Speaking in Bones

  The woman looked up at the sound of our entrance. Tracked our approach with an expression equal parts welcome and confusion. A white rectangle above her left pocket said MAE FOSTER, R.N.

  “Deputy.” Foster’s smile revealed badly yellowed teeth.

  “Ma’am.” Ramsey grinned and nodded. “We’d like to speak with Dr. O’Tool.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.” The tone made it clear that we did not need one.

  “One moment, please.”

  Foster left her post to disappear through the door, closing it carefully and quietly behind her. As we waited, I sensed interested eyes on our backs.

  The door opened shortly, and Foster gestured us into the inner sanctum. I heard the woman with the baby cluck in annoyance.

  “Please.” Foster herded us into an office. “Dr. O’Tool is seeing a patient but will be with you soon.”

  Most of the office was taken up by a large wooden desk. Behind it was a Herman Miller Aeron chair that looked like it had taken a wrong turn from NASA. Behind that, a credenza pressed up to the wall.

  Opposite the desk were two upholstered chairs. Ramsey and I each took one. Wordlessly, we looked around.

  Bookcases were filled with journals and texts. The desktop was stacked with medical files, some thin, some thick as telephone books. On the credenza were a few framed photos, a glass trophy, and a small gold cross. I looked to see if Ramsey had noticed the latter. He had.

  Above the credenza, a single framed diploma declared Terrence Patrick O’Tool a graduate of the Quillen College of Medicine, East Tennessee State University, class of 1963. I was doing the math on his age when the good doctor came hurrying in.

  Before Ramsey and I could get to our feet, O’Tool circled the desk, dropped into the whiz-bang chair, and swiveled to face us. His hair was white and so sparse I could see right through to his scalp. His skin was saggy below his eyes, shiny on his forehead, chin, and cheeks, as though stretched too tightly over the bones.

  Though a starchy lab coat hid his frame, I could tell O’Tool was small and lean. And obviously spry.

  “I don’t know you, Deputy.” Implying this was an uncommon occurrence.

  “Zeb Ramsey. I’m relatively new, sir. Dr. Brennan is from Charlotte.”

  “Welcome.” A long way from warm. Or curious. A fellow professional, yet not a single question about my background or area of expertise. “My nurse tells me this is urgent.”

  “We won’t take up much of your time.”

  “Saying that just did.”

  Scratch the opening act. Ramsey got right to the point. John and Fatima Teague, Jesus Lord Holiness church, Cora’s disappearance, the theory that she left with Mason Gulley. As Ramsey talked, O’Tool kept nodding his head.

  “Until she disappeared, Cora was your patient. Is that correct, sir?”

  “Have Mr. or Mrs. Teague given you written permission allowing me to discuss their daughter’s medical history?”

  “No.”

  “If I did treat Cora, and I’m not confirming that I did, you know I’m bound by patient-doctor privilege.”

  “Did?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You used the past tense.”

  “Did I?”

  “I can get a warrant.”

  “Perhaps you can.”

  A beat, then Ramsey tried again. “Suppose I tell you that Cora and Mason may have come to harm.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  “It’s a strong possibility.”

  When O’Tool said nothing, Ramsey hit him with a zinger.

  “Is it possible Cora Teague could be hurting others?”

  The doctor’s eyes, unblinking, revealed nothing. I couldn’t tell if he was being cagey, or was simply obtuse.

  “Cora’s brother Eli died at age twelve,” Ramsey continued.

  “I knew Eli.”

  “Any thoughts on the incident?”

  “The death of a child is always tragic.” O’Tool’s face remained passive and utterly composed.

  “Like River Brice.”

  “Yes. I heard about the baby.”

  “Did you know the coroner Fenton Ogilvie?”

  “I did. Safe using the past tense there.”

  “Ogilvie signed both the children’s deaths as accidental. Was he competent?”

  “Fenton was poorly toward the end of his life.”

  “Meaning he was an alcoholic.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “The Brices fired Cora because of health issues. What were they?”

  “Really, Detective.”

