Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

C HARLOTTE , N ORTH C AROLINA

The collection of tiny, gnawed fragments had once been a man. I’d known that right off.

But was that man Norbert Mirek?

I glanced at the wall clock. Eight p.m. I should have left hours ago. But here I was with Norbert. Possibly Norbert.

I was in autopsy room four. The stinky room. My usual haunt.

The whiz-bang ventilation was having little impact on the stench rising from the mix spread out before me. A mix of soil-crusted scat containing vegetation, hair, bone, and sundry unidentifiable inclusions.

The bony bits weren’t the olfactive offenders. They’d long since parted ways with any soft tissue that bound them together. The culprit was the poop.

I’m a forensic anthropologist. I regularly handle decomposed, burned, mummified, mutilated, dismembered, and skeletal remains. Putrefied flesh does not gross me out. But digging through shit has never topped my list of preferred tasks. This case was reinforcing that aversion.

Unsorted droppings lay in piles to my left, findings of interest on a blue plastic sheet to my right. Additional bags lined a counter at my back.

Here’s the story as I learned it from CMPD homicide detective Skinny Slidell. Though officially retired, due to budget cuts and personnel shortages, Slidell was stepping in occasionally to help resolve low-profile cases.

Always a treat. Skinny has all the charm of dripping snot.

Norbert Mirek, age sixty-eight, owned Lost Foot Pastures, a forty-acre tract of woods and farmland in rural Mecklenburg County, North Carolina. For decades Mirek lived alone on the property, his only companions the pack of rescue dogs he allowed to roam freely. Some thirty of them.

One year ago, Mirek went missing. Two days ago, while hunting turkey at Lost Foot, Mirek’s nephew, Halsey Banks, noted coyotes acting oddly beside a road skirting an overgrown field. Curious, Banks walked the area and found several bleached hunks he thought could be bone. And glasses he thought belonged to his uncle.

CMPD cops had run cadaver dogs over the property and collected the motherlode of canine poop. That poop now lay on the stainless-steel table over which I was bending.

Mirek’s family wanted answers. Mirek’s family’s lawyers wanted answers.

Skinny was nagging.

That’s why I was still at the lab.

Yet, I was finding it hard to focus. It wasn’t just the late hour. Or the organic bouquet invading my nostrils and permeating my clothing and hair. My mind kept looping to the upcoming Memorial Day weekend. To a rendezvous with Ryan and a leisurely three days in Savannah.

We’d booked a room at a small B&B called The Tumble Inn. Ryan would fly to Charlotte the next day. I’d pick him up at the airport and we’d head to Georgia. Four-hour drive. Easy-peasy.

Ryan, you ask?

An astute question.

Andrew Ryan, Lieutenant-détective, Section de Crimes contra la Personne, S?reté du Québec. Retraité.

Translation: For decades, Ryan was a cop with the Quebec provincial police. Now retired, he works as a private investigator. A sort of bilingual, trans-border Philip Marlowe.

Ryan is also my longtime partner, both romantic and professional. More on that later.

Concentrate, Brennan!

I tweezed free another fragment. The round edge and large pit told me it was a chunk of femoral head. The tooth marks told me it had been doggy lunch.

I placed the chunk with the others.

Returned to Mount Turd.

“Hey, big guy.” Tossing my purse onto the kitchen counter and setting the pizza beside it. “Sorry I’m late.”

No feline.

Anticipating a long day, I’d filled Birdie’s bowl with kibble before leaving that morning. Instead of his usual ankle-wrapping welcome, the cat was ignoring me. His way of saying he did not like the dry chow. Or my long absence.

Bird had a point. It was going on ten. I’d been away almost fourteen hours. But I’d managed to finish sorting through the poop.

Satisfied that some of the bony remnants retrieved from the scat were human, I’d bagged samples to send off for DNA testing. I’d also packaged several gifts for the hair and fiber guys. Then, too exhausted to compose a report, I’d dictated a few sketchy notes before heading home.

To a cranky cat.

Who’d soon learn he’d be staying with a neighbor for three days.

Whatever.

All I wanted was a hot shower, the pizza, then bed.

I got my three wishes. Was down and out when Ray Charles burst into song on my bedside table. “Georgia on My Mind.” My current ringtone. You get it, right?

At that moment, I didn’t. My brain was too groggy.

Blinking, I grabbed the phone and checked the screen.

