“He was living off money he stole from your grandmother.”
“Mason didn’t steal it. I did.”
“And gave it to him.”
“Yeah.”
I thought about the pay phone. After four years I doubted the calls could be traced.
“Did you ever call him?” I asked.
“Mason didn’t want to, but I said I’d quit the game if he didn’t give me his number. I called once, but he wasn’t happy. I never used it again.”
“Any chance you still have it?”
She handed me a folded paper. “It really sucks. Mason has the kindest heart you could ever imagine.” A hiccupy sound escaped her throat. She inhaled, as though to continue. A beat, then she let the breath out as a sigh.
I wanted to say something comforting. But my head was spinning. And the little bell had been joined by a voice. A voice warning that I could be listening to adolescent delusion.
Was that it? Or did we have it all backward?
Who was Cora Teague?
Maybe it was Mama’s Aristotelian allusion. Maybe leftover adrenaline from my encounter with Susan Grace. Again, I felt an overwhelming desire to talk to Ryan.
While driving, I phoned him. Got voice mail. Left a message.
I also called Ramsey. He picked up. I relayed my conversation with Susan Grace.
“What’s your take?”
“She’s one angry kid.”
“Who wouldn’t be, living in that house?”
I couldn’t disagree.
“So Mason has his kid sister spy on his girlfriend while he goes to ground in Johnson City.”
“Susan Grace didn’t put it quite like that.”
“She can’t say why Mason went away.”
“More like she won’t. And let me add. For sixteen, she’s very articulate.”
“And she doesn’t care for Cora.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Did she explain why?”
“No.” Eyes flashed red on the shoulder, late-to-bed deer startled by my headlights. I eased back on the gas. “She said she doesn’t like how her brother sucks up to Cora. And that her grandmother would call her a she-devil.”
“The old bat probably calls you a she-devil.”
“I’m flattered.”
“So they play Boris and Natasha for a while, then Mason drops off the grid.”
“Yes.”
“Where was the kid staying in Johnson City?”
“Susan Grace didn’t know, but she had a phone number. I’ll text it to you.”
“Is she afraid something has happened to him?”
“She swears he’d never leave without giving her a heads-up.”
“Unless he’s putting miles between himself and a homicide.”
“Unless that. Or could it be Cora?”
“Could it be Cora what?”
“Needing to boogie.”
Ramsey thought about that. Then, “Brice. Don’t know the name.”
“Susan Grace said the family might be living in Asheville.”
“So she thinks they’ve left Avery.”
“You’ll find them?”
“I’m on it.” Ramsey’s pet phrase.
I told him about the photo of Edward Gulley.
“Thus Grandma’s homeschooling of little Mason,” he said.
“I’m surprised she didn’t drown him at birth.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I’m on it.”
“Bold attitude.”
I was approaching the outskirts of Charlotte when Ramsey called back.
“Brice, Joel and Katalin. Joel is a welder. Katalin is a baker. They have one daughter, Saffron, a second grader. They lost a child, River, in the summer of 2011. He was nine months old. Shortly after River’s death they moved from Avery to Asheville.”
“Did you phone them?”
“I spoke with Joel. Briefly.”
“How did the baby die?”
“Sudden infant death syndrome.”
“Terrific.”
“What?”
“Most professionals define SIDS as the unexplained death, usually during sleep, of a seemingly healthy baby less than one year old. It’s like saying ‘undetermined.’ You’ll talk to the coroner? Get the full story?”
“If I can track him down.”
“Did the death occur on Cora’s watch?”
“Joel refused to discuss Cora Teague.”
“Did they hook up with Cora through Jesus Lord Holiness?”
“Also not a popular topic.”
“Did you ask why they fired her?”
“Wildly unpopular.”
“Did you ask why they left the church?”
“Also off-limits.”
“How did he respond?”
“Hung up.”
“What was your sense?”
For a long moment, I heard nothing but Ramsey’s breath. Then, “I sensed a whole lot not being said.”
I tried to focus on my driving. But my mind kept running in loops.
What would happen when I opened the concrete mold in the morning? Had my idea worked? If so, whose face would I see? Cora Teague’s?
Why had Hazel Strike phoned me on Saturday? Why was it so urgent that I call her back? Did she have news to share? Or was she alarmed and looking for help? To whom had she turned when I was unavailable? Had that person killed her?
Had Strike revisited John and Fatima Teague? Grandma Gulley? The Brices? Had one of them felt so threatened or incensed they’d traveled to Charlotte to demand she cease the harassment? Had things gotten out of hand?
Had Wendell Clyde learned of Strike’s meeting with me at the MCME? Of her continuing interest in the disappearance of Cora Teague? Had Clyde confronted her? Bludgeoned her to death and dumped her body in the pond?
Susan Grace popped back into my thoughts. Twice she’d phrased questions in a way that bothered me. Once in the car, once at home.
Was it just a turn of speech? Or was she being literal?
I wondered if Ramsey had noticed. Wished I’d mentioned it to him.
The light at the intersection of Queens Road and Queens Road was red. It’s Charlotte—don’t ask. While waiting out the green, I hit a key on my speed dial.
