Break No Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “You think the burial is recent?”

  “Flies were opening a soup kitchen as I was scraping dirt.”

  There was a pause. I could picture Emma checking her watch.

  “I’ll be there in about an hour and a half. Need anything?”

  “Body bag.”

  * * *

  I was waiting on the pier when Emma arrived in a twin-engine Sea Ray. Her hair was tucked under a baseball cap, and her face seemed thinner than I remembered. She wore Dolce & Gabbana shades, jeans, and a yellow T with Charleston County Coroner lettered in black.

  I watched Emma drop fenders, maneuver to the dock, and tie up. When I reached the boat, she handed out a body bag, grabbed camera equipment, and stepped over the side.

  In the cart I explained that, following our phone conversation, I’d returned to the site, staked out a simple ten-by-ten square, and shot a series of photographs. I described in more detail what I’d seen in the ground. And gave warning that my students were totally jazzed.

  Emma spoke little as I drove. She seemed moody, distracted. Or maybe she trusted that I’d told her all she needed to know. All I knew.

  Now and then I stole a sideways glance. Emma’s sunglasses made it impossible to know her expression. As we moved in and out of sunlight, shadows threw patterns across her features.

  I didn’t share that I was feeling uneasy, anxious that I might be wrong and wasting Emma’s time.

  More accurately, anxious that I might be right.

  A shallow grave off a lonely beach. A decomposing corpse. I could think of few explanations. All of them involved suspicious death and body disposal.

  Emma looked outwardly calm. Like me, she’d worked dozens, perhaps hundreds of scenes. Incinerated bodies, severed heads, mummified infants, plastic-wrapped body parts. For me, it was never easy. I wondered if Emma’s adrenaline was pumping like mine.

  “That guy an undergrad?” Emma’s question broke into my thoughts.

  I followed her line of vision.

  Homer Winborne. Each time Topher turned his back, the creep was snapping photos with a pocket-size digital.

  “Sonovabitch.”

  “I take that as a negative.”

  “He’s a reporter.”

  “Shouldn’t be shooting.”

  “Shouldn’t be here at all.”

  Flying from the cart, I confronted Winborne. “What the hell are you doing?”

  My students turned into a frozen tableau.

  “Missed the ferry.” Winborne’s right shoulder hunched as his arm slid behind his back.

  “Fork over the Nikon.” Razor tone.

  “You’ve got no right to take my property.”

  “Your ass is out of here. Now. Or I’m calling the sheriff to haul it to the bag.”

  “Dr. Brennan.”

  Emma had come up behind me. Winborne’s eyes narrowed as they read her T.

  “Perhaps the gentleman could observe from a distance.” Emma, the voice of reason.

  I turned my glare from Winborne to Emma. I was so peeved I couldn’t think of a suitable reply. “No way” lacked style, and “in a pig’s eye” seemed low in originality.

  Emma nodded almost imperceptibly, indicating I should go along. Winborne was right, of course. I had no authority to confiscate his property or to give him orders. Emma was right, too. Better to control the press than to turn it away angry.

  Or was the coroner thinking ahead to her next election?

  “Whatever.” My reply was no better than the ones I’d rejected.

  “Providing we hold the camera for safekeeping.” Emma held out a hand.

  With a self-satisfied smile in my direction, Winborne placed the Nikon in it.

  “This is puppy shit,” I muttered.

  “How far back would you like Mr. Winborne to stand?”

  “How about the mainland?”

  As things turned out, Winborne’s presence made little difference.

  Within hours we’d crossed an event horizon that changed my dig, my summer, and my views on human nature.

  3

  TOPHER AND A KID NAMED JOE HORNE STARTED in with long-handled spades, gently slicing topsoil inside my ten-foot square. Six inches down we spotted discoloration.

  Send in the A team.

  Emma shot videos and stills, then she and I troweled, teasing away earth from around the stain. Topher worked the screen. The kid might be goofy, but he was a world-class sifter. Throughout the afternoon, students dropped by for progress checks, their CSI zeal wilting in inverse relation to the blossoming fly population.

