Bones on Ice: A Novella (5 page)

My statement got pretty much the reaction I expected.

“Murder?” Larabee’s brows were smacking his hairline.

We were three, cloistered in Larabee’s office. Homicide detective Erskine “Skinny” Slidell of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department (CMPD) was gracing us with his presence, but zero patience.

“What the shit?”

I turned to Slidell. His slouching posture and outstretched legs mooted all benefit intended by the ergonomic seat under his substantial polyester-clad buttocks. I explained. Again. Slowly.

“I believe someone killed Brighton Hallis. Or incapacitated her and left her to die on the mountain.”

“You called me over here ’cause some kid got whacked in China?” Even Slidell’s orange socks looked pissed.

“Nepal.” I’d checked.

“Whatever. It ain’t my jurisdiction.”

“She was twenty-four. And from Charlotte.”

“She was stupid to go up that mountain. And stupid killed her.”

“That is not what the X-rays suggest.”

“The images are…” Larabee struggled for a word. Settled on “…conclusive?”

“The images are a mess,” I admitted. “But once the bones are cleaned, they will show that Brighton Hallis suffered intentional perimortem injury resulting in death.”

Larabee looked dubious. “With causation?” Meaning, did violence kill her before something less deliberate, like falling. I think.

“I believe the fracture patterning will show that the trauma inflicted on her either killed her directly, or unavoidably led to her death under the circumstances.”

“According to that gobbledygook”—Skinny jabbed a thumb at the X-ray I’d just displayed—“the mountain or the Sherpas got in a few good whacks. My money’s on a jury blaming Everest, not some moron crawling up its side.”

“She didn’t accidentally impale her neck on an ice pick or a tent stake or whatever.” Terse. I’d been thinking about whatever. Come up with no good candidates.

“Ever heard of the perfect weapon?” Skinny’s mouth mashed up at one corner.

I cocked a brow.

“Icicle. Perp stabs his vic, weapon melts.” Slidell was dragging up an age-old crime
scene riddle. “Poof. No evidence.”

“An icicle would not have cut into the vertebrae.”

“The detective has a point.” In a rare move, Larabee sided with Slidell.

“Seriously? An icicle?”

“No, no. But it’s quite a leap to homicide. A blow from falling rock or ice might easily mimic intentional blunt or sharp force impact.”

“I understand the biomechanics of fracture.” A bit sharper than I intended. “And I appreciate that the death zone provides the perfect setting for concealing foul play. That’s my point. The killer used knowledge of the mountain to his or her advantage.”

“Say you’re right. It don’t matter.” Slidell spread beefy palms. “Whatever went down, it went down in China.”

“Nepal.” Curt.

“I don’t care if it was in freaking Neverland. It wasn’t here. Not my turf. Not my problem.”

“The perp is,” I snapped.

Now the hand flapped, dismissive. Wait. Had Skinny gone for a manicure? “You ain’t got shit.”

Dial it back, Brennan. Calming breath. “Five went up, four came down.”

“And a Sherpa or two and five hundred other yahoos who think freezing their nuts off makes for a good time.”

Larabee jumped in, partly to keep the peace, partly motivated by the tower of files on his desk. “It’s a bit of a stretch, Tempe.”

“Agreed, but the X-rays show physical evidence of stabbing and blunt force trauma. There is soft-tissue evidence to contradict hypothermia as cause of death. And the perp may be right here in Charlotte.” Blank looks. “It’s a closed universe of suspects. Except for Elon Gass, who is expected back soon, Brighton Hallis’s climbing buddies are all right here. I talked to three of them. You need motive? This trio is lousy with motive.” I looked from Larabee to Slidell. “What’s the harm in digging a little?”

“And we’re done here.” Slidell slapped the arms of his chair and heaved himself up. With less effort and grunting than usually required? Had he lost weight?

“Detective. I can demonstrate that a Charlotte girl was killed.”

“Call me when you can prove she was killed here.” Tossed over one shoulder, heading for the door.

Images flashed in my mind. Brighton Hallis, radiant and youthful before a snowy peak. Alone and frightened as life drained from her in a bitter mountaintop wind.

Play the card? Cheap trick, but I went for it.

“I’m sure Blythe Hallis won’t be too disappointed when I explain that the CMPD can’t investigate her daughter’s murder. Did you know she’s besties with the chief? He’ll explain all about jurisdiction while she’s keeping her checkbook safely in her purse at the next police fundraiser.”

