I opened a file labeled MCME 580-13, and saved the image to it. Then I attached and emailed a copy to Allison Stallings, a crime reporter at the Charlotte Observer. A few years back, Stallings had followed a string of satanic killings I was working.
Actually, Stallings had stalked Slidell and me. But she’d reported the facts accurately and fairly. In the end, I’d liked her.
After waiting ten minutes, I dialed Stallings’s number.
“Who is she?” she said by way of greeting.
I repeated what I’d told Josie Cromwell, adding a few more specifics about time of death and the body recovery site.
“What do you want?”
“Can you run the picture and a short article? Might scare up a witness, or someone who knows her.”
“Hang on.”
I did. Far down the line, indecipherable snippets sounded like chatter from another galaxy. Stallings was back in less than five minutes.
“Sorry. My editor says not yet. If your kid’s still a Jane Doe a week from now, he’ll reconsider. But nothing front page.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
We traded good-byes and disconnected.
Okay. Dogs.
As I was pulling on jeans, a blouse, and ballet flats, my brain posted an image of Slidell talking disdainfully of wetbacks and hookers.
Was he right? Was she illegal?
What are ya gonna do?
Firing back downstairs, I emailed the girl’s photo to Luther Dew at ICE. Another long shot, but it couldn’t hurt.
I sat a moment, thinking. About Slidell and his missing single mom. About my phone conversation with Luther Dew.
And I realized the obvious.
For my Jane Doe to have a name, I’d have to take the initiative.
I added text to the girl’s photo and sent my work to the printer.
Flyers in hand, I set out.
THE ONLY CAR in the Yum-Tum’s lot was the grungy Ford Escort from the night before, probably Shannon King’s.
Grabbing a handful of flyers from the passenger seat, I got out and walked toward the door. A car rattled by behind me. Gravel crunched underfoot.
In daylight I could identify some of the neighbors. A tool and die company, an outfit with its lawns full of cast concrete, a screen printer’s shop, a crumbling sprawl that looked like an old Motel 6 converted to apartments.
No phone, no pool, no pets …
Thanks, Mr. Miller.
The Yum-Tum’s front window was blanketed with notices, some fresh, most yellowed and curling at the corners. I stopped to read a few through the grimy glass.
Missing cats and dogs, one parakeet. Good luck with that. An ad for a wet T-shirt contest at some bar probably long since belly-up. An author hawking her self-published book, Mind over Weight. Seriously? At Fat Cells R Us?
King was behind the counter, thumbing through a copy of OK! magazine. The clotted lids lifted when I jingled through the door.
“Hi, Shannon.”
“Hey.” Noncommittal.
“Wondered if I might post some of these?” I handed her a flyer.
She eyed the picture, read the few details I’d included about the accident, the victim, my contact information at the ME office, Slidell’s at the CMPD.
“Okay.” She hooked a thumb in the direction of the Motel 6. “Creepoids from the apartments might have seen something.”
She dug below the counter, produced a roll of tape with hairs curling from the sticky side.
“Put it in the window.”
“May I also hang one on the door?”
The dark brows puckered.
“You have my card. If the manager objects, tell him to call me,” I said.
“What the fuck. I’ll tell him the coroner insisted.” She placed the flyer to one side of the counter, facing out. “I’ll keep one here, you know, watch how people react. If they look, like, guilty or something.”
Great. I had a kid in a cooler and my daughter in a war zone. I didn’t need a bimbo junior investigator.
“That’s fine, Shannon. But just observe. Don’t engage anyone in conversation.”
“You think I’m a moron?”
“Of course not.”
I felt goth eyes on my back as I posted the notices and left.
The day was warming, the cloud cover starting to fragment. The sun’s brief appearances warmed my shoulders and hair.
After removing my jacket, I drove to the Motel 6.
The complex, called the Pines, consisted of a long, rectangular box that appeared to have little motivation to remain standing. Paint that had once covered the cinder-block walls now looked like irregular bloodred sores. Each of the ten units had a single curtained window and faded blue door.
Rooms to let fifty cents …
I guessed that tenants at the Pines were mostly short-term, either hoping to move up or dropping down hard.
A few battered cars waited on the strip of pavement fronting the rectangle, like swayback horses tied outside a saloon. I nosed mine into the herd and got out.
No one answered my knock at the first six units. I slipped flyers under the doors and moved on.
Numbers 7 and 8 were opened by dark-skinned women claiming no comprendo. Ditto when I posed my questions in Spanish. Eyes fearful, they took their flyers and quickly withdrew.
At unit 9, a bare-chested man cracked, then slammed the door before I could speak. At 10, a voice bellowed, “Get the fuck gone!”
I did.
Driving Old Pineville and the small network of arteries surrounding Rountree, I tacked the girl’s picture to trees, fences, and utility poles, to a barrier leading into woods where the Rountree pavement ended. I left her image at every business Slidell had visited. Most accepted my handiwork with skepticism. A few asked questions. The majority did not.
Discouraged, I worked my way along South Boulevard, then hit the three light-rail platforms closest to the spot where the girl had died.
