Speaking in Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “NFJ syndrome is a genetic condition, inherited as an autosomal dominant.”

  “So if a parent has it, each child has a fifty percent chance of inheriting.”

  “Yes. People with NFJ syndrome sweat very little or not at all, so hot weather and intense physical activity are not well tolerated. An affected individual may have dark spots on the abdomen, chest, or neck. Sometimes around the mouth and eyes. The discolorations are lattice-like in patterning, and tend to appear between the ages of one and five. They may fade during the teen years or persist for life.”

  “I see the abnormal pigmentation.” Larabee, still eyeing Edward Gulley. “Reticulate.” Referring to their netlike appearance.

  “Other symptoms include thickening of the skin on the palms of the hands and soles of the feet, brittle fingernails, and, less frequently, nails that are poorly aligned on the big toes.”

  “Check all of those boxes.”

  “Dental anomalies are common, including missing teeth, yellowed and spotted enamel, early cavities, and early tooth loss.”

  “I see all of that. But to conclude that—”

  “Another defect associated with NFJ syndrome is absence of fingerprints.”

  The brows V’ed up. “Oh.”

  “The thumb and fingertip from the Burke County overlook had no prints.”

  “What’s the population incidence of NFJ syndrome?”

  “It’s estimated to be one in two to four million.”

  “Pretty good odds.”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s likely Mason Gulley’s head was in that bucket.”

  “Yes. The fine blond hair from the swabs. Witness statements that Mason was odd. Grandma Gulley’s assertion that he was unnatural. The death mask resemblance to the photos of Edward Gulley. The lack of prints on the pine tar fingertips, assuming they’re his. It all points to NFJ. Thus, to Mason.”

  “So all the other remains found so far are his?”

  I raised both palms. “All the bones are consistent in terms of age and body size. There are no duplications. I can’t say they’re all from the same person. I can’t say they aren’t.”

  “Will a maternal Gulley relative provide a DNA sample?”

  “Not a chance with Grandma. Susan Grace is a minor.”

  Larabee considered. “So it’s still possible parts of Cora Teague were also recovered.”

  “Or someone else.”

  “I’m sensing you don’t think so.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You know it’s not enough.”

  “I know.”

  “We won’t be giving an NOK notification.”

  “No.”

  Larabee drummed reflective fingers on the arm of his chair. “It’s pretty clear Gulley was murdered.”

  “His head was in a bucket.”

  “Any thoughts on that?”

  I shared Susan Grace’s comments on Cora Teague, the fatal “fall” of her brother Eli, the SIDS death of the Brice baby. Then asked, “Who was the ME up there back then?”

  “Avery County has a coroner,” Larabee said.

  “Great.” Unlike medical examiners—doctors in most, though not all, cases in North Carolina—coroners could be anything from a mechanic to a mortician.

  “Not sure who the wise voters had in office in 2008 or 2011. Let me look into it.”

  “What’s up with Strike?” I asked as Larabee jotted a note.

  “Haven’t heard word one from Slidell.”

  “He planned to interview Wendell Clyde this morning.”

  “The battle of the websleuths.” Larabee gave a tight shake of his head.

  “The Internet exchanges between Strike and Clyde were vicious.”

  “Shall we make Skinny’s day?” Leaning forward to punch keys on his phone. Two rings, then “Slidell.”

  “Tim Larabee here.”

  “Can’t talk, Doc. I’m at a scene.” Racket carried through the speaker. A slammed door. The distant wail of a siren. Agitated voices.

  “How about a quick update on Hazel Strike?”

  “That soap opera just took a new twist.” We waited as Slidell barked an order at someone. “I’m in a condo off Carmel Road, looking at a whole lot of brains on a wall. Selma Barbeau, seventy-two, Caucasian female, widowed, living alone. Some bastard rearranged her face with the Brooklyn Smasher she kept by her bed for protection.”

  Larabee’s eyes met mine. “Barbeau was murdered with a baseball bat?”

  “Eeyuh.”