Slidell froze. Larabee’s face swung to me, expression saying exactly how he felt about being caught in the middle.

“This is horseshit.” Slidell’s shoulders slumped. He held a moment, then turned, crossed to us, and dropped back into the chair. Which protested loudly.

“So what’s your next step?” Larabee, resigned.

“The bones.” I was going for the gold.

Larabee pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “You want to deflesh the body.”

Put that way, it didn’t sound like I was on Brighton’s side. “Just the parts that show trauma.”

“How long will that take?”

“A while. But the end result will be worth the effort.”

“Uh-huh. When you speak to Mrs. Hallis, spare her the details.”

“Of course.” I turned to Slidell. “What do you need from me?”

“All the dirt you have on your new pals.”

“In my office?”

“Over lunch.” Slidell again lumbered to his feet. “You’re buying.”

Slidell’s choice of eatery didn’t surprise me. The King’s Kitchen is one of his favorites, topping Wendy’s and Burger King by a hair. What did surprise me was his selection of salmon over the “Southern meat and three,” his usual. I didn’t ask. But something was up.

I went for a chicken salad sandwich. Filled him in between bites. To his credit, Slidell listened with little interruption. Then, “So this kid, Brighton Hallis, whistles her merry crew up Everest to make dead Daddy proud. They come down, she doesn’t. Turns out she’s stuck to the mountain like a tongue to a flagpole.”

“At that altitude, a person freezes in place within an hour.” Ignoring Slidell’s unsettling simile. “One climber, David Sharp, stopped to rest in a place called Green Boots Cave, so named because of the
other
dead climber inside.”

Slidell’s fork paused, butter beans halfway to his lips.

“More than thirty climbers passed by as Sharp sat immobile and hypothermic. By the time someone realized he was still breathing, it was too late to pry him loose. Had to
leave him to die. Now he’s a guidepost along the route.”

The beans made it into Slidell’s mouth. Didn’t slow his speech. “You say your vic was dead before she hit the snow.”

I nodded. “One way or another. With her injuries, she wouldn’t have survived a descent down the mountain, even if she wasn’t dead when her killer left her.”

“That don’t equal murder.” Still resistant? Or playing devil’s advocate?

“You need to talk to Hallis’s climbing team. They’re like a motive vending machine. Pick your flavor.” I spoke around a mouthful of cornbread. Complimentary upon request. Mind-blowing upon ingestion. “Maybe I’m misreading them, but no one seems to be mourning Brighton’s passing.”

Slidell summarized what I’d told him. “So the boyfriend maybe wants to move on. The girlfriend wants the boyfriend. The college pal owes a chunk of change. Everyone’s dying to be star. And the business partner looks like a creep.”

“Okay. Maybe Damon James doesn’t have motive,” I conceded. “But he has a name like a bank robber.”

Skinny ignored my joke. “All sucking the Brighton Hallis teat.”

“As far as I know, she underwrote only Gass’s trip. But I’ll bet my grandma’s china everyone benefited from her trust fund.”

“Coin is what gets most folks clocked,” Slidell agreed. “Not to devalue sex and drugs.”

“And you’re right. Everyone wanted a piece of the reality show action.”

“I’ll run down this Gass character.” Skinny wiped his mouth and inspected the napkin. “What kind of assclown calls a kid
Eee
-lon?”

“He’s on some sort of expedition in Russia. Supposedly back soon.”

“I’ll put the screws to the three stooges first, see if something shakes loose.” Pushing back from the table, he tossed a “Thanks for the grub” over his shoulder and left.

I paid the bill, leaving extra for the soup kitchen supported by the restaurant, then headed back to the lab. En route, I phoned Blythe Hallis. Hands free. Gotta love Bluetooth.

Raleigh answered, as before asked me to wait.

“Ms. Brennan, you have news?” Blythe Hallis’s overly long vowels glided like silk across the line.

“We’ve completed a full-body X-ray on your daughter. As I feared, the damage caused by recovery was extensive.”

“I’m confident you’ll overcome.”

“I did notice some anomalies.” I paused to gather just the right words. “Based on
certain injury patterns, we believe your daughter may have been the victim of foul play.” Not quite fair to use the plural pronoun, but I did.

Nothing but a sharp intake of breath.

