squeeze, and I gave her slender, capable fingers a hopeful answering squeeze.
—The End—
WRITER’S NOTE: ON FACT AND FICTION
THE OPENING CRIME IN THIS NOVEL—THE HORRIFYING fate of a young man chained to a tree, fed and kept alive for weeks or months as he paced in a circle, gradually wearing a path in the ground and a groove in the bark—is, we’re told, one that actually occurred. Not recently, and not as a hate crime, but as a revenge killing: a rural Southern father’s version of rough justice, the vengeance he took on a privileged young man who had raped his daughter. We haven’t yet confirmed the accuracy of the story, but we hope to.
What we can, alas, confirm, is a shrill polarization in American public discourse, along with a rise in hate speech, hate groups, and hate crime. After three years of declines, in 2015 the number of hate groups rose by 14 percent, according to the Southern Poverty Law Center, to a total of 892. Among the most worrisome increases: a 164 percent rise in white-supremacy Klan groups, from “only” 72 Klan groups in 2014 to 190 in 2015. At the other end of the spectrum, extremist black-separatist hate groups (not to be confused with Black Lives Matter activists, who advocate peacefully for justice and equality) also increased sharply, from 113 in 2014 to 180 in 2015. In a different category, yet one also marked by extremist ideology and talk of armed violence, antigovernment “patriot” groups and militias—such as the armed group that occupied a federal wildlife refuge earlier this year—increased from 874 in 2014 to 998 in 2015; more disturbingly, such groups have increased more than sixfold since 2008.
Not surprisingly, in the fertile soil of extremism—and with liberal applications of the fertilizer of hate speech—murders motivated by extremism flourished in 2015, rising to their highest level in years, with 52 killings by domestic extremists. These were roughly equally divided between jihadists and far-right extremists. At one end of the spectrum was the December 2015 murder of 14 people in San Bernardino, California, by two homegrown jihadists, a married couple. At the other end was the murder of nine African Americans at a Bible study group in Charleston, South Carolina, by a 21-year-old white supremacist and neo-Confederate. Tragically, 2015’s total was nearly equaled during a single mass shooting in June 2016, when a lone gunman pledging allegiance to ISIS killed 49 people at a gay nightclub in Orlando: an act that combined terrorism and hate crime on a horrific scale.
The picture is not entirely bleak. The FBI reports that hate crimes (including nonlethal assaults and incidents such as vandalism, harassment, and bullying) declined in 2014, the most recent year for which FBI statistics are available—for most target groups, including blacks, LGBT victims, and Jews. Still, Jews remain the largest group of hate-crime victims, accounting for 647 of the 1140 hate-crime victims the FBI tallied in 2014—an appalling 57 percent.
But while Jews remained the most prevalent victims, hate crimes against Muslims rose by 14 percent in 2014, according to the FBI, occurring at roughly five times the rate they did before Al Qaeda’s September 11, 2001, World Trade Center attacks. And in the wake of the deadly jihadist shootings in Paris and San Bernardino in November and December 2015, a further spike in anti-Muslim violence, harassment, bullying, and vandalism ensued, resulting in a tripling of anti-Muslim hate crimes for the year, according to a non-FBI study.
Another deadly act of domestc terrorism in late 2015 was the murder of three people at a Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado, gunned down by a self-described evangelical Christian who said he was doing “God’s work.”
To paraphrase, very slightly, a comment by one of this book’s characters: People have been hating and killing in the name of God—one God or another—ever since the dawn of religion.
It’s enough to give God a black eye, a bad rap, and some serious second thoughts about whether we humans were such a good idea after all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE BODY FARM SERIES BEGAN IN 2006, AND—IN the blink of an eye, seemingly—here we are, ten novels later. Fitting, then, we begin by thanking our pu
blishing family at William Morrow: publishers Liate Stehlik and Lynn Grady, executive editor Lyssa Keusch, assistant editor Rebecca Lucash, production editor Stephanie Vallejo, cover designer Richard Aquan, publicist Danielle Bartlett, and marketing guru Katherine Turro. These terrific folks, together with some who helped earlier and then moved on, have made it possible for us to tell more stories, and better stories, than we ever expected. We couldn’t have done it without them, and we’re deeply grateful.
We also couldn’t have done it without our literary agent, Giles Anderson, who took us on when all we had was an idea for a single book, and has been representing us and encouraging us ever since.
We are further grateful to many, many people in law enforcement, anthropology, social justice, the media, and other arenas of crime and punishment, of life and love, who helped us with this story.
Gordon Webster planted the seed of this story, in different form, years ago, while ferrying Jon Jefferson up the Tennessee Valley in the cockpit of a single-engine airplane a few thousand feet up. Many thanks to Gordon—and a word of warning to all: Be careful what you tell a writer!
