“If Simington could get his hands on explosives, the Hells Angels would have no problem.”
“Like buying Cheez Whiz at the 7-Eleven. Look, why don’t you get back up here and tell this Tyrell—”
“I want to check some bone samples to make sure I’m right on my age estimate. If that foot didn’t come from the plane, the tampering charges will be irrelevant.”
“I mentioned your suspicions about the foot to Tyrell.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He brushed it off.”
Again I felt the flush of anger.
“Have you turned up any unlisted passengers?”
“Nope. Hanover swears deadheading is strictly regulated. No paper, no ride. The Air TransSouth employees we’ve interviewed confirm their CEO’s claim.”
“Anyone who might have been transporting body parts?”
“No anatomists, anthropologists, podiatrists, orthopedic surgeons, or corrective footwear salesmen. And Jeffrey Dahmer isn’t flying these days.”
“You’re a scream, Ryan.”
I hesitated.
“Has Jean been identified?”
“He and Petricelli remain among the missing.”
“They’ll find him.”
“Yeah.”
“You all right?”
“Tough as nails. How ’bout you? Feeling lonely all by yourself?”
“I’m fine,” I said, staring at the bed I’d just vacated.
* * *
North Carolina has a centralized medical examiner system, with headquarters in Chapel Hill and regional offices in Winston-Salem, Greenville, and Charlotte. Due to geography, and to its physical layout, the Charlotte branch, dubbed the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner, was chosen for the processing of specimens collected at the incident morgue in Bryson City. A technician had been loaned from Chapel Hill, and a temporary histology unit had been set up.
The Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner is part of the Harold R. “Hal” Marshall County Services Center, which takes up both sides of College Street between Ninth and Tenth, just on the edge of uptown. The facility’s home was once a Sears Garden Center. Though an architectural orphan, it is modern and efficient.
But Hal’s tenure may be threatened. Shunned for years, the land on which the center sits, with its views of condos, shops, and bistros, has caught the interest of developers as more fitting for mixed-use commercial expansion than for use as county offices, parking lots, and a morgue. American Express gold cards, cappuccino makers, and Hornets and Panthers club seats may soon flourish where scalpels, gurneys, and autopsy tables used to hold sway.
Twenty minutes after finally donning the panties, I pulled into the MCME lot. Across College, the homeless were being served hot dogs and lemonade from folding tables. Blankets covered the moss strip between sidewalk and curb, displaying shoes, shirts, and socks for the taking. A score of indigents milled about, nowhere to go, in no hurry to get there.
Locking the car, I walked to the low-rise redbrick structure and was buzzed through the glass doors. After greeting the ladies up front, I checked in with Tim Larabee, the Mecklenburg County ME. He led me to a computer that had been set aside for crash victim processing and pulled up case number 387. It was probably violating the terms of my banishment, but I had to take the chance.
DNA testing was being done at the Charlotte-Mecklenburg crime laboratory, and those results were not yet available. But the histology was ready. The samples I’d cut from the ankle and foot bones had been shaved into slivers less than one hundred microns thick, processed, stained, and placed on slides. I got them and settled at a microscope.
Bone is a miniature universe in which birth and death occur constantly. The basic unit is the osteon, composed of concentric loops of bone, a canal, osteocytes, vessels, and nerves. In living tissue osteons are born, nourished, and eventually replaced by newer units.
When magnified and viewed under polarized light, osteons resemble tiny volcanoes, ovoid cones with central craters and flanks that spread out to flatlands of primary bone. The number of volcanoes increases with age, as does the count of abandoned calderas. By determining the density of these features one arrives at an age estimate.
First I looked for signs of abnormality. In the cross-section of a long bone, thinning of the shaft, scalloping of its inner or outer edges, or abnormal deposition of woven bone can indicate problems, including fracture healing or unusually rapid remodeling. I saw no such anomalies.
Satisfied that a realistic age estimate was possible, I increased the magnification to one hundred and inserted a ruled ocular micrometer into the eyepiece. The grid contained one hundred squares, with each side measuring one millimeter at the level of the section. Moving from slide to slide, I studied the miniature landscapes, carefully counting and recording the features within each grid. When I’d finished and plugged my totals into the proper formulae, I had my answer.
The owner of the foot had been at least sixty-five, probably nearer to seventy.
I leaned back and considered that. No one on the manifest was close to that age range. What were the options?
One. An unlisted traveler was on board. A septuagenarian deadheader? A senior citizen stowaway? Unlikely.
Two. A passenger had carried the foot on board. Ryan said they’d found no one whose profile suggested an interest in body parts.
Three. The foot was unrelated to Air TransSouth 228.
Then where did it come from?
I dug a card from my purse, checked the number, and dialed.
“Swain County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Lucy Crowe, please.”
“Who’s calling.”
I gave my name and waited. Moments later I heard the gravelly voice.
“I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“You’ve heard.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I could try to explain, but I don’t think I understand the situation myself.”
“I don’t know you well enough to judge.”
“Why are you talking to me?”
“Gut instinct.”
