“Fans of TV’s CSI: Crime Scene Investigation should be in heaven” (People) stepping into the world of forensic anthropologist Dr. Temperance Brennan, star of Kathy Reichs’ electrifyingly authentic bestsellers.
She works with the dead but she works for the living.
“Down time” is not a phrase in Tempe Brennan’s vocabulary. A string of disturbing cases has put her vacation plans on hold; instead, she heads to the lab to analyze charred remains from a suspicious fire, and a mysterious black residue from a small-plane crash. But most troubling of all are the bones. . . . Tempe’s daughter’s new boyfriend invites them to a picnic—a pig pickin’—in the North Carolina countryside, where a cache of bones turns up. But are they animal or human? X-rays and DNA may link the crimes, but they can’t reveal who is closing in on Tempe and her daughter—and how far they will go to keep her from uncovering the truth.
“FASCINATING.” —The New York Times
“RIGHT UP THERE WITH PATRICIA CORNWELL’S EARLY KAY SCARPETTA MYSTERIES.” —Booklist
Includes a bonus epilogue:
“FROM THE FORENSIC FILES OF DR. KATHY REICHS”
Includes an excerpt from Monday Mourning—available now!
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AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY MARIE-REINE MATTERA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KATHY REICHS, like her fictional creation Temperance Brennan, is a board-certified forensic anthropologist for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale for the province of Quebec, a position she also held at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, State of North Carolina. She is Vice President of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and serves on the National Police Services Advisory Council in Canada. A professor of anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, Dr. Reichs received her Ph.D. at Northwestern University. She now divides her time between Charlotte and Montreal. Her debut novel, Déjà Dead, brought her fame when it became a New York Times bestseller, a #1 international bestseller, and winner of the 1997 Ellis Award for Best First Novel. Bones to Ashes, her tenth Temperance Brennan novel, is forthcoming in hardcover from Scribner.
Her website is www.kathyreichs.com.
ALSO BY KATHY REICHS
Grave Secrets
Fatal Voyage
Deadly Décisions
Death du Jour
Déjà Dead
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SCRIBNER
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New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Temperance Brennan, L.P.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.
DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING
Text set in Stempel Garamond
ISBN 978-0-7432-6008-4 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reichs, Kathy.
Bare bones/Kathy Reichs.
p. cm.
1. Brennan, Temperance (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Forensic anthropology—Fiction. 3. Women anthropologists—Fiction. 4. Endangered species—Fiction. 5. Smuggling—Fiction. 6. North Carolina—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.E476345B375 2003
813'.54—dc21
2003040725
ISBN 0-7432-3346-8
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
From the Forensic Files of Dr. Kathy Reichs
'Monday Mourning' Excerpt
Dedicated to all those fighting to protect our precious wildlife, especially:
The United States Fish and Wildlife Service
The World Wildlife Foundation
The Animals Asia Foundation
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I WISH TO EXPRESS GRATITUDE TO CAPTAIN JOHN GALLAGHER (retired); to Detective John Appel, Guilford County, North Carolina, Sheriff’s Department (retired); to Detective Chris Dozier, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department; and, especially, to Ira J. Rimson, P.E., for help with the Cessna/drug scenario.
Many of those working to protect endangered wildlife gave generously of their time and expertise. Special thanks to Bonnie C. Yates, forensics specialist, Morphology/Mammals Team Leader, and Ken Goddard, director, Clark R. Bavin National Fish and Wildlife Forensics Laboratory; to Lori Brown, investigative assistant, and Tom Bennett, resident agent in charge, United States Fish and Wildlife Service; and to Agent Howard Phelps, Carolyn Simmons, and the staff at the Pocosin Lakes National Wildlife Refuge. You are on the front lines, battling to save what we can’t afford to lose. Your efforts are appreciated.
David M. Bird, Ph.D., McGill University, provided information on threatened bird species. Randy Pearce, DDS, and James W. Williams, J.D., shared their knowledge of the Melungeons of Tennessee. Eric Buel, Ph.D., director, Vermont Forensics Laboratory, coached me on amelogenin. Michael Baden, M.D., and Claude Pothel, M.D., enlightened me on the details of diatoms and death by drowning.
Captain Barry Faile, Lancaster County Sheriff’s Department, and Michael Morris, Lancaster County coroner, were patient with my questions. Michael Sullivan, M.D., welcomed me at the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner facility. Terry Pitts, D.Min., NCFD, offered suggestions on funeral home basements. Judy H. Morgan, GRI, kept me accurate on Charlotte real estate and geography.
I appreciate the continued support of Chancellor James Woodward of the University of North Carolina–Charlotte. Merci to André Lauzon, M.D., chef de service, and to all of my colleagues at the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale.
