Chapter 11
“Hey. Doc. You okay?”
Slidell’s sweat-slick face looked like a bright-pink peony coated with dew.
“What?”
“You zoned out there.”
“I’m fine. It’s just—”
It’s just what? I had no idea. But I damn sure wasn’t going to tell Slidell that I’d flashed into the mind of the perp we were chasing.
That the message I’d received was scary as hell.
But had that really happened?
Or was the heat getting to me?
Slidell and I looked around for several minutes, found nothing. “This is bullshit,” Skinny said, yanking a grayed hanky from a pants pocket and wiping his brow. “I’m pulling the plug.”
“Suits me.”
With that we headed back toward the Trailblazer.
Trudging through the prickly vegetation, accumulating more bites with each step, I couldn’t help wondering what the hell I’d experienced. Had my subconscious noticed something that I’d missed? Something that prompted an unsolicited psst from my id?
Triggered the sense of foreboding now filling me?
Because in that moment, in that startling peek into the psyche of another, I knew.
The perp had grown bored with nonhuman prey and would inevitably move up to humans.
Unbeknownst to me.
He already had.
Katy and Ruthie spent their last summer days together doing exactly as they pleased. Picnic dinners. Bike rides. Garden tours. Popcorn and old movies on the sofa each night. Life on the edge. I joined in as my work schedule allowed.
On yet another simmering Monday morning, I returned to the MCME to resume the case inventory I’d abandoned to collect Bear’s skull. It was Labor Day, I know. But I figured I could work uninterrupted with most everyone gone.
I figured wrong.
I was opening a third file when my mobile rang.
Recognizing the number, I picked up, grateful for the interruption.
“Hey, pookie,” I answered, knowing the response I’d get.
“I’ve asked you not to call me that, Mom.”
“I know.”
“You can be so annoying,” said Katy, sighing.
“I’ll work on it.”
“Listen, I need a favor.”
“Oh?”
“Jesus. Don’t sound so apprehensive.”
I considered a moment before responding. “I’m remembering some of your past requests.”
“Like what?”
“Like the time you needed help collecting horse ejaculate.”
“That jizz was from an extremely valuable thoroughbred,” said Katy, sounding slightly offended. “I made good money on that gig.”
“I’m glad you’ve changed jobs.”
“Whatever.” A pop-top whooshed. “I’ve just had a call from a retired Marine captain down in Greenville, South Carolina, a former resident at the center. This guy was a train wreck when he first arrived, I mean totally butt-kicked by PTSD.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s better now—has a job, a wife. But he’s undergoing some sort of crisis and wants me to come see him.”
“You shouldn’t go alone.”
“Bubs is riding with me.” Katy referred to a worker at the men’s shelter, a kid who was never going to win a brain power competition. “Besides, this guy’s never been violent. And he’s ancient.”
“How old?”
“He’s got to be well into his fifties.”
“I’m surprised the old geezer is still able to dial a phone.”
“Hilarious.”
“How can I help?”
“Can Ruthie stay with you for a few days?”
“Of course. I’d love to have her.” Not totally true given Ryan’s upcoming visit.
“I’ll warn you. Ruthie can be”—Katy groped for the proper descriptor—“cantankerous.”
“Good word, that.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know when I plan to drop her off.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
We’d barely disconnected when Nguyen appeared at my door. Apparently, she, too, had no social life.
Nguyen’s eyes took in the framed 1920s Ireland travel poster hanging on one wall, the plants lining the windowsill, the whiteboard with its jumble of scribbled notes.
Her gaze rested briefly on the collection of Ziplocs almost filling the top of one file cabinet.
On the bones and body parts inside each.
“How many does this last one make?” she asked, nodding in the direction of Bear’s skull.
“Eight.”
“Unfortunately, now it’s nine. Same decorative elements. Slightly different MO. Instead of being nailed high up on the tree, these remains were found at its base.”
“Where?”
“The Stevens Creek Nature Preserve. Down by Mint Hill.”
Nope. No way.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Nguyen. My niece is staying with me for a few days, so I’d rather not go all the way out—”
“There’s no need for a scene recovery. The remains are here.”
“In the morgue?”
“Yes. The gentleman who found them is a birder named, are you ready for it?”
I nodded.
“Devlin Finch. Mr. Finch stated that he collected the material hoping for avian specimens. Ultimately, he boxed everything and called the police.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“He said when he got the bones home and spread them out something didn’t look kosher.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve no idea. That’s what the officer told me when he delivered the box. Anyway, they’re here. But it’s nothing that can’t wait a few days.”
Two emotions fought for supremacy. Relief that I wouldn’t have to go on another recovery trek. Dismay that Finch’s actions, though well-intentioned, may have compromised a scene and possibly led to the loss of evidence.
Probably no biggie since the deceased wasn’t human.
It was a supposition that would prove incorrect.
By eight the following morning, I was in autopsy room four, suited up in gloves and scrubs. A mask hid the expression of shock on my face.
Bones and mummified tissue lay separated into groupings on two gurneys. Contrary to my initial plan, I’d ended up viewing each scrap using every means possible. By gross observation. Under magnification. Via X-ray.
Though damaged and badly eroded, sufficient anatomical detail had survived. My conclusion was undeniable.
