by Kathy Reichs
Reminded of my hunger by the reference to fowl, I hit the cafeteria. After an exquisite repast of under-sauced lasagna and overdressed salad, I returned to the autopsy room.
Though some segments were still insufficiently rehydrated, I was able to free most of the spine from its sleeve of putrefied muscle. Leaving one obstinate chunk to soak, I placed the newly liberated cervical and thoracic vertebrae on a tray with the two neck vertebrae I’d detached from the skull base.
Moving to the scope, I started with C-1, then, slowly, worked my way south. I found no surprises until I got to C-6.
Then it was Saturday all over again.
There was the vertebral body. There was the arch. There were the transverse processes with their small holes for the passage of cranial vessels.
There, on the left, was the hinge fracture.
I adjusted focus and repositioned the light.
No question. A hairline crack kinked across the left transverse process, radiating from opposite sides of the foramen.
It was the exact pattern I’d seen on the Dewees skeleton. The hinging and lack of bony reaction told me that this fracture had also resulted from force applied to fresh bone. This injury had also been sustained around the time of death.
But how?
C-6. Lower neck. Too far down to have resulted from hanging. Though the head had fallen off, probably dislodged by yanking scavengers, the noose had remained, embedded between C-3 and C-4.
Sudden wrenching when the victim jumped from the branch? If he had jumped from the branch, how had he gotten up there? Shinnied six feet up the trunk? Maybe.
Closing my eyes, I conjured a picture of the body hanging from the tree. The knot had been at the back of the neck, not at the side. That seemed inconsistent with unilateral fracturing. I made a mental note to check Miller’s scene photos.
Could hanging explain the Dewees victim’s neck injury? Had he, too, committed suicide?
Maybe. But the guy sure hadn’t dug his own grave.
Could Emma be on the right track? Might the Dewees man have killed himself, then been buried by a friend or family member? Why? Shame? Reluctance to pony up funeral expenses? Fear that insurance payments might be denied? That seemed unlikely. It took years to have a missing person declared dead.
Might the Dewees case turn out to be nothing more than improper disposal of a human corpse?
I ran through alternative explanations for the unilateral neck trauma I was seeing on the man in the trees. The same explanations I’d considered for the man from Dewees.
Fall? Strangulation? Whiplash? Blow to the head?
Nothing made sense, given the type of fracture and its location.
I was still pondering when Emma burst through the door.
“We’ve got him!”
I turned from the scope.
Emma waved a printout at the skeleton. “Gullet ran the prints through AFIS.” The Automated Fingerprint Identification System. “Our boy popped right up.”
The name she announced blew vertebral fractures right off my radar.
12
“NOBLE CRUIKSHANK.”
“Sweet Jesus.”
If my reaction surprised Emma, she let it go.
“Cruikshank’s a retired Charlotte-Mecklenburg cop. But that’s not why he was in the system. CMPD rookies are printed at their academy, of course, but the prints are kept in-house. Cruikshank was arrested in ninety-two for DWI. That’s when he was entered.”
“You’re certain it’s Cruikshank?” Stupid. I knew the answer to that.
“Twelve-point match.”
I took the printout and read Cruikshank’s descriptors. Male. White. Five foot six. DOB put his age at forty-seven.
My skeletal profile fit. Body condition was consistent with two months’ exposure. Of course it was Cruikshank.
Noble Cruikshank. Buck Flynn’s missing detective.
I studied the photo. Though grainy black-and-white, it gave a sense of the man.
Cruikshank’s skin was pockmarked, his nose humped, his hair combed straight back and curled up on the ends. The flesh was starting to sag along his jaw-line and cheekbones, and he was probably carrying less poundage than he would have liked. Still, the expression was pure macho tough guy.
“Noble Cruikshank. I’ll be damned.”
“You know him?”
“Not personally. Cruikshank got booted from the force in ninety-four for getting in bed with Jimmy B. He was working private when he went missing last March.”
