“That’s a known fact?” I asked.
She nodded. “That bird’s story is very poignant. Would you like to hear it?”
Ryan was getting that look.
My eyes crimped in warning.
Ryan’s lips pressed together.
“Very much,” I said.
“Recognizing the Spix’s macaw’s perilous status, in 1985 Birdlife International decided to census the species in its only known habitat.”
“In Brazil.”
“Yes. Depressingly, the total count came to five.”
“That’s not good,” I said.
“No. And the situation went downhill from there. By the end of the decade the number of sightings had fallen to zero. In 1990, Tony Juniper, one of the world’s top parrot experts, went to Brazil to determine whether the Spix’s truly was extinct in the wild. After six weeks of scouring Bahia by four-wheel drive, questioning every farmer, schoolboy, padre, and poacher he met, Juniper located a single male living in a cactus on a riverbank near the town of Curaça.”
“Where’s that?” Ryan asked, flipping through the macaws.
“About thirteen hundred miles north of Rio.” With a tight smile, Rachel retrieved and closed her book.
I did some quick math. “The Spix’s lived on by itself for ten years after the initial sighting?”
“That bird became an international cause célèbre. For a decade, teams of scientists and an entire Brazilian village recorded its every move.”
“Poor guy.” Ryan.
“And they didn’t just watch,” Rachel said. “The situation turned into an ornithological soap opera. Believing the Spix’s genes were too precious to waste, conservationists decided the male needed a mate. But macaws bond for life and this little guy already had a spouse, a bright green Illiger’s macaw.”
“Birdie miscegenation.” Ryan.
“Sort of.” Rachel answered Ryan, then gave me a puzzled look. “Though the couple never cohabitated. The Spix’s lived on a facheiro cactus, the Illiger’s in a hollow tree trunk. They’d fly together during the day, then at sundown the male Spix’s would drop the female Illiger’s off at her tree and return to his cactus.”
“Sometimes a man needs a place of his own.” Ryan.
Two vertical lines puckered Rachel’s brow, but she continued.
“In 1995 researchers released a female Spix’s into the male’s territory, hoping the two would bond and reproduce.”
“Uh-oh. The proverbial other woman.”
Rachel ignored that.
“The female Spix’s courted the male, and he responded.”
“Divorce court?”
“The three birds flew together for a month.”
“Ménage à trois.”
“Is he always like this?” Rachel asked me.
“Yes. Then what happened?”
“The Spix’s female disappeared, and the odd couple returned to its previous domestic arrangement.”
Rachel glanced at Ryan to see if he’d appreciated her witticism.
“Was hubby the sloppy one or neat one?” he asked.
Rachel made an odd, giggling sound through her nose. Sni. Sni. Sni.
“What happened to the Spix’s female?” I asked.
“She had a run-in with power lines.”
“Ouch.” Ryan winced.
“Next, researchers tried all kinds of manipulations with the Illiger’s eggs, finally swapping live Illiger hatchlings for the dead hybrid embryos the female was incubating.”
“What happened?”
“The Brady Bunch.” Sni. Sni. Sni.
“The pair turned out to be good parents,” I guessed.
Rachel nodded.
“And here’s the surprising part. Although the chicks were completely Illiger’s genetically, the young developed voices identical to Dad’s.”
“That’s amazing,” I said.
“Researchers were planning to slip captive-bred Spix’s hatchlings into the nest when the big guy disappeared.”
“The lovebirds were still a couple?” Ryan.
“We’re talking about macaws. Lovebirds are Agapornis.” A little Rachel bird humor.
“So there are still some Spix’s alive in captivity?” I asked.
Rachel sniffed to show her disdain.
“Approximately sixty exist in private collections.”
“Where?”
“On a commercial bird farm in the Philippines, on the estate of a Qatari sheikh, and in a private aviary in northern Switzerland. I think there’s one at the São Paulo zoo, and several at a parrot park in the Canary Islands.”
“The owners are qualified ornithologists?”
“There’s not a biology degree among them.”
“Is that legal?”
“Unfortunately, yes. The birds are considered private property, so the owners can do what they like with them. But the Spix’s macaw has been an Appendix One species under CITES since 1975.”
Random particles of an idea began to form in my head.
“CITES?”
“The Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species. Appendix One species are considered endangered, and commercial trade in wild specimens is permitted only in exceptional circumstances.”
The particles started to coalesce.
“Is there a market for live Spix’s?”
“The Spix’s was already rare in the eighteenth century because it was so highly valued by collectors.” She virtually spat the last word. “Today, a live Spix’s could bring a hundred thousand dollars or more from a well-heeled buyer.”
Like matter, an idea exploded into being.
I couldn’t wait to phone Slidell.
* * *
There was no need. My cell rang as I was turning from campus onto University Boulevard. It was Slidell.
“Talked with the Lancaster County sheriff.”
“What did he have?”
“Mostly holes.”
“Meaning?”
Ryan reached out and reduced the volume of his Hawksley Workman and the Wolves CD to background.
“No one knows nothing much.”
That was not what I wanted to hear.
