Speaking in Bones (10 page)

“What the hell?” His fingers splayed in puzzlement.

I could conjure no explanation.

D
uring the second and third months of gestation, when a fetus is one to three and a half inches long, tiny pads form on the fingertips. During the third and fourth months, the skin goes from thinly transparent to waxy, and the first ridges appear on the pads. By the sixth month, when the average fetus is a whopping twelve inches long, its fingerprints are formed and fixed for life.

Scientists aren’t in total agreement as to how it works. One theory holds that the speedier basal layer of the epidermis is scrunched between its slower-growing counterparts in the epidermis above and the dermis below. Pressure from straining against its slower neighbors causes the skin to buckle into folds. Movement in the womb then throws in a few more twists. Whatever the process, the end result is a mind-boggling amount of variation.

Fingerprint ridging falls into one of three broad patterns: arches, loops, or whorls. Each ridge shows further individuality in the form of endings, bifurcations, and dots.

An ending is the place at which one ridge stops and another begins. A bifurcation is the place where a ridge splits, forming a Y-shaped pattern. A dot is a segment of ridge so small it appears as, well, a dot.

There are often hundreds of these “points” of identification on one finger. The relationship between each point and the surrounding ridge detail is so complex it is believed no two patterns are exactly alike.

Bottom line: Fingerprints kick ass for individual ID.

Not so for ME122-15. The little ovals on the print cards were solid black. No ridges. No dots. Not a single arch, loop, or whorl.

“Is the skin damaged?” I asked, fearful the acetone had been corrosive.

Hawkins shook his head. “Skin’s fine. Just no prints.”

“How can that be?” Inane. If I didn’t know, how could he?

Hawkins just gave me a long, solemn stare.

“Have you ever seen this before?”

“I’ve rolled fingers that make these look fresh as a pork belly, never failed to get at least one partial.”

“Could the prints have been intentionally removed?”

Hawkins stripped off his gloves, toed the lever on the biohazard pail, and tossed them in. “Anything’s possible since they transplanted that face.”

Having no clue to the meaning of his comment. “Should we give it one more try?”

“Waste of time.” The lid clanged shut.

“I suppose there’s no point submitting the cards.”

“Nope.”

Normally the prints would be sent to the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD forensics lab to be scanned into AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Using digital-imaging technology, AFIS obtains, stores, and analyzes fingerprint data from all over the country. Originally created by the FBI, the database contains tens of millions of individual prints.

But the name is misleading. AFIS doesn’t identify, it searches. Using biometric pattern recognition software, the program compares an unknown print to those in the system, and returns information on possible matches, ranking them from most to least likely. A fingerprint analyst then compares the print he or she has submitted to the “candidates” suggested by the program. A final decision is made by a human being.

But that wouldn’t happen with ME122-15.

“Want these things back in the jar?” Hawkins jabbed a thumb toward the sink.

“I’ll take care of it.” Distracted. “Thanks.”

I stood a moment, running possibilities.

Had ME122-15 removed his or her own prints? To avoid the law? To escape a past life? Had a killer removed the prints postmortem? To mask the victim’s identity?

Was obliteration even possible? Or just a Hollywood Men in Black myth? I’d seen no evidence of scarring or chemical burning. Intentional mutilation seemed unlikely.

A
pssst
sounded somewhere deep in my memory banks. Something I’d heard or read. A research article? A conversation with a colleague?

The door opened then closed, breaking my concentration. But it was the age of Google. Speculation was obsolete.

After removing samples for possible DNA testing, I sealed the fingertips in a jar of formalin, the bones in their Ziploc, and placed both in the cooler. Then I hurried to my office.

It wasn’t as easy as I’d thought. But eventually I found an online publication in the
Annals of Oncology
. May 27, 2009.