  “Let me lay down some facts, Doctor.” Ramsey’s voice had gone steely. “River Brice died on Cora Teague’s watch. Saffron Brice broke her arm while in Cora Teague’s care. Saffron is distressed on hearing her former nanny’s name.”

  “I’m sure the child—”

  “The ER physician who treated Eli Teague had reservations concerning the explanation of events surrounding his death.”

  “Did he share those reservations with Ogilvie?”

  “He noted them in the chart.”

  Blank stare.

  “Cora missed six weeks of school following Eli’s death. Where was she during that time?”

  Nothing.

  “Cora may be dead or she may be out there. And she may be dangerous. Dr. Brennan and I need to know what’s wrong with her.”

  There was a long flatline of silence. When I was certain O’Tool would dismiss us, he spoke in a very low voice.

  “Cora’s issues were primarily behavioral.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I was treating her for epilepsy.”

  O’Tool’s comment was moronic. “Epilepsy isn’t a behavioral issue,” I blurted. “Epilepsy results from abnormal electrical activity in the brain.”

  “Yes.” Frosty. “It does.”

  “Are you trained in neurology?”

  “I am a GP.”

  “Did you refer Cora to a specialist?” I was growing more outraged with every word that came out of his mouth.

  “Cora was having seizures. An EEG showed an epileptic focus in her right temporal lobe. It did not require a specialist to diagnose TLE, temporal lobe epilepsy.”

  “Did you prescribe an AED?” I referred to antiepilepsy drugs. Of which there are dozens.

  “For a while the child took Depakote. It did not help. If anything, the medication made her episodes worse. Ultimately, her parents chose to discontinue use of all pharmaceuticals. To treat the condition in their own way.”

  “Treat it how?” Ramsey asked.

  “Cora was on a regime to ensure that she ate regularly and got enough sleep every night. John and Fatima were working hard to keep her stress levels low, and to ensure that she used no drugs or alcohol.”

  “Are you for real?” This was sounding straight out of the dark ages.

  “Cora had”—O’Tool stopped to correct himself—“has good periods and bad periods. During the bad periods, when she has fits, her parents keep her at home.”

  Fits?

  “When did you last see her?” Sensing my growing indignation, Ramsey retook the reins.

  “The summer of 2011. Her puppy had died. She was very upset and blamed herself.”

  “What happened to the dog?” I demanded, feeling the now familiar cold tickle.

  O’Tool’s eyes leveled on mine, filled with thought, perhaps with no thought at all. “It fell from Cora’s upstairs bedroom window. I’ve often wondered how the animal managed to climb onto the sill.”

  I was about to ask another question when someone knocked on the door. “Dr. O’Tool?”

  “Yes, Mae.”

  “Mrs. Ockelstein is growing impatient.”

  “Show her into room two and take her weight and blood pressure.” Turning to us. “I have patients.”

  We were dismissed.

  Back in the SUV, I shared my apprehension concerning Cora Teague.

&nb
sp; “Eli, the baby, the puppy.” I realized I was speaking too loudly, tried to tone it down. “Maybe Mason Gulley.”

  “You think Cora killed them?”

  “She’s the common link.”

  “Could epilepsy make her violent?”

  “Unlikely. But an epileptic should be taking antiseizure medication.”

  “You question O’Tool’s handling of Cora’s condition?”

  “That knucklehead couldn’t handle a hangnail without a manual. And I’m sure he wasn’t being fully honest with us.”

  “You think he was lying?”

  “Maybe. Or at least holding back.”

  “Why?”

  I raised my hands in a frustrated “who knows?” gesture.

  “So what are you suggesting?”

  “I don’t know. But every path leads back to Cora.”

  While I was driving, names and faces whirled in my brain like flakes in a snow globe. Terrence O’Tool. Fenton Ogilvie. Grandma, Susan Grace, and Mason Gulley. John, Fatima, Eli, and Cora Teague. Joel, Katalin, Saffron, and River Brice. Father G and Jesus Lord Holiness church.

  Again and again one name swirled to the surface.

  Twenty miles down the road the thought scissored in. A wild jolt of realization.

  I pulled to the shoulder and dialed my cell. And floated the name Granger Hoke.

