Bare Bones

  “Clever.” Jesus. “Cold, but clever.”

  “Except Corporal Einstein got nailed the last week of his tour.”

  “Bad timing.”

  “Dorton disappeared for a while after his release. Next we see him, he’s back in Sneedville running field trips for the Grizzly Woodsman Fishing Camp.”

  “Grizzly Woodsman? Is that one of those outfits that helps accountants from Akron reel in the bass of their dreams?”

  “Yeah. Guess the GED education and dishonorable discharge limited Ricky Don’s options with the big Wall Street firms. But not his aspirations. Two years as an angling coach, and Dorton opens his own operation. Wilderness Quest.”

  “You don’t suppose Ricky Don got some product across before the Corps discovered his little export scheme?”

  “Nah. Fine citizen probably set aside a little from every paycheck, worked a civilian job on weekends, that sort of thing. Anyway, by the mid-eighties, Dorton switched from hip waders to pinstripes. In addition to the fishing camp he owns a sporting goods store in Morristown, Tennessee, and the two entertainment palaces in Kannapolis.”

  “A respected businessman,” I said.

  “And Ricky Don’s military experience taught him well. If Dorton’s into something illegal, he operates from a distance now. Stays so cool the cops can’t make him flinch.”

  Something moved in the sludge at the back of my brain.

  “Did you say Dorton’s from Sneedville?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tennessee?”

  “Yeah. Mama Dorton and about a trillion kin still live there.”

  The sludge thought rolled over, sluggish and lazy.

  “Any chance Dorton’s a Melungeon?”

  “How did you guess that?”

  “Is he?”

  “Sure is. I’m impressed. Until yesterday I’d never heard of Melungeons.” Jansen may have picked up on something in my voice. “That trigger a line of thought?”

  “Just a hunch. Could be nothing.”

  “You know how to reach me.”

  I sat a moment when we’d disconnected.

  Dig.

  Upper layers. Recent deposits.

  American Academy of Forensic Sciences. Scientific session.

  What year? What city?

  I turned to the AAFS programs on my shelf.

  Within ten minutes I found what I was looking for. Twelve years back. A graduate student presentation on disease frequencies among Melungeon populations.

  As I read the abstract, the sludge thought lumbered to its feet and slowly took form.

  * * *

  “Sarcoidosis.”

  When Larabee looked up, his desk lamp threw shadows across the lines in his face.

  “That would take us back to lymph nodes, lungs, and skin.”

  “Approximately fourteen percent of sarcoidosis cases show skeletal involvement, mostly in the short bones of the hands and feet.”

  I laid a pathology textbook on the desk in front of him. Larabee read a moment, then leaned back, chin on palm. His expression told me he was unconvinced.

  “Most cases of sarcoidosis are asymptomatic. The disease pursues a slow, benign course, usually with spontaneous healing. People don’t even know they have it.”

  “Until they get an X ray for some other reason,” he said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Like being dead.”

  I ignored that.

  “Sarcoidosis primarily affects young adults,” I said.

  “And is most evident radiographically in the lungs.”

  “You said the lungs were hamburger.”

  “Sarcoidosis is mainly seen among African-Americans.”

  “There’s a high incidence among Melungeons.”

  Larabee looked at me as though I’d said Olmec warriors.

  “It all fits. There’s an Anatolian bump on the back of the passenger’s head and modified shoveling on his incisors. His cheekbones are flaring, otherwise the guy looks like Charlton Heston.”

  “Refresh me on Melungeons.”

  “They’re fairly dark-skinned people with European-looking features. Some have an Asian eye fold.”

  “Living where?”

  “Most are in the mountains of Kentucky, Virginia, West Virginia, and North Carolina.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Survivors of the lost colony of Roanoke, Portuguese shipwrecks, the lost tribes of Israel, Phoenician seamen. You can take your pick of theories.”

  “What’s the current favorite?”

