Текст книги "Bones Never Lie"

Автор книги: Kathy Reichs

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“Pridmore remembers a cop collecting the Dell, along with other items from her daughter’s room. Recalls questioning about Lizzie’s use of email and the Net. That’s it.”

“Where’s the laptop now?” I asked.

“Pridmore got it back. Two years later used it to trade up to a newer model.”

“Did you ask if Lizzie’s other files were saved first?”

Barrow nodded. “They were. Pridmore copied the photos and Word docs to disk before wiping the drive for resale. Remembers a school report on ER nursing. The assignment was to research a career—that’s what the kid wanted to be. After reading it, she couldn’t bear to look at anything else.”

“We should get those disks.”

“I’ll give it a go.”

“Any chance of tracking the laptop?”

Barrow spread his palms in a “Who knows?” gesture.

“Either no one paid attention to Ferrara’s report, or no one realized the significance of an eleven-year-old kid selectively clearing her own history,” Ryan said.

“So Pomerleau may have been finding victims online as far back as 2009,” I said.

“Let’s get through this.” Ryan flipped a page in the interview file.

In the end, it wasn’t Pomerleau’s cyberstalking that changed Ryan’s mind about staying.

It was the call that came in at half past nine.

CHAPTER 9

RYAN AND I kept with it until well after seven. Uncovered nothing else of interest.

As we were leaving, I suggested dinner. He agreed. With a remarkable lack of enthusiasm.

We walked to the Epicentre, a two-story extravaganza of shops, theaters, bowling alleys, bars, and restaurants commanding an entire square block of uptown acreage.

The place was packed. We decided on Mortimer’s. No reason except seating was immediately available.

I ordered the Asian chicken wrap. Ryan chose the Panthers pita. His looked better than mine.

When finished, we did our usual grab for the check. Our fingers brushed, and I felt heat sear my skin. Jerked my hand back. Down, Brennan. It’s over.

But I’d scored a rare victory. Ryan was definitely not on his game.

We were exiting onto College Street when my phone vibrated to tell me I had voicemail. I pulled it from my purse, expecting a message from Slidell.

Area code 828. I felt a zap of apprehension. Heatherhill Farm had called at eight-fifteen. I clicked on to listen. “Dr. Brennan. It’s Luna Finch. I thought you should know. Your mother—she didn’t come to dinner. When we checked her room, she wasn’t there. We’ve searched the house and grounds, will do so again, then move on to other parts of the facility. I’m sure it’s nothing, but if you know where she might have gone, could you please give us a ring? Thank you.”

“Damn!” I hit redial. “Freakin’ damn!”

Ryan had paused when I stopped walking. “Problem?”

“I just need a minute to clear something up.”

Far away in the mountains, Finch’s phone rang. Rang again.

“Dr. Finch.”

“It’s Temperance Brennan.” I turned my back, a not-so-subtle hint.

Ryan moved off a few paces to allow me privacy. In the corner of my eye, I saw him shake free a cigarette and light it.

“We found her. I’m sorry to have bothered you. But she failed to sign out. She’s never done that before.”

“Where was she?”

“In the computer center, on the floor of a carrel. She’d placed a cart across the entrance and hidden behind it. That’s why we didn’t see her on the first sweep.”

“She has her own laptop.” This didn’t make sense. “Why go there?”

“The Wi-Fi was down in River House. You know how it is in the mountains.”

“She couldn’t wait until service was restored?”

I heard a long sigh. “Daisy feels she is intentionally being kept offline.”

“Was that the reason for the cart?”

“I’m afraid so. She feels she’s being watched.”

“She’s crashed since I saw her on Wednesday.”

“No, actually, she’s seemed quite happy. A bit distracted, perhaps. Introspective. Like she has something on her mind.”

“Where is she now?”

“Taking a bath. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Jesus Christ. Fine was the last thing she’d be. The woman was dying.

“Shall I try to speak to her?” I was pleased with my tone. Not a hint of the fear churning inside me.

After a slight pause, “Wait an hour. She’ll have a snack, then settle into bed with her journal.”

I disconnected. Turned on the ringer, then dropped the phone into my purse. Stood a moment, steadying my nerves.

Mama was journaling. Always a prelude to the downward spiral.

Ryan was ten feet up the walk. In the glow of the Epicentre’s copious neon, his face looked eroded down to orange and green bone.

I wormed toward him through the throng of Friday-night revelers.

“Everything okay?” Crushing the cigarette with his heel.

“Dandy.”

