Текст книги "Bones Never Lie"

Автор книги: Kathy Reichs

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

PART III

CHAPTER 36

THE HOLIDAYS CAME and went.

I drove often to Heatherhill Farm. Goose was omnipresent, fluffing Mama’s pillows, brushing her hair, setting out clothes and insisting she wear them.

Harry flew in from Texas.

For three days we stayed at a B&B near Marion, the same one where Goose had taken up residence. Our rooms featured four-posters and chintz gone wild.

Harry bought Mama a stuffed zombie doll designed to be pulled apart and disemboweled to vent frustration. And a four-thousandcarat diamond brooch. I got her a cashmere poncho.

Being the center of attention perked Mama up. She twittered about Christmases past. The ones at the beach. The one in Grand Cayman. No mention of the ones she spent in the underworld solo in her room. Or gone.

When we were alone, Mama asked about my cases. I shared the whole story. Pomerleau, the Corneau farm, the barrel of maple syrup, the horror in Ajax’s trunk. I figured the outcome would appeal to her sense of justice.

Mama asked about Ryan’s contribution to the tale. I figured that in her mind, we were Orpheus and Eurydice. Maybe Scully and Mulder.

I told her Ryan had spent most of his time searching for Pomerleau’s sole surviving victim. She asked where the poor thing was. I said he hadn’t found her. She was intrigued, wouldn’t let up on the subject until Goose arrived to bully her into a bath.

The boards at the LEC came down. The photos, maps, interview summaries, and reports were packed back into their respective boxes. The conference room reverted to its intended purpose.

Tinker faded off. Rodas disengaged. Barrow moved on to other cold cases.

Slidell went incommunicado. I hadn’t a clue what he was doing. Made no effort to learn.

The CMPD held a press conference. Broadcasters went fluently doleful. Headlines howled. Reports told of Ajax’s arrest in Oklahoma, of “evidence in his possession linking him to the murders of Shelly Leal, Lizzie Nance, and others,” of his death on Sunrise Court. Slidell stayed away. Tinker did humble while deftly exaggerating his role and that of the SBI. I had to agree with Slidell. The guy was an unctuous little prick.

Ryan and I talked often. Almost like old times. Almost. He was back on the job, working as a floater as before, adding his expertise to investigations as needed.

Friday morning, the second day of the New Year, Larabee received the toxicology report. Ajax had a blood carbon monoxide saturation of 68 percent. A level that kills you deader than shit.

Ajax also had chloral hydrate in his system, which showed up only when Larabee requested a second test expanding beyond the opiates, amphetamines, barbiturates, alcohol, and other substances on standard tox screens. Though the drug was a somewhat antiquated choice, in Larabee’s opinion, it wasn’t significant. As he’d said at the scene, a lot of folks need pharmaceuticals to pull the plug.

There was no record of chloral hydrate withdrawal at the Mercy dispensary, no prescription at any Charlotte pharmacy. Not a big deal. As a physician, Ajax would have had easy access to the drug, often used as a sedative prior to EEG procedures.

More troubling was the fact that no empty pill bottle turned up at the house on Sunrise Court or on Ajax’s person. CSS found the kitchen trash container empty, unlike other cans on the premises. A Hefty in the curbside rollout produced nothing that might have held the capsules.

The big shocker came the following Monday.

Larabee caught me in the biovestibule, paper in his hand, puzzled expression on his face.

“Post-holiday credit card bill?” Unwrapping a scarf from my neck.

Larabee thrust the paper at me. I shifted my briefcase and took it.

A quick skim, then the line that mattered. I understood why Lara-bee hadn’t laughed at my joke. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“The DNA from the lip print isn’t a match for Ajax.”

Larabee shook his head solemnly.

“Any possibility the jacket was contaminated?”

“They say no way.”

“And the samples you sent over were good?”

Larabee just looked at me.

“I saw lip balm in Ajax’s medicine cabinet. Maybe—”

“CSS collected it. The lab ran it as a cross test. In case some defense attorney found an expert to say the stuff scrambled the DNA sequencing, or some other junk-science hogwash.”

