Body Farm 04 - Bones of Betrayal (22 page)

THE AUTOPSY OF THE THIRD OAK RIDGE VICTIM—CASE
09-03—was almost redundant, since the cause of death had been sticking out of the man’s chest. According to the Nashville medical examiner, the lungs contained a small amount of water, which suggested (but did not prove) that the victim had drawn a partial breath as his heart shuddered and stopped. Beyond that, the autopsy report contained nothing extraordinary, though it did shed some light on the guy’s life: a middle-aged white male, he stood five feet eleven inches tall, with blue eyes, thinning blond hair, and a gray beard. Thin, whitish scars indicated prior surgeries on the right ankle and left shoulder. A series of whole-body X-rays revealed numerous healed fractures—four ribs on the right side of the chest had been broken, as well as six ribs on the left—two of them in more than one place. The right femur bore evidence of a childhood fracture, the report noted, and was a quarter-inch shorter than the left. The spine, particularly the cervical spine,
showed osteoarthritic lipping—ragged fringes of bone rimming the vertebrae in the neck—that was surprisingly severe for a man his age. My first thought, from the variety of skeletal trauma, was
too many bar fights
. But the victim had well-developed leg muscles and—until the knife blade made its entrance—a robust circulatory system.
Maybe not bar fights after all,
I thought.
Maybe bicycle wrecks
. Regardless, the guy seemed to have been rode hard and put away wet.

Miranda, Emert, Thornton, and I were huddled around a table of stale cookies and stale coffee at the ORPD. I had come straight from the KPD lab, so Miranda had caught a ride with Thornton. Strictly speaking, there was no compelling reason for her to be here, but it had become important to find things to occupy Miranda’s time and energy. Her three burned fingertips were getting worse—they’d progressed from blisters to open, oozing wounds, wrapped in gauze, and she couldn’t do the delicate reconstruction the North Knoxville skeleton required.

She also couldn’t shake her fear for Garcia. Somehow, despite the best precautions of the ICU staff, he’d picked up an infection, and his condition seemed more perilous than ever. He was unable to eat or drink anything, and his GI tract was racked with cramps and bloody diarrhea as the lining of his gut sloughed off. In the weeks or months to come, the lining might slowly regenerate, but it might not. His bone marrow was virtually destroyed, and the search was on for a matching marrow donor, but the prospects weren’t good. Even if a donor could be found, Garcia might not be robust enough to survive the transplant.

“The pool guy was carrying no identification,” said Emert. “No wallet, no credit card, no car keys, nothing. Some loose change in his right hip pocket, a pack of chewing gum in his left pocket.”
He paused. “But he had
this
in his shirt pocket.” The detective slid a ziplock bag toward the center of the table. It contained a small, rectangular piece of white paper, stained with dirty water and smeared ink. Emert flipped it over to reveal the other side. Thornton, Miranda, and I leaned in to see. There, despite the smearing, four words remained legible: “I know your secret.”

“Damn,” I said.

“Interesting,” said Thornton.

“Creepy,” said Miranda. “These notes are like a modern-day version of those snitch reports Oak Ridgers sent back during the Manhattan Project. Only now, instead of sending them to Acme Whatchamacallit—”

“Credit,” Thornton supplied. “Acme Credit Corporation.”

“Right. Whatever,” she said. “Only instead of going to Acme, these are going straight to the people being spied on.” She frowned. “You know what else this makes me think of? Y’all know those
REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY
signs on the interstate? The ones with the 800 number you’re supposed to call—800-something-TIPS—if you spy something fishy?”

“800-492-TIPS,” said Thornton.

“It worries me that you know that,” she said. “My point is, imagine you’re driving along I-40 and suddenly your cell phone rings and a voice whispers in your ear, ‘I see what you’re doing.’ That’s what these notes make me think of. This whole spying and snitching thing is creeping me out.”

“Spoken like a woman with a guilty conscience,” I said. I was only teasing, so I was surprised when she turned red. A thought occurred to me, and I glanced at Thornton to see if he was blushing, too, but the FBI agent’s face was a study in nonchalance. Or was he feigning nonchalance, so as not to embarrass Miranda
further? I couldn’t tell, and I realized it wasn’t any of my business if they had kissed and made up, ideologically or otherwise. I turned again to Emert. “So how do you figure out who our modern John Doe is?”