“I’m working to clear this up.”
“That’d be good. You’ve got ’em buzzing at the top of the heap.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just had a call from Parker Davenport.”
“The lieutenant governor?”
“Himself. Ordered me to keep you off the crash site.”
“Doesn’t he have better things to worry about?”
“Apparently you’re a hot topic. My deputy took a call this morning. Fellow wanted to know where you live and where you were staying up here.”
“Who was he?”
“Wouldn’t give a name, hung up when my deputy insisted.”
“Was he press?”
“We’re pretty good at spotting that.”
“There’s something you can do for me, Sheriff.”
I heard the sound of long-distance air.
“Sheriff?”
“I’m listening.”
I described the foot, and my reasons for doubting its association with the crash.
“Could you check on missing persons for Swain and the surrounding counties?”
“Got any descriptors besides age?”
“Sixty-three to sixty-six inches in height, with bad feet. When the DNA’s in I’ll know the gender.”
“Time frame?”
Despite the soft tissue preservation, I decided on broad parameters.
“One year.”
“I know we’ve got some here in Swain. I’ll pull those up. And I suppose there’s no harm in sending out a few queries.”
When we’d disconnected, I sealed the slide case and returned it to the technician. As I drove toward home new questions burned in my brain, fanned by feelings of anger and humiliation.
Why wasn’t Larke Tyrell defending me? He knew the commitment I felt to my work, knew I’d never compromise an investigation.
Could Parker Davenport be Tyrell’s “powerful people”? Larke was an appointed official. Could the lieutenant governor be putting pressure on his chief medical examiner? Why?
Could Lucy Crowe’s reaction to Davenport be accurate? Was the lieutenant governor concerned with his image and planning to use me for publicity purposes?
I remembered him at the crash site, hanky to his mouth, eyes down to avoid the carnage.
Or was it me he was avoiding? An unpleasant feeling shifted inside me, and I tried to erase the image. It was no good. My mind was like a computer with no delete button.
I thought of Ryan’s advice. Pete’s. Both were saying the same thing.
I dialed Information, then placed a call.
Ruby answered after two rings.
I identified myself and asked if Magnolia was available.
“The room’s empty, but I offered it to one of the downstairs boarders.”
“I’d like to check back in.”
“They told me you were gone for good. Cleared the bill.”
“I’ll pay you for a week in advance.”
“Must be the Lord’s will the other ’un hasn’t moved up there yet.”
“Yes,” I answered, with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel. “The Lord’s will.”
10
CHARLOTTE IS A POSTER CHILD FOR MULTIPLE personality disorder, the Sybil of cities. It is the New South, proud of its skyscrapers, airport, university, NBA Hornets, NFL Panthers, and NASCAR racing. Headquarters to Bank of America and First Union, it is the nation’s second largest financial center. It is home to the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. It yearns to be a world-class city.
Yet Charlotte remains nostalgic for the Old South. In its affluent southeast quadrant, it is stately homes and tidy bungalows garnished by azaleas, dogwoods, rhododendrons, redbuds, and magnolias. It is winding streets, front porch swings, and more trees per square mile than any burg on the planet. In spring, Charlotte is a kaleidoscope of pink, white, violet, and red. In fall it blazes with yellow and orange. It has a church on every corner and people attend them. The erosion of the genteel life is a constant topic of conversation, but the same folks lamenting its passage keep one eye on the stock market.
I live at Sharon Hall, a turn-of-the-century estate in the elegant old neighborhood of Myers Park. Once a graceful Georgian manor, the Hall had fallen into disrepair by the 1950s and was donated to a local college. In the mid-eighties the two-and-a-half-acre property was purchased by developers, upfitted, and reincarnated as a modern condominium complex.
While most of the Hall’s residents occupy the main house, or one of its recently constructed wings, my condo is a tiny structure on the western edge of the property. Records indicate the building started life as an addition to the coach house, but no document describes its original function. For lack of a better term it is simply called the Annex.
Though cramped, my two stories are bright and sunny, and my small patio is perfect for geraniums, one of the few species able to survive my horticultural ministrations. The Annex has been home since my marital breakup, and it suits me perfectly.
The sky was resolutely blue as I entered the gates and circled the grounds. The petunias and marigolds smelled of autumn, their perfume mingling with the scent of drying leaves. Sunshine warmed the bricks of the Hall’s buildings, walks, and perimeter wall.
Rounding the Annex, I was surprised to see Pete’s Porsche parked next to my patio, Boyd’s head protruding from the passenger side. Spotting me, the dog pricked his ears, pulled in his tongue, then let it dangle again.
Through the back window I could see Birdie in his travel cage. My cat did not look pleased with the transport arrangements.
As I pulled parallel to Pete’s car, he rounded the building.
“Jesus, am I glad I caught you.” His face looked anxious.
“What is it?”
“A client’s knitting plant just went up in flames. The case is certain to become a matter of litigation, and I’ve got to get out there with some experts before would-be fire inspectors muck things up.”
“Out where?”
“Indianapolis. I was hoping you’d take Boyd for a couple of days.”