“What about the lip balm itself?”

“Not the same brand.”

“So, wait.” My mind was struggling to reconstruct the picture we’d so carefully crafted. “Ajax might not be our guy?”

Larabee shrugged with upturned palms. Who knows?

“But he had Leal’s ring.”

“Nance’s shoes. Gower’s key.”

“What about the blood in Ajax’s trunk? The scalp?”

“That’s taking longer.”

“Have you talked to Slidell?”

“He’s on his way over.”

An hour passed before Slidell’s heels clicked like bullets outside my door. Voices floated from Larabee’s office, modulated, no ire or outrage. Ten minutes later, Skinny blustered into my office.

The change was subtle but there. Same ratty brown jacket. Same bad haircut. What?

Slidell ankle-hooked and dragged a chair toward my desk, dropped onto it. When his legs shot forward, I saw a flash of tangerine sock. Some things are permanently set.

“You heard?”

“I did.”

Then it struck me. Slidell had lost weight. His face was still saggy, maybe more so than usual. But his belly wasn’t hanging as far over his belt. The mustard-yellow shirt was fully tucked.

Slidell’s next statement stunned me. “Some shit don’t add up.”

“What are you saying?”

Slidell’s jaw muscles flexed energetically.

“You have doubts about Ajax?”

“He was on Pineville-Matthews Road when Leal was grabbed up on Morningside.”

“Yes.”

A ten-second pause.

“IT put a name to the user in that chat room for cramps.”

“HamLover.”

“Yeah. Mona Spleen. Forty-three, lives in Pocatello, Idaho. Belongs to the Pocatello ARC. That stands for Amateur Radio Club.”

“Spleen is into ham radios.”

“Big-time.”

Another, longer pause.

“April 17, 2009. Two-twenty P.M. Ajax got pulled for doing sixty-eight in a fifty-five.”

“The afternoon Lizzie Nance disappeared. That doesn’t mean—”

“The stop was on I-64, outside Charleston, West Virginia.”

“You’re just now learning this?”

“I ain’t a magician. People been busy tying bows and stuffing socks.”

“The ticket gives Ajax an airtight alibi. Why didn’t he mention it?”

“The trooper let him off with a warning. No fine, no court. Ajax probably forgot all about it.”

“Forgot the trip?”

“The date coincides with his start at Mercy. He maybe had a lot on his mind.”

I said nothing.

After another long pause, Slidell said, “I did some follow-up on the kid in Oklahoma.”

“The babysitter Ajax molested?”

“Yeah.” Repositioning his tie down the middle of his chest. It was black and spotted with something shiny. “The lady’s got a jacket going back to juvie.”

I kept my face expressionless.

“Three bumps for solicitation since 2006. Off the record, my source says her first pop was the year after Ajax went into the box.”

“That may or may not be meaningful.”

“Eeyuh.”

“So what are you thinking?”

“Maybe the dirtbag ain’t our guy.”

“Have you shared any of this with Salter?”

Slidell gave a tight shake of his head.

“Why?”

“I’m still working it.”

“Doing what?”

“For one thing, taking a hard look at this fuckwad Yoder.”

“The CNA at Mercy?”

Slidell nodded.

“Any reason?”

“I don’t like the guy.”

“That’s it?”

“No, that ain’t it.” Curt. “While you’ve been caroling and hanging mistletoe, I’ve been moving back in on the neighbors, the other hospital staff.”

“Meaning?”

“Heart-to-hearts all around.”

“And?”

“And nothing. The guy lived under a rock.”

“Now what?”

“I’m hitting the ones weren’t around. Over the river and through the woods. Ho-ho. Pain in the ass.”

“Aren’t you the Grinch.”

“I practice.”

“When you’ve finished the interviews, you’ll take it to Salter?”

“Yeah.”

“What about Tinker?”

“I’ll see that yank-off in hell before I bring him back in.”

“Who’s on your list?”

“Couple nurses, a doc, a CNA. Probably a waste of time. But could be someone picked up on something.”

I looked at the clock. At my stack of unwritten reports. “Let’s go.” Pulling my purse from the drawer.