  While awaiting a callback, I diverted to Heatherhill.

  As before, I arrived during supper. To my surprise, Mama’s suite was empty.

  Recalling Harry’s words, I doubled back to the dining room. Through the wide arched doorway I spotted Mama at a table for two. Her dinner companion, I assumed Clayton Sinitch, was short and so bald the overheads reflected off his scalp. Round specs, plaid shirt, cardigan, bow tie. I wondered if his look was intentionally retro or just old-guy dorky.

  Mama was wearing pearls and a pale gray sweater. Her face was pink with pleasure, perhaps with the wine sparkling red in a goblet by her plate.

  As I watched, Sinitch reached out and placed a hand on hers. Mama dipped her chin and glanced up through lowered lashes, a flirtatious mademoiselle.

  Something surged in my chest and knocked against my ribs. Anxiety? Love?

  Envy?

  Unexpected tears burned the backs of my lids.

  Behind me, a clock chimed softly. Feeling like a voyeur, I quietly withdrew.

  The return call came twenty minutes later as I was clicking my seat belt after a quick stop at a KFC. I checked the screen, then answered.

  “Thank you for calling me back so quickly.” Setting the bag on the console and the phone on the dash.

  “Quiet night in the rectory.”

  Aren’t they all? I wondered.

  “How is your mother?”

  “You know Daisy.” He did. Father James Morris, Mama’s confessor the on-and-off times she viewed herself as Catholic, still served as pastor of St. Patrick’s in Charlotte. Rector, actually, though I wasn’t totally clear on the distinction. I knew his status was higher than a priest, lower than a bishop.

  “I will take that to mean she is well.”

  “I’m driving, Father. So I’ve got you on speaker.”

  “Conversation won’t be a distraction for you?”

  “I’m eager to hear what you’ve learned.”

  “Sadly, not much. Because of the hour, all I could do was check the Official Catholic Directory. It’s a publication for clergy that, among other things, lists all parishes and priests.”

  “You found him?” The car was a smell-bubble of fried chicken. As we spoke, I dug and scored a drumstick.

  “Yes and no. Granger Hoke isn’t currently listed, so I worked my way back through old annual editions. Nothing is ever discarded around here. It took a while, but my perseverance paid off. Granger Hoke was born in St. Paul in 1954.”

  “I thought the entire population of Minnesota was Lutheran.”

  Morris ignored the quip. Humor had never been his strong suit. Growing up, Harry and I had called him Rigor. Even Gran had joined in the joke at times.

  “No, not at all. Minnesota has many Catholic parishes.”

  “Garrison Keillor?” I hinted. “Never mind.”

  “Hoke was ordained in 1979 after training at Mundelein.”

  “Near Chicago.”

  “Yes. It’s part of the University of St. Mary of the Lake. Hoke ministered in the Midwest for almost fifteen years—Indiana, Iowa, Illinois—smaller, nonurban parishes from what I can tell. Eventually he was relocated to Watauga County in North Carolina.”

  “Then what?”

  “After that he disappears.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t wish to speculate. I’ll research further in the morning.” Morris’s voice sounded tighter. I wondered if there was something he wasn’t telling me.

  “Thanks, Father. I’m very anxious to learn more.”

  As I drove through the darkness, my brain ran an unrelenting quiz-show barrage of questions. Where was Hoke after moving east? Had he left the priesthood? Was he off doing missionary work? Was he too ill to work? Had he been relieved of priestly duties?

  Questions. More questions. No answers. But my focus had shifted to Hoke.

  —

  Overnight, spring took control in Charlotte. No more compromise. Winter, be gone.

  As I crossed the patio, the air felt velvety soft on my skin. A million crocuses poked yellow and white from the wet black earth in my garden. The Bradford pear was thick with newborn leaves and blossoms resembling tiny pink embryos.

  My moods are strongly influenced by weather. Despite frustration over the Brown Mountain bones, worry for Mama, agony over Ryan, and an early ambush call from Allan Fink the tax tyrant, I felt invigorated. Capable of solving every unanswered riddle. Or maybe it was the coffee.