Three rings, then a gruff “Slidell.”
“It’s Dr. Brennan.”
“I know.”
I’m well, dickhead. Thanks for asking.
“I’m wondering if there’s been any progress on Strike.”
“Ain’t we all?” I could hear voices in the background, a ringing phone. Figured Slidell was in the homicide squad room.
“You’re working late,” I said.
“You got a specific concern?”
I told him about my conversation with Susan Grace.
“The kid thinks Cora Teague is bad news.”
“She does,” I said.
“Teague stole her big bro’s attention. She’s jealous.”
“Maybe. But she posed a couple of questions in a way that bothered me.”
Slidell made an indecipherable sound in his throat.
“She asked her grandmother: Does anyone even try? She asked me: Are any of you really looking?”
“And?”
“Isn’t that a strange way to put it?”
“You said she’s a strange kid. Look, I gotta—”
“It implies that others are searching for Mason.”
“What’s this got to do with Strike?” Impatient.
“Maybe Strike’s hunt for Cora Teague led her to Mason. And maybe she wasn’t the only one looking.”
“You talking about this rival websleuth, Wendell Clyde?”
“You have a better idea?” Sharp. Slidell’s skepticism was making me surly. And I was tired.
“Yeah. I’m thinking it’s time I head out for some ’que.”
Easy.
“Strike told me she was going back up to Avery. She probably visited John and Fatima Teague, Gra
ndma Gulley, maybe the Brices. Could be she angered or frightened someone.”
Slidell started to speak. I pressed on.
“Or maybe Wendell Clyde learned of Strike’s trip, lost it, and took her off the board.”
Long pause. Then, “Remind me—when did she call you?”
“Strike called me three times on Saturday. I’m guessing she was up in Avery at the same time I was.”
“But you never talked to her.”
“No.”
Slidell responded with a stretch of silence. A long one.
“I tossed Strike’s crib today. Shit bucket out in Derita.”
“Derita is a perfectly fine middle-class neighborhood.”
“Yeah. All kids and poodles and Granny’s paint-by-number on the walls.”
I rolled my eyes. Which, given my fatigue, did not feel good.
“But Strike wasn’t into decorating. Couple bedrooms, kitchen, bath, living-dining combo, all painted piss yellow. The only art in the place was a calendar taped to the refrigerator door. Had an ad for birdseed down in one corner.”
I wondered what high culture adorned Slidell’s walls.
“Any sign of a break-in?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did it appear Strike was killed there?”
“No blood, no overturned furniture, broken glass, rifled drawers.”
“No sign of a struggle.”
“Or someone cleaned up.”
“You requested CSU?”
“Never thought of that.”
Take a breath.
“Do you know if they found a key chain containing a voice-activated audio recorder?”
I heard springs squeak, assumed Slidell was reaching for the list of items recovered by the techs.
“Nothing like that on the log. Why?”
“Strike had one when she first visited me. Said she’d found it at the Burke County overlook where the initial remains were discovered in 2013.”
“What was on it?”
I described the three voices.
“Jesus leaping Christ. You didn’t make her give it up?”
“I had no warrant to compel her to do so.” Curt.
I heard a voice, then the line went hollow as Slidell pressed the receiver to his chest. I was turning in at the annex when he reengaged.
“So the house yielded nothing of interest?” Wanting to wrap up and get inside.
“I didn’t say that. One bedroom was ass to armpit with cartons full of file folders. We’re talking an episode straight out of Hoarders.”
“Websleuthing cases?”
“I got some guys going through ’em.”
“Is Cora Teague in there?”
“I got some guys going through ’em.”
“What about a computer?”
“No cell. No computer.”
“Did you check her car?”
“I don’t know how I’d muddle through without you.”
“She had to have a laptop. She spent a lot of time on—”
“The weird wide web. I get it. The house has wi-fi.”
I killed the engine. Out my windows, the lawns and gardens of Sharon Hall looked as dark and deserted as the grounds of Heatherhill.
“Did you locate Wendell Clyde?” I asked.
“Yeah. The toad still lives in Huntersville. First thing tomorrow, I haul his ass to the bag to discuss his recent accomplishments.”
“Do you want me—”
“I can handle it.”
We both set a land speed record disconnecting.
It was almost eleven. Though exhausted, I knew the subliminal ting-a-ling would be ruthless in denying me sleep.
After appeasing Birdie, I texted Mason’s Johnson City phone number to Ramsey, then got online and started searching. There wasn’t a lot. But what I found explained why the wee synapse had fired.
Oscar Mason was a pioneer in the field of medical photography and radiography and, for over forty years, head of the photography section at New York’s Bellevue Hospital. Throughout his career he provided hundreds of illustrations for works published by physicians associated with the hospital and its medical college. Mason retired in 1906, died in 1921.
Okay. That tracked. Edward Gulley would have been among his later subjects.
Mason served as president of the American Institute, Photographic Section, and held office in the American Microscopical Society.
Impressive. But why had I heard of the guy?
I read on.
Bingo.