Slidell took a breath, caught himself. Nodded and stood.

We got lucky with one RN and the physician. They were day shift.

Both said they’d been stunned by the news reports on Hamet Ajax. Both had worked with him and felt he was a fine doctor. Both expressed sadness at his passing. Neither knew a thing about Ajax’s personal life.

The other two were off that day. Alice Hamilton, a CNA, and Arnie Saranella, an RN.

Slidell was particularly eager to talk to Hamilton. She’d been on duty when Colleen Donovan and Shelly Leal presented at the ER. And Ellis Yoder had hinted that Ajax and Hamilton were friendly.

Slidell had phoned Hamilton repeatedly. Left messages on her mobile, gotten no reply. It didn’t predispose him to warm feelings toward the woman.

Hamilton lived on North Dotger, within spitting distance of Mercy Hospital. The street was winding and, in summer, overshaded by trees large enough to form a canopy blocking all sunlight.

Hamilton’s wasn’t one of the townhomes that had sprouted like toadstools after a rain, progeny of the yuppification of the Elizabeth neighborhood. Her apartment was in an uninspired brick bunker dating to the postwar era. One of four such bunkers, all painted beige in an unsuccessful attempt to discourage algae growth.

On their street sides, the bunkers had paired concrete patios surrounded by metal fences and protected by metal awnings, every one rusted and warped. Each patio was large enough to hold a chair, maybe two if your personal space requirements weren’t demanding. Each was accessed by double glass doors gone milky with age. The units above had uncovered balconies. Same square footage. Same cloudy doors.

Slidell and I took the walk, mud-caked and, like the brick, exuberantly green with life, and entered a small lobby with a grimy blackand-white floor. Four mailboxes formed a square on the wall to the left.

Overflow mail lay on the tile, mostly flyers and ads, a few magazines. Good Housekeeping. O. Car and Driver.

A. Hamilton was on the box marked 1C. Penned by hand and slipped behind a tiny rectangle of cracked glass.

Slidell pressed the bell. Waited. Pressed again.

No buzz. No voice from the little round speaker.

“Goddammit.” Slidell pressed harder, jabbing repeatedly with his thumb.

While waiting, I scanned labels at my feet. The automotive magazine was for Roger Collier, Oprah’s monthly for Hamilton. The housekeeping tips were going to Melody Keller.

Slidell rang a fourth time, his anger so palpable that I felt it elbow my ribs.

“Don’t have a heart attack,” I said.

“Why don’t she answer?”

“Maybe she’s not home?”

Slidell stared at the mailboxes, narrow-eyed and tight-mouthed.

“What did her supervisor say?”

“She’s on some kinda arrangement she don’t have to work regular.”

“PRN. Pro re nata. It’s a common arrangement in hospitals. Means the employee’s schedule changes a lot and hours aren’t guaranteed.”

“Whatever.”

“Let’s move on. Talk to the other nurse.”

“Pisses me off Alice goddamn Hamilton don’t call me back.”

Slidell was on his fifth round of jabbing when my iPhone vibrated in my jacket pocket. I answered.

Larabee had DNA results on the materials from Ajax’s trunk.

CHAPTER 37

“IT WAS POMERLEAU. The blood, the scalp.”

“I knew it.”

“Some of the Kleenex had saliva.”

“Pomerleau?”

“Yes.”

My pulse threw in a few extra beats.

“What are you thinking?” Larabee asked when I didn’t reply.

“The killer seeded the bodies.”

“That’s my take.”

“With Gower and Nance, he put saliva on tissue and left it in the child’s hand.”

“But that’s iffy. What if it rains? What if the tissue blows away? Animals drag it off?” Larabee was right there with me. “He had to get more sophisticated.”

I closed my eyes. Saw a syrupy corpse on a stainless steel table.

“Pomerleau had punctures on her inner elbows,” I said. “The ME in Vermont thought they looked wrong for needle drugs. So did I. And Pomerleau’s tox screen came back clean.”

“Ajax drew her blood and stored it in vials.”

