Speaking in Bones (3 page)

Please don’t kill me.

Please.

Kill me.

As before, I felt a chill crawl up my spine.

“How did this come into your possession?” Gesturing at the key chain recorder.

Strike leaned back into her chair.

“As I said, I kept scanning sites listing UIDs, hoping a set of remains might link to Cora Teague. Nothing ever did. Then I got sidetracked by personal matters. Had to let it go for a while.”

Strike paused, perhaps pondering the unnamed matters that had temporarily halted her search.

“Last week, I got back to sleuthing. When I spotted your entry on NamUs it was like harps burst into tune. You know. Like on TV.”

I didn’t. But I nodded.

“Your entry included information on where the torso was found, so I decided what the heck? It’s not a long drive. Why not go up and poke around?”

“You went to Burke County? Seriously?”

“I did. Once I got there, it seemed obvious there was only one place a person in a hurry would off-load a body from that overlook. I walked a pattern downhill from the spot. For hours, turned up nothing but bugs. I was about to quit when I spotted a key chain wedged in the roots of a big old tree. Figured the thing was probably there by happenstance. But, being safe, I brought it home.”

Strike’s mouth squashed up to one side, and she went silent.

“You discovered the recording function and played the audio,” I suggested.

“Yeah.” Tight.

“And then?”

“And then I called you.”

A very long silence stretched between us. I broke it, using carefully chosen words.

“Mrs. Strike, I’m impressed with your enthusiasm. And with your commitment to the goal of returning nameless victims to their families. But—”

“You can’t discuss the specifics of a case.”

“That’s correct.”

“About what I expected.” Strike took a quick breath and set her jaw. Preparing to argue? Or to accept rejection?

“But I promise you,” I said, “I will look into the situation.”

“Yeah.” Strike gave a humorless sniff of a laugh. “Don’t let the door smack your arse on the way out.”

Strike snatched up the Ziploc and pushed to her feet.

I rose. “If you leave the key chain, I will ask someone at the crime lab to evaluate the audio.”

Strike repeated the mirthless snort. She really had it down. “I don’t think so.” Dropping the Ziploc into her pack.

I extended a hand. “I will call you. One way or another.”

Strike nodded. Shook. “I’d appreciate that. And your discretion.”

I must have looked confused.

“Until an ID is confirmed, no sense getting the media in a twist.”

“I never grant interviews.” Unless ordered to do so by those higher up the chain of command. I didn’t say that.

“I apologize. Didn’t need saying. It’s just, I prefer doing what’s best for the family.”

“Of course.”

I walked Strike down the hall and watched her disappear into the lobby, all the while debating if and how to share her tale with my boss, Mecklenburg County’s chief medical examiner. I knew the look Tim Larabee would give me. And the questions he’d ask.

Back at my desk, I rolled Strike’s visit around in my head. Considered possibilities.

Strike was a mental case. A con artist. A shrewd detective lacking a badge.

I started with door number three. Strike was a well-meaning though somewhat overzealous websleuth. She’d found the recorder just as she’d claimed. Problems. How had the police failed to spot the thing when they recovered the torso? How had it survived out in the elements for so long?

Say the girl on the audio actually was Cora Teague. Say Strike was correct, Teague is dead and I have her remains in storage. Had the key chain been hers? Had Teague recorded her thoughts while held in some sort of brutal captivity? Had she been murdered?

I moved to an alternate explanation. Strike fabricated the whole story. Faked the audio. Problem. The scam would be quickly discovered and Strike revealed as a fraud. Why do it? Because she’s nuts? Because she craves media attention? Doors one and two.

Or maybe Teague was the scammer and Strike her gullible victim. Perhaps Teague and two male companions staged the interchange on the recording, and somehow led Strike to the key chain. Teague had been in the wind for three and a half years. Perhaps she wanted to stay there. Problem. The tape sounded eerily real. The anguish in that voice would have the opposite effect on anyone who listened.