A sixty-two-year-old man traveling from Singapore to the United States was detained by immigration officials after a routine fingerprint scan showed he had none. The man, identified only as Mr. S, had been undergoing treatment for head and neck cancer with a drug called capecitabine, brand name Xeloda. As a result of the therapy, Mr. S had developed a condition known as hand-foot syndrome, official name chemotherapy-induced acral erythema.

I dug deeper. Found an article in
Actas dermo-sifiliográficas
. May 2008. It was in Spanish and credited to nine authors. I learned the following.

Chemotherapy-induced acral erythema, also known as palmoplantar erythrodysesthesia, or hand-foot syndrome, is a reaction of the skin to a variety of cancer-treating agents. The symptoms include swelling, pain, and peeling on the palms and soles of the feet. And loss of fingerprints.

I did a few cyberloops on capecitabine. The drug was most commonly used in the treatment of head, neck, breast, stomach, and colorectal cancers.

A long shot, but a possible lead. Ramsey could contact physicians and hospitals to ask if any young adult cancer patient had suddenly stopped showing up for chemotherapy. Cora Teague was reported to have health issues. He could also run the question past her family.

I was reaching for the desk phone when it rang. It was the first in a string of calls that would trigger a case of fire-breathing heartburn.

As usual, Strike spent no time on pleasantries.

“What the hell kind of turncoat move was that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sharing my intel with an outsider.”

“Deputy Ramsey is hardly an outsider.”

“Is he you? Is he me?”

“His department has jurisdiction.” Questionable.

“He’s Avery County. We were in Burke.”

“You suspect the remains in my possession are those of Cora Teague,” I said firmly, but not all that patiently. “Should your theory prove true, that’s Ramsey’s watch.”

“What did you tell him about the audio?”

“I’m glad you brought that up. Given that this is now a formal investigation, I must ask that you turn the recording over to me.” A reach, but close enough.

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Then I shall have Deputy Ramsey request a warrant.”

There was a moment of flat silence. Then, “Foolish old woman. Somehow I’ve misplaced the damn thing.”

I have a flash-point temper. Which I know I must keep in check. Instead of blasting Strike, I remained diplomatic.

“I thought the goal of websleuthing was to solve cold cases.”

“Don’t mean I want to share what I got with the world.”

“Law enforcement is hardly the world.”

“That what you call that yahoo?”

“Deputy Ramsey is hardly a yahoo.”

“I’m sure a Harvard degree hangs on his wall.”

The first tiny flicker sparked in my gut.

“Mrs. Strike. Are you familiar with the term ‘obstruction of justice’?” Cool.

“I’ll look it up.”

“Why are you calling?”

“Wanted you to know I’m going back at the family.”

“That’s a bad idea.”

“Maybe. But it’s my idea.”

“Don’t—”

Three sharp beeps. She’d disconnected.

I kicked out at my desk. Hard enough that I had to remove my shoe to see what damage I’d done to my toe. Hurt like hell, but nothing was broken.

I was again reaching to punch digits on the landline when my mobile rang. After checking caller ID, I took a long, deep breath, clicked over to speaker, and laid the device on the blotter.

“Good morning, Mama.”

“Good morning, sweet pea. I hope you got a good night’s sleep. You sounded so tired when we talked.”

“I did.” I hadn’t, but what was the point?

“Did you speak with your deputy? What’s his name?”

“Ramsey. Not yet. I plan to call him shortly.”

“Have you examined your hand bones?”

“I have. They told me very little.”

Mama waited a theatrical beat. Then, “There’s more.”

Hearing the familiar breathless note, I scanned the desktop for something to skim. “More?”

“I found another.”

“Another what?”

“Lookout. For Brown Mountain.”

“I would guess there are many.”

“Well, you would be mistaken. No matter how deeply I dug, the same three came up again and again. And only those three.”

“Really?”

“It’s called Wiseman’s View.”

“Where is it?” Absently.

“Just south of Linville. In Avery County.”

“Mm.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“I am.” I wasn’t. I was perusing the table of contents in the latest
Journal of Forensic Sciences
.

