Chapter 21
It was Friday afternoon, so I offered to assist Nguyen on the autopsy. Hawkins flashed me a look that said he was relieved. At least, I think that was what he was telegraphing. It’s hard to tell given the perpetual frown. He was quickly out the door.
The paper bag, placed on the man’s hand at the scene, was removed. His nails were scraped and clipped, his fingers inked and rolled for prints.
Following careful external observation and X-ray scanning, a Y-incision was cut. The rib cage and skull were sawed. The brain and internal organs were removed and sectioned. Tissue samples and ocular fluid were collected for possible toxicology and other testing.
The autopsy revealed no surprises.
Bandanna man was a Black male who’d weighed one hundred and seventy-two pounds and stood five feet nine inches tall. His bones were slightly porous but, given his age, not abnormally so. His joints showed some early arthritic remodeling.
Fractures in the man’s jaw and eight right ribs attested to a long-ago auto or bike accident, maybe a fall. Every break had healed well.
There were no tattoos, surgical or traumatic scars, birthmarks, skin lesions, or other abnormalities.
Livor mortis, a purple discoloration due to the settling of blood on the corpse’s downside, indicated that the body hadn’t been moved after death.
The teeth totaled only fourteen in number. Yellowing and extensive decay suggested a lack of concern with dental hygiene.
Trace evidence collected from the man and his clothing, now drying on a rack, consisted of soil, pebbles, vegetation, six beetles, one spider, and a boatload of ants.
I’d harvested the right pubic symphysis and the medial end of one clavicle. Developmental changes on both pointed to an age of fifty, plus or minus ten years.
Sadly, the man carried nothing to help with an ID. No wallet. No driver’s license. No insurance, Medicaid, Medicare, or Social Security card. No watch or amulet with a name engraved on the back. No initials penned onto the labels of his undies.
The State Bureau of Investigation is North Carolina’s central repository for criminal history record information based on fingerprints. We started with the SBI’s Computerized Criminal History File, the CCH. Got no hit.
The AFIS, or Automated Fingerprint Identification System, is primarily managed by the FBI under the name Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, IAFIS.
The database includes 185 million prints of individuals who have been arrested, undergone background checks for certain types of employment or licensing, and are known or suspected terrorists. We went there next. Again, bombed out.
By the time Nguyen and I finished, it was well past seven. Stripping off my scrubs, I took another quick shower, changed into street clothes, and headed out.
Walking from my car to the Annex, the air felt like a warm, moist blanket on my skin. The sun was low, tinting the grounds and buildings of Sharon Hall with a yellow-pink watercolor wash.
Approaching my unit, I heard voices singing “Volare.” Both were soprano, one was off-key.
A tsunami of aromas engulfed me when I opened the kitchen door. Tomato. Oregano. Fresh baked bread.
Mental head slap.
I’d invited Katy and Ruthie for dinner. They’d accepted but insisted on doing the cooking. A subtle comment on my culinary skills?
“Hey, guys.” Masking any surprise I was feeling.
Katy was at the sink, Ruthie at the stove. Both turned, my niece pantomiming a handheld mic with a large wooden spoon.
They sang in unison.
Volare oh, oh,
Cantare oh, oh…
“Bellissimo,” I said, digging deep for any remnants of Italian still stored in my left hemisphere.
“è la notte degli spaghetti!” Katy announced, flourishing one hand.
“Splendida.” I set my purse on the counter. “Are you finding everything you need?”
“Si.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“No, signora!” Katy feigned horror at the idea. “Please relax. The moment our final guest arrives, the chefs are ready to plate their creation.”
Before I could query that unexpected response, I heard a vehicle pull up outside. The engine cut off, a car door slammed, then footsteps crunched on the walkway.
A quick rap on the side panel. The screen door opened, and Lester Meloy poked his head into the kitchen.
“Am I late?”
“Not at all,” Katy assured him. “Come on in.”
Meloy entered and handed Katy a bouquet wrapped in tissue stamped with the word GreenWise. Carnations, roses, and some flora tinted blue that shouldn’t have been.
“Dr. Brennan.” Meloy favored me with a big sunny grin. “Thank you for hosting.”
“Like a bad coin, I keep turning up.” I smiled back.
“More like a lucky penny.” Impishly winking one olive-flecked eye.
Jesus. Was the guy mom-schmoozing me? Or was he this obsequious with everyone?
“Something smells good,” Meloy said, glancing toward the stove.
“And it’s ready to eat!” Katy chirped. “Please sit down. I’ll put these lovely flowers in a vase while Ruthie serves.”
Katy and Ruthie had gone all out. Bone China dinnerware. Crystal goblets. Linen napkins. Octagonal mirror place mats. Items I’d almost forgotten I own.
The pasta was tasty, though a bit salty. The wine looked sketchy, but I wasn’t imbibing, so I didn’t care.