An awkward beat, then, “Buy you a sarsaparilla, ma’am?” Bad cowboy drawl.

We both tried to smile at the old shtick. Didn’t really pull it off.

“I’d better get home,” I said.

Ryan nodded.

That was when the call came in. Thinking it was Finch again, and fearing a crisis, I clicked on.

“It’s Slidell.”

Skinny never opened by identifying himself. I waited.

“We’ve got her.”

It took a moment. Then terrible realization. “Shelly Leal?”

“A guy collecting weeds or seeds or some shit stumbled across her body about seven-fifteen.” Tight.

“Where?”

“Lower McAlpine Creek Greenway, under the I-485 overpass.” In the background I could hear voices, the hum of traffic. Guessed Slidell was at the scene.

“Has Larabee arrived?”

“Yeah.”

“Does he need me?” Leal had been missing a week. Depending on how long she’d been there and the severity of animal scavenging, body parts could be dragged and scattered.

“Doc says he’s got it covered. Just wanted you to have a heads-up that he’ll be doing the post first thing tomorrow. Says he wouldn’t mind you being present.”

“Of course.” I was silent a moment as I thought about what to ask. “The weed collector. Does he seem solid?”

“Hasn’t stopped crying and puking since I been here. I doubt he’s in play.”

“Same MO?”

“Clothed and posed.” Clipped.

“Does Tinker know?”

“Oh, yeah. The asshole’s acting all mind-hunter, pissing everyone off.”

“He’s not a profiler.”

“Try telling him that. Is Ryan with you?”

“Yes.”

“Loop him in.”

“I will.”

I heard a staticky radio voice. “Gotta go,” Slidell said.

“You’ll attend the autopsy tomorrow?”

“Wearing bells.”

I disconnected.

“The child is dead?” Ryan asked.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“They want us to join them?”

I shook my head.

“Larabee’s doing the autopsy tomorrow?”

I nodded again.

People flowed in two directions around us. A girl passed, maybe twelve or thirteen, a parent at each elbow. All three were eating chocolate ice cream cones. I pictured lights rippling blue and red across a small, still body on filthy concrete. I watched the girl melt into the crowd, my stomach clamped into a hard, cold lump.

Suddenly, my hands began to tremble. I pressed them to my thighs. Looked down at my feet. Noted a lone weed growing from a crack in the pavement.

Shelly Leal. Mama. Ryan. Or maybe it was the tail end of the cold. Or simply lack of sleep. I had no energy left to block the despair.

Tears welled. Broke free. I backhanded fat salty drops from my cheeks.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Ryan said. No questions about Leal. About the call from Finch. I appreciated that.

“I’m a big girl.” Not looking up. “Go on to your hotel.”

Music swelled as a door opened in the colossus behind us. Receded. Somewhere, a truck beeped rhythmically, backing up.

Ryan reached out and took both my hands in his. Clamped tight to stop the shaking.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning,” I said.

Ryan’s gaze burned the top of my head. “Look at me.”

I did. The irises were too bright against the backdrop of bloodshot. Electric blue. Startling.

“When a child is killed, something inside us dies.” Ryan’s tone was gentle, meant to calm. “But an investigation doesn’t normally throw you like this. It’s me, isn’t it?”

I took a second and a breath to make sure I’d say nothing I’d later regret. “Life’s not always about you, Ryan.”

“No. It’s not.”

I pulled my hands free and wrapped my arms around my ribs. Lowered my eyes.

“I can’t explain why I needed to go away. To grieve alone. To see if anything remained of me worth salvaging. My leaving was selfish, but I can’t undo it.”

I focused on the green wisp struggling for life at my feet. Said nothing.

“Please know I never meant to hurt you.”

I wanted to smash Ryan with my fists. I wanted to press my cheek to his chest. To allow him to pull me close.

Ryan had walked out of his life with barely a backward glance at me. One quick visit. One email. His daughter’s death had been an unimaginable blow. But could I forgive the insensitivity? Would forgiveness just set me up for more pain?

I studied the brave little weed. Felt oddly buoyed. Such optimism in the face of impossible odds.

I had no obligation to explain myself to Ryan. To ever trust him again. Yet the words came out. “My mother is here in North Carolina.”

I could sense Ryan’s surprise. I’d never spoken to him of Mama.

“She’s dying.” A sliver of a whisper.

Ryan remained still, allowing me to continue or not.

