Текст книги "Bones Never Lie"
Автор книги: Kathy Reichs
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
CHAPTER 38
I REPLAYED THE scene again and again. Froze the image. Studied the features, the body shape, making sure. Hoping I was wrong.
I wasn’t.
No point showing the video to Slidell. The face would mean nothing to him.
Not so with Ryan.
Fingers shaking, I sent the link north, then hit callback for the last incoming number. Slidell picked up after two rings.
“Tawny McGee was at the Corneau farm.” Circling the room.
A moment of silence as Slidell ran the name through his mental Rolodex. “The kid Pomerleau had in her cellar?”
“Yes.” I told him about the video.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Jesus freakin’ Christ. How’d you stumble onto that?”
“I’ll tell you later.” After Mama explains it to me.
“How does McGee fit in?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“Think she’s the big dude the mechanic saw?”
“She’s tall.”
“Or maybe the big dude was Ajax and we got us a threesome?”
“Or maybe it was some other dude.” Churlish, but I didn’t like feeling confused. “The DNA on Leal’s jacket says our doer is male.”
“I need to talk to McGee.”
“You think?”
“Can you blow up that frame and print it?” Slidell asked.
“The face will be too blurry. But McGee’s mother has a snapshot that’s fairly recent. I’ll get that.”
“I’ll put out a BOLO. Have Rodas do the same in Vermont.”
“I have a feeling McGee’s living under a different name. Ryan dug pretty deep, looking for her.”
“How’d she get to Vermont?”
“I don’t know. Maybe lean on Luther Dew over at ICE?” I was using the acronym for Immigration and Customs Enforcement.
Slidell snort-laughed. “The mummified-mutt guy?”
I’d helped Dew on a smuggled antiquities case involving Peruvian dogs. Slidell never tired of the canine-corpse jokes. I ignored this one.
“The video shows McGee at the Corneau farm in 2008. I’m not sure when passports became mandatory for travel between the U.S. and Canada. Or what kind of records they kept back then.”
“I’ll give it a shot first thing in the morning.”
“Why wait?” My eyes bounced to the clock: 10:27.
“Good thinking. Calling now will make Dew want to knock himself out.”
Three beeps. Slidell was gone.
Crap!
Who to phone first? Mama or Ryan?
Mama decided it. I answered her ring and jumped in before she could speak. “How did you find that video?”
“Sweetheart, good manners dictate a greeting when answering a call.”
I drew a deep breath. “Hi, Mama. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
“How did you discover the YouTube video?”
“Is it the farm where that terrible woman was hiding?”
“It is. How did you find it?”
“Oh, my. Do you want the full journey?”
“Just the process.”
“It wasn’t complicated. But it did require hours and hours of watching tasteless drivel. Some unkind fool actually posted a clip of a reporter having a stroke on-air. And—”
“But how did you find it?”
“There is no need to be brusque, Tempe.” Disapproving sniff. “I Googled various combinations of key words, of course. Corneau. Vermont. Hardwick. St. Johnsbury. One link led to another and another. I plowed through endless news stories, viewed interminable images of maple trees and shopping malls and snow-covered campuses. Did you know the mascot for the University of Vermont is a catamount? That’s a—”
“Big cat. Go on.”
“Eventually, I landed on the second in a series of five YouTube videos documenting a college bicycle trip. St. Johnsbury appeared in the title.
“After watching that clip, which I must say was excruciatingly tedious, I moved on to the third. While I was observing the group posing on the shoulder of a road, my mind filled in the missing letters on the sign above their heads.”
“How did you know about the Corneau farm?”
“You spoke of it when you were here.” Surprised and mildly condescending. “The bridge. The Passumpsic River. The broken sign.”
I remembered Mama’s ceaseless questions, didn’t recall going into so much detail.
“Is it helpful?”
“More than you can imagine, Mama. You are a virtuoso of the virtual. But I have to hang up now.”
“Pour téléphoner, monsieur le détective?” Almost a purr.
“Oui.”
Ryan didn’t answer. Which wasn’t calming. I was amped. Wanted action. Answers. Resolution.
I tried reading. Couldn’t focus. Knowing Ryan would call when he’d viewed the video, I gathered Birdie and went up to bed.
Hours passed. I lay there feeling wired, helpless. Asking myself what I could do. Coming up blank.