  By four, we’d uncovered a barely articulated torso, limb bones, a skull, and a jaw. The remains were encased in rotted fabric and topped by wisps of pale, blond hair.

  Emma repeatedly radioed Junius Gullet, sheriff of Charleston County. Each time she was told that Gullett was unavailable, handling a domestic disturbance.

  Winborne stayed on us like a hound on a cottontail. With the ratcheting heat and odor, his face morphed into something resembling splatter on a sidewalk.

  At five, my students piled into carts and split for the ferry. Topher alone seemed open to working for as long as it took. He, Emma, and I kept moving dirt, sweating, and shooing Calliphoridae.

  Winborne disappeared as we were transferring the last bones into a body bag. I didn’t see his departure. One time I glanced over, and he was gone.

  I assumed Winborne was scurrying to his editor and then his keyboard. Emma wasn’t concerned. A body wasn’t big news in Charleston County, which chalked up twenty-six homicides a year with a mere three hundred thousand citizens working at it.

  We’d kept our voices low, our actions discreet, Emma argued. Winborne had gotten nothing that could compromise an investigation. Coverage might be a plus, draw reports of missing persons, ultimately help with an ID. I remained skeptical, but said nothing. It was her patch.

  Emma and I had our first real exchange on the way to the dock. The sun was low, slashing crimson through the trees and across the road. Even though we were moving, the salty pine smell of woods and marsh was tainted by the bouquet drifting from our backseat passenger.

  Or maybe it was us. I couldn’t wait to shower, shampoo, and burn my clothes.

  “First impressions?” Emma asked.

  “Bone’s well preserved, but there’s less soft tissue than I’d anticipated based on eyeballing those first vertebrae. Ligament, some muscle fiber deep in the joints, that’s about it. Most of the smell is coming from the clothes.”

  “Body was wrapped in them, not wearing them, right?”

  “Right.”

  “PMI?” Emma was asking how much time had elapsed since the victim’s death.

  “For postmortem interval you’ll need to study the insect inclusions.”

  “I’ll get an entomologist. Rough estimate?”

  I shrugged. “In this climate, shallow burial, I’d say minimum of two years, maximum of five.”

  “We got a lot of teeth.” Emma’s thoughts were slipstreaming ahead to the ID.

  “Damn right we did. Eighteen in the sockets, eight in the ground, three in the screen.”

  “And hair,” Emma added.

  “Yes.”

  “Long.”

  “Meaningless, if you’re thinking gender. Look at Tom Wolfe. Willie Nelson.”

  “Fabio.”

  I definitely liked this woman.

  “Where are you taking the remains?” I asked.

  “Everything under my jurisdiction goes to the morgue at MUSC.” The Medical University of South Carolina. “The pathologists there perform all our autopsies. My forensic anthropologist and dentist work there, too. Guess I won’t be requesting a pathologist in this case.”

  “Brain and organs are long gone. The autopsy will be skeletal only. You’ll need Jaffer.”

  “He’s in Iraq.”

  “He’ll be back next month,” I said.

  “Can’t wait that long.”

  “I’m committed to th
is field school.”

  “It’s finished tomorrow.”

  “I have to haul equipment back to UNCC. Write a report. Turn in grades.”

  Emma didn’t reply.

  “I may have cases at my lab in Charlotte.”

  Emma continued to not reply.

  “Or in Montreal.”

  We rode in silence awhile, listening to the peeping of tree frogs and the hum of the cart. When Emma spoke again her voice was different, softer, yet quietly insistent.

  “Someone’s probably missing this guy.”

  I thought of the solitary grave we’d just unearthed.

  I thought of my long-ago lecture and the guy in the tub.

  I stopped trying to beg off.

  * * *

  We talked again as we loaded the boat and cast off, fell silent when we left the no-wake zone. Once Emma opened throttle, our words were lost to the wind, the motor, and the slap of water on the bow.

  My car was at the marina on Isle of Palms, a narrow tongue of real estate lying between Sullivan’s and Dewees. So was a coroner’s van. It took only minutes to transfer our sad cargo.

  Before cutting out into the intracoastal waterway, Emma left me with two words.

  “I’ll call.”