“Well, yet again, we’ve come up empty-handed on missing-person reports in Oak Ridge,” he said. “Nothing remotely similar in Knoxville or surrounding counties, either. We’re checking NCIC”—the National Crime Information Center—“to see if there’s anybody elsewhere in the country who fits the description. But NCIC has its shortcomings.” He looked at Thornton. “No offense.”

“None taken,” said Thornton. “NCIC is the Bureau’s creation, not mine. We know it’s not perfect—if a missing-person report lists someone’s age as thirty-seven, and a cop plugs in thirty-to-thirty-five in the age range, the system won’t connect those two dots. But if the cop follows up with a second search, for ages thirty-six-to-forty, he’ll get the report he needs to see. Nothing’s perfect, but it’s a help.”

“Sure,” said Emert. “Anyhow. We’re running the guy’s fingerprints through the state’s automated fingerprint identification system, and the Bureau’s AFIS, too. So if he’s been arrested and printed, we might get lucky enough to ID him that way. Other thing we’re doing is running a picture of him in the
Oak Ridger
this afternoon.”

I was surprised to hear that. The dead man’s face—open-mouthed and glassy-eyed, the skin beginning to soften and slough off—was strong stuff for a small-town newspaper. “I’m guessing subscribers will be calling for the editor’s head when they see that photo,” I said.

“Not a photo,” he said. “We had an artist do a sketch. Not
a perfect likeness, but maybe more recognizable—and less gruesome—than the photos. Surely somebody will be able to tell us who this guy was.”

In the Novak case, Thornton had disappointing news to relate about the radiography camera. Pipeline Services, the Louisiana company that owned the camera, had filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection two weeks before—probably within days or weeks after the fresh iridium-192 source had been shipped to New Iberia and loaded into the camera. The pipeline contractor’s doors had been padlocked, and no one seemed to know the camera had gone missing. “We found a window that was unlocked,” he said, “and the door to the lab where the camera was kept had been pried open.”

“Damn,” I said. “A town that small, lots of folks would’ve known the company had gone belly-up. Almost anybody could’ve stolen it, right?”

“Theoretically,” he said, “but I doubt it. Think about it: somebody who just happens to live in Podunk, Louisiana, suddenly sees their chance to make off with a radiography camera they’ve always wanted? I don’t believe in coincidences that big. We’re combing through the personnel records, and we’ll interview all the employees. And their neighbors and friends. And all the folks who aren’t their friends. I’m flying down there this afternoon. We’re getting close,” he said. “I can smell it.”

Then it was my turn to talk about G.I. Doe. “If we’re lucky, we might be able to ID him from his teeth,” I said. Three of the soldier’s lower molars had fillings, I explained, including one of the third molars, or wisdom teeth. My hope was that the cavity in the third molar—a tooth that erupted around age eighteen—had been filled by an Army dentist. If that was the case, maybe there
was a dental chart. The trick, I pointed out, would be to find it among the millions of army dental charts.

“First we found the film,” said Emert, “then we found the bones. Things come in threes. You’ll find it. G.I. Doe wants to be identified.”

When the meeting ended, Miranda, Thornton, and I headed outside. Thornton had parked in front of the building; I’d parked out back. The three of us stood together on the front steps of the municipal building. I said to Miranda, “You mind if I wander down to the library for a few minutes?”

“Why would I mind?”

“Well, you might be in a hurry to get back to campus.”

“But I rode with Thornton,” she said, “so it doesn’t matter.”

“But I thought you were riding back with me,” I said. “I thought Thornton had to catch a plane to Louisiana.” I looked at Thornton; he looked at Miranda.

“But…I dropped off my car at the Jiffy Lube on Bearden Hill on the way over here,” she said. “He…we were planning to swing by there on the way back.”

“But Bearden Hill’s just five minutes from my house,” I said. “Why don’t I just run you by there on my way home at the end of the day? That way you know they’re done. We don’t want Thornton to miss his plane.”

“It’s all right,” he said, a little quicker than necessary. “It’s practically on my way to the airport. And I’ve got time.”