Mama stopped talking. A test. The dead air grabbed my attention.

“What are you suggesting?”

“You must search.”

“At Wiseman’s View.”

“Of course at Wiseman’s View.”

“For more bones.”

“Really, Tempe. You’re reputed to be excellent in your field. Must I spell everything out?”

“You’re suggesting body parts might have been thrown from all three Brown Mountain overlooks.”

“Hallelujah, let the light shine!”

“Mama, I—”

“What have you retrieved so far? Parts of a hand and parts of a torso?”

“Yes.” I hadn’t told her about the fingertips. Not sure why.

“Do they go together?”

“They could.”

“But so far you have no limbs and no head.”

“No.” The tiny flicker was growing warmer and starting to spread.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but a head might perhaps, just perhaps, prove useful in determining whose body parts are turning up?”

“Yes.”

A sliver of a pause, then, “Will you at least discuss my theory with your deputy?”

The eagerness in her voice tore a hole in my heart. Mama had shown so little engagement lately. Her only joy seemed to come through vicarious involvement in my work. Through secondhand thrills.

Like Hazel Strike and her websleuthing pals?

“Sure, Mama,” I said. “Good job.”

“You’ll keep me fully informed?”

“I will.”

“Ciao.”

“Ciao.”

I blew out a breath. Debated. Was my mother’s idea a harebrained notion? Or a solid investigative strategy? Run it past Larabee? Ramsey? Would either agree to another romp in the woods?

It was like Groundhog Day. Same reach to dial the landline. Same pause as my mobile rang. Sang. I’d yet to change the ringtone. Same quick check of caller ID.

Allan Fink.

Crap.

This time I didn’t pick up. Or listen to the message. I knew what Allan wanted. Couldn’t endure another lecture on fiscal responsibility at that moment.

My eyes dropped to the calendar blotter on the desktop. Thursday, the second of April. No sweat. Tomorrow I’d find everything Allan needed for the IRS.

The flicker was now a bonfire in my chest.

I pulled my purse from the drawer and dug out two Tums. Slapped them from my palm to my mouth. Chewed and swallowed.

Then Ramsey phoned.

“I tracked down the story,” he said, no greeting. “But not the journalist. He’s long gone. You were right. A group of kids from WCU stumbled across bones and called the department.” He used the acronym for Western Carolina University. “Dozens of hiking trails crisscross the Lost Cove Cliffs area. Anyway, a deputy went out to collect what they had.”

“What made the kids think the bones were human?”

“That was my question. You’ll love this. They were anthro majors.”

“What happened to the stuff?” Sorry, Mama.

“The coroner was on holiday. The sheriff back then hadn’t a clue what to do with ‘old bones,’ as he viewed them; wasn’t all that interested. The kids suggested sending them to their professor, who, it turned out, was a forensic anthropologist.”

“Marlene Penny.” I knew her through AAFS. Though far from brilliant, and well past seventy, she was ABFA board certified and reasonably competent.

I heard paper rustle. “Yeah, that’s the one. I’ve got a copy of her report. Want me to read it?”

“Just the basics.”

“She didn’t exactly knock herself out. One page. A skeletal inventory lists a partial tibia, fibula, calcaneus, and talus.” There was a beat as he dug for relevant facts. “The two tarsals were connected by dried-out tissue. The leg bones were separate.”

“Any estimates as to age, sex, that sort of thing?”

“The bones were too fragmentary.” Pause. “Most of each had been carried off by animals. But she thought everything came from one individual.”

“And that individual was human?”

“She’s definite on that.”

“Where are the remains now?”

“Doesn’t say.”

I inhaled deeply. Exhaled. Then, “Got a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

I told Ramsey about the audio recording. About websleuthing. About Hazel Strike’s strange hostility toward him. Throughout, I could hear the rhythm of his breath hitting the receiver. Knew he was listening carefully.