I was wheep-wheeping my Mazda when my iPhone announced an incoming call.
“Temperance Brennan.” Sliding behind the wheel and clicking the belt with my free hand.
“Luther Dew.”
“How can I help you, Agent Dew?”
“I had hoped you would be in your office.” Reproachful?
“I’m on my way now.”
“I wonder if I might stop by, perhaps in half an hour?”
“I haven’t completed my analysis of the mummy bundles.”
As in, I haven’t started.
“Have you done radiography?”
“Yes.” I’d asked Joe Hawkins to X-ray the crap out of everything.
“I’m wondering if I might have the films to aid me in composing my report.”
“You’re welcome to take photographs, but our office must retain the originals.”
“That will be sufficient.”
“Do you know where the MCME facility is located?”
“Yes. Half an hour, then.”
Dead air.
And you have a nice day, too, Agent Dew.
As my palm smacked the gearshift, a warning growl rose from my gut.
Quick time check. Almost two. I’d catch a bite when Dew left. Maybe hop out for a burger and fries.
Who was I kidding? The chance of lunch was less probable than that of finding Birdie in an apron cooking dinner tonight.
Grab something at the Yum-Tum? I wasn’t that hungry. Never would be.
I popped in a Scott Joplin CD, cranked the volume, and tapped the wheel to the beat of the “Maple Leaf Rag.”
Twenty minutes and a Circle K stop later, I swung into the MCME lot. Mrs. Flowers buzzed me through, smiling as always.
I waited for her usual decorous briefing.
“You have no new phone messages. Dr. Larabee is out. No one else has requested time with you.” The “i” in time was three miles long.
“Thank you. Someone from Immigration and Customs Enforcement will be here shortly. Special Agent L
uther Dew.”
“The mummified dogs?” The penciled brows lifted a millimeter on the powdered forehead.
“Has Joe completed the X-rays?”
“He placed them in the small autopsy room.”
“Thanks. Please give me a heads-up before sending Dew back.”
“Of course.”
En route to my office, I glanced at the case board. Nothing new for me.
I was checking my inbox when the phone rang.
Great.
“Your special agent is here.” No tremble, no quivery breathing.
Point of information. Though as refined as any Daughter of Dixie, in the presence of the tall, dark, and handsome, Mrs. Flowers not only blushes, she goes all Marilyn breathless.
So. Dew wasn’t much to look at.
“Can you hold him ten minutes before sending him back?”
“Certainly.”
In the small autopsy room, each light box held a film, and large brown envelopes lay beside three of the four plastic tubs.
Shifting from box to box, I flicked switches and viewed X-rays of the contents of the first bundle.
Good.
Removing those images, I moved on through the other three series. I was peering at the last film when footsteps clicked down the corridor.
I turned.
A pink beluga filled the open doorway. No fedora, bow tie, or suspenders.
Dew wore a white shirt, blue tie, and pinstriped navy suit. A very large one. I put him at six two, minimally three hundred pounds.
I stepped forward and extended a hand. “Tempe Brennan.”
“Luther Dew.” Firm grip, but not a testosterone crusher.
Dew’s eyes flicked past me, came back.
“Thank you for making time.” The high voice sounded wrong emanating from the supersize body.
“Of course.”
Again, Dew’s gaze went to the X-rays. I noted that his eyes had oddly violet sclera.
“Please.” I gestured him to the nearest light box. “Come closer.”
Dew’s fleshy neck stacked into layers as his head tilted left then right to make sense of the superimposed long bones, ribs, and other anatomical parts.
“It doesn’t look human,” he concluded.
“Canine all the way. Note the snout, the teeth, the tail vertebrae.” I pointed to each.
“The others are similar?”
I nodded. “Though I’ve made only preliminary observations.” Now there was an understatement. “One appears to be a puppy.”
Dew spent a few more moments studying the compressed skeleton glowing white on the film.
“I appreciate your limiting your examination to noninvasive methods.”
“Unless I spot something suspicious I shouldn’t have to disturb the wrappings.”
“The Peruvian archaeologists will appreciate that.” Dew pulled out and waggled a small point-and-shoot Nikon. “May I?”
I switched X-rays until he’d photographed all four sets. Then he shot pics of the unopened bundles.
When he’d finished, we both stood a moment, regarding the dogs.
A thought struck me. What the hell?
“The hit-and-run victim we discussed remains unidentified.”
Dew looked down at me blankly.
“The girl that Detective Slidell suspects is undocumented. Would you like to view the body?”
“I really don’t see how that can be useful.”
“We’re here. She’s here. What can it hurt?”
Before Dew could object I led him into the cooler, centered the proper gurney, and unzipped the bag.
To his credit, Dew didn’t leave. Nor did he show any emotion.
A moment passed. Then, “This is very sad, but I really can’t help. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
I rezipped the girl and we moved to my office. Dew filled a good hunk of it. I waited for him to divulge what was on his mind.
“As part of its investigation, ICE has begun examining Dominick Rockett’s finances.”
Dew took my lack of response as nonunderstanding.