  “You think it’s the same guy who killed Hazel Strike?”

  “Naw, Doc. Widow ladies get bludgeoned on my beat all the time.”

  I scribbled a name and raised the paper for Larabee.

  “Have you interviewed Wendell Clyde yet?” he asked.

  “Clyde’s cooling his heels downtown. Not looking good as our doer anymore, but a little sweat’ll improve his attitude.”

  I congratulated myself for not commenting on Slidell’s contradictory imagery.

  Back in my office, I was about to hit speed dial on my iPhone when the thing vibrated in my hand. Unidentified caller. Not sure why, but I answered.

  “Hi, Mom. This has to be very brief.”

  “Oh, God. Katy! I’m so happy to hear your voice.” She sounded a million miles off. I pictured her in a call center, an M16 slung over one shoulder, a line of soldiers waiting at her back.

  “How are you? Is everything okay? Do you need anything? I can send a package.” So fast I was almost babbling.

  “I’m good.”

  “How’s Afghanistan?”

  “Perfect today, better tomorrow.”

  “Funny. Is it still cold?”

  “We hit eighty degrees yesterday.”

  “You’re sure you don’t need anything?”

  “Mom, I’m good. My unit is moving out. I just wanted to call and say hi.”

  “Moving out?” Calm.

  “No big deal. But it may be hard to phone for a while.”

  “A while?” Absolutely calm.

  “Not long. Anything new on the home front?”

  I’d told Mama. It seemed only fair to tell Katy. And prudent. “Andrew Ryan has asked me to marry him.” I didn’t add that he’d done it months ago.

  A splinter of a pause, almost unnoticeable. Then, “And?”

  “I haven’t given him an answer.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you love the guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why are you stalling?”

  “I wouldn’t call it stalling.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Thinking.”

  “Are you still skittish because Dad burned you?”

  “No.” Yes.

  “It was a dick move, but that doesn’t mean Ryan will cheat.”

  “No.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Go for it.”

  “That was quick.”

  “Someone has to be. Does Grandma know?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Go for it.”

  “Gotta love Daisy.”

  “Mmm. Have you talked to your dad?”

  “I’m going to call him now. So I should go. Love you!”

  “Love you, too, sweetheart. Stay safe.”

  “Always.”

  She disconnected.

  I took a moment to come down. Then, feeling a mix of elation and alarm, which I carefully hid, I phoned Ramsey.

  Like Slidell’s, Ramsey’s voice came riding a tumult of sound. He was also mopping up after violent death. His encounter involved a Buick, a Bronco, and a bottle of Jack D.

  Over the intermittent sputtering of his radio, I told him about Mason Gulley. And about Slidell’s new theory concerning Hazel Strike. Ramsey must have picked up on something in my voice.

  “You’re not buying that Strike’s murder is unre
lated to what’s gone on up here? To her investigation into Cora Teague?”

  “No.” A sudden thought struck me. “I think Strike was in Avery County last Saturday. When we were together in Burke, she had issues with you. Do you suppose she could have sent that boulder our way?”

  “Why?”

  “To distract us? Because we pissed her off? Because she was crazy?”

  “Or could Wendell Clyde be our guy? Maybe thinking Strike was down there with us?”

  Always questions. Never answers.

  “Any success with the impressions?” I was referring to the hollow vacated by the rock.

  “Tool mark guys are saying crowbar.”

  “Any particular kind?”

  “No.”

  Great. That narrowed the possibilities to roughly ten zillion.

  “The Devil’s Tail bucket definitely contained Mason Gulley’s head,” I said, as much to organize my own thoughts as to continue briefing Ramsey. “And I’m sure the Burke County thumb and fingertip were his. That suggests that the original torso bones from Burke are also Mason’s. Which leaves only the Lost Cove Cliffs material.”

  “You hear back from the WCU prof on that?”

  “No.”

  We both waited out a loud burst of static. Ramsey must have turned down the volume, because the crackling grew more muted.

  “So someone cut this kid up and tossed his body parts from at least two, maybe three overlooks.”