Snapshots formed in my mind. Mama’s hand in mine in the dark when she couldn’t sleep. Mama’s face flushed with delight after a binge at the mall. Mama’s suitcase packed with silk scarves, satin nighties, and Godiva cocoa mix.

Mama hunkered with her laptop behind a cart.

The weed blurred into a wavery green thread. A ragged breath juddered up my chest.

No.

I palmed the new tears, squared my shoulders, and raised my chin.

Ryan’s neon-etched face was right above mine.

I managed a weak smile. “How about that sarsaparilla?”

At the annex, Ryan brewed coffee while I went to the study to phone my mother. She sounded tranquil and lucid. She’d gone to the computer center to continue her research. No big deal.

I wasn’t fooled. Even when the demons slipped their leash, Mama was able to coat her actions in wholly believable rationalizations. To convincingly lay on others the blame for overreaction. It may have been the most disturbing aspect of her madness.

“Are you making progress on your end?” A fizz of excitement below her calm.

“Progress?” I was lost.

“With your poor dead girls.”

“Listen, Mama. I—”

“I’m doing everything I can on mine.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re trying to stop me, but it won’t work.”

“No one is trying to stop you. The Internet went down.”

“There are more, you know.”

“More?”

“Poor lost souls.”

Jesus. “Are you taking your meds, Mama?”

“The minute you left, I began pulling up old newspaper stories from Charlotte and the surrounding area. The Vermont girl was killed in 2007, so I started with that year.”

Jesus bouncing Christ.

“I’ve found at least three.” Again, the spy-versus-spy whisper.

I had two options. The smart one, shut her down and call Finch. The easy one, hear her out. It was late, I was exhausted. I opted for easy. Or perhaps I hoped enough of her brain was functioning logically to have actually produced something.

“Three?” I asked.

“I’m putting it all in my journal. In case anything happens to me.” I could hear the gleam in her eye. “But I’ve sent you the names, dates, and locations. In separate emails, of course.”

“This isn’t necessary, Mama.”

“What about your young man?”

“Ryan has agreed to help.”

“I’m glad. If my brilliant baby likes him, this gentleman must be very clever.”

“I’ll visit as soon as I can.”

“You’ll do no such thing. You be dogged until you catch this horrible creature.”

I found Ryan in the kitchen discussing baseball with Birdie. Over coffee and quinoa-cranberry cookies, I gave him the basics.

CHAPTER 10

WHEN I WAS eight, following the loss of my father to an auto crash and my baby brother to leukemia, my grandmother relocated Mama, Harry, and me from Chicago to the Lee family home at Pawleys Island, South Carolina. Years later, after Harry and I had each married and moved on, Gran died at the overripe age of ninety-six.

A week after Gran’s funeral, Mama disappeared. Four years later, we learned she was living in Paris with a maid/nurse named Cécile Gosselin, whom she called Goose.

When I was thirty-five, Mama and Goose returned to the States. Since then they’d migrated between the Pawleys Island house and a sprawling condo on Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

Throughout the years, if Mama felt the darkness closing in, or if Goose noted the telltale signs, they’d make their way to whatever facility had caught my mother’s attention most recently. While Daisy reassembled herself, Goose would return to France to revisit whatever life she’d lived pre–Katherine Daessee Lee Brennan.

It was midnight by the time I’d explained Mama to Ryan. Her beauty. Her charm. Her madness. Her cancer. By then we’d ingested sufficient caffeine to barefoot the entire Appalachian Trail.

“She’s smart as hell. And kick-ass on the Net. You want something, Mama will find it.” Perhaps needing to emphasize the positive. “She helped me find you.”

“Sounds like your mother should work for the NSA.”

“My mother should be shot straight back into treatment.”

We looked at each other, both knowing the time for therapy was past.

“Check her emails?” Ryan suggested.

“Sure.”

There were nine in all, sent to my Gmail, AOL, and university accounts. Coded, to indicate what linked to what.

“She is cautious,” Ryan said.

“She’s batty,” I said. Immediately regretted it.

We opened the lot, and I copied the information into a Word document.

Avery Koseluk, age thirteen, went missing in Kannapolis, North Carolina, on September 8, 2011. The child’s father, Al Menniti, vanished at the same time.

Tia Estrada, age fourteen, went missing in Salisbury, North Carolina, on December 2, 2012. Her body was found in a rural area of Anson County four days later.

Colleen Donovan, age sixteen, had been reported missing in Charlotte the previous February.

“I remember Donovan,” I said. “She was a high school dropout living on the streets. I think a prossie filed the missing persons report.”

