Speaking in Bones

I heard the comforter rustle, knew Mama was repositioning herself for a dramatic delivery.

  “You will not believe what I’ve found.”

  She was right. I didn’t.

  A brief comment about Katherine Daessee Lee Brennan.

  Throughout my childhood, Mama was as unpredictable as a summer afternoon at the beach. For months she’d be happy, funny, clever—a presence as vibrant as sunshine itself. Then, without warning, she’d retreat to her room. Sometimes to a faraway place. Harry and I would draw pictures at our little table, whisper in our beds at night. Where had she gone? Why? Would she come home?

  Doctors with differing degrees provided varying diagnoses. Bipolar. Schizobipolar. Schizoaffective. Disorder of the moment. Take your pick. Pick your meds. Lorazepam. Lithium. Lamotrigine.

  No drug ever worked for long. No treatment ever stuck. A cheerful breather, then the darkness would reclaim her. When I was a child, Mama’s mood swings frightened me. As an adult I’ve learned to cope. To accept. My mother is as stable as a skink on a skittle.

  When Mama was in her late fifties and emerging from a particularly murky plunge, I bought her a computer. I held little hope she’d find the cyberworld attractive but was desperate for something to occupy her mind. Something other than me.

  I walked her through the basics—email, word processing, spreadsheets, the Internet. Explained about browsers and search engines. To my surprise, she was enthralled, took class after class at the Apple Store, then at the local community college. Eventually, as was typical, her proficiency far exceeded mine.

  I wouldn’t call my mother a hacker. She has no interest in stealing ATM or credit card numbers. Couldn’t care less about the workings of the Pentagon or NASA. But, when determined, there’s nothing she can’t tease from the World Wide Web.

  Mama is also an incurable insomniac.

  Given that combo, I wasn’t surprised she’d taken my tale of Gunner and Ramsey and run with it. But I was mildly unsettled by what she’d found.

  “What was recovered?”

  “The article doesn’t elaborate. Out of delicacy, I suppose. I applaud such discretion. The public is given entirely too much detail—”

  “What does it say?”

  “It simply reports the discovery of possible human body parts.” The last four words delivered with precision. “That is a direct quote.”

  “What paper is this?”

  “The Avery Journal-Times. That’s Avery County.”

  “I know that.”

  “There is no call to be snippy, Temperance.” Very snippy.

  “Sorry, Mama. I’m half asleep.” Swinging my feet to the floor, I turned on the light and grabbed a pen and an old envelope from the bedside table. “When did the story appear?”

  “April 29, 2012.”

  “Does it say where the remains were found?”

  “Indeed it does.” A quick breath. “The find was made off the Blue Ridge Parkway, two miles north of the junction with Route 181. That would be mile marker 310. I checked with Google Earth.”

  Of course she had.

  “Are you aware what is at that location?” she asked.

  “I am not.”

  “The Lost Cove Cliffs Overlook.”

  I hadn’t a clue what she was getting at. Was struggling to unravel it when she spoke again.

  “Overlook?” Delivered as though deeply meaningful.

  Right. “Mama, do you know the number of overlooks in the Blue Ridge Mountains?”

  A cool silence followed. I knew an answer to my rhetorical question would be winging my way before morning.

  “And what does one view from this particular overlook?” Curt.

  “More mountains?” Again, I wasn’t following.

  “Brown Mountain. Just like the Burke County overlook.”

  “That is an odd coincidence.”

  “I am having trouble seeing it as coincidence.”

  “Who found these body parts?”

  “Hikers.”

  “Has anyone established that the stuff was human?”

  “Stuff?” Sniff of disapproval. “Really, darling.”

  “Did you find any follow-up stories?”

  “I did not. And I searched very thoroughly. Keep in mind this was not headline news. The original piece was very brief.”

  “Did the journalist provide contact information?”

  Keys clicked. “Those having knowledge of the situation are asked to contact the Avery County Sheriff’s Department.” She read off a number. The same number that had appeared on caller ID when Zeb Ramsey phoned.