“Or she gave it to him.”

“I doubt she gave him hunks of her head.”

I spent a moment grinding that down.

“He’s smart,” I said. “Knows shaft isn’t good enough. That root is needed to sequence nuclear DNA.”

“You think he scalped her when he killed her?”

“Yes.”

A pause. Metal rattled in the background. I figured Larabee was in an autopsy room.

“The killer created a larder.” I was thinking out loud. “Hair. Blood. Saliva.”

“Probably kept the stuff in a freezer.”

“But why go to all that trouble?”

“To deflect suspicion away from himself? In case he got caught?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it was part of the game.”

“Which he continued to play after stuffing Pomerleau into a barrel. That happened when?”

“Probably 2009,” I said.

“When the action moved here.”

An incoming text landed on my phone. “I’ve got to go.”

“Can you tell Slidell?”

“I’m with him now.”

I heard a catch in Larabee’s breathing. Then, “You’re saying killer. Not Ajax. Is that Slidell’s thinking?”

I pressed the phone hard to my ear, guilt already gripping my gut. “Yes.”

“I thought he’d take my face off this morning when I gave him the news. He didn’t. Just sat there.”

“He already had doubts.”

“Son of a biscuit.”

“Something like that.”

The text was from Mama. A link to a YouTube video. Seeing Slidell stomping my way, I decided it could wait.

As we drove to Saranella’s condo in South End, I relayed Larabee’s news. Slidell listened. Shook his head once.

Saranella wasn’t home. His roommate, Grinder, had bad hair plugs and a fuck-you demeanor. After some attitude-adjustment tips from Slidell, Grinder shared that Arnie was in Hilton Head and would return the following Monday.

Back in the Taurus, I checked the time: 3:10.

Slidell was growing surly. So was I. We were accomplishing nothing. And the sense of guilt about Ajax was building inside me. Plus, I was starving.

I asked Slidell to drop me back at the MCME.

After easing free of Mrs. Flowers, I got a yogurt from my stash in the refrigerator and a granola bar from the drawer in my desk. Washed the feast down with a Diet Coke. All the food groups.

Then I called Ryan. Got voicemail.

Rodas. He answered. I told him about the DNA reports, the ticket, Ajax’s babysitter’s arrest record. He responded with more animation than Slidell. A lot more.

When I’d finished, he said, “I’ve been going over the Gower scene photos.”

“At the Hardwick quarry.”

“Yeah. Thought if Ajax was there, it would lock in one more piece.”

“And?”

“Lots of gawkers but no doc.”

“Back to square one?”

“Could be.”

I disconnected, impressed. Umpie Rodas would never give up on Nellie Gower.

Ryan called as I was dropping the next-to-last report in my outbox. I briefed him. Then we wove through a maze of speculation similar to the one I’d traveled with Larabee. If not Ajax, who? How did the guy hook up with Pomerleau? Why? Why shift to Charlotte?

“Why plant Pomerleau’s DNA on the victims?” Ryan asked after we’d both wound down. “Why not his own? They were a tag team until he killed her.”

“Until someone killed her.”

“Do you think Pomerleau was a willing donor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or did the bastard keep her captive to harvest her body fluids?”

I couldn’t answer. The thought was too appalling. Even for a monster like Pomerleau.

“Was it simply because he had access to her?” Ryan was throwing theories at the wall to see if one stuck. “Or was Pomerleau specific to his pathology?”

“Not just any donor but Pomerleau personally?”

“Yes.”

“In which case she could still be the key. The piece we’re failing to understand.”

“It’s just an idea.”

Another pause.

“Is Salter reopening the files?” Ryan asked.

“Slidell’s buying himself time.” Diplomatic.

“He hasn’t told her.”

“No.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Talking to people who knew Ajax. To Oklahoma. Taking a hard look at this nurse’s assistant Ellis Yoder.”

“Why?”

“Yoder was working on the dates Leal and Donovan went through the ER.”

“What do you think?”

“He’s got nothing else.”

“Gonna be a lot of red faces at the CMPD.”

“A lot,” I agreed.