  I didn’t argue. I was tired and hungry. And cranky. I wanted to go home, shower, and eat the cold shrimp and she-crab soup I’d left in the fridge.

  Walking up the dock, I noticed Topher Burgess stepping from the ferry. He was listening to his iPod, and didn’t seem to see or hear me.

  I watched my student cross to his Jeep. Funny kid, I thought. Smart, though far from a brilliant performer. Accepted by his peers, but always apart.

  Like me at that age.

  I clicked on the roof light in my Mazda, dug my mobile from my pack, and checked for a signal. Four bars.

  Three messages. I recognized none of the numbers.

  It was now 8:45.

  Disappointed, I replaced the phone, pulled from the lot, cut across the island, and turned right onto Palm Boulevard. Traffic was light, though that wouldn’t last. Two weeks and cars would be clogging these roads like silt in a storm drain.

  I was staying at a friend’s beach house. When Anne had upgraded from Sullivan’s two years earlier, she hadn’t messed around. Her new getaway had five bedrooms, six baths, and enough square footage to host the World Cup.

  Taking a couple of feeder streets, I maneuvered toward the beach, pulled into Anne’s drive, and parked under the house. Ocean Boulevard. No second row for oceanfront Annie.

  Every window was dark since I had planned on a predusk return. Without turning on lights, I went straight to the outdoor shower, stripped, and cranked up the hot water. Twenty minutes with rosemary, mint, and a lot of lather, and I felt reasonably restored.

  Leaving the stall, I bundled my clothing into a plastic sack and trashed it. No way I’d subject Annie’s Maytag to that.

  Wearing only a towel, I entered the house through the back veranda and climbed to my room. Panties and a T. Brush through my hair. Gorgeous.

  While zapping my soup, I again checked my messages. Nothing. Where was Ryan? Taking my mobile and my dinner to the porch, I settled in a rocker.

  Anne called her place “Sea for Miles.” No kidding. The horizon spread from Havana to Halifax.

  There’s something about the ocean. One minute I was eating. The next I was jolted awake by the sound of my cell. My plate and bowl sat empty. I had no recollection of closing my eyes.

  The voice wasn’t the one I was hoping to hear.

  “Yo.”

  Only frat boys and my estranged husband still said “yo.”

  “Dude.” I was too tired to be clever.

  “How goes the dig?”

  I pictured the bones now lying in the MUSC morgue. I pictured Emma’s face as she had pulled away from the dock. I didn’t want to go into it.

  “Fine.”

  “Wrapping up tomorrow?”

  “Some loose ends may take longer than I’d expected. How’s Birdie?”

  “Doing twenty-four/seven surveillance on Boyd. Your cat thinks my dog’s been conjured up from the dark side to pollute his life. Chow thinks the cat’s some kind of fluffy wind-up toy.”

  “Who’s in control?”

  “Bird’s definitely alpha. So, when are you back to Charlotte?” Too casual. Something was up.

  “I’m not sure. Why?” Wary.

  “Gentleman came to my office yesterday. He has financial issues with Aubrey Herron, and it seems his daughter’s hooked up with Herron as well.”

  The Reverend Aubrey Herron was a televangelist with a small but ardent following throughout the Southeast, known as God’s Mercy Church. In addition to its headquarters and TV studio, GMC operated a number of Third World orphanages and several free medical clinics in the Carolinas and Georgia.

  “God Means Charity.” Herron closed every broadcast with the slogan.

  “Give Mucho Cash.” Pete quoted a popular variation.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Financial reports have not been forthcoming, the kid’s gone incommunicado, and the Reverend Herron is being less than cooperative on either issue.”

  “Shouldn’t Daddy hire a private investigator?”

  “Daddy did. The guy went missing.”

  “You’re thinking Bermuda Triangle?”

  “Aliens.”

  “You’re a lawyer, Pete. Not a gumshoe.”

  “There’s money involved.”

  “No!”

  Pete ignored that.

  “Daddy’s really worried?” I asked.

  “Daddy’s beyond worried and out the other side.”

  “About the money or the daughter?”