  “Descendants of Spanish and Portuguese colonists who abandoned the settlement of Santa Elena in South Carolina during the late sixteenth century. Supposedly these folks mingled with the Powhatans, the Catawbas, the Cherokees, and a number of other tribes. There may even have been some input from Moorish and Turkish galley slaves and from Portuguese and Spanish prisoners left on Roanoke Island in 1586.”

  “Left by whom?”

  “Sir Francis Drake.”

  “Who do Melungeons think they are?”

  “They claim to be variously of Portuguese, Turkish, Moorish, Arabic, and Jewish origin mixed with Native Americans.”

  “Any evidence to support that?”

  “When first encountered back in the sixteen hundreds they were living in cabins, speaking broken English, and described themselves as ‘Portyghee.’”

  Larabee made a give-me-more gesture with his hand.

  “A recent gene-frequency study showed no significant differences between Melungeon populations in Tennessee and Virginia and populations in Spain, Portugal, North Africa, Malta, Cyprus, Iran, Iraq, and the Levant.”

  Larabee shook his head. “How do you remember stuff like that?”

  “I don’t. I just looked it up. There are lots of Melungeon Web sites.”

  “Why is this relevant?”

  “There’s a large population of Melungeons living near Sneedville, Tennessee.”

  “And?”

  “Remember Ricky Don Dorton?”

  “The owner of the Cessna.”

  “Dorton’s from Sneedville, Tennessee.”

  “That works.”

  “Thought it might.”

  “Give Sheila Jansen a call. I’ll get on the horn to Sneedville.”

  * * *

  I’d just completed my call to the NTSB agent when Slidell and Rinaldi made their second appearance of the day.

  “Ever hear of a man named J. J. Wyatt?” Rinaldi asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Looks like Wyatt was on Darryl Tyree’s speed dialer.”

  “Meaning Tyree called Wyatt frequently?”

  Rinaldi nodded. “From his cell phone.”

  “Recently?”

  “The final three calls were placed just before seven last Sunday morning.”

  “To?”

  “Wyatt’s cell phone.” Slidell face looked poached with heat.

  “Which was located where?” I asked.

  “Most likely in Wyatt’s hand.” Slidell mopped his brow.

  I was biting back a reply when Larabee joined us wearing a smile wider than a lean face such as his could support.

  “Guys,” the ME said to Slidell and Rinaldi, “you are in the presence of genius.”

  Larabee did a half-bow in my direction, then waggled a slip of paper in the air.

  “Jason Jack Wyatt.”

  Absolute quiet crammed my little office.

  Puzzled by our nonreaction, Larabee looked from Slidell to Rinaldi to me.

  “What?”

  Slidell spoke first.

  “What about Jason Jack Wyatt, Doc?”

  “Twenty-four-year-old male Melungeon from Sneedville, Tennessee. Wyatt was reported missing three days ago by a worried grandma.”

  Larabee glanced up from his notes.

  “Granny says young J.J. suffered from ‘the arthrity’ in his hands and feet. Dental records are in transit, and it looks good for a match on the Cessna passenger.”

  No on
e said a word.

  “Ready for the best part?”

  Three nods.

  “Grandma’s name is Effie Opal Dorton Cumbo.”

  Larabee’s impossibly wide smile broadened.

  “J. J. Wyatt and Ricky Don Dorton are Tennessee kissin’ cousins.”

  THIRTY SECONDS PASSED BEFORE ANYONE SPOKE.

  Rinaldi stared at the ceiling. Slidell studied his shoes. Both looked like they were doing complicated math in their heads.

  Knowing he was out of the loop, but not knowing why, Larabee waited us out, the smile gone. His slack face looked like it had spent a lifetime baking in an oven.

  I started the dialogue by holding up an index finger.

  “Jason Jack Wyatt might be the passenger on the Cessna.”

  “The Cessna was owned by Ricky Don Dorton,” Rinaldi said.

  I added a finger.

  “Wyatt was Dorton’s cousin,” Slidell offered.

  Ring man.