“We are looking at Mr. Rockett’s bank records, purchase histories, tax returns, for example. Among other things.”
The guy talked like he was reading from a training manual.
“The gentleman has assets difficult to explain by the totality of his pension and disability income combined with the proceeds from his import business.”
“Meaning?” I knew what it meant. But it seemed Dew needed feedback.
“Dominick Rockett may be a larger player than we suspected.”
“You think he’s a smuggler?”
Dew shifted a lot of poundage in a surprisingly elegant manner. “These dogs may be the tip of a very lucrative and disturbing iceberg.”
My stomach chose that moment to voice another notice of need.
I reddened. Dew might have. I couldn’t tell, his face was already so flushed.
“But I’ve engaged you too long.” Dew rose.
“You’ll keep me in the loop?” I asked.
“Certainly. You’ve been very cooperative.”
Cooperative? What was I, a suspect?
“Thank you.” I pulled a flyer from my purse. “Perhaps you’ll float a few questions about my Jane Doe?”
Dew was studying the photo when the landline shrilled.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Mrs. Flowers sounded tense. “But the caller is insistent. And sounds rather upset.”
An image of Katy flashed in my mind.
“I’ll take it.” Mouth dry.
As I mimed “sorry” to Dew, the ambient sound on the line changed.
“—picture on the flyer?” The voice was low, the connection awful.
“Are you referring to the notice about the hit-and-run victim?” I asked, baffled.
“—girl dead?” The caller sounded female.
“Yes. She is dead.”
“—hurt her—scared—”
“Scared of what?”
Garbled static.
“—all were—”
“Ma’am. Can you hang up and call me back?”
“—wrong—had to tell someone.”
“Do you know who the girl is?”
Click.
Dial tone.
“IF YOU’D LIKE to make a call, please hang up and—”
I depressed and released the button, then punched in Mrs. Flowers’s extension.
Busy.
Again.
Still busy.
Come on. Come on.
The caller had sounded guarded. Did she break the connection? Did someone else?
“I’m sorry.” To Dew. “That may have been a tip on my Jane Doe.”
“I understand.”
This time Mrs. Flowers answered.
“I apologize f—.”
“The last caller. Do you have a number?”
A pause, then, “I do.”
Dew watched as I jotted the digits. Then, “Again, thank you, Dr. Brennan.”
“I’ll let you know when you can collect the dogs.”
Dew was barely through the door when I hit Slidell on speed dial.
“Yo.” In the background, Waylon Jennings was advising a trip to Luckenbach, Texas.
“Can you trace a number?”
“Lemme guess. Dancing with the Stars finally rang and you lost ’em.”
I told him about my flyers, then about the anonymous caller. Braced for a lecture. Which didn’t come.
“Shoot.”
I shot.
“Gimme five.”
Three minutes later, Slidell was back. Sans Waylon.
“Pay phone. Who knew they still existed? Most of those booths are now pissing—”
“Where?”
“Seneca Square Shopping Center.”
“South Boulevard, near Tyvola.” My heart threw in a few extra beats. Seneca Square wasn’t far from the site of the hit and run.
“Ee-yuh. I’ll float a few questions. But u
nless your tipster dialed naked in a tiara, the chances of anyone noticing are probably zilch.”
Slidell was right. Which irritated the hell out of me.
“Any news on the vehicle?”
“No.”
“What about the smear on her purse?”
“The FBI’s mostly a jokefest of Fuckaround Frankies. But their paint data’s the shits.”
Slidell really did have a way with words.
“Forty thousand freakin’ samples, but ours didn’t hook up.”
“What we sent wasn’t paint?”
“Yeah, it was paint. But not from a car.”
“From what, then?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“What did the report say?” Barely masking my annoyance.
“Bunch of crap about solvents, and binders, and pigments, and additives. Methyl this and hydrofluoro that. Why can’t these fart-wads just speak English?”
“You’ll have someone figure out what the stuff is?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“How long will it take?”
“As long as it takes.”
When we’d disconnected, I closed my eyes and replayed the mysterious call in my head. Female, saying the hit-and-run vic was scared. Accent? The connection was too lousy to tell.
Did the woman know my Jane Doe? If so, why not give me her name?
Scared of what?
The caller sounded frightened herself.
Frightened of what?
Everyone has access to a mobile or landline these days. Why use a pay phone? To maintain anonymity? Erroneously thinking the call couldn’t be traced?
Had the woman disconnected or had someone cut her off? Had she meant to say more?
At that moment my stomach definitely said more. Loudly.
I fired to the kitchen for a Diet Coke, returned, pulled the top item from the stack in my inbox, and read as I chewed the PowerBar I’d scored at the Circle K.
The form reported on human bones discovered on the shore of Mountain Island Lake. Amelogenin testing showed the remains were those of a male. Definitely not Edith Blankenship, a missing woman the cops thought they’d found. Terrific. So where was Edith? And who was the guy from the lake?
I wrote a brief report, attached the form, and placed both in a bright yellow folder in my outbox. No reason for the color, except that I liked it.