Case MCME-741-25, initially logged in as collection of animal bones, contained elements that were clearly Homo sapiens. Rib and limb segments. A hunk of pelvis, including a portion of pubic symphysis. A partial sternum. Numerous skull fragments.
Since I’d worked unassisted, there’d been no one with whom to share my startling discovery. No one with whom to speculate. Questions whirled unvoiced in my head.
How had the remains ended up at the tree? A lack of redundancy in parts along with compatibility between all elements suggested a single person. Had that person been killed, then his or her remains placed below the oak? If so, When? Why? Who was the victim?
Had the corpse been disinterred from a local cemetery? If so, Which one? Was the act random? Or had the individual been specifically chosen?
How had the remains become mixed with those of several animal species?
Murder? Grave robbery? Something altogether different?
For a moment, I just stood there, fluorescents buzzing fitfully on the ceiling, clock humming softly on the wall.
Snap out of it, Brennan!
Setting the animal remains aside, I opened a file and began moving through my standard protocol with the human material.
A skeletal inventory showed that the remains did, in fact, represent a single individual.
Biological indicators pointed to female gender and an age estimate of thirty-five to fifty years.
Cranial and facial anatomy suggested European ancestry.
Good bone quality and the presence of desiccated soft tissue indicated a PMI of less than five years.
I saw no evidence of antemortem or perimortem disease or trauma. At least nothing that had left its mark on the skeleton.
What I found shocking was the pattern of postmortem treatment.
Feathers. Glitter. Facial mutilation.
And the probability that one hand had been severed and taken elsewhere.
A pattern identical to the one I’d observed with Bear and the others.
I was recording my findings for entry into a computer file when the screech of the desk phone startled me. Stripping off and tossing a glove into a toe-tap flip-top container, I crossed to it.
“Dr. Brennan,” I answered, noting as I picked up that the call was internal.
“A happy Tuesday to you.” Chirpy as hell.
“And to you.”
“I hope y’all had a lovely weekend.”
“I did, Mrs. Flowers. Thanks for asking.”
A hopeful pause.
When I didn’t elaborate, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Detective Slidell absolutely refuses to take no for an answer. That man can be most tenacious.”
“Indeed, he can,” I affirmed, not totally clear as to her meaning. “What does he want?”
“He says it’s imperative that he talk with you, toot-sweet. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I explained that y’all are busy doing an autopsy, but—”
“Tell Detective Slidell that I’ll call him back shortly.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Mrs. Flowers loved roping people into Q & A fencing matches. At that moment I wasn’t in the mood for games.
“What does that mean?”
My brusqueness was met with a reproachful silence.
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“No offense taken.”
“Could you please phone Detective Slidell and report that I have news for him?”
“As I said, that won’t be necessary.”
“Oh?” Voice neutral, masking my annoyance.
“The gentleman is waiting in your office. He said you suggested that would be best.”
“Did he.”
“He did.”
“Fine.” It wasn’t. “Offer coffee and tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
It took less than ten minutes to secure MCME-741-25, wash up, and cross to my office. Enough time for Skinny to escalate from prickly into full-on belligerent.
“Sorry you had to wai—”
“I got a goddam job to do.” Theatrically tapping his watch.
“Serve and protect.” I circled to the chair behind my desk. “Such a thankless task.”
“You’re a regular Henny Youngman.”
“Seriously? That’s the most recent comic you can reference?”
“The guy was funny.”
“Glad someone is. This creep tacking up carcasses isn’t a load of laughs.”
“I talked to your pal Kumar again.” Slidell segued straight to his current pet theory. “She thinks the doer’s a perv.”
“You may be overstating her opinion.”
“How’s that?”
“She thinks the doer’s behavior could possibly have a sexual component.”
“Don’t everything when you get right down to it? I mean, there’s guys get their rocks off licking the labels on cans of baked beans.”
I had no response to that, so I said nothing.
“Tell me about this latest batch of bliss,” Slidell ordered.
I briefed him on the remains Devlin Finch had collected. Explained the human bones I’d found in the mix. The cut marks suggesting intentional removal of a hand.
“Just the one DOA?”
I nodded.
“Sonofabitch.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Sonofabitch.”
“What else can you tell me about this Finch find? Give me more details.”
Secretly appreciating Skinny’s use of alliteration, I told him what I could.
He listened without interrupting, left ankle cocked over his right knee, one finger worrying some remnant of breakfast on his shirt, which, as usual, looked like it had been plucked from a department store discount bin.
“That’s it?” he asked when I’d finished.
I nodded glumly. “One large segment of frontal bone survived. Patches of adherent tissue showed that the decedent’s eyelids had been stretched wide and sewn in place. When viewed under magnification, the stitching indicated a skilled hand.”
“Just like the others.”
“Just like the others,” I agreed.
“So we’re talking about a guy who knows his way around a needle and thread. Maybe a professional seamstress or a tailor?”
“A surgeon or dentist?” I tossed out.
“Some kind of lab rat?”
“An acupuncturist? A pharmacist?”
“More likely just your run-of-the-mill low-life druggie.”
“Maybe.” I didn’t think so.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what this perv needs to make his whistle throb.” Slidell sounded dangerous. “Animals is bad enough. But no one diddles with human corpses on my turf.”