“And we’re privy to this because. . .?”
“You remember Pete?”
“Your husband.”
“Estranged husband. Pete’s been retained to investigate some financial dealings at GMC and also look into the whereabouts of the client’s missing daughter, who was involved with the organization. Before he hired Pete, Buck Flynn, that’s the client, hired Cruikshank. While conducting his inquiry, Cruikshank vanished.”
“Pete’s a lawyer.”
“That was my reaction. Pete’s Latvian. Flynn’s mother was Latvian. Flynn trusts him because he’s one of the clan.”
“Flynn’s kid disappeared here?”
“Presumably. Cruikshank’s specialty was missing persons and his patch was Charleston and Charlotte. Helene Flynn, that’s the daughter, was a member of GMC, where Buck was a major donor.”
“Aubrey Herron. There’s a piece of work. Flynn didn’t get curious when his investigator stopped reporting?”
“Apparently Cruikshank had a history of binge drinking.”
“Flynn hired a drunk?”
“He didn’t know that until after he hired him. Found Cruikshank on the Internet. Thus his subsequent preference for a member of his own Baltic gene pool.”
Emma voiced the question I’d been asking myself.
“What was Cruikshank doing with Pinckney’s wallet?”
“Found it?” I threw out.
“Stole it?”
“Got it from someone who found or stole it?”
“Pinckney said the wallet disappeared in February or March, right around the time Cruikshank killed himself.”
“Presumably,” I said.
“Presumably. Maybe someone found the body hanging in the woods and planted the wallet on it.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Practical joke?”
“That would take a pretty morbid sense of humor.”
“To create confusion when it came time to ID the deceased?”
“The wallet was in the jacket pocket, right? Maybe Cruikshank borrowed, found, or swiped the jacket and never knew the wallet was there. Did Pinckney say anything about losing a jacket?”
Emma shook her head.
“And why wasn’t Cruikshank carrying any of his own personal effects?”
“The truly suicidal often leave their belongings behind.” Emma thought a moment. “But why the Francis Marion forest? And how did Cruikshank get out there?”
“Astute questions, Madam Coroner,” I said.
Neither Emma nor I had any astute answers.
I held up the AFIS printout. “Can I keep this?”
“That’s your copy.” As I laid the paper on the counter, Emma said, “So your Mr. Cruikshank has hanged himself.”
“Pete’s Mr. Cruikshank,” I corrected.
“Is Pete here in Charleston?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Emma cocked a lascivious brow.
My response would have made the cut for the U.S. Open of eye rolls.
* * *
It was close to nine when I got back to “Sea for Miles.” Two kitchen counters were covered with peaches and tomatoes. Tuesday. I assumed Pete had stumbled onto the Mount Pleasant farmer’s market.
Pete and Boyd were in the den watching baseball. The Twins were whupping Pete’s beloved White Sox 10–4. The Sox had been the team of Pete’s Chicago boyhood, and when they placed their AAA farm team in Charlotte, Pete was resmitten.
“Cruikshank’s dead,�
� I said, without preamble.
Pete sat up and gave me his full attention. Boyd kept his eyes on a half-empty popcorn bowl.
“No shit?”
“Hanged himself.”
“You’re sure it’s Cruikshank?”
“Twelve-point AFIS match.”
Pete moved a pillow and I dropped to the couch. As I described my adventures with Pinckney and then with the man in the trees, Boyd oozed toward the snack food, one body hair at a time.
“How did Cruikshank get this other guy’s billfold?”
“Who knows?”
“Emma intends to have another heart-to-heart with Pinckney?”
“I’m sure she does.”
Eyes on Pete, Boyd tipped his head sideways and brushed his tongue across the popcorn. Pete relocated the bowl to a table behind our heads.
Ever the optimist, Boyd hopped onto the couch and pressed his weight against my side. Absently, I rubbed his ear.
“No question Cruikshank offed himself?” Pete asked.