  “Can you forward the link to me?”

  “I can.”

  That night I dreamed of lights on a distant ridge.

  —

  Unsurprisingly, I woke late. A quick toilette, then I fed Birdie and headed to the MCME, anticipating Larabee’s sermon with as much relish as I had Mama’s fashion critique.

  Driving across uptown, I pictured Larabee sitting at his desk, pumped by an early morning run, ready to leap into action at the sound of my office door. He wasn’t there.

  After entering the new Burke County remains into the system, which assigned them case number ME122-15, I opened a file and made notes on the circumstances surrounding their discovery. Then I took the Ziplocs to the stinky room, placed the bones on a tray, and submerged the pine tar node in a jar of acetone and set it in the sink.

  When finished, I called Joe Hawkins. He agreed to meet me as soon as I’d freed whatever was congealed in the node.

  A quick cup of the sludge that passes for coffee in the staff lounge, and I began photographing the ten hand bones, periodically crossing to check on progress in the sink. All morning the node remained hard as a marble.

  The bones were as uninformative as I’d feared. I tried some metric analysis based on measurements of the metacarpals. They came up middle road all the way. And finger and hand bones reveal zip about race. In the end, all I could say was young healthy adult.

  Like ME229-13. The hand bones were consistent in every way with the torso bones, but there was no conclusive proof both sets of remains came from the same person. Positive association could only be established with DNA. And I wasn’t optimistic on that front.

  Discouraged, but not surprised, I returned to my office and dialed Avery County. Ramsey was in and took my call quickly.

  “So that’s it?” he asked when I’d finished relaying my observations.

  “You can rule out old codgers wandering off in their sleep.”

  “Case practically solved.” Pause. “But you’re saying we could have two people?”

  “I think that’s highly unlikely.”

  “What about the bits in the pine sap?”

  “I’m working on it. Did you make inquiries about Cora Teague?”

  “I ran the name, got nothing. No address, no phone, no SSN, no passport, no credit or tax history. There is a birth certificate, registered with the Avery County Register of Deeds in 1993.”

  “Don’t parents apply for a social security number at the same time they apply for a birth certificate?”

  “You’re asking the wrong guy.”

  “According to Strike, after high school Teague did a brief stint as a nanny. Otherwise she never worked.”

  “Nannies are often paid under the table.” I could hear Ramsey playing with something, maybe the phone cord. “Listen, Doc. It’s a big country out there. If the kid decided to vanish, changed her name, she’ll be damn near impossible to find.”

  I nodded.

  “And Strike’s right. There’s no MP file.”

  “Did you run the parents?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Nothing popped. No arrests, complaints, calls to the home.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Larkspur Road, off 194. Nothing out there but buzzards and pines.”

  I almost hung up without mentioning it. “I learned something odd last night. Could be meaningless.”

  Ramsey waited, still jiggling
whatever he was jiggling.

  “In 2012, an article appeared in The Avery Journal-Times.” I scrolled through messages on my iPhone, found an email from Mama from 3:12 A.M. I opened it and clicked on the link. “According to the story, body parts were found off a hiking trail near the Lost Cove Cliffs Overlook.”

  “Human?”

  “That’s unclear.”

  Ramsey left a small skeptical pause. “When?”

  “April twenty-ninth.”

  “Six months before I signed on.”

  “Probably coincidence, but that’s also a viewing point for Brown Mountain.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing. I’m wondering about follow-up.”

  “Human remains should have gone to the coroner.”

  “Did they?”

  “I’ll look into it. And I can check whether the reporter is still around.”

  After disconnecting, I went back to the hand bones and the node.

  Five hours of soaking and poking finally got the job done. By three that afternoon, two shriveled hunks of flesh lay in the sink, slimy remnants of the node scattered around them. I inspected each with a hand lens.

  And actually arm-pumped the air. Dopey, but I did.