As during our dinner at Red Rocks Cafe, conversation moved unfettered from topic to topic. Eventually—inevitably?—it meandered to questions about interesting cases I’d encountered throughout my career.
As is my policy, I tried to dodge.
Meloy pressed. More brownnosing? Or was the guy genuinely interested in my work?
I talked about the exhumation of a lady buried in a casket with a squirrel and a parrot. All three had been embalmed. I described how a cadaver’s missing teeth were found woven into a chickadee’s nest.
Meloy asked a million questions about each case.
When I tried to change the subject, he queried what I’d been doing that very day. I sidestepped with a cursory comment about an old man found in the woods. Taking the hint, Meloy shifted to talking about the recent Panthers game.
Katy and Ruthie had purchased raspberry and lemon sorbets for dessert. A perfect closing act.
As Meloy reached for the bowl Katy was offering, his shirt collar shifted, exposing four dark letters on the side of his neck. While appearing not to, I tried to read them.
Apparently, I wasn’t cagey enough.
“You’ve noticed my tattoo,” Meloy said, eyes not exactly twinkling but showing amusement.
My cheeks burned.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” Thumb and finger pinching the collar, Meloy yanked the fabric farther sideways.
“LIVE.” Interpreting the word as an adjective, I pronounced it with a long “I.”
“Or is it live?” Ruthie asked coyly.
“Ah. Life advice,” Katy said. “But live how?”
“Freely? Wisely? Joyfully?” Meloy offered. His smile had gone Orinoco wide.
“It’s actually a group,” Ruthie said.
Katy and I looked a question at her.
“Lester can explain it better than I can.”
“We are absolutely nothing unique or interesting. Quite the opposite. We are the embodiment of the world’s oldest cliché.” Meloy chuckled. “Students searching for the meaning of life.”
“The universe, and everything,” Ruthie chirruped, pleased with herself.
All eyes now shifted to her.
“You know, Monty Python? Never mind.”
“I get it,” I said, surprised that my niece was a fan of the irreverent humor I loved.
“So how is it pronounced?” Katy pressed.
“However you like,” Meloy replied.
“What’s the group’s focus?”
“I’m afraid we’re rather unfocused,” Meloy said. “We’re not political. We don’t back a sports team. We don’t support a cause, like saving the wombat.”
“What do you do?”
“Not much.”
“Do you have a clubhouse? A secret handshake?”
“No.”
“Do you meet regularly? Connect online?”
“Not really.”
“What’s the mutual interest?”
“Sorry?”
“What attracts group members to each other?”
“Not to sound self-serving, but I think the attraction is me.”
I noticed a narrowing of Katy’s eyes. Knew that she was about to have a field day with that rather egotistical statement.
“Would anyone like more sorbet?” I asked, hoping to avoid confrontation.
Katy ignored me.
“Do your groupies wear tees with your image on the front? Special pins known only to each other?”
“With all respect,” said Meloy, his lips rising in another of his mile-wide grins, “I’m afraid you’ve misinterpreted my meaning.”
A beat, then Katy leaned back in her chair.
“Perhaps I have,” she said, matching Meloy tooth for tooth. “Perhaps I have.”
Meloy left at nine, saying he’d be happy to drive Ruthie home. Katy stayed to help with cleanup.
While scraping and rinsing, Katy asked about Ryan. I told her he was due to arrive on Sunday. She made some ribald recommendations I was glad Ruthie wasn’t present to hear.
Mostly, we critiqued our departed dinner guest.
Katy had found him amusing and “wicked” smart.
For me the jury was out. While I sensed a gargantuan ego hovering below the surface, the man was pleasant enough company, witty, and well-mannered. And he’d brought flowers.
We’d just wedged the last plate into the dishwasher when my mobile sounded. I’d switched the ringtone to “Hello!” from The Book of Mormon.
“Jesus, Mom. Who’d be calling this late?”
“Probably spam,” I said.
Katy snatched the phone from the counter.
“Unknown caller.”
“My hands are soapy. Can you hit ignore?”
She thumbed a key, then framed me up in the viewfinder.
“Say cheese.”
“Katy.” With a warning note to my voice.
“I want proof that the great Temperance Brennan washes dishes just like the rest of us.”
“Very funny.”
“Smile.”
“I’m not looking my best.”
“That’s the point.”
Knowing my daughter would not be dissuaded, and that I could delete the shot later, I made a goofy face.
“This beauty’s definitely going to the Charlotte Observer,” she said, keying in a command to forward the image to herself.
“I’m sure if you did send it to the paper there’d be a seismic spike in subscriptions.”
Katy didn’t laugh. Her eyes remained glued to my mobile, brows now crimped in confusion.
A beat, then she held the device up, screen now pointed at me.
“Holy shit, Mom.”
“What?” From across the room, I couldn’t see the pic that had caused her puzzlement.
“Why do you have this image on here?” she asked.
Grabbing a hand towel, I crossed to her.
Now I was the one to look baffled.