Bare Bones (23 page)

As I spoke, Rinaldi took notes on his designer pad. Slidel listened, legs thrust forward, thumbs tucked into his belt.

For several seconds, no one said a word. Then Jansen slapped the table.

“Yes!”

Slidel ’s eyes crawled to her.

“Yes,” she repeated.

Unzipping a leather case, Jansen withdrew several papers, laid them on the table, ran her finger down the middle of one, stopped, and read aloud.

“‘The charred substance from the underbel y of the Cessna contained the alkaloids hydrastine, berberine, canadine, and berberastine.’”

“That make Ovaltine?” Slidel asked.

“That makes goldenseal,” Jansen said.

We al waited for her to go on.

Jansen flipped to another paper.

“Hydrastis canadensis.Goldenseal. The roots and rhizomes are thought to have medicinal properties because of the hydrastine and berberine. Cherokee Indians used goldenseal as an antiseptic and to treat snakebite. Iroquois used it to treat whooping cough, pneumonia, digestive disorders. Early pioneers used it as an eyewash, and for sore throats, mouth sores. Commercial demand for goldenseal began around the time of the Civil War”—Jansen looked up from her notes—“and it’s now a top-sel ing herb in North America.”

“Used for what?” Larabee’s disdain of herbal medicines came through in his tone.

Jansen went back to her printout.

“Nasal congestion, mouth sores, eye and ear infections, as a topical antiseptic, laxative, anti-inflammatory, take your pick. Some people think goldenseal boosts the immune system and increases the effectiveness of other medicinal herbs. Some think it can induce abortion.” Larabeesheeshedair through his lips.

Jansen looked up to see if we were with her.

“I got on the Net, did a little research.”

She selected a third printout.

“There’s been such intensive harvesting for both the domestic and international markets that goldenseal is now in trouble. Of the twenty-seven states reporting native patches, seventeen consider the plant imperiled. Its wholesale value has increased more than six hundred percent in the last decade.”

“Cal the posy police.” Slidel .

“Does goldenseal grow in North Carolina?” I asked.

“Yes, but only in a few places. Goldenseal Hol ow, for example, deep in the mountains in Jackson County.”

“Is it considered endangered in North Carolina?”

“Yes. And because of that status a permit is required to cultivate or propagate the plant within the state. Ever hear of CITES?”

“Yes.” Three for three.

“You need a CITES permit to export cultivated or wild-col ected goldenseal roots or parts of roots. To get a permit you need to show that your roots, rhizomes, and seeds came from legal y acquired parental stock and that the plants were cultivated for four years or more without augmentation from the wild.”

“So it’s difficult to obtain a supply of living roots with which to start plantations in this country?” Rinaldi asked.

“Very.”

“Is there a black market for goldenseal?” I asked.

“There is a black market for al herbs found in the North Carolina mountains, including goldenseal. So much so that a special five-agency task force has been set up in Appalachia.”

“Sweet God in heaven, there real y is a veggie squad.” Slidel pooched out his cheeks and wagged his head, like one of those dogs in an auto rear window.

“The task force is made up of agents from the National Park Service, U.S. Forestry Service, North Carolina Department of Agriculture, North Carolina Wildlife Service, and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. It’s headed by the U.S. Attorney’s Office.” The group went mute as each of us tried to integrate Jansen’s report with my findings. Slidel broke the silence.

“Some mope was dealing snort out of the Foote farm. We know that ’cause we found product in the basement. You’re saying the place was also used for trafficking dead animals?”

“I’m suggesting it’s a possibility,” I said.

“As a sideline to the coke?”

“Yes,” I said cool y. “And the bird was probably alive.”

“And this Agent Aiker might have been closing in,” said Rinaldi.

“Maybe,” I said.

“So the perp gets spooked, kil s Aiker, dumps his head and hands in the privy, and hauls his body to Lancaster County?” Slidel sounded unconvinced.

“We’l know when we get the dental records,” I said.

Slidel turned to Jansen.

“Your Cessna was also flying a cargo of snort. Snort’s heavy time. You get nailed, you do a long stretch inside. Why bother with herbs?”

“Entrepreneurial sideline.”

“Like Brennan’s birds.”

I didn’t bother to comment.

“Yes,” Jansen said.

“Why goldenseal? Why not ginseng, or something grows you hair or perks up your pecker?” Jansen looked at Slidel like she might have eyed a dead spider in her cat’s litter.