  “Looks that way,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “I’m not liking what I’m hearing about Cora Teague. Dead sibling. Dead baby. The she-devil ref.”

  “Killer, not vic.” Ramsey’s tone suggested he’d been dipping his toe in the same murky waters.

  “Maybe we’ve been going at it all wrong.”

  I heard him inhale deeply. Exhale. “What do you propose?”

  “I’ll try again to contact the anthropologist who did the analysis on the Lost Cove Cliffs remains. I’ll also phone our DNA folks to see if they’ve had any luck sequencing anything. I’d sure as hell like to know if we’re looking at a single victim.”

  “And on my end?”

  “How about we meet in Asheville first thing tomorrow?” I said. “Have a chat with the Brices.” A return to the mountains was the last thing I wanted right then. Though, mercifully, Asheville was a quicker drive from Charlotte than the trek to Avery County.

  “Roger that.”

  A second, then Ramsey read off an address. I wrote it down.

  “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can dig up on the Brice baby’s death. The more info we have, the better we can press them.”

  “And maybe look into Cora Teague’s health issues,” I suggested.

  “You know how that will go.”

  I did. Cora was a minor. No one would reveal squat about her medical history.

  “Be clever,” I said.

  “Deputy Devious. Going ten-eight.”

  Dead air.

  I wasn’t sure the meaning of Ramsey’s code. But I liked the guy more with each interaction.

  I phoned the DNA section. Was told the person running the samples, a tech I didn’t know named Irene Trent, was out to lunch. I requested a callback.

  The conversation reminded me I’d eaten nothing since a bagel at seven that morning. The clock now said two-fifteen.

  Quick trip to the staff lounge. I zapped a frozen burrito. While downing it with a Diet Coke, I tried Ryan. Again got voice mail.

  For a second I saw Ryan’s face, softly shadowed in the yellow porch light. In my mind I heard his stumbling proposal. We hadn’t spoken in days. Why wasn’t he returning my calls?

  A pinprick of fear. Had I waited too long? Had he changed his mind about wanting me to come to Montreal? About wanting me at all?

  I spent the next hour photographing the bust of Mason Gulley. Different angles. Different lighting effects. In some shots the resemblance to Uncle Edward was freaky. In the black and whites, Mason looked eerily alive.

  Observing the wretched stone face, I again felt revulsion for Martha Gulley. How could a woman revile a child for a genetic lapse that occurred at his conception? Condemn her own grandson?

  Trent finally phoned back at four. She didn’t laugh when I asked how the DNA testing was coming, but she came right to the edge. Fair enough. I’d submitted the samples only one week earlier. Her opinion, when pushed: The bone was shit. Don’t bet the farm on a testable sample.

  As we were disconnecting, I remembered the swabs I’d taken from the hollow inside the concrete. Asked to be transferred to trace.

  Got voice mail. Left a message.

  I was on a roll.

  Next I tried Marlene Penny at WCU. Was shocked when she picked up. Disappointed with what she could tell me.

  The bones, found by her students in 2012, represented portions of a lower leg and foot. Due to extensive surface abrasion and fragmentation, she’d been unable to determine gender, race, height, age, cause of death. The remains had been sent to the University of North Texas for DNA testing. All attempts at amplification had failed. The bones were now in a box in her lab.

  “Shall I scan and send you copies of my photographs?”

  “Sure. Thanks. Eventually, I’ll need the bones.”

  I provided my email address and we disconnected.

  I was sitting, dulled by frustration, when my mobile started buzz-skipping across the blotter. I tipped my head to read the caller ID.

  Great.

  One steadying breath. I clicked on. “Hey.” Perky as a cherry topping a sundae.

  “Oh, Tempe.” Breathless. “Are you just too unbearably busy to talk?”

  “Never too busy for you, Mama. What’s up?”

  “I was so afraid to tell you. I was petrified what you’d think. What you’d say.” So tremulous her words were taking little hops. “That’s why I was unforgivably distracted during your visit. Then you told me your news. Well, I was—”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, sweetheart.”