Around two, I finally drifted off. More sleep would have helped.
The next day the world spiraled into madness.
Ryan called at seven A.M. I’d been up for almost an hour. Eaten breakfast, fed the cat, read a proposal for a student project. I told him everything.
“McGee was driving a 2001 Chevy Impala,” he said. “Tan. Not the F-150 parked in the shed.”
“Could you read the plate?”
“No. But it was green, probably Vermont.”
“Contact Rodas?”
“Already did. He’s requested an enhancement. If that works, he’ll run the registration through the DMV.”
“Get Tawny’s photo from Bernadette Kezerian. Scan it and email it to Rodas, Slidell, and me.”
“Done. I’ll also contact border control on this side, see if they have any record of McGee crossing into Vermont. Or back into Quebec.”
We’d barely disconnected when Slidell showed up at my door. I offered him coffee. He accepted. We settled at the kitchen table. I briefed him on my conversation with Ryan.
“Dew says no can do.”
“What do you mean, no can do?”
“As of January 23, 2007, you gotta have a passport to enter the U.S. from Canada.”
“That’s good. ICE keeps records—”
“You wanna let me finish?”
I settled back, having vowed to be more patient with Slidell.
“That’s for airports. The reg didn’t kick in for land and sea borders until June 1, 2009.”
“Not likely she’d have flown such a short distance.”
“No.”
“Crap.”
“Yeah. But I got this.” He pulled a printout from an inside jacket pocket and flipped it onto the table.
I unfolded and read it. A tox report. I looked up, stunned by the implications. “They found chloral hydrate in the coffee grounds?”
“Yeah.” He tipped his chin at the paper. “A boatload.”
“Ajax was drugged?”
“Doubt he laced his own Joe.”
“You think someone sedated him, then put him in the car?”
“Explains the washup on the cup and coffeemaker. The grounds being outside in the trash.” Slidell thought a moment. “Kind of an odd choice, eh?”
“Chloral hydrate?”
“Yeah.”
“It was found in the victims at Jonestown.” I was referring to the 1978 poisoning of more than nine hundred people at the Peoples Temple in Guyana, a massacre orchestrated by a power-mad evangelist, Jim Jones. “Also in Anna Nicole Smith and Marilyn Monroe.”
Slidell said nothing.
“Ajax died between midnight and two.” My mind was spinning. “There was a cruiser parked at the curb all night. The surveillance team didn’t see anyone enter or leave the house until Cauthern showed up at dawn.”
“The Ajax property backs up to a walking trail behind Sunrise Court and a couple other dead-enders along that stretch. Whoever capped him probably parked on another cul-de-sac, took the path, then crossed the yard to the kitchen door.”
“That could explain the fibers on the hedge. The dirt on the floor.”
Our eyes exchanged the same questions. Who? Why?
“You taking it to Salter?” I asked.
“Soon.”
I raised my brows in question.
“I want to go at this scumbag Yoder one more time.”
“Why is he a scumbag?”
“There’s something smells there.”
“Not exactly an answer.”
“We ask Yoder about Leal and Donovan, the next thing you know, Ajax is dead with a kit in his trunk.” Slidell looked at me a very long moment. “What’s your gut? We looking at the same doer?”
“The girls and Ajax?”
Slidell nodded.
“My gut says yes.”
“Sonofafriggin’ bitch. And we got squat.”
“We know our killer is male.”
Slidell stared into his cup as if the answer were floating in his coffee. I’d never seen him so discouraged. “Think the guy’s a sexual sadist?”
“None of the victims was sexually assaulted.” I’d chewed on this a lot. “I think his arousal comes from control, from the ability to manipulate.”
“Us or his vics?”
I hadn’t looked at it that way. “Both. He’s definitely toying with us.”
Slidell rose. I walked him to the door.
“How’s he do it?” As he stepped outside.
“Do what?”
“Move under the radar and leave us nothing.”
I was in the study checking email when the phone rang again. I glanced at the caller ID. S. Marcus. Not recognizing the name, I let the call roll to voicemail. Seconds later, I heard the voice of my little cat-sitter friend, Mary Louise, on the answering machine. She wanted to visit after school. Had something for me.
Sorry, sweetie. Not today. Adding my guilt over Mary Louise to my guilt over Ajax, I turned back to the computer.