“The bones did go down to your buddy Cagle.”
“You contacted him?”
“Ever try getting an academic on the horn in August?”
“Did you try his home?”
“His home. His office. His lab. Thinking about setting up a séance with his dead granny.”
Slidell spoke to someone else, came back to me.
“Department secretary finally hooked me up with his top-secret, tell-you-and-I’ll-have-to-kill-you cell phone number. Guy sounded like he was wearing fuchsia tights.”
“And?”
“Walter”—Slidell gave the name a three-note trill—“was excavating on some island off Beaufort, South Carolina. Said he’d get hold of his grad student to read him the Lancaster report as soon as he finished digging up some dead Indian.”
“That was nice of him.”
“Yeah. I’m thinking of mailing him some chocolate chips.”
“Did you run the descriptors through NCIC?”
“Not sure about sex, not sure about time of death. No dentals, tattoos, prints, height, weight. I’d get a printout the length of Soldier Field.”
Slidell was right. Based on what we knew, a national database search of missing persons would be pointless. I changed tacks.
“Ryan and I just met with an ornithologist. Your feathers come from a bird that’s been extinct in the wild since 2000.”
“How’d they get into Pounder’s basement?”
“Good question.”
“Got a good answer?”
“These birds can go for a hundred thousand dollars.”
“You’re shitting me. Who’d pay a hundred grand for a bird?”
“People with more money than brains.”
“That legal?”
“Not if the bird is wild.”
“Y
ou’re thinking black market?”
“Could explain why the feathers were hidden with the coke.”
“Doesn’t Tweetie have to be chirping to bring the bucks?”
“It could have died in transport.”
“So the mope saves the feathers thinking they might be worth something.”
“And buries the carcass with the other animals he’s slaughtered.”
“The bear bones?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Thought you said they were garden-variety black bears.”
“I did.”
“That an endangered species?”
“No.”
A moment of empty air.
“Doesn’t hang,” Slidell said.
“Why so many bears?”
“Where’s the money?”
That had been Ryan’s question, too.
“I’m not sure, but I intend to find out.”
And I knew just whom I was going to ask.
FOR THE FIRST DAY IN ALMOST A WEEK, THERE WAS NO NEED TO go to the MCME. I’d done what I could with the privy remains, the Cessna passenger, and the bears. Slidell could get the feathers personally if he needed them quickly.
Over grilled cheese sandwiches at Pike’s Soda Shop, Ryan and I discussed the wisdom of leaving for the beach. We decided it was better to hold off for a few days than to be yanked back to Charlotte.
We also discussed my suspicions concerning the illegal trade in wildlife. Ryan agreed my theory posed a possibility given the feathers found with the cocaine, and the large number of black bears buried at the farm. Neither he nor I had any idea how the bears figured in, nor what the link was among the farm, Tamela Banks and Darryl Tyree, the privy victim, and the Cessna’s owner, pilot, and passenger, though there was clearly a cocaine connection to Tyree.
After an hors d’oeuvre run to Dean & DeLuca’s at Phillips Place, we returned to the annex. While Ryan changed into running gear, I phoned Mrs. Flowers.
Wally Cagle, the forensic anthropologist who’d done the headless, handless skeleton from Lancaster County, had called. She gave me the number.
Next I checked my voice mail messages.
Katy.
Harry.
Harry’s son, Kit, warning that his mother would be calling.
Harry.
Harry.
Pierre LaManche, the chef de service for the medicolegal section at the crime lab in Montreal. An informant had led police to a woman buried seven years in a sandpit. The case was not urgent, but he wanted me to know that an anthropological analysis was required.
My arrangement with the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale was that I would rotate through the lab on a monthly basis, doing all cases for which my expertise had been requested, and that I would return immediately should a critical investigation, disaster, or subpoena demand my presence. I wondered if the sandpit case could wait until my planned return to Montreal at the end of the summer.
Two hang-ups.
Knowing the Harry-Kit-Harry-Harry sequence meant my sister and twenty-something nephew were arguing, I put that conversation off.
As I disconnected, man and his best friend entered the kitchen, Boyd trailing like a shark on a blood scent. Ryan wore running shorts, a sweatband, and a T that suggested PERFORM RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS AND SENSELESS BEAUTY.
“Nice shirt,” I said.
“Half the proceeds went toward saving the Karner Blue.”
“What’s a Karner Blue?”
“Butterfly.” Ryan unpegged the leash. The chow went berserk. “It’s in trouble and the salesperson was deeply concerned.”
Smiling, I waved the two off and dialed my daughter.
She requested hors d’ouevres for the evening’s soiree. I told her I had purchased stuffed mushrooms and cheese sticks.
She asked if I was bringing the French Foreign Legion. I told her I’d be accompanied.
I called Montreal. LaManche had departed the lab for an afternoon of administrative meetings. I left a message about my scheduled return date.
I hadn’t seen Harry since the family beach trip in early July. Knowing this would be a long one, I got a Diet Coke from the refrigerator and dialed my sister’s number.