A thousand thanks to Jim Junot for answers to a million questions.
Thanks to Paul Reichs for comments on the manuscript, and to the whole ragtag beach bunch for title suggestions and other minutiae.
My incredibly patient and brilliant editor, Susanne Kirk, took a rough piece of work and made it flow.
A special thanks to my supersonic agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh. You delivered Wyatt Z. the same day I delivered Bare Bones. It was a very good ye
ar.
AS I WAS PACKAGING WHAT REMAINED OF THE DEAD BABY, THE man I would kill was burning pavement north toward Charlotte.
I didn’t know that at the time. I’d never heard the man’s name, knew nothing of the grisly game in which he was a player.
At that moment I was focused on what I would say to Gideon Banks. How would I break the news that his grandchild was dead, his youngest daughter on the run?
My brain cells had been bickering all morning. You’re a forensic anthropologist, the logic guys would say. Visiting the family is not your responsibility. The medical examiner will report your findings. The homicide detective will deliver the news. A phone call.
All valid points, the conscience guys would counter. But this case is different. You know Gideon Banks.
I felt a deep sadness as I tucked the tiny bundle of bones into its container, fastened the lid, and wrote a file number across the plastic. So little to examine. Such a short life.
As I secured the tub in an evidence locker, the memory cells floated an image of Gideon Banks. Wrinkled brown face, fuzzy gray hair, voice like ripping duct tape.
Expand the image.
A small man in a plaid flannel shirt arcing a string mop across a tile floor.
The memory cells had been offering the same image all morning. Though I’d tried to conjure up others, this one kept reappearing.
Gideon Banks and I had worked together at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte for almost two decades until his retirement three years back. I’d periodically thanked him for keeping my office and lab clean, given him birthday cards and a small gift each Christmas. I knew he was conscientious, polite, deeply religious, and devoted to his kids.
And he kept the corridors spotless.
That was it. Beyond the workplace, our lives did not connect.
Until Tamela Banks placed her newborn in a woodstove and vanished.
Crossing to my office, I booted up my laptop and spread my notes across the desktop. I’d barely begun my report when a form filled the open doorway.
“A home visit really is above and beyond.”
I hit “save” and looked up.
The Mecklenburg County medical examiner was wearing green surgical scrubs. A stain on his right shoulder mimicked the shape of Massachusetts in dull red.
“I don’t mind.” Like I didn’t mind suppurating boils on my buttocks.
“I’ll be glad to speak to him.”
Tim Larabee might have been handsome were it not for his addiction to running. The daily marathon training had wizened his body, thinned his hair, and leatherized his face. The perpetual tan seemed to gather in the hollows of his cheeks, and to pool around eyes set way too deep. Eyes that were now crimped with concern.
“Next to God and the Baptist church, family has been the cornerstone of Gideon Banks’s life,” I said. “This will shake him.”
“Perhaps it’s not as bad as it seems.”
I gave Larabee the Look. We’d had this conversation an hour earlier.
“All right.” He raised a sinewy hand. “It seems bad. I’m sure Mr. Banks will appreciate the personal input. Who’s driving you?”
“Skinny Slidell.”
“Your lucky day.”
“I wanted to go alone, but Slidell refused to take no for an answer.”
“Not Skinny?” Mock surprise.
“I think Skinny’s hoping for some kind of lifetime achievement award.”
“I think Skinny’s hoping to get laid.”
I pegged a pen at him. He batted it down.
“Watch yourself.”
Larabee withdrew. I heard the autopsy room door click open, then shut.
I checked my watch. Three forty-two. Slidell would be here in twenty minutes. The brain cells did a collective cringe. On Skinny there was cerebral agreement.
I shut the computer down and leaned back in my chair.
What would I say to Gideon Banks?
Bad luck, Mr. Banks. Looks like your youngest gave birth, wrapped the tyke in a blanket, and used him as kindling.
Good, Brennan.
Wham-o! The visual cells sent up a new mental image. Banks pulling a Kodak print from a cracked leather wallet. Six brown faces. Close haircuts for the boys, pigtails for the girls. All with teeth too big for the smiles.
Zoom out.
The old man beaming over the photo, adamant that each child would go to college.
Did they?
No idea.
I slipped off my lab coat and hung it on the hook behind my door.
If the Banks kids had attended UNC–Charlotte while I was on the faculty, they’d shown little interest in anthropology. I’d met only one. Reggie, a son midrange in the offspring chronology, had taken my human evolution course.
The memory cells offered a gangly kid in a baseball cap, brim low over razor-blade brows. Last row in the lecture hall. A intellect, C+ effort.