Ryan’s email attachment had opened. Tawny McGee looked at me from the deck of a boat, breeze lifting her collar and tossing her hair.
“Why?” I whispered. “Why did you go to Pomerleau?”
McGee continued to gaze straight ahead with her empty, still eyes. She was tall and full-breasted. But she didn’t flaunt what a lot of women paid big bucks to have. She downplayed it with a modest turtleneck.
I recalled the odd dynamic between the Kezerians. Bernadette’s comments. Jake’s.
Tawny hated being photographed. Hated being seen naked. Never dated or felt comfortable around men or boys.
Bernadette said her daughter had body-image issues. Jake said she was nuts.
I studied the long limbs, the double-D’s, the expressionless face. Wondered what was going on behind the vacant eyes.
From nowhere, another conversation winged into my consciousness.
Ryan’s report on Lindahl. He’d said the therapist had hinted that something was off.
As I stared at the woman on my screen, an idea slowly shaped up in my brain. An improbable possibility.
Heart hammering, I reached for the phone.
CHAPTER 39
AFTER A GRILLING, then a brief wait, “Pamela Lindahl.”
“My name is Temperance Brennan. We met some years back.”
“You work at the medico-legal lab here in Montreal.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you are calling from North Carolina. The receptionist said you were quite insistent.”
“The matter is urgent.”
“Go on.” With the wariness of a snitch in witness protection.
“It’s about Tawny McGee.”
“I suspected as much.” Sighing. “I will tell you what I told the detective. To discuss a patient without his or her permission would be a serious breach of professional ethics.”
No dancing around. No appealing to her sense of justice or fairness. I put one straight in her gut. “Tawny hooked up with Anique Pomerleau.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes,” I said, “you do. And I don’t have time to play games.”
“What is it you want?”
“Tawny has androgen insensitivity syndrome, doesn’t she?”
No reply.
“The lack of menses at puberty. The height, the large breasts, the abundant head hair.”
“You seem confident in your diagnosis. Why call me?”
“I need verification.”
“I’m sorry but—”
I fired another zinger. “Tawny may have killed Pomerleau. She may be murdering children.”
A deafening quiet came down from Montreal.
“Young girls. Four so far. Maybe six.”
“Where?”
“Does that matter?”
“No.”
“Well?”
“Her medical status, which I am not confirming, would be relevant for what reason?”
“DNA was recovered from one victim, a fourteen-year-old girl. Amelogenin testing indicated it was left by a male. That finding has pointed the search for her killer in what I now suspect is the wrong direction.” I didn’t complicate the discussion by mentioning Pomerleau’s DNA.
“How does this involve me?”
“I think you know.”
“One moment.”
I heard movement, guessed Lindahl was closing a door.
“Tawny came to me following an unimaginable ordeal, as you know. I cannot divulge details of our conversations, but five years in that basement left her terribly damaged.”
“Fine.” For now.
“We dealt with her immediate issues first. As I gained her trust, Tawny opened up, eventually talked of concerns about her body.”
Lindahl paused to collect her thoughts. Or to devise a strategy for revealing only what was essential. “Tawny had never menstruated, never grown underarm or pubic hair. The doctors told her it was due to a combination of poor diet and constant stress. Advised that, with time, she would catch up.
“In many ways, she did. Tawny grew tall, grew busty, but other changes never took place. At my suggestion, she agreed to be tested. If I chose the doctor and accompanied her. Which I did.” Pause. “What do you know about androgen insensitivity syndrome?”
“The basics. It’s a condition that impacts sexual development both prenatally and at puberty. Persons with AIS can’t respond to androgens, male sex hormones. I’m sketchy on the underlying genetics.”
I regretted the last as soon as the words left my mouth. I didn’t want a lecture. Was anxious to establish only one thing.
“Androgen insensitivity syndrome is caused by mutations in the AR gene, which encodes for proteins called androgen receptors. Androgen receptors allow cells to respond to hormones that direct male sexual development.”
“Testosterone.” No matter my preference, the lecture was coming down. I wanted to hurry it along.
“And others. Androgens and their receptors function in both males and females. Mutations in the AR gene prevent the androgen receptors from working properly. Depending on the body’s level of insensitivity, an affected person’s sex characteristics can vary from mostly female to mostly male.”