“Okay, great,” I said, a little more cheerfully than I meant. Bearden was far out of his way, but there was no future in pointing that out. Clearly they wanted to be together, but didn’t want to say so. “I might just work in the library for the rest of the afternoon. Miranda, could you see about tracking something
down for me later? A master’s thesis on Oak Ridge by Isabella Morgan?”

“Anthropology?”

“No, history,” I said.

“UT?”

“Yes,” I said. “Wait. Maybe not. Maybe Tulane or LSU.”

“Could you be any vaguer?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Never mind.”

“No, it’s okay,” she said. “I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said. “Tomorrow. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” I said. It might have been the first time we’d ever said something as formal as “Goodbye” to each other. Awkward as it felt, I hoped it would be the last.

I WAS STILL SLIGHTLY OFF-BALANCE
as I walked into the library and back toward the Reference Desk. The chair was empty, but the telephone receiver was out of its cradle and the
HOLD
light was blinking, so I hoped Isabella had just stepped away to look up the answer to a caller’s question. “I’ll be right with you,” said a voice behind me, and a gray-haired woman I didn’t know stepped behind the desk, lifted the phone, and pressed the blinking light. “He was born November 13, 1955,” she said. “In St. Joseph, Missouri. Yes, I believe that
was
the eastern end of the Pony Express route. You’re quite welcome. Glad I could find that for you.” She smiled as she hung up the phone. “Can I help you?”

“I was actually looking for Isabella,” I said.

“She’s not in today. Is there something I can help you with?”

“It’s not a reference question,” I said. “I’m…I’m a friend of Isabella’s. I was just going to say hi.”

I saw recognition register in her eyes. “Oh, of course,” she said. “Yes. Well, she was in earlier, but then she had to leave rather suddenly. Apparently her father has fallen quite ill.” After she said it, she looked uneasy, as if she wasn’t sure she should have divulged this information to me; if I didn’t already know, was I authorized to know?
Report Suspicious Activity,
I thought, and imagined the librarian phoning the TIPS number.

“That’s too bad,” I said. “Thank you. Sorry to bother you.” As I left the library and climbed the hill to my truck, part of my mind was feeling concern for Isabella; another part was spinning in surprise and confusion. I knew so little about her. She’d said something about her grandmother and the Graphite Reactor, but it was a passing mention we’d never circled back to. It had never occurred to me to ask about her parents. Or maybe I simply hadn’t had a chance yet. We’d flirted over photos and food; we’d shared the excitement of the search for the uranium bunker; we’d shared a night of passion. But what I knew about her was slight compared with what I didn’t know. Isabella was a bright, beautiful enigma.

DESPITE WHAT I’D SAID TO MIRANDA ABOUT HEADING
straight home from Oak Ridge, I drove to campus instead. I parallel-parked between a pair of concrete pillars under the stadium, then wandered upstairs to the departmental office to check my mail and messages. “Well, I’ll be,” said Peggy. “You
are
alive. I’d just about decided you were dead.”

“Just missing in action,” I said. “Speaking of MIA, could you call up Joe Cusick at CILHI for me?” Joe was a former student of mine; after earning his Ph.D., he’d gone to work for the U.S. Army’s Central Identification Laboratory in Hawaii. The lab’s official name had changed recently—to J.PAC, which stood for something I couldn’t remember—but I still thought of it by the old acronym, CILHI, pronounced “SILL-high.” I’d served on CILHI’s scientific advisory board for several years early in Joe’s tenure there, and I was always glad for an excuse to call or, better yet, pay a visit.

“You think he’d be at work already? It’s six hours earlier in Honolulu, you know.”

I checked my watch; it was 1:45
P.M.
in Knoxville; 7:45
A.M.
there. “He gets up with the chickens,” I said. “He’ll be there.”

I ducked into my seldom-used administrative office, through the doorway that adjoined Peggy’s office, and dumped the mountain of mail on the conference table that butted up against the front of the desk. “It’s ringing,” said Peggy. “Do you want me to go ahead and switch it to you?”

“Please,” I said.

“Uh,” grunted a voice two rings later. “Yeah…. Hello…. This is Joe Cusick.” It was not the voice of a man who’d gotten up with the chickens—not unless it had been a long, rough night in the coop.