I hesitated, remembering Emma’s and my lack of astute answers. And the sixth cervical vertebrae.
“What?”
“It’s probably nothing.”
Pete chugged the remains of his Heineken, set down the bottle, and assumed a listening posture.
I described the hinge fracture on the vertebra’s left transverse process.
“What’s so odd about that?”
“The injury is inconsistent with hanging, especially given the fact that the noose was positioned behind, not to the side of the skull. But it’s more than that. The Dewees skeleton has an identical fracture in the same location.”
“Is that a big deal?”
“I’ve never seen this trauma pattern before. Then I find two instances in one week. Don’t you find that suspicious?”
“Explanation?”
“I have several, none persuasive.”
“Indecision is the key to flexibility.”
Boyd placed his chin on my shoulder, positioning his nose inches from the popcorn. I eased him sideways. He lay down across my lap.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Isn’t this great?” Big Pete grin. “Just like real married people.”
“We were real married people. It wasn’t great.”
“We’re still real married people.”
I nudged Boyd. The chow moved across our laps and pressed against Pete. I started to rise.
“OK. OK.” Pete held up both hands. “I poked around up at GMC today.”
I settled back. “Did you talk to Herron?”
Pete shook his head. “Dropped a lot of scary words. Litigation. Mismanagement of charitable funds. Pot to piss in.”
“Chilling.”
“Apparently. I have an appointment with Herron on Thursday morning.”
At that moment my cell phone sounded. I checked the little screen. Emma.
“Gullet tracked down an address for Cruikshank. Place is off Calhoun, not far from the MUSC complex. He dropped by, managed to pry the landlord loose from his Rocky DVD long enough to learn that Cruikshank had been a tenant for about two years, but hadn’t set foot in his apartment since March. Landlord’s name is Harold Parrot, a real humanitarian. When Cruikshank fell thirty days behind in the rent, Parrot stuffed his belongings into cartons, changed the locks, and recycled the unit.”
“What happened to the cartons?”
Pete raised questioning brows and mouthed the word “Cruikshank.” I nodded.
“Parrot stacked them in the basement. He assumed Cruikshank had skipped town, but didn’t want trouble if the guy showed up wanting his stuff. Gullet got the sense Cruikshank scared the nappies off Parrot. Gullet and I are going back in the morning, thought you might like to join us.”
“Where?”
Emma read the address and I wrote it down.
“What time?”
Pete pointed a finger at his chest.
“Nine.”
“Shall I meet you there?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Pete’s pointing became, well, more pointed.
“Mind if Pete rides along?”
“Sounds like a stunningly more entertaining plan.”
* * *
The day began badly and went downslope from there.
Emma rang shortly before eight to say she’d had a rough night. Would I mind meeting with Gullet and Parrot on my own? She’d explained to the sheriff that I was officially consulting on the case, and requested full cooperation from his office.
I heard the bitterness in Emma’s voice, knew what it was costing my friend to admit that her body was failing. I assured Emma I’d be fine, and that I’d touch base as soon as I left Parrot’s.
Pete was flipping shut his mobile when I entered the kitchen. He’d called Flynn. Though dismayed by the circumstances, Buck was pleased to hear that Cruikshank had been located. Buck was even more pleased over the upcoming Herron meeting and the possibility of some answers to his several questions.
Pete had also phoned a buddy at the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD. The man was not surprised to learn of his former colleague’s death. He’d known Cruikshank during the PI’s days on the force. In his words, Cruikshank was a barrel in the mouth waiting for the pull of a trigger.
Gullet’s Explorer was already at the curb when Pete and I turned from Calhoun onto a dead-end side street. Though once lush and residential, the avenue’s oleander-and-elderberry-wine charm had long ago been boot-heeled by modern redevelopment. Offices and commercial buildings stood brick to petticoat with grand old belles hanging on by their Confederate nails.
Emma’s address brought us to an antebellum survivor with an archetypically Charlestonian design: narrow across the front, deep down the lot, side verandas upstairs and down.