How long ago? Fifteen years? Eighteen?
I’d worked with a lot of students back then. In those days my research focused on the ancient dead, and I’d taught several undergraduate classes. Bioarchaeology. Osteology. Primate ecology.
One morning an anthro grad showed up at my lab. A homicide detective with the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD, she’d brought bones recovered from a shallow grave. Could her former prof determine if the remains were those of a missing child?
I could. They were.
That case was my first encounter with coroner work. Today the only seminar I teach is in forensic anthropology, and I commute between Charlotte and Montreal serving as forensic anthropologist to each jurisdiction.
The geography had been difficult when I’d taught full-time, requiring complex choreography within the academic calendar. Now, save for the duration of that single seminar, I shift as needed. A few weeks north, a few weeks south, longer when casework or court testimony requires.
North Carolina and Quebec? Long story.
My academic colleagues call what I do “applied.” Using my knowledge of bones, I tease details from cadavers and skeletons, or parts thereof, too compromised for autopsy. I give names to the skeletal, the decomposed, the mummified, the burned, and the mutilated, who might otherwise go to anonymous graves. For some, I determine the manner and time of their passing.
With Tamela’s baby there’d been but a cup of charred fragments. A newborn is chump change to a woodstove.
Mr. Banks, I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but—
My cell phone sounded.
“Yo, Doc. I’m parked out front.” Skinny Slidell. Of the twenty-four detectives in the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD Felony Investigative Bureau/Homicide Unit, perhaps my least favorite.
“Be right there.”
I’d been in Charlotte several weeks when an informant’s tip led to the shocking discovery in the woodstove. The bones had come to me. Slidell and his partner had caught the case as a homicide. They’d tossed the scene, tracked down witnesses, taken statements. Everything led to Tamela Banks.
I shouldered my purse and laptop and headed out. In passing, I stuck my head into the autopsy room. Larabee looked up from his gunshot victim and waggled a gloved finger in warning.
My reply was an exaggerated eye roll.
The Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner facility occupies one end of a featureless brick shoebox that entered life as a Sears Garden Center. The other end of the shoebox houses satellite offices of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department. Devoid of architectural charm save a slight rounding of the edges, the building is surrounded by enough asphalt to pave Rhode Island.
As I exited the double glass doors, my nostrils drank in an olfactory cocktail of exhaust, smog, and hot pavement. Heat radiated from the building walls, and from the brick steps connecting it to a small tentacle of the parking lot.
Hot town. Summer in the city.
A black woman sat in the vacant lot across College Street, back to a sycamore, elephant legs stretched full length on the grass. The woman was
fanning herself with a newspaper, animatedly arguing some point with a nonexistent adversary.
A man in a Hornets jersey was muscling a shopping cart up the sidewalk in the direction of the county services building. He stopped just past the woman, wiped his forehead with the crook of his arm, and checked his cargo of plastic bags.
Noticing my gaze, the cart man waved. I waved back.
Slidell’s Ford Taurus idled at the bottom of the stairs, AC blasting, tinted windows full up. Descending, I opened the back door, shoved aside file folders, a pair of golf shoes stuffed with audiotapes, two Burger King bags, and a squeeze tube of suntan lotion, and wedged my computer into the newly created space.
Erskine “Skinny” Slidell undoubtedly thought of himself as “old school,” though God alone knew what institution would claim him. With his knockoff Ray-Bans, Camel breath, and four-letter speech, Slidell was an unwittingly self-created caricature of a Hollywood cop. People told me he was good at his job. I found it hard to believe.
At the moment of my approach Dirty Harry was checking his lower incisors in the rearview mirror, lips curled back in a monkey-fear grimace.
Hearing the rear door open, Slidell jumped, and his hand shot to the mirror. As I slid into the passenger seat, he was fine-tuning the rearview with the diligence of an astronaut adjusting Hubble.
“Doc.” Slidell kept his faux Ray-Bans pointed at the mirror.
“Detective.” I nodded, placed my purse at my feet, and closed the door.
At last satisfied with the angle of reflection, Slidell abandoned the mirror, shifted into gear, crossed the lot, and shot across College onto Phifer.
We rode in silence. Though the temperature in the car was thirty degrees lower than that outside, the air was thick with its own blend of odors. Old Whoppers and fries. Sweat. Bain de Soleil. The bamboo mat on which Slidell parked his ample backside.
Skinny Slidell himself. The man smelled and looked like an “after” shot for an antismoking poster. During the decade and a half I’d been consulting for the Mecklenburg County ME, I’d had the pleasure of working with Slidell on several occasions. Each had been a trip to Aggravation Row. This case promised to be another.