  “Darryl Tyree made frequent calls to Wyatt, including three on the morning the Cessna crashed.” Rinaldi.

  Pinky.

  “Having off-loaded at least four kilos of blow.” Slidell.

  My thumb went up.

  “Tyree is a dealer,” Rinaldi said, “whose girlfriend has recently gone missing.”

  I started on a second hand.

  “Having offed her own kid.” Slidell.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Two members of Tamela’s family are also missing.” Rinaldi ignored our exchange about the baby.

  My second middle finger went up.

  “And sweet cheeks’ license turned up in a house with two kilos of snort and a dead guy in the privy.” Slidell.

  Ring man number two.

  “A house in the possession of Sonny Pounder, a low-level dealer who snitched to the cops about Tamela’s baby.”

  Pinky number two.

  “A house with bears interred in the yard,” I added, dropping both hands.

  Slidell tendered an emphatic expletive.

  I suggested one of my own.

  A phone rang in Larabee’s office.

  “You’re going to fill me in on all of this,” the ME said to me, then shot out the door.

  Rinaldi reached into an inside pocket, withdrew a Ziploc baggie, and tossed it onto my desk.

  “CSU found this stashed with the cocaine. Thought it might mean something to you.”

  Before reaching for the bag I glanced at Rinaldi.

  “Trace analysis has already gone over it.”

  Unzipping the seal, I studied the contents.

  “Feathers?”

  “Very unusual feathers.” Rinaldi.

  “I know nothing about feathers.”

  Slidell shrugged. “You were all over Yogi and his friends, Doc.”

  “That’s bone. These are feathers.”

  Rinaldi withdrew an eight-inch plume and twirled it. Even under fluorescent light the blues looked rich and iridescent.

  “It’s no song sparrow,” he said.

  “I’m not following this,” I said.

  “Why would someone hide avian plumage with illegal drugs?”

  “Maybe the feathers were already in the basement and the coke was accidentally parked on top of them.”

  “Maybe.” Rinaldi replaced the feather.

  I flashed on the bear bones.

  “Actually, there was some kind of bird mixed in with the bears.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “Identifying the species might not hurt.”

  “You need an ornithologist.”

  “Know any?”

  “I can make a few calls.” I gave Rinaldi a look that had talons. “But first let’s talk headless bodies.”

  Rinaldi’s arms folded across Brooks Brothers linen.

  “I don’t like being kept in the dark, Detective.”

  “And we don’t like woolly thinking, Doc.” Slidell.

  I turned to him.

  “Is there something you’re not sharing?”

  “Nothing gained by a lot of pointless wheel spinning.” Slidell scowled at me.

  I scowled back.

  “When we’ve verified what we’re looking at, we’ll pass it on.” Slidell.

  Rinaldi picked at a callus on his thumb. Between the spiky hairs, his scalp looked pale and shiny.

  Larabee’s voice drifted down from his office.

  Slidell held my look. I wondered if he could hang on to it with my boot up his ass.

  Rinaldi broke the silence.

  “I see no harm in including Dr. Brennan in our thinking.”

  Slidell’s eyes rolled to his partner, snapped back to me.

  “What the hell.” Slidell sighed. “No skin off my nose.”

  “Three, four years back. I can’t precisely recall. An inquiry came across my desk.”

  “About a body with no head or hands.”

  Rinaldi nodded.

  “Where?”

  “South Carolina.”

  “It’s a big state.”

  “Fort Mill. Gaffney. Chester.” Rinaldi flapped a long, bony hand. “Nothing is centralized down there, it’s hard to backtrack.”

  Unlike the Tarheel State, South Carolina relies on a coroner system, with practitioners operating independently in each county. Coroners are elected. A nurse, a funeral director, a cemetery owner. Few are trained in medicine, fewer still in forensic pathology. Autopsies are farmed out to local doctors.

  “Most South Carolina coroners don’t have the facilities to keep a corpse very long.”