  Each hunk had a sliver of nail tagging one end, a distal phalange partially visible at the other. I took X-rays and examined each for detail.

  An arrow-shaped phalange told me the larger hunk was the tip of a thumb. The other, based on size, was the tip of a first, second, or third digit. The proximal articular surfaces of both phalanges were crushed and ragged, the work of an industrious scavenger and pals.

  Totally pumped, I dialed Joe Hawkins’s extension. While awaiting his arrival, I got the fingerprint kit from the storage closet and dug out an inkpad and a ten-print card. No fancy scanners at the MCME. We do it the old way, by rolling and pressing.

  Hawkins arrived, looking his usual cadaverous self. Tall and gaunt, with hollow cheeks and dyed black hair, the guy sent from central casting to play the mortician.

  I showed Hawkins his “subject” and provided the case number. He listened, face blank. Typical Hawkins. No questions, no reactions. No mistakes. Though not exactly jolly, he’s far and away the best autopsy tech in the place. Had achieved that status decades before my arrival.

  While Hawkins jotted information onto the print card, I began shooting close-ups of the hand bones. For a while the only sounds in the room were the click of my shutter release and the occasional clink or tap at the sink.

  Unless the fingers are desiccated or stiff with rigor, printing a corpse usually takes very little time. I was so engrossed with my photos I lost track of the clock. When I looked up, a full half hour had passed.

  Hawkins was still hunched over his task. Tension in his neck and back suggested something was wrong.

  “Tough going?” I asked.

  No answer.

  “I’m happy to help.” Thinking Hawkins’s hands were very large, the fingertips very small.

  Still no response.

  I noticed several print cards discarded on the counter. Each had two black ovals. I assumed the larger represented the thumb, the smaller the finger.

  Hawkins usually gets prints on the first try. Why the problem? I had no idea his age, but knew it had to be well past sixty. Was arthritis compromising his dexterity? Was he embarrassed that I’d see?

  I crossed to the counter and, casual as hell, picked up and glanced at one of the print cards.

  I picked up another.

  And another.

  Hawkins turned from the sink, gloved hands held up and away from his body. His eyes met mine, the dark comma below each crimped in confusion.

  “What the hell?” His fingers splayed in puzzlement.

  I could conjure no explanation.

  During the second and third months of gestation, when a fetus is one to three and a half inches long, tiny pads form on the fingertips. During the third and fourth months, the skin goes from thinly transparent to waxy, and the first ridges appear on the pads. By the sixth month, when the average fetus is a whopping twelve inches long, its fingerprints are formed and fixed for life.

  Scientists aren’t in total agreement as to how it works. One theory holds that the speedier basal layer of the epidermis is scrunched between its slower-growing counterparts in the epidermis above and the dermis below. Pressure from straining against its slower neighbors causes the skin to buckle into folds. Movement in the womb then throws in a few more twists. Whatever the process, the end result is a mind-boggling amount of variation.

  Fingerprint ridging falls into one of three broad patterns: arches, loops, or whorls. Each ridge shows further individuality in the form of endings, bifurcations, and dots.

  An ending is the place at which one ridge stops and another begins. A bifurcation is the place where a ridge splits, forming a Y-shaped pattern. A dot is a segment of ridge so small it appears as, well, a dot.

  There are often hundreds of these “points” of identification on one finger. The relationship between each point and the surrounding ridge detail is so complex it is believed no two patterns are exactly alike.

  Bottom line: Fingerprints kick ass for individual ID.

  Not so for ME122-15. The little ovals on the print cards were solid black. No ridges. No dots. Not a single arch, loop, or whorl.

  “Is the skin damaged?” I asked, fearful the acetone had been corrosive.

  Hawkins shook his head. “Skin’s fine. Just no prints.”

  “How can that be?” Inane. If I didn’t know, how could he?

  Hawkins just gave me a long, solemn stare.

  “Have you ever seen this before?”