I made a left, then a right. Pulled into the MCME lot. Finally, Hallis spoke, voice modulated as always. “Are you suggesting someone intentionally harmed my daughter?”

“It’s a theory I will have to verify with more detailed analysis of the bones.”

More silence. Then, “And how may I be of help?”

“To study the skeletal trauma more closely I must—”

“Do what you need to do. An open casket was never an option. But please. No more defacement than necessary. Is there more?”

“You mentioned that a Taiwanese climbing team collected Brighton’s personal effects and returned them to you.” Perhaps a clue lurked among the tools of her trade. Right. And what were the chances she’d kept them all this time?

“I have the box. But it will take some time to have it brought out of storage.”

“I’d like to examine those items.”

“With the exception of a necklace, I’ve removed nothing.” In a quieter voice. “Funny, but we always hope, don’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hope what? It was all a mistake and Brighton would come home someday? Evidence existed that would spur a large legal settlement?

“One last thing.” I always hate making this request. It sounds so final. “Would you be willing—”

“You’d like a DNA sample.” Hallis was way ahead of me.

“Yes, ma’am. The queue for analysis can sometimes be long.”

“Would you prefer a cheek swab from me or a sample of Brighton’s hair?”

“If you have a brush that was used solely by your daughter, that would be perfect.”

“Can you use a cutting from when she was young?”

“The hair has to retain the root bulb, I’m afraid.” Has to have been forcibly removed.

“I will have her brush ready for you tonight.”

“I’m in my car now. Is there any way I could swing by in fifteen minutes?”

A beat of hesitation. “Yes.”

With that she was gone and Raleigh was back. We arranged for me to pick up the hairbrush immediately and return for the box from Everest after six. The diversion added no more than fifteen minutes to my drive.

Entering the lab, I tossed a quick greeting to Mrs. Flowers, the receptionist, and hurried to autopsy room five, eager to collect samples from ME215-15 for DNA sequencing. After suiting up, I cut specimens from the untouched digits, placed them in a
vial, and marked the cover with the case number, the date, and my initials. Then, as a precautionary backup, I plucked several strands of hair, with root, and packaged them in the same manner.

That done, I added the Ziploc containing Brighton Hallis’s brush and phoned Slidell. Detective Delightful didn’t answer, so I left a message asking that he collect the samples and deliver them to the CMPD forensics lab. Results wouldn’t come with TV crime drama dazzling speed, but turnaround times in Charlotte are far faster than average. This case wasn’t high priority, so I expected a report in a matter of weeks.

Next, I checked an erasable board hanging in the hall. My lucky day. Joe Hawkins was on duty. The best death investigator on staff.

A quick call, and Hawkins came up from the morgue. I explained and demonstrated what I wanted him to do.

“You want me to make a cast of the stab wound located in the back of the neck near cervical vertebrae three and four.” He pointed it out. “And take those two vertebrae out and clean them.”

“Yes.”

“Then you want me to reflect the scalp and face so you can examine cranial trauma, especially near the nasal-maxillary areas in front and the parieto-occipital areas in back. That about it?”

“Ink and roll her.” I considered. “While you’re at it, dissect out and clean the right ulna and left calcaneus. And go ahead and take X–rays of them. Could be useful if ID becomes complicated.” As in, you can’t get readable prints. “Can you manage all that today?”

Hawkins checked his watch. “Maybe.”

“Perfect.”

“What do you want me to do with the scalp and face?”

“Would removing them intact be too difficult?”

Hawkins gave me the long Hawkins stare.

“Place them in a formalin solution. If the tissue has to come off in sections, I can deal with that.”

Hawkins tipped his chin in the direction of the sink. “The fingers are rehydrated?”

“Ready and waiting.” I’d tested. The mummified flesh had puffed up nicely.

“Priority?”

“Skull, postcranial bones, cast, X-rays, then prints.”

Ever taciturn, Hawkins just nodded.

“See you later!” Big smile. Wasted. Hawkins was already on the move. I left him to
his grisly tasks.

Changing to street clothes in the staff lounge, I was pumped. Progress! I balled my apron and shot a J into a biohazard bin, my shoulders doing a jazzy little dance. But at my office door, my exuberance fizzled a bit.

Bones would be boiling. Prints would be taken. Samples would be submitted for DNA sequencing. What to do? My momentum stubbed its toe.