I tapped my nails on the desktop, impatient to get what I needed. To confirm what was keeping my pulse in the stratosphere.
“AIS patients present across a spectrum of severity. Complete androgen insensitivity syndrome, or CAIS, refers to the body’s total inability to use androgens. CAIS individuals have the external sex characteristics of a female but abnormally shallow vaginas and sparse or absent pubic and axillary hair. Such individuals lack a uterus, fallopian tubes, and ovaries, and have undescended testes in the abdomen.”
“They can’t menstruate or become pregnant.”
“Correct. A milder form of the syndrome, PAIS, results when the body’s tissues are partially sensitive to the effects of androgens. Persons with PAIS—also called Reifenstein syndrome—have normal male or female form, virilized genitalia or a micropenis, internal testes, and sparse to normal androgenic hair.”
“With both CAIS and PAIS, the karyotype is 46,XY?” I shot to the core.
“Yes. Though outwardly female, these individuals are genetically male.”
“And Tawny McGee?”
“Tawny has complete androgen insensitivity syndrome.”
“Meaning she has one X and one Y chromosome in every cell in her body.”
“Yes.”
My fingers froze. “Who ran the genetic tests on Tawny?”
“A colleague who specializes in such disorders.”
“He sequenced her DNA? Has biological samples?”
“To access anything in his possession would require a warrant.”
“Of course. May I have the doctor’s name?”
She gave it to me. I wrote it down.
“One last question. How did Tawny feel about Anique Pomerleau?”
“Do you really need to ask?” I heard something hard and sad in her voice.
“Thank you, Dr. Lindahl. You’ve been enormously helpful.”
“I can send literature on CAIS if you’d like.”
“Thank you.”
A hitch in breathing. Then, “Will she be all right?”
I took a moment before responding.
“I don’t know,” I said softly.
After breaking the connection, I hit another button.
“Yo.” Slidell was somewhere with a lot going on around him.
“The killer could be McGee.”
“The spit says she’s out.”
“McGee has a condition that makes her body female, though her genes are male.” As complex as Slidell could handle.
Or more so. There was a very long moment of silence.
“Whoa, Doc. You talk bones, what you say always tracks. But this, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Had Slidell paid me a compliment?
“Bones never lie. But this. This is fucked up.”
“Look, it all fits. McGee would know the dates of the Montreal abductions. She loathes Pomerleau, yet was with her at the Corneau farm. She’s tall and matches the description of the mechanic.”
“Why target kids?”
“Sweet mother of God! Forget the psychoanalysis and find her!”
“You dealt with McGee. Got any thoughts what name she might be using?”
I started to say no. Stopped. “Pomerleau called herself Q. Called McGee D.”
“Why?”
“Because she was crazy!” Way too sharp. “Q stood for queen. As in Queen of Hearts. D, I can’t remember.” I heard a robotic voice page a doctor. “Are you at Mercy?”
“I’m going back at Yoder.”
“Forget Yoder. Look for McGee.”
Slidell did that noncommittal thing he does in his throat.
“I’m serious. Find her.”
“Probable alias. No known addresses. No credit card purchases to check. No bank account. No mobile phone or landline. No highway pass. No social security or tax payments. No paper or cyber trail at all. She might as well be Alice down the fucking rabbit hole.”
“You’re a detective. Do some detecting.”
I disconnected and hit another speed-dial key.
“Ryan.”
I told him what I’d learned from Slidell. From Lindahl. My theory about McGee.
“CAIS squares with the Y-STR finding?”
“Yes. And the physician who tested Tawny has her DNA on file.” I gave him the name.
“I’ll push for a warrant.”
“Any progress on the license plate?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me know if anything pops.”
Hours passed. I paid bills. Took down the tree and decorations. Finished another goddamn report. Repeatedly checked both phones. Of course they were working.
I called Larabee. Mama. Harry.
No one called me.
Birdie spent the day napping or with his red plaid mouse.
I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t concentrate. When I got up to move, I didn’t know what to do with my arms and legs. Where to look. I glanced at my watch every few minutes.
And the itch was back. The sensation that I was missing something. That my id knew a fact I wasn’t receiving yet.
I returned to the files. The bloody, unyielding files. Surely somewhere in that forest of paper, an answer lurked. Proof I was right. Proof I was wrong.