The tongue disappeared, dropped again.
“I’m leaving for Bryson City.”
“Boyd loves the highlands. He’d be great company.”
“Look at him.”
Boyd’s chin now rested on the window ledge, and saliva trickled down the car’s outside panel.
“He’d be protection.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Really. Harvey didn’t like unexpected visitors, so he trained Boyd to sniff out strangers.”
“Especially those in uniform.”
“The good, the bad, the ugly, even the beautiful. Boyd makes no distinctions.”
“Isn’t there a kennel where he can board?”
“It’s full.” He glanced at his watch, then gave me his most beguiling choirboy look. “And my flight leaves in an hour.”
Pete had never refused when I’d needed help with Birdie.
“Go. I’ll figure something out.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ll find a kennel.”
Pete squeezed both my arms.
“You’re my hero.”
There are twenty-three kennels in the greater Charlotte area. It took an hour to establish that fourteen were fully booked, five did not answer, two could not accommodate a dog over fifty pounds, and two would take no dog without a personal interview.
“Now what?”
Boyd raised and cocked his head, then went back to licking my kitchen floor.
Desperate, I made another call.
Ruby was less fastidious. For three dollars a day the dog was welcome, no personal audience required.
My neighbor took Birdie, and the chow and I hit the road.
* * *
Halloween has its roots in the pagan festival of Samhain. Held at the onset of winter and the beginning of the Celtic New Year, Samhain was the time when the veil between living and dead was thinnest, and spirits roamed the land of mortals. Fires were extinguished and rekindled, and people dressed up to frighten away the unfriendly departed.
Though the holiday was still two weeks off, the residents of Bryson City were into the concept in a big way. Ghouls, bats, and spiders were everywhere. Scarecrows and tombstones had been erected in front yards, and skeletons, black cats, witches, and ghosts dangled from trees and porch lights. Jack-o’-lanterns leered from every window in town. A couple of cars had rather realistic replicas of human feet protruding from their trunks. Good time to actually dispose of a body, I thought.
By five I’d settled Boyd into a run behind High Ridge House, and myself into Magnolia. Then I drove to the sheriff’s headquarters.
Lucy Crowe was on the phone when I appeared in her doorway. She waved me into her office, and I took one of two chairs. Her desk filled most of the small space, looking like something at which a Confederate general might have penned military orders. Her chair was also ancient, brown leather and studded, with stuffing oozing from the left arm.
“Nice desk,” I said when she’d hung up.
“I think it’s ash.” The sea-foam eyes were just as startling as on our first meeting. “It was made by my predecessor’s grandfather.”
She leaned back, and the chair squeaked musically.
“Tell me what I’ve missed.”
“They say you’ve damaged the investigation.”
“Sometimes you get bad press.”
Her head did a j-stroke. “What have you got?”
“That foot was walking the earth at least sixty-five years. No one on the plane had that privilege. I need to establish that this was not crash evidence.”
The sheriff opened a folder and spread its contents on her blotter.
“I’ve got three missing persons. Had four, but one turned up.”
“Shoot.”
“Jeremiah Mitch
ell, black male, age seventy-two. Disappeared from Waynesville eight months ago. According to patrons at the Mighty High Tap, Mitchell left the bar around midnight to buy hooch. That was February fifteenth. Mitchell’s neighbor reported him missing ten days later. He hasn’t been seen since.”
“No family?”
“None listed. Mitchell was a loner.”
“Why the neighbor’s concern?”
“Mitchell had his ax and the guy wanted it back. Visited the house several times, finally got tired of waiting, went to see if Mitchell was in the drunk tank. He wasn’t, so the neighbor filed an MP report, thinking a police search might flush him.”
“And his ax.”
“A man’s nothing without his tools.”
“Height?”
She ran a finger down one of the papers.
“Five foot six.”
“That fits. Was he driving?”
“Mitchell was a heavy drinker, traveled by foot. Folks figure he got himself lost and died of exposure.”
“Who else?”
“George Adair.” She read from another form. “White male, age sixty-seven. Lived over to Unahala, disappeared two weeks ago. Wife said he went fishing with a buddy and never came back.”
“What was the buddy’s story?”
“Woke one morning and Adair wasn’t in the tent. Waited a day, then packed up and went home.”
“Where was this fatal fishing trip?”
“The Little Tennessee.” She swiveled and stabbed at a spot on a wall map behind her. “Up the Nantahala Mountains.”
“Where’s Unahala?”
Her finger moved a fraction toward the northeast.
“And where’s the crash site?”
Her finger barely moved.
“Who’s contestant number three?”
When she turned back, the chair sang another verse.
“Daniel Wahnetah, age sixty-nine, Cherokee from the reservation. Failed to show up for his grandson’s birthday on July twenty-seventh. Family reported him missing on August twenty-sixth when he pulled a no-show for his own party.” Her eyes moved down the paper. “No height reported.”
“The family waited a month?”
“Except in winter, Daniel spends most of his time out in the woods. He has a string of camps, works a circuit hunting and fishing.”