  “I’ve rolled fingers that make these look fresh as a pork belly, never failed to get at least one partial.”

  “Could the prints have been intentionally removed?”

  Hawkins stripped off his gloves, toed the lever on the biohazard pail, and tossed them in. “Anything’s possible since they transplanted that face.”

  Having no clue to the meaning of his comment. “Should we give it one more try?”

  “Waste of time.” The lid clanged shut.

  “I suppose there’s no point submitting the cards.”

  “Nope.”

  Normally the prints would be sent to the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD forensics lab to be scanned into AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Using digital-imaging technology, AFIS obtains, stores, and analyzes fingerprint data from all over the country. Originally created by the FBI, the database contains tens of millions of individual prints.

  But the name is misleading. AFIS doesn’t identify, it searches. Using biometric pattern recognition software, the program compares an unknown print to those in the system, and returns information on possible matches, ranking them from most to least likely. A fingerprint analyst then compares the print he or she has submitted to the “candidates” suggested by the program. A final decision is made by a human being.

  But that wouldn’t happen with ME122-15.

  “Want these things back in the jar?” Hawkins jabbed a thumb toward the sink.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Distracted. “Thanks.”

  I stood a moment, running possibilities.

  Had ME122-15 removed his or her own prints? To avoid the law? To escape a past life? Had a killer removed the prints postmortem? To mask the victim’s identity?

  Was obliteration even possible? Or just a Hollywood Men in Black myth? I’d seen no evidence of scarring or chemical burning. Intentional mutilation seemed unlikely.

  A pssst sounded somewhere deep in my memory banks. Something I’d heard or read. A research article? A conversation with a colleague?

  The door opened then closed, breaking my concentration. But it was the age of Google. Speculation was obsolete.

  After removing samples for possible DNA testing, I sealed the fingertips in a jar of formalin, the bones in their Ziploc, and placed both in the cooler. Then
I hurried to my office.

  It wasn’t as easy as I’d thought. But eventually I found an online publication in the Annals of Oncology. May 27, 2009.

  A sixty-two-year-old man traveling from Singapore to the United States was detained by immigration officials after a routine fingerprint scan showed he had none. The man, identified only as Mr. S, had been undergoing treatment for head and neck cancer with a drug called capecitabine, brand name Xeloda. As a result of the therapy, Mr. S had developed a condition known as hand-foot syndrome, official name chemotherapy-induced acral erythema.

  I dug deeper. Found an article in Actas dermo-sifiliográficas. May 2008. It was in Spanish and credited to nine authors. I learned the following.

  Chemotherapy-induced acral erythema, also known as palmoplantar erythrodysesthesia, or hand-foot syndrome, is a reaction of the skin to a variety of cancer-treating agents. The symptoms include swelling, pain, and peeling on the palms and soles of the feet. And loss of fingerprints.

  I did a few cyberloops on capecitabine. The drug was most commonly used in the treatment of head, neck, breast, stomach, and colorectal cancers.

  A long shot, but a possible lead. Ramsey could contact physicians and hospitals to ask if any young adult cancer patient had suddenly stopped showing up for chemotherapy. Cora Teague was reported to have health issues. He could also run the question past her family.

  I was reaching for the desk phone when it rang. It was the first in a string of calls that would trigger a case of fire-breathing heartburn.

  As usual, Strike spent no time on pleasantries.

  “What the hell kind of turncoat move was that?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sharing my intel with an outsider.”

  “Deputy Ramsey is hardly an outsider.”

  “Is he you? Is he me?”

  “His department has jurisdiction.” Questionable.

  “He’s Avery County. We were in Burke.”

  “You suspect the remains in my possession are those of Cora Teague,” I said firmly, but not all that patiently. “Should your theory prove true, that’s Ramsey’s watch.”

  “What did you tell him about the audio?”

  “I’m glad you brought that up. Given that this is now a formal investigation, I must ask that you turn the recording over to me.” A reach, but close enough.