The digits on top said 3:02 a.m. The sequence below announced Katy’s number.

Sweet Jesus!

A veteran of far too many wee-hour calls, I’m convinced that none ever brings good news.

Suddenly rigid with apprehension, I answered.

“What’s wrong, Katy? Where are you?”

“I’m fine. Will you just chill?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I often call in the middle of the night.”

That was true.

“Can you please snap to?” she said.

I sat up and scooched back against the headboard. Took a beat. Then,

“How goes it, Katy Matey?”

“Do you know how dorky that sounds?”

“You used to like it.”

“When I was six.”

“Aren’t we in a mood.”

“I am not in a mood.”

First the cat, now my daughter.

“What’s up?” At three a.m.? I didn’t add that.

“Taxes and Chinese balloons.”

“And you say I’m a dork?”

“I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure,” I said. Automatic.

“You’re not going to like it.”

Great.

“Do you remember my speaking of Ivy Doyle?”

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“Ivy’s a reporter. She was embedded with my unit during my second deployment to Afghanistan. Now she works for a television news station in Washington, DC.”

A TV journalist. Katy was right. I didn’t like where this was heading.

“I want you to do an interview with her. About a fire she’s covering.”

“You know I don’t do interviews.”

“Why not?”

“Nothing good ever comes from talking to the press.” Same category as late-night calls. I didn’t say that, either.

“Jesus, Mom. That’s so close-minded.”

“Let’s just say I’ve been burned.”

“No pun intended.”

“Hilarious.”

I heard the whoosh of a pop-top. Gulping.

“Can you just speak with her?”

“Sweetie, I—”

“I owe Ivy.” A new tension edged Katy’s plea. “Big-time.”

My daughter rarely spoke of her time in the military. Of the combat she’d seen. The back-to-back war zone tours that had changed her forever. The nightmares that still haunted her sleep.

“I wouldn’t lay this on you if it wasn’t important.” Katy’s voice told me this was a hard ask for her. “To me.”

I waited.

Katy drew a taut breath. “Ivy saved my life.”

I remained very still, picturing my daughter’s army-cropped blond hair. Her intense green eyes. The scar on her cheek.

The scar about which she’d never spoken.

“Do you want to discuss it?”

“No. I want you to help Ivy. She really needs this.”

“Why?”

A beat, then, “That’s not important.”

“Help her how?” Resisting a sigh. Already resigned.

“A building is on fire in the district. I don’t have any details, but people are missing and feared trapped inside. Ivy has been assigned to the story and would like you to talk about what happens during the processing of fire scenes containing dead people.”

“Why me?”

“You wrote an article about—here’s a shocker—processing fire scenes containing dead people. Ivy found it, knows you’re my mother, contacted me.”

I had to think a moment. Bingo.

The publication had appeared more than fifteen years earlier in an obscure journal for arson investigators. I was astounded the piece was still available.

“Where did she dig up that bit of genius?”

“Mom. Nothing ever dies on the World Wide Web.”

True. But the fact that Doyle had unearthed it told me she was one dogged sleuth.

“Ryan is flying down from Montreal tomorrow. I’m picking him up at five-thirty in the evening, then we’re leaving town.”

“Ivy can set up a Zoom meeting whenever you want. You pick the time.”

“Why does this smell like an ambush?”

“The entire thing will take five minutes.”

Except for the whole hair and makeup effort I’d have to make.

“Fine. Eight a.m.”

“Ivy will send you an email with a Zoom link. Have I told you that you’re awesome?”

“No.”

“You’re awesome.”

Five hours later I was seated at my computer, blush on my cheeks, hair in a reasonably stable ponytail. The face filling the left half of my screen was that of a thirty-something with aquamarine eyes, perfect teeth, flawless skin, ginger hair, and a provocatively asymmetric nose. A combo that might have landed it on the cover of Vogue.

To say Ivy Doyle was charismatic would be like saying the Atlantic Ocean was damp. Even digitally, the woman radiated a force that was almost palpable.

So why was it such a big deal to interview me?

“I can’t thank you enough for doing this. Perhaps Katy mentioned it, but I’m pitching a show to the network. It’s called ID: Ivy Doyle Digs. Get it? The title uses my initials.”

“Clever.”