It was another takeout evening with Birdie.

We were eating Il Nido spaghetti and channel-surfing when my iPhone sang “Frosty the Snowman.”

“Why’d he wash the cup?”

“What?” Slidell’s question threw me. His calling at night threw me.

“Ajax. He’s heading to the garage to off himself. Why bother with the cup?”

“He was a neat freak.”

No reply.

“And he was zoned on chloral hydrate,” I added. “People do funny things.”

“I’m looking at the CSS photos. There’s dirt on the floor inside the back door.”

“A lot?”

“Not the point. Why’s he clean the cup and the coffeemaker and leave the dirt?”

“He cleaned the coffeemaker?”

“And took out the trash. The grounds were in a plastic bag on top in the can outside.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying either a guy’s neat or he ain’t.”

“Maybe he tracked in the dirt when he went to the garbage can, then didn’t see it.”

“Tracked it from where? The thing sits back-ass to the door.”

I heard a series of soft ticks, probably photos hitting a blotter.

“Thread.” Tick. Tick. “Snagged on the backyard hedge.”

“What kind of thread?”

No answer.

Now it was the sound of pages turning.

“Purple.” I wasn’t sure Slidell was talking to me anymore. “Fiber guy says purple wool.”

“Were the coffee grounds analyzed?”

More pages.

“Gotta go.”

Dead air.

I tossed the phone on the couch. Got up. Began pacing in tight circles. Birdie’s head swiveled as he followed my movement.

What was Slidell’s purpose in calling? He was disturbed by some findings at the scene on Sunrise Court. Did he have doubts not only about Ajax’s involvement in the murders but also about Ajax’s own death? Did he suspect it was other than suicide?

Homicide?

We’d probably been wrong about Ajax. Was my crushing sense of guilt about his death unjustified? Had someone killed Ajax and staged it as a suicide?

Who? Why?

Jesus. The same questions I’d been asking myself for weeks.

My phone pinged an incoming text.

Mama.

Did you look at the YouTube video?

Viewing it now.

Right place?

I shifted to the message above. Clicked on the link.

The video was titled: Overland Riders of Northern Essex Community College. Spring Bike Hike 2008(3): Over the Passumpsic. The clip was twelve minutes long and had been viewed 18,927 times. Most liked it.

Interested in why the tape had caught Mama’s attention, not in its content, I hit the little white triangle. Queen began singing “Bicycle Race.” A frozen cyclist started pedaling, not furiously, but with strong, steady thrusts.

A rectangle appeared on the screen, outlined in scrolly white, like a dialogue box in an old silent movie. It framed the words: Spring Bike Hike 2008.

The camera zoomed out to show eight more cyclists, all in helmets, windbreakers, and knee-length black spandex shorts. They were moving single file along a two-lane highway. The action was wobbly, captured by a handlebar– or helmet-mounted camera at the rear of the pack.

Mama had never shown an interest in biking. I couldn’t fathom why this video appealed to her.

The group passed a post office/general store combo: a gray building with an old red auto seat on the porch and a red plastic kayak affixed to the top of the front overhang.

Another text box announced: Barnet, Vermont.

I read the words on the side of the kayak. Suddenly sat straight up.

Pulse humming, I watched the cyclists cross a narrow river on a green metal bridge. Another text box. Passumpsic River.

Two minutes of pedaling through mixed hardwood and pine, then a bit of crude editing caught the group on the shoulder, laughing and pointing to a plank nailed to a tree above their heads. On it were four faded blue letters. ORNE. It was the weathered sign from the Corneau house.

ORNE. They liked the Corneau sign because what was left matched their club’s acronym. Overland Riders of Northern Essex.

As the cause of their amusement registered, a car entered the frame from a driveway to the left of the sign. One silhouette at the wheel, no passenger.

The car lurched to a stop, and a door flew open. A figure shot out and strode toward the cyclists. The camera followed her, now handheld. I couldn’t see a face, but body language said the driver was angry.

Another text box materialized. Hostile Aboriginal!

The figure turned toward the camera. Shouted and waved both arms.

I went cold to the marrow.