“Goldenseal makes more sense.”

“Why’s that?”

“Some people think it masks certain drugs in your urine.”

“Does it?”

“Does a line of coke turn you into a rock star?”

Jansen and Slidel locked eyes. For a few seconds neither spoke. Then Slidel rethumbed his waistband.

“We’ve been gril ing Pounder.”

“And?”

“Maroon’s got the brains of a carp. We’re stil liking Tyree or Dorton.”

“Might have to rethink that.”

The five of us turned as one. Joe Hawkins was standing in the doorway.

“You’d better come see this.”

WE FOLLOWEDHAWKINS DOWN THE CORRIDOR AND AROUNDthe corner to the intake bay, where a gurney had been rol ed onto the weigh-in scale. The pouch it held showed a very large bulge.

Wordlessly, Hawkins unzipped the body bag and laid back the flap. Like a class on a field trip, we leaned in.

Gran cal ed it fay, claimed prescience as a family trait. I cal it deductive reasoning.

Perhaps it was Hawkins’s demeanor. Perhaps it was the image I’d conjured in my mind. Though we’d never met, I knew I was staring at Ricky Don Dorton.

The man’s skin was the color of old leather, creased by vertical lines beside his eyes and ears and at the corners of his mouth. The cheeks were high and broad, the nose wide, the hair dead black and combed straight back. Irregular, yel owed teeth peeked from purple, death-slacked lips.

Ricky Don Dorton had died bare-chested. I could see two gold chains in the folds of his neck, and the Marine Corps emblem on his right upper arm, the wordsSEMPER FIcircling below.

Larabee scanned the police report.

“Wel , wel . Mr. Richard Donald Dorton.”

“Son of a bitch.” Slidel spoke for us al .

Larabee handed the paper to me. I stepped close to Jansen so we could read together.

Larabee asked Hawkins, “You just bring him in?”

Hawkins nodded.

According to the report, Ricky Don was found dead in his bed in an uptown motel.

“Dorton checked in with a woman around one-thirtyA.M.,” Hawkins said. “Desk clerk said they both looked hammered. Maid found the body about eight this morning. Knocked, got no answer, figured the room had been vacated. Poor thing’s probably looking through the want ads even as we speak.”

“Who caught the case?” Slidel asked.

“Sherril and Bucks.”

“Narco.”

“Room held enough pharmaceuticals and hypodermics to stock a Third World clinic,” said Hawkins.

“Suppose Dorton’s midnight companion was Sister Mary Innocent working to save his soul?” Slidel asked.

“Desk clerk suspected the woman was a hooker,” said Hawkins. “Thought Dorton had been there before. Same deal. Late-night checkin. Floozy date.”

“Get hopped. Get lucky. Get a room.” Larabee.

“Guess Ricky Don’s luck ran out.” Slidel tossed the report onto the body bag.

I watched the paper slip to the gurney and settle against Ricky Don’s pricey gold neckwear.

Before his departure, Ryan extracted a promise that I would discuss the previous day’s e-mails with Slidel or Rinaldi. Though my anxiety had diminished considerably overnight, my nerves were stil on edge. I was inclined to view the messages as the work of some warped cyber-moron, but had promised myself not to let fear alter my life. Business as usual. But I agreed with Ryan on one point.

If the threat was real, Katy was also at risk.

I’d tried to caution my daughter on the night of her party, but Katy’s reaction had been to scoff at the e-mails. When I’d persisted, she’d become annoyed, told me my job was making me paranoid.

Twenty-something, bul etproof, and immortal. Like mother, like daughter.

In the privacy of my office, I described the pictures of Boyd, Katy, and myself. I acknowledged yesterday’s terror, today’s continuing uneasiness.

Rinaldi spoke first.

“You have no idea who this Grim Reaper is?”

I shook my head.

“What Ryan and I could make out from the AOL tracking information was that the messages were sent to my mailbox at UNCC through a couple of re-mailers, then forwarded from the university to my AOL address.”

“That last part your doing?”

“Yes. I have al my e-mail forwarded.” I shook my head. “You’l never trace the original sender.”

“It can be done,” Rinaldi said. “But it isn’t easy.”

“The pictures began on Wednesday morning?” Slidel asked.

I nodded. “Probably taken with a digital camera.”

“So there’s no way to track prints through a film processing company.” Slidel .