“Currently, I do ID as a podcast. But I don’t want to stay a local reporter and podcaster forever. I know this fire isn’t the story of the century, but scoring an on-air interview with a celebrity scientist will improve my visibility. Which never hurts in the TV biz.”

Celebrity scientist?

Unsure how to respond, I said nothing.

“To not waste your time, I’ll do an intro later and paste that part in, explaining that the building has been burning since sometime after midnight, and that recovery will begin as soon as the site is deemed safe. This morning, I’ll just outline your qualifications, then go to my questions. You cool with that?”

“Let’s do it.” A tad uneasy not having seen those questions.

Ivy’s shoulders squared. She nodded, then, receiving a signal that the camera was rolling, began in a voice deeper and more modulated than the one I’d just heard.

“With me is Dr. Temperance Brennan, consulting anthropologist to the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner in Charlotte, North Carolina, and to the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale in Montreal, Canada.”

Doyle’s French pronunciation, usually mangled by reporters, was perfect.

“One of only a handful of experts ever certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, Dr. Brennan is a specialist in the recovery and analysis of burned human remains. Thank you so much for being here, Doctor.”

“My pleasure.”

Christ. I sounded like a waiter at the Ritz.

“Dr. Brennan. The fire has been raging since approximately two a.m., and at least four people remain unaccounted for.” Slightly breathy. “The building is close to a century in age. Sections of its interior have collapsed. What are scientists up against in cases like this?”

“The search for victims can’t begin until the rubble has cooled and the surviving parts of the structure have been declared sound. Once those conditions have been met, search and recovery can begin.”

“I imagine the process will be slow and painstaking. What difficulties will searchers encounter?”

“One problem might be floor collapse.”

“Please explain that.”

“Though stone or brick walls may survive the flames, wooden floors may collapse and accordion down onto each other. Bodies of victims often end up at the lowest level under layers of debris. But not always.”

“Investigators are trying to establish the names of the missing. People known to live or be renting rooms in the building. How helpful will that information be?”

“Extremely.”

Doyle waited for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, “You say recovery will largely be a matter of working through layers.” She frowned, an appropriately troubled wrinkling of her brow. “What will searchers find?”

“It’s hard to say. Prolonged exposure to intense heat coupled with crushing pressure from the weight of fallen debris are not a good combination.”

A beat, then Doyle shifted gears.

“Once a body is brought to your lab, what procedure do you follow?”

“In the jurisdictions in which I work, a pathologist would be in charge. In a specialty situation, he or she would call for anthropological expertise.”

“A specialty situation such as a fire death?”

“Yes.”

“Because the deceased isn’t visually recognizable.”

“Yes.” Uncomfortable with such a grisly point.

“What would your role be?”

“I would help to establish identifications.”

“How?”

This interview was getting more detailed than I liked. Mindful of victims’ friends or relatives who might soon watch it, I chose my words carefully.

“I would examine the remains to determine age, sex, ancestry, height, the presence of medical or genetic anomalies—any particularities observable on the bones. I would construct what I call a biological profile. A forensic dentist would observe the teeth and create a dental chart.”

“You’re assuming these poor people will be burned beyond recognition.”

“I’m assuming nothing.” Sharper than I intended. Or not.

“What about fingerprints?”

Images of charred corpses bombarded my mind. I saw the scorched flesh. The curled and blackened limbs. The distorted or missing digits.

“One can always hope, but the hands would have to be in printable condition, and even if they were, the prints would have to be in some database to be useful.”

“Of course. I’m told that family members will be asked to provide DNA samples. Is it possible to get genetic information from a burned skeleton?”

“It’s possible.” The subject was far too complex, so I left it at that.

“What are your thoughts when you’re doing this kind of work? Are the victims always foremost in your mind?” Bright red lips pressed grimly together.

“Yes. But at the scene or in the lab I remain focused. Completely objective. My goal is to get every victim back to his or her family, whatever may be left of them.”

“What can you say to those anxious for word on their loved ones?”

“I know that waiting must be unbearably hard. But proper recovery and identification takes time. It’s heartbreaking, but be patient. Those working are doing the best they can.”

“Thank you so much, Dr. Brennan.”

“My pl— You’re welcome.”

When we’d disconnected, I sat a moment replaying my comments in my head. Decided it wasn’t a great interview, not a bad one, either.

Still, the exchange with Ivy Doyle hadn’t altered my view that only woe comes from media exposure.

Within hours that view would be proven correct.