“Good morning, Joe,” I said sunnily. “It’s Bill Brockton. Did I catch you before your coffee kicked in?”

“Woof. Give me just a second here,” he said. “Bill. Hey there. Haven’t had coffee yet. I’m in Cambodia. It’s, I dunno, two in the morning here.”

“Oh hell, Joe, I’m sorry,” I said. I’d forgotten that the number we had on file for him was a satellite phone. “Go back to sleep. I’ll call you eight hours from now.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” he said, sounding more alert now. “I’m used to this. Happens all the time. I’ll be snoring again five minutes after we hang up. I can fall asleep on a dime; I’m famous for it. Go ahead.”

“Okay,” I said, “if you insist. But what are you doing in Cambodia?”

“Looking at some bones in the hills near the Vietnamese bor
der,” he said. “Supposedly an American pilot who crashed here in ’68 or ’69. If we can identify him, that’d leave only another seventeen hundred and fifty MIAs in Southeast Asia. What’s up? What can I do for you?”

“I’m hoping CILHI might be able to help us ID a World War II soldier,” I said. “His skeleton just surfaced in Oak Ridge. He was shot in the head and buried in a shallow grave out on the DOE reservation.”

Even though he was half a world away, our conversation bouncing off a satellite orbiting thousands of miles high, Joe’s whistle came across clearly. “So this was murder, not KIA,” he said.

“Probably not killed in action,” I agreed. “Not a lot of enemy combatants in Tennessee.”

“Did you find his dog tags?”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “No dog tags, no driver’s license. A wristwatch and the buttons off a pair of army-issue coveralls. Oh, and a really thick stack of papers. We’re wondering if he might’ve been spying.”

“If somebody caught him spying, wouldn’t they have turned him in, either before or after they shot him?”

“Maybe,” I conceded. “The picture in Oak Ridge is a little murky.” I told him about Novak’s bizarre death, and the film in the freezer, the additional body we’d found when the pool was drained.

“And I thought Southeast Asia was complicated,” he said. “Well, if this soldier was shot and buried on the sly, he’d have been reported AWOL pretty quick. And if he didn’t turn up in a month, he’d have been flagged as a deserter. We’ve got a database at CILHI that lists deserters. Let me call the office and have
somebody take a look. So this was in Oak Ridge, sometime in the 1940s or 1950s?”

“Actually,” I said, “we think he was killed in 1945 or early 1946. He was buried sometime after a uranium bunker was built—that was in ’44—but before a tree started growing in ’46.”

Joe laughed. “Well, that should narrow down the list of potential deserters,” he said. “I’ll ask somebody to take a look and give you a call. Let me know how it all turns out.”

“Thanks, Joe. ’Preciate you. Sorry I woke you. Safe travels. Sleep fast.”

Two hours later, Peggy forwarded a call from Pete Rossi, an investigator at CILHI. “Our database turned up two deserters in East Tennessee in the summer of 1945,” Rossi said. “One was a guard from Camp Crossville, a prisoner-of-war camp up on the Cumberland Plateau where German and Italian officers were held. The guy from Camp Crossville was caught in Kentucky three months later and court-martialed. He claimed he was AWOL, not a deserter, and said he was gonna report back once his mama got well. He must have been convincing at the court-martial, because he got off with a two-year sentence and a dishonorable discharge.”

“And the other deserter?”

“The other was a corporal named Jonah Jamison,” said Rossi. “He was assigned to the Special Engineer Detachment—the military unit associated with the Manhattan Project—and posted to the Clinton Engineer Works. Never caught; vanished without a trace.”

“Clinton Engineer Works,” I said. “That was the army’s name for the Oak Ridge complex. That’s got to be our man.”

“Sounds like it,” Rossi agreed.

“How soon you reckon we can get his army dental records?” As soon as I said it, I remembered. “Oh crap. That might be a problem, huh?”

“Might be,” said Rossi. “Like the Pope might be Catholic.”