  My optimism was about as long-lived as a virtual particle. Angled in a space in the lot outside the MCME was a familiar Ford Taurus. The car’s exterior gleamed shiny white, as though recently washed and waxed. While passing, I glanced through a side window. The interior was neat, the backseat empty except for a blue canvas athletic bag.

  Shocked at the automotive tidiness, I hurried inside, hoping Slidell had come with news about Hazel Strike. When I pushed through the door, Mrs. Flowers waved me over with a birdlike flick of her wrist.

  “Detective Slidell is in your office.” Breathless. “I hope that’s okay.”

  That was the instant my buoyancy began to erode.

  “He’s not here for Dr. Larabee?” I asked.

  “No, no. He wants to see you. He was quite insistent, and I didn’t know—”

  “It’s fine.” It wasn’t. “How long has he been here?”

  “Just a few minutes.”

  Hardly breaking stride, I hurried toward the back.

  A wall of cologne met me at my office door. Purchased at a drugstore and applied with gusto.

  “Morning, Doc.” Slidell didn’t stand, didn’t even straighten in his chair.

  “Good morning, Detective.”

  I sat, slid my purse into a drawer, laced my fingers on the desktop, and waited.

  “Your guy’s out.”

  “My guy.” Not following.

  “Wendell Clyde.”

  “You ran him?”

  “All over the map.”

  “Does he have a criminal record?”

  “Couple drunk and disorderlies, twenty years back. Nothing recent.”

  “What do you mean he’s out?”

  “He’s a dick and a half, but he ain’t the doer.”

  “On Strike.”

  “No. On JFK. I’m working some grassy knoll angles in my spare time.”

  I bit back a retort and raised my eyebrows.

  “First off, did you know Clyde’s about nine foot eleven?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “It is when you’re wrestling the baboon into a backseat. I nearly—”

  “The average baboon weighs fifty pounds.”
Juvenile. And slightly inaccurate. But I wasn’t discussing species variation with Skinny.

  Slidell pulled a paper from his jacket and tossed it onto the blotter. I unfolded it and studied the image, probably taken with a phone and printed on a computer.

  The subject was seated in one of the small interview rooms at the Law Enforcement Center. I recognized the faux wood table and gray metal chair, the mauve patchwork carpeting and off-tone upper wall.

  Slidell hadn’t exaggerated. But Wendell Clyde wasn’t just tall. He looked like an Easter Island head with arms and legs. His deep-set orbits were hooded by slashing brows and separated by a jack-o’-lantern nose.

  “You interviewed Clyde?”

  “No. I read his mind. Which ain’t impressive.”

  “Your point?”

  “Some guys you get the feeling there’s more than meets the eye? This prick, what meets the eye’s more than he’s got.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Low on charm, high on T.” Slidell’s shorthand for testosterone.

  “Clyde was aggressive?”

  “He had his moment.”

  “Until you snapped him with a wet towel.”

  “Something like that.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “He’s an honest plasterer, searches for dead people as a hobby.”

  “What did he say about Hazel Strike?”

  “He didn’t send the lady birthday cards.”

  “Was he willing to take a polygraph?”

  “Eager as a beagle on bacon. But it don’t matter. Clyde alibis out.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Tell me.” Deflated. The mood collapse was now total.

  “Clyde claims he was at the Selwyn Avenue Pub from seven P.M. Saturday until one A.M. Sunday. Says a lot of people saw him there.”

  “That doesn’t clear him. He could have—”

  “You want to talk or listen?”

  My molars clamped tight.

  “He claims he was being interviewed for a piece on websleuthing. A blogger from Dubuque named Dennis Aslanian.”

  Slidell paused, maybe daring me to interrupt. I didn’t.

  “From the pub, Clyde went with Aslanian to a couple more bars, eventually to the guy’s room at a Motel 6 by the coliseum. The star-crossed lovers stayed together until Aslanian left Charlotte early Monday morning.”

  Slidell was right. If Hazel Strike died on Sunday, and Aslanian backed Clyde’s story, Clyde couldn’t have killed her.