In 1866 a morgue was constructed at Bellevue, modeled after the much larger showpiece for the dead in Paris. Beginning the following year, Mason’s duties included photographing deceased unknowns. Photo and corpse were numbered correspondingly, and the bodies were displayed for up to seventy-two hours on stone tables behind a wall made of iron and glass. Unclaimed UIDs were eventually buried at the Hart Island City Cemetery.
Thus the mental bong! Back at the gray dawn of history, I’d learned of Mason through a grad course on the evolution of coroner systems. We’d viewed examples of his work, read an annual report in which he pleaded for a facility to allow him to photograph cadavers indoors.
I followed more links. Found a factoid that caught my eye.
“Oscar Mason’s most notable photos appeared in the great dermatology atlases written by George Henry Fox.”
The World Wide Web is a spectacularly wondrous creation. It took little searching to find Fox’s Photographic Atlas of the Diseases of the Skin. The entire four volumes, published between 1900 and 1905 and now public domain, had been digitized, colorized, and uploaded.
I scanned image after image. The table of contents. Found no mention of an “ectodermal-dental syndrome of unknown origin.” No plate showing Edward Gulley with his shadowed eyes, spotted skin, wonky nails, and mangled dentition. But the style was unmistakable. Grandpa Gulley’s page had come from a Fox publication.
Though unnecessary, I pulled up the picture I’d taken with my iPhone before parting with Susan Grace. As Uncle Edward stared at me glumly, I compiled a list of his oddities.
This round took longer. But my diligence paid off. By 2:00 A.M. I had a diagnosis for Mason and Edward Gulley.
I dropped into bed, saddened, but also elated. And confused.
Sleep came hard and fast.
But the subconscious is also a wondrous creation.
An hour later I was wide awake. This time the synapse was clamorous.
I knew whose face I’d be viewing the next morning in stone.
A breeze was working to stir things up, but with the soft nonchalance characteristic of spring. Sunlight through the magnolias was throwing shifting patterns across the patio bricks.
The early morning beauty was wasted on me. Two hours had passed since I’d phoned Hawkins. I was on fire to get to the lab.
When I arrived, Mrs. Flowers was busy at her gatekeeper post. Flicking her a quick wave, I hurried to change into scrubs.
The concrete was as I’d left it. Except for the layer of chemical remover now coating the silicone sealant.
Not even stopping for coffee, I rang downstairs. Hawkins arrived in minutes. After gloving, he spent an eternity removing the white gook with a small plastic scraper. Finally, the sealant was gone and the cracks were visible.
While I steadied the concrete, which probably accomplished little, Hawkins loosened the clamps. Together, we muscled the mold out of the vise and onto the counter.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded.
Simultaneously, we eased up on the pressure. The concrete split along its original cracks. I held my breath as we both tugged backward.
The two sides parted. The liquid rubber coating had done its job. The mold slid easily from the dental stone filling its interior. As we wiggled the detached halves free, I stabilized the cast, then lowered it onto the counter.
The product of our work lay facedown. The head appeared to be reasonably well formed, though dented where air had
bubbled or where the concrete had been damaged. Impressions of hair feathered its outer surface.
Using two hands, and again barely breathing, I carefully rolled the cast, then upended it onto the flat base formed by the top surface of the dental stone.
I’ve seen photos of famous death masks, a few originals. John Dillinger. Dante. Napoleon. Mary, Queen of Scots. Each gruesome effigy had captured, in a cold, macabre way, the spirit of the person no longer among the living.
Each viewing had triggered goose bumps like those now puckering my flesh.
Hawkins and I were standing shoulder to shoulder, staring, when Larabee pushed through the door.
“Do we have liftoff?” Seeing the bust, his grin morphed to an O. “Holy bleeding lizards.” Larabee joined us and planted his hands on his hips. “I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah,” I said softly.
The detail far exceeded my wildest hopes. Except for some minor distortion in the eyelids, it was like looking at a face recumbent in sleep. Long slender nose. Prominent cheekbones. Jaw that would have benefited from a less obtuse angle.
“Is it Cora Teague?” Larabee asked.
“No.”
“Any idea who?” Surprised.
“Mason Gulley.”
“Who the flip is Mason Gulley?”
“Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure.” Looking at his watch. Mind undoubtedly on a body on a table down the hall.
“I’ll meet you in your office. I want to collect my phone and some printouts.”
While Hawkins cleaned up the stinky room, I briefed Larabee on everything that had happened since I’d seen him on Monday. Then I showed him my iPhone image of the G. H. Fox plate.
He studied the screen, brows V’ed low over his nose. “The facial looks like a shot from one of those old-timey photo booths.”
“It’s a page from a historic medical text. The pictures were taken by a Bellevue Hospital photographer named Oscar Mason.”
I showed him photocopies of images I’d downloaded from the Internet. He viewed them, then turned back to the phone.
“Who’s the subject?”
I told him about Edward Gulley. And Mason. And Susan Grace.
“I’ll admit, there’s a resemblance to your cast. But how can you be certain it’s this kid Gulley?” Clearly dubious.
“Ever hear of Naegeli-Franceschetti-Jadassohn syndrome?”
“Refresh me.”