Pete and I got out and started up the walk. Though cloud cover kept the temperature down, humidity ruled the day. Within seconds my clothes felt limp against my skin.
Approaching the building, I took in more detail. Rotting wood, faded paint, more trim than Brighton’s Royal Pavilion. An ornate plaque above the door said MAGNOLIA MANOR.
No magnolias. No blossoms. Side yard a tangle of kudzu-clad scrub.
The front was unlocked. Passing through the door, Pete and I stepped from syrupy warmth into slightly cooler syrupy warmth.
What was once an elegant foyer now served as a lobby, complete with bannistered staircase, sconced walls, and chandeliered ceiling. The sparse furnishings exuded all the charm of a dental office. Laminated wood sideboard. Vinyl couch. Plastic plant. Plastic runner. Plastic wastebasket filled with discarded ads.
Two rows of nameplates suggested the house had been divided into six units. Below and to the right of the buzzers, a hand-scrawled card provided the number of the resident manager.
I dialed. Parrot answered on the third ring.
I identified myself. Parrot said he and Gullet were in the basement, and directed me down the central hallway to the back of the building. The stairs were through a door on the left.
I gestured Pete to follow me.
The cellar door was located where promised. And wide open.
“Cruikshank didn’t choose the old manor for its security system,” I said in a low voice.
“Must have been attracted by the cutting-edge interior design,” Pete said.
From below, I could hear Gullet and Parrot speaking.
“And the name,” Pete added. “The name’s got a certain panache.”
As Pete and I clomped down wooden stairs, the temperature plummeted at least half a degree. At bottom, the air smelled of decades of mildew and mold. I was unsure whether to breathe through my nose or my mouth.
The cellar was as expected. Dirt floor. Low ceiling. Brick walls with crumbling mortar. The few concessions to the twentieth century included an ancient washer and dryer, a water heater, and low-wattage bulbs hanging from badly frayed wires.
Junk was crammed everywhere. Stacked newspapers. Wooden c
rates. Broken lamps. Garden tools. A brass headboard.
Gullet and Parrot were on the far side of the room, an open carton on a workbench between them. Gullet was holding a manila folder in one hand, rifling its contents with the other.
Both men turned at the sound of our footsteps.
“Seems you’re becoming a regular fixture with our coroner.” Gullet really did have a way with openings. “I’ve got no problem with that, long as everyone understands borders and terrain.”
“Of course.” I introduced Pete, and gave the briefest explanation of his interest in Parrot’s former tenant.
“Your Mr. Cruikshank was one busy fella, Counselor.”
“I’m only indirectly concerned with Cruikshank—”
Gullet cut him off. “The man killed himself in my town. That makes him my problem. You’re free to tag along with the doc, here. But you get any ideas about freelancing, you keep that train in the station.”
Pete said nothing.
“Miz Rousseau says you’re looking for a young lady name of Helene Flynn.” The usual flat tone.
“I am,” Pete said.
“May I ask why, sir?”
“Helene’s father is concerned because she broke off contact.”
“And when you find this young lady?”
“I’ll tell Daddy.”
Gullet regarded Pete for so long I thought he was going to send him packing. Then, “No harm in that. My child dropped out of sight, I’d want to know why.”
The sheriff closed and waggled the manila folder.
“This should make for some fascinating reading.”
13
GULLET REVERSED THE FILE SO WE COULD SEE the handwritten name on the tab. Flynn, Helene. The date matched the time of Buck Flynn’s initial contact with Cruikshank.
Handing the folder to Pete, Gullet turned back to the carton and resumed rummaging, pulling out a folder, reading its tab, sliding it back among the others.
Pete scanned the contents of Helene Flynn’s file.
I observed Parrot. He was an elderly black man with kinky hair side-parted and slicked down hard. Nat King Cole in a tank undershirt. Right now he looked jumpy as someone expecting a kidney punch.
After pulling a few more random files, Gullet turned to Parrot.