The fight concerned my sister’s latest boyfriend, a massage therapist from Galveston. Thirty minutes later I understood the issue.
Kit didn’t like him. Harry did.
I was dialing Wally Cagle when a series of beeps indicated another caller was trying to reach me. I clicked over.
“Checked your e-mail, Dr. Brennan?” The voice was high and warbly, like an electronic doll’s.
Tiny hairs rose on the nape of my neck.
“Who is this?”
“I know where you are. I know all about you.”
Annoyance alternated with anger. And fear. I searched for a snappy response, found none, repeated myself.
“Who is this?”
“The face in the glass.”
My eyes flew to the window.
“The dust bunny under your bed.” Singsong. “The beastie in the closet.”
Unconsciously, I drifted to the wall and pressed my back to it.
“Welcome.” The child-voice mimicked AOL. “You’ve got mail.”
The line went dead.
I stood rigid, clutching the phone.
This case? Some other case? A random nut?
I jumped when the ringer sounded in my hand. The caller-ID window indicated a private number.
My finger sought the “connect” button. Slowly, I raised the receiver to my ear.
“Hello?” A man’s voice.
I waited, breath still frozen in my throat.
“Ye-ho? Someone there?”
High-pitched Boston accent.
Walter Cagle.
Slow exhale.
“Hey, Wally.”
“That you, Tempe?”
“It’s me.”
“You all right, princess?” Wally called most women he liked “princess.” Some were offended. Some weren’t. I saved my ire for bigger issues.
“I’m fine.”
“You sound edgy.”
“I’ve just had an odd call.”
“Not bad news, I hope.”
“Probably just a crank.” Dear God, what if it wasn’t?
“Guy wanted to see you in hip waders and a Dale Evans bra?”
“Something like that.”
A tap at the window. My eyes whipped back up.
A chickadee was perched on the bird feeder. As it dipped for seed, the feeder rocked gently against the glass.
I closed my eyes and steadied my voice.
“Listen, I’m glad you called. Did Detective Slidell fill you in on what’s going on?”
“He said you needed information on an old case.”
“A partial skeleton, found near Lancaster about three years back.”
“I remember it. No skull. No hand bones. Coroner should have my report on file.”
“That coroner is dead. The current coroner has nothing but the original police report, which is useless.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” Deep sigh. “Guy struck me as one notch above simpleminded. A teensy notch.”
“Do you mind discussing your findings?”
“Of course not, princess. Case went nowhere, as I recall.”
“We think we may have found the head and hands up here in Mecklenburg County.”
“No kidding.”
The line was silent a moment. I could picture Wally crossing his legs, kicking one foot, composing his thoughts.
“I’m down in Beaufort, but I called my lab, had a graduate student read me the highlights from my report. It was a complete skeleton lacking the head, mandible, first three cervical vertebrae, and all hand bones.”
Pause.
“Well preserved, devoid of soft tissue and odor, some bleaching. Extensive animal damage. Time since death at least one year, probably longer.”
Wa
lly was summarizing in speech as he might have on paper. Or perhaps he was reading from notes he’d jotted during the call with his student.
“Male. Thirty years old, plus or minus five years. Age based on ribs and pubic symphyses. Or at least on what was left of them.”
Pause.
“Caucasoid.”
Pause.
“Height seventy-three inches, plus or minus. Can’t remember that exactly. Muscle attachments slight.”
“Any evidence of trauma?” I asked.
“Just postmortem. Animal damage. Cut marks on the third cervical vertebra suggestive of decapitation by a sharp instrument with a nonserrated blade. That’s about it.”
“Did you have any feel for the case at the time?”
“A tall white boy pissed somebody off. That somebody killed him and whacked off his head and hands. That in accord with what you’re seeing?”
“Pretty much.”
I looked out my window. The trees around my patio shimmered in the heat. My heartbeat had returned to normal. Concentrating on Cagle’s narrative, I’d nearly forgotten the prior call.
“I had a tough time determining sex with this skull. Didn’t fall on either side of the line,” I said.
“I had the same problem,” Cagle said. “Sheriff’s deputies recovered no clothes or personal effects. Dogs and raccoons used the body as carryout for a goodly period of time. Pelvis was badly chewed, so were the ends of the long bones. Had to calculate stature from one relatively complete fibula. Except for that height estimate, I saw zilch with regard to sex.”
“There are tall women,” I said.
“Look at professional basketball,” Cagle agreed. “Anyway, I thought I had a tall male, but wasn’t one hundred percent sure. So when I sent a femoral sample off for DNA profiling, I requested an amelogenin test.”
“And?”
“Two bands.”
“Male.” I said it more to myself than to Cagle.
“X and a Y, holding hands.”
“The state lab agreed to do a blind DNA?”
“Of course not. The sheriff’s query turned up a missing person as a possible match. DNA said otherwise.”
“What happened to the skeleton?”
“I shipped it back to Lancaster when I mailed my report. Coroner sent me a receipt.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Snow. Murray P. Snow. Probably held the bones a week then torched them.”
“Did you take pictures?” I asked.
“They’re on file in my lab at the university.”