What I’d suddenly remembered was the fire. The National Archives stored tens of millions of military service records in a huge repository in St. Louis, Missouri. In 1973, a fire broke out on the sixth floor of the building, which contained two-thirds of the military files. By the time the blaze was extinguished, the files of seventeen million soldiers had been destroyed, singed, or soaked. To keep the waterlogged files from molding, archivists had put them all in refrigerated storage. Some of the damaged records were being reconstructed, by scanning their soggy pages to create duplicate files; however, progress was excruciatingly slow, and many records had been lost altogether. On two previous occasions, I had sought military dental records from the St. Louis facility. In one case, the records I needed had survived; in the other, they hadn’t. Eighty percent of the records from the 1940s had been destroyed, Rossi said, so he wasn’t optimistic about finding a dental record that would tell us whether or not it was Jonah Jamison’s skeleton laid out on a table in my bone lab.

“But I’m actually in St. Louis right now,” Rossi added, “looking through some Vietnam era records for Cusick. I’ll see if Jamison’s personnel file survived the fire.”

Statistically, the odds weren’t good—just one in five. But then I remembered Emert’s words. “Things come in threes. You’ll find it.”

Bless him: Emert was right. Jonah Jamison did want to be identified.

JAMISON MUST HAVE BEEN
a scientist or technician of some sort,” I said to Thornton. “Isn’t that the kind of folks who were in the Special Engineer Detachment?”

“Most of them were,” said Thornton. The agent was on a three-way call from New Iberia with Emert and me. “Jamison was different, though. He was a writer.”

“A writer? What the hell was a writer doing in a scientific and technical outfit?”

“Immortalizing the great endeavor,” he said. “General Groves had one eye on Japan and the other eye on history. Or fame.” I thought back to the photograph Miranda had shown me, and her comments on how narrowly the general’s horizon was drawn compared to Oppenheimer’s. “Groves had still photographers and cinematographers scurrying around all over the place, capturing everything on film,” Thornton was saying, “but apparently he wanted the story set down on paper too, and in style.”

The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. If the Manhattan Project succeeded, it would clearly play a pivotal role in human history. If it didn’t succeed, well, having the costly failure detailed on film and in print would likely be the least of the general’s worries. “So Jamison wrote for the Knoxville paper before the war?”

Thornton laughed. “Not exactly. Groves was aiming for greater glory,” he said. “Jamison was a
New York Times
reporter before the war. After he was drafted, he was assigned to write scripts for training films—how to clean your rifle, how not to get VD, that sort of thing—when Groves reached down and plucked him from the basement of the Pentagon.”

“How do you know all this stuff,” I asked, “when we didn’t even know who he was until twelve hours ago?”

“Because the FBI has files, too,” he said, “and ours weren’t stored in a firetrap in St. Louis. And because Jonah Jamison was considered a potential security risk.”

“A security risk?” That made no sense to me. “If they didn’t trust him, why didn’t they get somebody else to write about the project? Why take the chance?”

“Well, he looked like a red-blooded American risk,” said Thornton. “His Achilles’ heels were booze and women. And Groves really wanted him. Jamison had written some flattering pieces about Groves in 1942, when Groves spearheaded the construction of the Pentagon. That was the Army’s biggest project before the Manhattan Project, and apparently the stories made Groves look brilliant. Jamison was drafted at the end of ’42, and Groves had him posted to Oak Ridge in early ’43. He was reported AWOL on August 4, 1945—two days before Hiroshima.”

“And he disappeared without a trace?”

“Until you dug him up,” Thornton said. “Him and that thick stack of pages.”

“I sure wish we could read what was on those pages that were in the grave,” said Emert.

“I sure wish we knew who killed him for writing it,” I said. “Anything in his security file shed light on that?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Thornton said. “But speaking of security files, your storytelling gal pal turned up in two of the snitch reports to Acme Credit.”

“Beatrice?”

“Yup. One came from a neighbor, anonymous, who wrote, ‘That woman has the morals of an alley cat.’”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed at that. It was impossible to imagine Beatrice, her silver hair and wrinkled face, behaving scandalously. “The bad girl of AARP,” I said.

“Maybe not now,” he said. “But maybe back then. The other report came several months after that first one. An army doc at the Oak Ridge field hospital wrote that she came in bleeding and running a fever. She claimed she’d had a miscarriage. But the doctor suspected she’d had an abortion.”