“Cops probably wrote her off as a runaway. And she was older, so she didn’t fit Rodas’s profile,” Ryan said. “Koseluk would have been treated as a noncustodial parent abduction.”

“Estrada was Latina, so she wouldn’t have matched Rodas’s profile, either.” I’d just said that when my phone pinged three times, signaling incoming texts. Mama had sent photos of the girls, undoubtedly copied and pasted from the archived articles she’d found.

Ryan put his head close to mine as I tapped to enlarge each image. I had to work to keep breathing normally.

Each girl had fair skin and long center-parted brown hair. Each was at that child-woman phase typical of adolescence, limbs gangly, chests showing the first blush of breasts.

Donovan didn’t look sixteen. Estrada didn’t look Latina. It didn’t need stating.

“Slidell can contact Salisbury tomorrow,” Ryan said.

I nodded in his direction, not really seeing him. We knew what the police and autopsy reports would say. The article on Tia Estrada reported that she was found in the open, dressed and supine. Cause of death undetermined. No arrest made.

“Until then, we could both use some sleep.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t move.

“Tempe.”

I brought Ryan’s face back into focus. His eyes made me think of cool blue fire.

“You solid?”

“As a Russian tanker.”

“Would you prefer that I stay here tonight?”

Yes.

I shrugged.

“Go on up.” Ryan’s voice sounded strange. “I know where you keep the bedding.”

I awoke to the feeling that something was wrong.

Birdie was gone. Sunlight was knifing in through the shutters.

My eyes whipped to the clock: 8:10. I’d slept through my alarm. I never do that. Larabee may have already started the Leal autopsy.

I shot out of bed, threw on clothes, no shower. Pulled my hair into a pony and brushed my teeth. Thundered down the stairs.

Ryan was in the kitchen, pouring Raisin Bran into bowls. The cat was asleep on top of the fridge.

“Jesus, Ryan. Why didn’t you ring me? Or holler up?”

“I figured you were tired.” Adding milk to the cereal. “Eat.”

“We need to go.”

“Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

“No. I don’t.”

“I do.”

Ryan filled two travel mugs with coffee, added cream to mine. Then he sat and began spooning flakes into his mouth.

Eyes rolling, I sat and emptied my bowl. “Can we leave now?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Salute to the brim of his cap. Which was purple and said This is not your father’s hat in Spanish.

The drive took only minutes. An advantage to crossing uptown on a Saturday morning.

I swiped us in at the MCME. We passed through the lobby and biovestibule, then followed the sound of muted voices to autopsy room one.

The wave hit as soon as I pushed through the door. Sulfur-saturated gas produced by bacterial action and the breakdown of red blood cells. The stench of putrefaction.

Larabee was viewing X-rays on wall-mounted illuminators. He wore scrubs and had a mask hanging below his jaw. A half-dozen crime scene photos lay on the counter.

Slidell was beside Larabee, looking like hell. Dark stubble, baggy eyes, skin the color of old grout. I wondered if he’d been up all night. Or if it was the odor. Or the grim show he was about to witness.

An autopsy assaults not just the nose but all senses. The sight of the fast-slash Y incision. The sound of pruning shears crunching through ribs. The schlop of organs hitting the scale. The acrid scorch of the saw buzzing through bone. The pop of the skullcap snapping free. The frrpp of the scalp and face stripping off.

Pathologists aren’t surgeons. They’re not concerned with vital signs, bleeding, or pain. They don’t repair or overhaul. They search for clues. They need to be objective and observant. They don’t need to be gentle.

The autopsy of a child always seems more brutal. Children look so innocent. So soft and freckled and pink. Brand-new and ready for all life has to offer.

Such was not the case with Shelly Leal.

Leal lay naked on a stainless steel table in the center of the room, chest and abdomen bloated and green. Her skin was sloughing, pale and translucent as rice paper, from her fingers and toes. Her eyes, half open, were dull and darkened by opaque films.

I steeled myself. Kicked into scientist mode.

It was November. The weather had been cool. Insect activity would have been minimal. The changes were consistent with a postmortem interval of one week or less.

I crossed to the counter and glanced at the scene photos. Saw the familiar faceup straight-armed body position.

We watched as Larabee did his external exam, checking the contours of the belly and buttocks, the limbs, the fingers and toes, the scalp, the orifices. At one point he tweezed several long hairs from far back in the child’s mouth.

“They look a little blond to be hers?” Slidell asked.

“Not necessarily. Decomp and stomach fluids can cause bleaching.” Larabee dropped the hairs into a vial, sealed and marked the lid.