Or maybe Teague was working in league with Strike. Same question. Why? What did they hope to accomplish?

In my line of work, I encounter a range of human motivations as broad as the South China Sea. I’m pretty good at spotting deception. At assessing character. Looking back on that encounter, I’m forced to admit, I hadn’t a clue what to think of Hazel “Lucky” Strike.

I
stared at the bright yellow file on my blotter. Larabee would be anxious for word on the mummified corpse.

I was still staring when my iPhone beeped an incoming message. The flight reminder triggered an unexpected wave of uneasiness.

Decision.

Deep breath, then I dialed. As my call winged north, I pictured Ryan and chose words to structure my argument.

Andrew Ryan,
lieutenant-détective,
Service des enquêtes sur les crimes contre la personne, Sûreté du Québec. Translation: Ryan works homicide for the Quebec Provincial Police. I am forensic anthropologist for the Bureau du coroner in La Belle Province. For years we have investigated murders together.

For a period, Ryan and I were also a couple. We both chose to end it. Then he chose to drop off the map. Recently, he’d chosen to return from exile and propose marriage. Months down the road, my mind was still too boggled to deal.

I pictured Ryan’s face. No longer young, but the crags and furrows in all the right places. The sandy hair and electric blue eyes. Eyes that would now show disappointment.

I grinned, despite my apprehension over the upcoming conversation. Ryan had that effect on me. I really did miss him.

Ryan answered, sounding cheerful as a balloon on a string. “Madame. I have reserved a prime table for two at Milos. And organized a full range of postprandial activities. Also for two.”

“Ryan—”

“ ‘Postprandial’ means after supper. Said activities will take place in the privacy of my home.”

“I hate to do this, but I have to cancel.”

Ryan said nothing.

“A case has come up. Two, actually. I’m sorry.”

“Well, there’s some things a man just can’t run away from.” In a bad John Wayne imitation.

“Stagecoach.”
I guessed the film. It was a game we played. “Do you want to hear about the cases?”

“Perhaps later. When can you reschedule?”

“As soon as I’ve finished.”

A beat, then, “Tempe, deep down I fear that quote really nails it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Are you sure you’re bailing on this visit because of work obligations?”

“Of course it’s because of work.” Was it? My throat felt tight and my eyes burned. “Talk tonight?”

“Sure.”

The line went dead.

I sat a moment, feeling lonely and confused. Half decided to call Ryan back to say that I’d changed my mind. Instead I dialed US Airways.

As I spoke to the agent, my eyes fell on the yellow folder. On the chair Hazel Strike had occupied.

Again, I imagined the terrified girl on the recording.

I’d bumped Ryan. Recliner Man could also wait.

But before discussing Strike with the boss, I’d check the facts. I remembered little about the case. Only that I’d done the analysis as a special request since the MCME doesn’t normally investigate deaths occurring in Burke County. Couldn’t recall the reason I’d been tagged for this one.

Thanks to Strike, I knew the remains had turned up approximately eighteen months earlier. And that I’d entered them into the NamUs database.

Logging on to my computer, I used the key words “Burke County” and a limiter for dates. It took just moments. The decedent had been registered at our facility as ME229-13. I pulled my report and scanned the contents.

ME229-13 arrived on August 25, 2013. The remains had been found by a hunter. By his dog, Mort, to be fair. I remembered chuckling at the irony of the name. Inappropriate, but I had.

Mort had made his macabre discovery twenty miles north of Morganton, off NC Highway 181. The bones lay downslope from an overlook, scattered over fifty square meters and covered in leaves and debris. Apparently, old Mort possessed one hell of a nose.

The investigating officer was a Burke County sheriff’s deputy named Opal Ferris. It was coming back now. I recalled my surprise that Ferris had been canny enough to spot something suggesting the remains were human. That she’d bothered to walk the site to collect more. That she’d delivered Mort’s booty to the local ME.