FBI Executive Assistant Director (EAD) Michael Steinbach, head of the National Security Branch, provided tremendously helpful perspectives on counterterrorism. FBI media liaisons Ann Todd and Betsy Glick were gracious, helpful, and efficient in arranging the interview with EAD Steinbach.
Retired FBI Special Supervisory Agent James McNamara, a veteran profiler who helped us understand serial-killer psychology in our prior novel, Cut to the Bone, circled back to help us deal once more with serial killer Nick Satterfield. And former Special Agent Mike Brennan—who worked undercover to infiltrate domestic terrorist groups, and is now a fellow at the Brennan Center for Justice at New York University—explained the far right’s little known but systematic creation of “lone wolf” terrorists in recent decades.
ATF Special Agent Michael Knight—public information officer and certified explosives specialist—was extraordinarily generous with his time and expertise, going many extra miles to arrange a research visit to the ATF laboratory—the National Center for Explosives Training and Research—in Huntsville, Alabama.
Lieutenant Keith Debow, commander of the Knoxville Police Department’s remarkably equipped and highly trained SWAT team, shared his time, expertise, and encouragement with astonishing generosity.
The Southern Poverty Law Center—Laurie Wood, especially, along with Heidi Beirich, Keegan Hankes, and Richard Cohen—provided cooperation, information, and inspiration beyond all deserving. Laurie’s courage in researching hate groups is matched only by her gameness in agreeing to be (loosely) fictionalized in this book.
Forensic ace Amy George, as usual, gave invaluable insights into crime-scene evidence. Emergency physician Charlie Hartness, MD, was generous with both medical information and musical inspiration. Robin Catmur guided us cheerfully through the labyrinth of international education, student visas, and privacy regulations.
Beth Haynes and WBIR-TV were game and gracious, as ever, in allowing Beth to be the bearer of the bloody news of Satterfield’s escape. Beth is a good sport, an admirable television journalist, and a messenger we would never, ever shoot! Another good sport—as well as a terrific facial-reconstruction artist—is Joanna Hughes, who cheerfully agreed to a clay-intensive cameo.
Our spirited wives, Carol Bass and Jane McPherson, have supported us—some might say “borne with us”—through far more books, and far more book tours and signings, than any spouses should have to, and for that, as well as an infinitude of other mercies, we are most grateful.
A passel of other anthropologists—forensic, molecular, and biological—provided crucial technical insights, as well as collegiality and friendship. Heartfelt thanks to Drs. Graciela Cabana, Richard Jantz, Angi Christensen, Tony Falsetti, Kate Spradley, Amy Mundorff, and Bridget F.B. Algee-Hewitt.
Last but most important of all: Our readers and fans never cease to amaze us. If only we could complete books as quickly as you can! Your enthusiasm and encouragement—your calls for more and more and more!—have sustained us lo these many years, inspiring us to do more than we ever imagined. It’s been an astonishing privilege.
We’ve ended this book by giving Dr. Bill Brockton a well-earned sabbatical. And now, in the blurring of fact and fiction that have always been a hallmark of the Body Farm novels, we’re granting Jefferson Bass a sabbatical, too. It’s been our aim to instruct and delight; to make you laugh and cry; to make you root for justice and rage against cruelty, abuse, and narrowness of mind and heart. If we’ve succeeded in those aims, we’ve done a good decade’s work. And we’ve had a fine time doing it.
Thank you, and bless you.
Jefferson Bass
Jon Jefferson
Dr. Bill Bass
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEFFERSON BASS is the bestselling writing team of Jon Jefferson and Dr. Bill Bass. Bass, a world-renowned forensic anthropologist, is the creator of the University of Tennessee’s Anthropology Research Facility—the “Body Farm”—and the author of the memoir Death’s Acre. He was honored as U.S. Professor of the Year by the Council for Advancement and Support of Education. Jon Jefferson is a veteran journalist, writer, documentary filmmaker, and the coauthor of Death’s Acre. Bass lives in Knoxville, Tennessee, and Jefferson lives in Athens, Georgia.
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ALSO BY JEFFERSON BASS
Fiction
The Breaking Point
Cut to the Bone
Jordan’s Stormy Banks
The Inquisitor’s Key
Madonna and Corpse
The Bone Yard
The Bone Thief
Bones of Betrayal
The Devil’s Bones
Flesh and Bone
Carved in Bone
Nonfiction
Identity Crisis
Beyond the Body Farm
Death’s Acre
CREDITS
Cover design by Richard L. Aquan
Cover photograph © Roy Bishop / Arcangel
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WITHOUT MERCY. Copyright © 2016 by Jefferson Bass, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Photograph by Jeff Baumgart/Shutterstock, Inc.
ISBN 978-0-06-236319-0
EPub Edition October 2016 ISBN 9780062363220
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