  “Tell me!” Heart racing.

  She did.

  In long, swoopy superlatives and giddy little gasps.

  Mama’s words buzzed like an electrical short in my head. As I walked to the car. Drove home. Prepared cheeseburgers and ate them with Birdie.

  I didn’t want to reflect on what Mama’s euphoria could mean. Didn’t know in reality what I thought of her tale.

  My mother, gray-haired and dying of cancer, was madly in love.

  I didn’t fly to the phone or fire off a text or an email. Frankly, I wasn’t sure where to reach out. Her Heatherhill doctor, Luna Finch? Goose? Harry?

  Somewhere in her giddy outpouring, Mama had mentioned my sister. I decided to start there.

  Harry didn’t answer her cell. A chirpy voice asked me to “Leave a short message like this one!” I did. With a far less bubbly air.

  Baby Sister called as I was brushing my teeth.

  “Have you talked to Mama?” I asked, still swishing and spitting.

  “Now, Tempe, don’t you take that snippy tone. She’s happy.”

  “She’s crazy.”

  “Well aren’t we Judge Judy.”

  “You’re right. That was insensitive. But Mama is hardly what you’d call a stable personality.”

  “She says she’s taking her pills.”

  “Mama always says she’s taking her pills.”

  “She’s under the eye of a boatload of doctors.”

  “That will do it.” Our mother was a master at sleight of hand. Had, over the years, evaded medication in the most creative of ways.

  “Goose knows all Mama’s tricks.” Defensive.

  “Right. So who is this geriatric gigolo?”

  “Clayton Sinitch. And he’s not all that old.”

  “Please say the guy’s not thirty-five.”

  “The guy’s not thirty-five.”

  “Harry!”

  “He’s sixty-three.”

&
nbsp; “What does he do?”

  “Owns a dry-cleaning shop.”

  “Well hallelujah! Mama can get her pants pressed at a discount.”

  “And all her pleats starched.”

  I caught the purry innuendo. Wanted absolutely nothing to do with the image.

  “Where is Sinitch from?”

  “Arkansas.”

  “How did she meet him?”

  “He’s recharging his batteries at Heatherhill.”

  “How long has she known him?”

  “That’s not important.”

  I waited.

  “I don’t keep her calendar, Tempe. I don’t know. Maybe a couple of weeks.”

  “Harry.” Oh, so controlled. “She’s out-of-her-Guccis swept away with the guy.”

  “Maybe a bit of romance will do her good.”

  “Or maybe it’s a con and the asshole’s going to break her heart.”

  “She’s agreed to the chemo.”

  “What?” Mama hadn’t told me that.

  “She’s agreed—”

  “Because of Sinitch?”

  “He vowed he’d love her when she’s bald as a coot.”

  “What else do you know about him?” Rolling my eyes. Immediately feeling guilt for having done it.

  “He buys her flowers and chocolates. They hold hands. They take meals together in the dining room. He scolds her for putting salt on her food.”

  “Really?”

  “I gather they’re also spending quality time in her suite.”

  “Harry!”

  I wasn’t believing this. Was confused over what to feel. Mama’s apathy on my last visit wasn’t due to an impending downward spiral. She was either preoccupied daydreaming about Sinitch or focused on hiding the guy’s existence from me.

  “Don’t let on I told you about the chemo,” Harry said.

  “Why not?”

  “Apparently she doesn’t want you to know. Now promise.”

  “Harry, this is—”

  “I mean it. Not a word.”

  “What’s a coot?” Defeated.

  “I think it’s some kinda bird.”

  I said good night and we disconnected.

  No way I was up to phoning Ryan.

  —

  A 2014 National Geographic publication on the world’s best cities described Asheville, North Carolina, as “a mecca of awesome mountain scenery, bohemian art, and high southern cuisine.” The little burg has repeatedly snagged the top spot on surveys ranking towns as to livability. More than once, it has been voted the most desirable place to live in America.