Bones Never Lie

by Kathy Reichs

  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.”

&nb
sp; “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.

  CHAPTER 40

  SAME DRILL.

  I called Slidell. Got rolled to voicemail. Swore. Left a message that I hoped would goose his ass.

  I called Ryan. Actually got him. Explained my theory. Asked him to check the evidence log from the house on de Sébastopol. To confirm.

  Then I waited. Paced. Was my epiphany due to frustration? To the power of suggestion? A groun
dless leap triggered by a rabbit-hole quip?

  No. I felt it in my soul.

  When my cell finally rang, my whole body flinched. “Where the hell are you?” I barked.

  A long moment.

  “My cruiser.” Low and husky.

  My agitated brain took a moment to process. Hen Hull. The investigator on the Estrada case.

  “Sorry. I was expecting someone else.”

  “I don’t envy the dude.”

  I was too pumped to conjure a witty reply.

  “Took some doing, but I finally located Maria Estrada,” Hull said. “Tia’s mother. She’s in Juárez and has no phone. But there’s a cousin living just outside Charlotte, in Rock Hill. I’ve got some free time, so I’m going there now.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  “The kid got shafted every step of the way. The family deserves the story firsthand.”

  “You might want to hold off.”

  “Hold off?”

  “We’re thinking it wasn’t Ajax.”

  “You’re thinking?”

  “It wasn’t Ajax. And he didn’t kill himself.”

  I gave an edited version of all that had happened. Felt a cold front coming my way from Wadesboro.

  “Ajax’s tox results didn’t land on Larabee’s desk until yesterday.” Trying to justify leaving her out of the loop. “And I only talked to McGee’s doctor today.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I should have kept you better informed.”

  “Yes.” Pause. “You really believe McGee is capable of this?”

  “The therapist didn’t come right out and say it, but she implied that Tawny is very disturbed.”

  Like Slidell’s, Hull’s mind went straight to intent. Because homicide demands it. Unlike robbery or fraud, the motive for murder is often unclear.

  “Why kill?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Brief pause before Hull spoke again.

  “Maybe McGee gets her charge out of dropping Pomerleau again and again.”

  “If that’s the fantasy, why pick young girls?” Quick glance at my watch. Ten minutes had crept by since last I checked.

  “Or maybe she’s symbolically killing herself. It’s a guilt thing. She survived while Pomerleau’s other victims died.”

  Though the same questions had tormented me, at that moment I had no desire to play Freud. I wanted verification. Action.