Finally, the Y-cut.

There was no chatter throughout the slicing and weighing and measuring and sketching. None of the dark humor used to lessen morgue tension.

Slidell mostly kept his gaze fixed on things other than the table. Now and then he’d give me a long stare. Shift his feet. Reclasp his hands.

Ryan observed in grim silence.

Ninety minutes after starting, Larabee straightened. There was no need to recap his findings. We’d heard him dictate every detail into a hanging mike.

The victim was a healthy thirteen-year-old female of average height and weight. She had no congenital malformations, abnormalities, or signs of disease. She’d eaten a hot dog and an apple less than six hours before her death.

The child’s body had no healed or healing fractures, scars, or cigarette burns. No bruising or abrasion in the area of the anus or genitalia. None of the hideous indicators of physical or sexual abuse.

Shelly Leal had been nurtured and loved until a maniac decided it was time she should die. And there was nothing to verify how that had happened.

“No petechiae?” I was asking about tiny red spots that appear in the eyes due to the bursting of blood vessels.

“No. Though the sclera is toast.”

“What’s that?” Slidell.

“Petechial hemorrhage is suggestive of asphyxiation,” I said.

“The lips are badly swollen and discolored, but I saw no surface or subdermal hemorrhage. No cuts or tooth impressions.”

“So, what? You thinking smothering? Strangulation?” Slidell said.

“I’m thinking I can’t determine cause of death, Detective.” Larabee’s voice carried a slight edge. He’d just dictated that conclusion.

Slidell’s cheeks reddened through the pallor. “We done here, then?”

“I’ll go over her with an ALS. Recheck the clothes. Not sure there’s much point, given the decomp, but I’ll try to get samples to send off for tox screening.”

Slidell nodded. Made a move toward the door.

“Ryan and I think we’ve found evidence of other victims.” No way I’d mention Mama.

“Yeah?” The pouchy eyes shot to Ryan. “You planning to share that?”

“We’re sharing it now.”

Slidell drew a long breath through his nose. Exhaled with a dry whistling sound. “I gotta explain this to the parents.” Flapping an arm at the table. “Ryan, you want to ride along, lay it all out on the way? Then we brief Barrow.”

“You’re the boss,” Ryan said.

When Slidell and Ryan were gone, Larabee and I got out the alternate light source kit, donned goggles, and killed the overheads. As we ran the wand over Leal’s body, I told him about Koseluk, Estrada, and Donovan. He listened without comment.

We found no latent prints, no hairs or fibers, no body fluids. No surprise but worth a shot.

Leal’s clothing hung on a rack by the side counter, stained and mud-stiffened. Yellow hooded nylon jacket, plaid shirt, red jeans, cotton panties, black and yellow Nikes, white socks.

We started with the jacket. Got nothing on the front. Flipped it.

“What’s that?” I pointed to a bat-shaped luminescence on one edge of the hood.

Larabee bent close but said nothing.

“I’ll bet the farm that’s a lip print,” I said. “Look at the shape. And the wiggly vertical stripes.”

“How’s a lip print survive a week in the elements?” Still studying the vaguely lustrous smear.

“Maybe it’s gloss? Or ChapStick?”

Our eyes met. Wordlessly, we crossed to Leal. Under our light, the bloated little lips showed not the faintest glimmer to indicate makeup or balm. Larabee wiped them and sealed the swab in a vial. “You thinking cheiloscopic ID?” Some researchers believe the patterning of a lip’s surface furrows is as unique to an individual as the lines and ridges on a fingerprint. Larabee was referring to the science of analyzing them.

“No. Well, maybe. Mostly, I’m thinking DNA. If there’s saliva and the lip print’s not hers …” I let the thought hang.

“Son of a biscuit. Could we get that lucky?” Larabee placed the jacket in an evidence bag and scribbled case info on the outside.

The rest of the clothes yielded zilch.

As Larabee and I removed our aprons, gloves, goggles, and masks, I mentioned an idea that had been percolating since I’d read Mama’s emails.

“Gower was abducted in Vermont in 2007. Nance was killed here in Charlotte in 2009. Koseluk was 2011, Estrada 2012, Donovan late 2013 or early 2014.”

“Now there’s Shelly Leal.” Larabee balled and dropped his gear into the biohazard bin. “An annual kill since the action moved to North Carolina.” The lid clanged shut. “With one gap.”

“I’m going to pull a file from 2010,” I said.

Larabee turned to me, face glum. He also remembered.