“And the cal was probably placed at a pay phone.” Rinaldi. “Would you like us to order surveil ance for you?”

“Do you think that’s warranted?”

I had expected indifference, perhaps impatience. The sincerity of their responses was unsettling.

“We’l step up patrols past your place.”

“Thank you.”

“How about your kid’s crib?” Slidel .

I saw Katy, relaxed and unaware on a front porch swing.

“Stepped up patrols would be good.”

“Done.”

When they’d gone I checked again with Mrs. Flowers. Stil no fax from Cagle. She assured me she would deliver the report the second it finished printing.

Returning to my office, I tried to concentrate on a backlog of mail and paperwork. Thirty minutes later, the phone rang. I nearly knocked my soda to the floor snatching up the receiver.

It was Mrs. Flowers.

Cagle’s fax with the Lancaster skeletal report had not arrived, but Brian Aiker’s dental records had. Dr. Larabee had requested my presence in the main autopsy room.

When I arrived, the ME was arranging radiographs on two light boxes, each set consisting of twelve tiny films showing teeth in the upper and lower jaws.

Joe Hawkins had taken one series on the privy skul and jaw. Brian Aiker’s dentist had provided the other.

One look was enough.

“Don’t think we’l need a forensic dentist for this one,” Larabee said.

“Nope,” I agreed.

Brian Aiker’s X rays showed crowns and posts in two upper and two lower molars, clear evidence of root canal work.

The privy skul X rays showed none.

Wal y Cagle’s report did not arrive on Friday. Nor did it come on Saturday. Or Sunday.

Twice each day I visited the MCME. Twice each day I cal ed Cagle at his office, his home, and on his cel .

Never an answer.

Twice each day I checked my e-mail for the scanned images.

Bad news and good news.

No photos from Cagle.

No photos from the Grim Reaper.

I spent the weekend wondering about the Lancaster bones. If the skul and postcranial remains belonged to the same person, it wasn’t Brian Aiker. Who was it?

Did the privy skul real y go with Cagle’s skeleton? I’d been so sure, but it was just instinct. I had no hard data. Could we actual y have two unknowns?

What had happened to Brian Aiker? To Charlotte Grant Cobb?

I also pondered the whereabouts of Tamela Banks and her family. The Bankses were unsophisticated people. How could they simply disappear? Why would they do so?

On Saturday morning I made a quick visit to the Bankses’ home. The shades were stil drawn. A pile of newspapers lay on the porch. No one answered my rings or knocking.

Ryan phoned daily, updating me on the condition of his sister and niece. Things were not sunny in Halifax.

I told Ryan about Ricky Don Dorton’s demise, about my discussions with Hershey Zamzow concerning bear poaching and the missing wildlife agents, and about Jansen’s goldenseal findings. He asked if I’d reported the Grim Reaper e-mails to Slidel or Rinaldi. I assured him that I had, and that they were increasing surveil ance of my place and Lija’s town house.

Each time we disconnected, the annex felt oddly empty. Ryan was gone, his belongings, his smel , his laugh, his cooking. Though he’d only been in my home a short time, his presence had fil ed the place. I missed him. A lot. Much more than I ever would have imagined.

Otherwise, I puttered, as my mother would cal it. Runs and walks with Boyd. Talks with Birdie. Hair conditioning. Eyebrow plucking. Plant watering.

Always with an eye to my back. An ear to the air for strange noises.

Saturday Katy talked me into a late-night soiree at Amos’s to listen to a band named Weekend Excursion. The group was punchy, talented, and powerful enough to be picked up by instruments in deserts listening for signs of life in space. The crowd stood and listened, enthral ed. At one point I screamed a question into Katy’s ear.

“Doesn’t anyone dance?”

“A few geeks might.”

The old ABBA song “Dancing Queen” ran through my head.

Times change.

After Amos’s, we had nightcaps one door over at a pub cal ed the Gin Mil . Perrier and lime for me, a Grey Goose martini for Katy. Straight up. Dirty. With extra olives. My daughter was definitely a big girl now.

On Sunday we did manicure-pedicure mother-daughter bonding, then hit golf bal s on the driving range at Carmel Country Club.

Katy had been a star on the Carmel swim team, semi-swimming her first lane rope-clinging freestyle at age four. She’d grown up on Carmel’s golf courses and tennis courts, hunted Easter eggs, and watched Fourth of July fireworks on its lawns.