I read the section of my report titled “Postmortem Condition.”

Little soft tissue had remained, the work of scavengers and nature’s inevitable march. The small amount present consisted of leathery bits of ligament, enough to keep two segments of spinal column articulated. The rest had survived as isolated elements. My skeletal inventory listed eighteen partial ribs, fifteen complete and three fragmentary vertebrae, two partial clavicles, fragments of right and left scapula blades, and one fragment of sternum.

In the section titled “Age at Death” I’d entered a range of seventeen to twenty-four years. My estimate was based on the youthful appearance of the three sternal rib extremities, the ends where the ribs attach via cartilage to the breastbone. And on recent fusion of the growth cap on the medial end of the right clavicle. The left clavicle had been too damaged for observation.

Using measurements taken from the hunks of intact spine, I’d calculated height as somewhere between sixty and seventy-two inches, a range so broad it was virtually useless.

Based on bone quality, and on the presence and amount of desiccated soft tissue, I’d estimated PMI, postmortem interval, at a minimum of three months to a maximum of two years.

I’d been unable to determine gender or ancestry.

That was it.

I left the MCME system, went to the Internet, and typed in www.NamUs.gov. After entering my credentials, I chose the Unidentified Persons Database, and provided the number assigned to the Burke County torso. The section marked “Case Information” included the date and location of the find, and the date of the file’s creation. No modifications had been made since the time of the latter. The individual’s status remained “unidentified.” I was listed as both the local contact and the case manager. Fair enough. That’s how Strike had found me.

I moved through the pages of the report.

I’d had nothing to enter with regard to weight, facial or body hair, eye or hair color. Nothing on amputations, deformities, scars, tattoos, or piercings. No evidence of medical implants or missing organs. Zilch on clothing, footwear, jewelry, eyewear, or documents. No DNA. No fingerprints. No dentals.

Small wonder the bones still lay on a shelf in my closet. ME229-13 consisted of a headless, limbless, skeletonized partial torso.

Shoving away from my desk, I walked down the corridor to a small room whose walls were lined floor to ceiling with metal shelving. Each shelf was filled with cardboard boxes. Each box was labeled with a case number in bold black marker.

ME229-13 was straight ahead on the door-facing wall, two shelves down from the top. I reached up, slid the box free, and carried it to the “stinky room,” a small autopsy suite with special ventilation to accommodate the more odoriferous dead. The decomps. The floaters. My kind of case.

Placing the box on the autopsy table, I pulled latex gloves and a plastic apron from an undercounter drawer, donned them, and lifted the lid. As expected, the contents of the box consisted of a handful of bones. Except for the ten thoracic vertebrae I’d boiled to clean away soft tissue, all were stained a deep mahogany brown.

One by one, I removed and arranged the bones in anatomical position. When I’d finished, a jigsaw-puzzle rib cage lay on the stainless steel. Gaps left by missing parts looked like pieces not yet plugged in.

Over the next hour, I examined every bone and bone fragment under an illuminated magnifier lens. I saw postmortem trauma—gnawed edges and conical punctures left by the teeth of scavenging animals. A few of the punctures had pale yellow spongy bone deep inside. The absence of staining told me this damage could be credited to Mort.

I saw no evidence of antemortem trauma. No healed or healing broken ribs. No joint remodeling resulting from the dislocation of a clavicle or vertebra.

I saw no evidence of perimortem trauma. No unhealed fractures due to blunt force attack or rapid deceleration impact injury. No bullet entrances or exits. No sharp-instrument nicks or gashes. Nothing to suggest violence at the time of death.

I saw no evidence of illness or abnormality. No porosity, thickening, irregularity, or lesion hinting at malnutrition, infectious disease, or metabolic disorder.

Discouraged, I straightened and rolled my shoulders. As before, I was clueless as to ME229-13’s gender, race, state of health, or manner of death.