At four, I went to the kitchen for Oreos and milk. Comfort food. When my eye fell on the phone, a tentacle of guilt slipped free about the call I’d had earlier from Mary Louise.
Why not. Throwing on a jacket and scarf, I pocketed my mobile and headed out.
Dark cobalt clouds were skidding across the sky. The air was warm but listless and heavy with moisture. Rain was on the way.
Mary Louise lived only a block up Queens. Her mother answered the door wearing cinnamon sweats that looked cashmere. Her hair was brown, swept up on her head, and secured with a turquoise and silver clip. I introduced myself. She did the same.
Yvonne Marcus could have made an orca feel small. I guessed her weight at close to three hundred pounds. Yet she was beautiful, with amber eyes and skin that had never laid claim to a pore.
“My husband and I appreciate your kindness toward our daughter. She adores your cat.”
“And he loves her.”
Peering past me, she warbled, “No one looks under the porch!”
I must have shown surprise.
“You think I’ve lost my mind.” Throaty chuckle. “It’s from a story Mary Louise loved when she was little. She’d hide, I’d call out, she’d pop up and run to a new hiding place. I know she’s much too grown up for such games now.” Again the chuckle. “But it’s still our secret little thing.”
“I came to see if Mary Louise wanted to go for frozen yogurt at Pinkberry.”
“But she’s with you.”
“No.” A tickle of unease. “She isn’t.”
“She said she’d be visiting you after school.”
“She called, but I was unavailable today.”
“No worries.” Warm smile, but a note of uncertainty. “She’ll turn up.”
“You’re sure?”
She shrugged as if to say, “My kid—what a scamp.”
Retracing my steps, I pulled out my iPhone. No calls.
No messages on the landline at the annex.
What the hell?
At six I put a frozen pizza in the oven. Yvonne Marcus called as I was taking it out.
“Mary Louise still isn’t home, and she’s not answering her cell. I was wondering if she’d shown up at your place?”
“I haven’t seen her. You’ve no idea where she might have gone?”
A pause. Too long.
“Mrs. Marcus?”
“Mary Louise and I had a little tiff this morning. Trivial, really. She wanted to wear her hair in this ridiculous upsweep, and I insisted she braid it as usual.” The chuckle sounded less genuine than earlier. “Perhaps I just don’t want my little girl to grow up.”
“Has she done this before?” I glanced at the window. It was now full dark outside.
“The little imp can hold a grudge.”
“I’m happy to look around Sharon Hall.”
“If it’s not too much bother. She often goes there to feed the birds.”
“It’s no bother.” Actually, I was glad for the diversion.
One slice of pepperoni and cheese, then I set off. Though I walked the grounds and called out repeatedly, my efforts yielded no sign of Mary Louise.
I phoned the Marcus home. Yvonne thanked me, apologized again. Reassured me there was no need to worry.
And I was back to mute phones and the silence of the annex. To the obstinate dossiers.
To subtle taunting by my subconscious.
Screw the files. I stretched out on the couch in the study. Crossed my ankles. Closed my eyes. Cleared my mind.
What had happened? What had been said? What had I read? Seen? Done?
I allowed facts and images to percolate in my head. Names. Places. Dates.
The files. The conference room boards. Gower. Nance. Estrada. Koseluk. Donovan. Leal.
The old cases in Montreal. Bastien. Violette. McGee.
The more I struggled, the more the subliminal needle lay flat on the gauge.
The interview with the Violettes. With Sabine Pomerleau. With Tawny McGee’s parents, Bernadette and Jake Kezerian.
Little blip there.
The photo. The realization that McGee had CAIS. The conversation with Lindahl.
Blip.
McGee was our perp. Though devastating, I knew it in my soul.
Where was she? Who was she?
I thought of the interviews with Slidell.
Hamet Ajax.
Ellis Yoder.
My higher centers touched something in the murky depths.
What?
Alice Hamilton.
The needle blipped higher.
Come on. Come on.
A dingy apartment on North Dotger.
The needle lifted, dropped as the thing slipped away.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
From nowhere, a comment by Slidell. Alice down the rabbit hole.
A name printed on a magazine. Alice Hamilton.
A name scribbled in a journal in a cellar. Alice Kimberly Hamilton.
The needle fired up and slapped over to the right.