  “Got that damn straight,” Slidell snorted. “Gave Michael Jordan’s daddy, what, three days before they smoked him?”

  Slidell had the tact of a sledgehammer. But he was right.

  “I’ve sent out a query,” Rinaldi said. “I hope to hear back by the end of the day.”

  “Was this headless, handless body in good shape?”

  “As I recall, the remains were skeletonized. But it wasn’t relevant to anything we were investigating at the time, so I didn’t take much notice.”

  “Black or white?”

  Rinaldi raised then dropped his shoulders.

  “Male or female?”

  “Definitely,” Rinaldi said.

  * * *

  When the detectives had gone I phoned the university. A colleague could look at the feathers the following day.

  Next I went to the cooler and rolled out the gurney with the animal remains. I packaged everything that looked like bird, and placed the bundle in a sack with Rinaldi’s baggie of feathers.

  Exchanging the animal gurney for that holding the privy remains, I spent the next several hours doing as thorough an analysis as possible.

  My initial impressions changed little, though I was able to be more precise on the age estimate.

  Race: white.

  Age: twenty-five to forty years.

  Sex: roll the dice.

  When I returned to my office, Ryan was leafing through a copy of Creative Loafing, Nikes resting on the edge of my desk. He was wearing the same luau shirt and shorts he’d had on that morning and a Winston Cup cap. He looked like Hawaii Five-O does NASCAR.

  “Have a good day?”

  “Latta Plantation then Freedom Park.”

  “Didn’t know you were such a history buff.”

  “Hooch can’t get enough of the stuff.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The call of Alpo overpowered the call of the wild.”

  “Surprised he let you out on your own.”

  “When last seen, man’s best friend was investigating the contents of an Oreo bag.”

  “Chocolate is bad for dogs.”

  “We discussed that. Hooch thought he could handle it.”

  “If Hooch guessed wrong, you’re cleaning the carpet.”

  “Making progress with privy man?”

  “Apt segue.” Tossing the privy case folder onto my desk, I dropped into my chair.
“I just finished.”

  “That took a while,” Ryan said.

  “Toody and Muldoon came by twice today.”

  “Slidell and his partner?”

  I nodded.

  “Aren’t you kind of hard on the guy?”

  “Slidell probably needs instructions to make ice cubes.”

  “Is he really that stupid?”

  I thought about that.

  Slidell was not actually stupid. Not in the way that a fern is stupid. Or a wood frog. Slidell was just Slidell.

  “Probably not. But he’s off the bell curves for uncouth and annoying.”

  “What did they want?”

  I told Ryan about Jason Jack Wyatt and the cell phone link to Darryl Tyree.

  “The boyfriend of the lady with the dead baby?”

  I nodded.

  “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “Here’s another flash. Rinaldi remembers a headless, handless body inquiry a few years back. He and Slidell are tracking it down.”

  “Descriptors match your privy guy?”

  “Rinaldi’s recollection is a bit vague.”

  “Is yours a guy?”

  “I think so.”

  Ryan raised his brows in a question.

  “There’s not a single cranial feature that’s definitive for gender. I ran every measurement possible through the Fordisc 2.0 program.”

  “Let me guess. The skull falls into the overlap range.”

  I nodded. “Though closer to the male than the female end.”

  “Ditto for measurements on the hand bones?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your gut feeling?”

  “Male.”

  “A young-adult white person who probably used the little boys’ room. That’s not a bad start.”

  “With lousy teeth.”

  “Oh?”

  “Lots of decay. At least on the teeth we recovered.”

  “Missed a few?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shitty job.”

  “How did I know you would say that?”

  “Any dental work?”

  I shook my head. “The victim was not a believer in regular checkups.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Maybe some slight bone demineralization.”

  “I think you’ve made an excellent start, Dr. Brennan.”

  “Rinaldi also had feathers.”

  “Doesn’t seem like his style.”

  “They turned up with the coke in the cellar.”

  “What kind of feathers?”

  “He wants me to find out.”