  “Perceptive question. Flynn’s really hiring me to look into the books. Wants me to bring pressure on GMC. If I can scare up something on the daughter, that’s a bonus. I offered to drop in on the reverend.”

  “And scare the wingtips off him.”

  “With my legal acumen.”

  Comprehension sprang into focus.

  “GMC is headquartered in Charleston,” I said.

  “I talked to Anne. She offered the house, if it’s cool with you.”

  “When?” I gave a sigh that would have made Homer Winborne proud.

  “Sunday?”

  “Why not.” Only a billion reasons.

  A beep indicated an incoming call. When I lowered the phone, the LCD panel glowed the digits I’d been hoping to see. Montreal exchange.

  “Gotta go, Pete.”

  I clicked over.

  “Phoning too late?”

  “Never.” I smiled my first smile since uncovering the skeleton in three-east.

  “Lonely?”

  “I posted my number in the men’s room at Hyman’s Seafood.”

  “I love it when you go all mushy missing me.”

  Andrew Ryan is a detective with the Major Crimes Division of the Quebec Provincial Police. You get the picture: Brennan, anthropologist, Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale; Ryan, cop, Section de crimes contre la personne, Sûrété du Québec. We’ve worked homicides together for more than a decade.

  Recently, Ryan and I had started working other things, as well. Personal things.

  One of them did a wee flip at the sound of his voice.

  “Good day digging?”

  I drew a breath, stopped. Share? Wait?

  Ryan picked up on my hesitation.

  “What?” he encouraged.

  “We found an intrusive burial. A complete skeleton with vestiges of soft tissue and associated clothing.”

  “Recent?”

  “Yes. I called the coroner. She and I exhumed it together. It’s now at the morgue.”

  While Ryan is charming, thoughtful, and witty, he can also be annoying as hell. I knew his response before it left his lips.

  “How do you get yourself into these situations, Brennan?”

  “I submit well-wri
tten résumés.”

  “Will you do the consult?”

  “I have my students to think about.”

  Wind ruffled the palmetto fronds. Across the dunes, surf pounded sand.

  “You’ll take the case.”

  I didn’t agree or disagree.

  “How’s Lily?” I asked.

  “Only three door-slamming incidents today. Minor league. No broken glass or splintered wood. I take that as a sign the visit’s going well.”

  Lily was new to Ryan’s life. And vice versa. For almost two decades father and daughter knew nothing of each other. Then Lily’s mother made contact.

  Nineteen and pregnant, though not sharing that biological reality with her weekend pal-in-the-dark Ryan, Lutetia had fled Canada for her family home in the Bahamas. She’d married in the islands, divorced when Lily was twelve, and returned to Nova Scotia. Once Lily was out of high school, she’d begun running with a fast crowd. She’d taken to staying out nights, had been busted for possession. Lutetia knew the signs. She’d tried the outlaw life herself. That’s where she’d met Ryan, during his own personal undergraduate counterculture insurrection. Knowing her long-ago lover was now a cop, Lutetia had decided he should participate in the effort to salvage his young-adult daughter.

  Though the news had hit Ryan in the old solar plexus, he’d embraced fatherhood and was trying hard. This visit to Nova Scotia was his latest foray into his daughter’s world. But Lily wasn’t making her old man’s task easy.

  “One word,” I said. “Patience.”

  “Roger that, wise one.” Ryan knew I’d had run-ins with my own daughter, Katy.

  “How long will you stay in Halifax?”

  “We’ll see how it goes. I haven’t given up on that idea of joining you if you’re still willing to hang there awhile.”

  Oh, boy.

  “That could be complicated. Pete just called. He may be here for a day or two.”

  Ryan waited.

  “He has business in Charleston, so Anne invited him. What could I say? It’s Anne’s house and the place has enough beds to accommodate the College of Cardinals.”

  “Beds or bedrooms?”

  At times Ryan had the tact of a wrecking ball.

  “Call me tomorrow?” I closed the topic.

  “Scrub your number from that men’s-room wall?”

  “You bet, sailor.”

  I was wired after talking to Pete and Ryan. Or maybe it was the unplanned power nap. I knew I wouldn’t sleep.