Break No Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “You don’t think—”

  “These are not suggested guidelines I’m serving up. Back off, Doc. That clinic’s not my jurisdiction. I would have to present the evidence to the city police.”

  “Cruikshank, Helms, and Montague all turned up dead on your patch.”

  Gullet said nothing. Of course he knew that. Nevertheless, I pressed my point. “You’re saying that if I tie another MP to that clinic, your department will interrogate Marshall and his staff? Or bring in the city police to do it?”

  “Right now you’ve got a disgruntled employee who’s probably run off, and the gumshoe her daddy hired to find her. That’s not enough. You find some other patient’s gone missing, you got my attention. And another thing. You’ve had that gumshoe’s laptop long enough. I’ll be collecting it first thing Tuesday.”

  Dial tone.

  Pete and Ryan had been listening to my half of the conversation. I provided Gullet’s.

  “Why’s the sheriff so freaked about the clinic?” Pete asked.

  “Gullet strikes me as a letter-of-the-law type,” Ryan said. “No warrant, no entry. No smoking gun, no warrant.”

  “Or he’s in bed with Herron,” I said.

  “Maybe GMC’s a big contributor to Gullet’s campaign chest,” Pete said.

  Maybe, I thought. Or just a prominent corporate citizen pulling weight.

  When the plates had been cleared, I brought Cruikshank’s carton to the table and Pete took Helene’s file and settled on the couch. As I showed Ryan my spreadsheet, Boyd shifted between the kitchen and the den. Birdie remained on his Sub-Zero mesa.

  After adding Unique Montague and Willie Helms to the spreadsheet, I pulled Cruikshank’s clientless cases.

  “The Helms and Montague files contain only notes,” I said.

  Ryan glanced through each.

  “Others contain only news clippings and notes.”

  I opened Lonnie Aikman’s file, and Ryan and I skimmed Winborne’s article.

  Ryan thought a moment. “Kucharski thought Helms may have had Tourette’s.”

  “Symptoms fit.”

  “So he may have been under a doctor’s care.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Aikman was schizophrenic and on meds,” Ryan noted.

  “So the article says.”

  “Prescribed by a doctor.”

  I got Ryan’s meaning. “You think Helms or Aikman could have been treated at the GMC clinic?”

  “It’s something to gnaw on. Willie Helms was a long shot and that panned out.”

  I wasn’t really listening. I was remembering. Another MP. Another article. Retrieved by Dumpster-diving in a storm. Name?

  Grabbing the tablet on which I’d drawn my spreadsheet, I fanned the pages. A small rectangle fluttered to the tabletop. Post and Courrier, Friday, May 19.

  I read aloud, picking out the salient points for Ryan.

  “Jimmie Ray Teal is a forty-seven-year-old male who disappeared on May eighth,” I said. “He was last seen leaving his brother’s Jackson Street apartment heading for a medical appointment.”

  Bolting from the table, I dug out a phone directory and thumbed through the T’s. There was a Nelson Teal listed on Jackson. I dialed. The phone went unanswered for ten rings. I dialed again, with the same result.

  Ryan and I looked at each other.

  “Aikman’s mother lives in Mount Pleasant,” Ryan said.

  I went back to the directory.

  “No Aikmans in Mount Pleasant, but there’s one on Isle of Palms, another in Moncks Corner, and a couple in Charleston.”

  Ryan dialed the suburbs, while I took Charleston proper. Amazingly, everyone answered. Sadly, no one knew or had heard of Lonnie or his mother.

  “I’ve met the journalist,” I said.

  “Got his number?”

  I scrolled through calls received on my cell. Winborne’s number was still there. Phoning him appealed to me about as much as a case of shingles. But at least the bozo hadn’t written anything on Cruikshank.

  I checked my watch: 10:07. Drawing a deep breath, I dialed.

  “Winborne.” Distorted, as though through half-chewed caramels.

  “It’s Dr. Brennan.”

  “Hold on.”

  A pop-top whooshed. I heard swallowing.

  “OK. Shoot.”

  I repeated my name.

  There was crinkling, then the sound of more chewing. “The lady dug the site on Dewees?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got more than you bargained for on that one, eh, Doc?” Plankton was as annoying on the phone as he’d been in person.

  “Mr. Winborne, this past March you wrote an article for the Moultrie News concerning the 2004 disappearance of a man named Lonnie Aikman.”

  “How ’bout that. The chick reads my stuff.”

  The chick fought the urge to disconnect.

  “May I ask why you did a story so long after Aikman’s disappearance?”

  “You’re phoning to tell me that skeleton was ole Lonnie.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “It is, though, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I waited.

  “You still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “The Dewees stiff’s really not Aikman?”

  “The remains were not those of Lonnie Aikman.”

  “But you know who it is.”

  “I’m not at liberty to release that information. Mr. Winborne, I’d like to know the reason for your interest in Lonnie Aikman.”

  “You know the drill, Doc.” Garbled by spitty mastication. “You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Suddenly, I’m feeling a mite itchy.”

  I hesitated. What to give the little reptile?

  “The man on Dewees has been positively identified through dental records. While I lack the authority to release his name, I promise to encourage the coroner to share that information with you once next of kin notification has been completed.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I also promise that if the Dewees skeleton turns into breaking news—”

  “Did you actually say breaking news? Like on CNN? Like I could do a spot with Anderson Cooper? Maybe Wolf would invite me to the Situation Room?”

  “Mr. Winborne, I—”

  “Breaking news! I think I may wet myself.”

  Winborne’s cackling set my nerves on edge.

  “I would simply like to know what you learned about Lonnie Aikman.”

  “Why?”

  “The information may be relevant to a death investigation.” Through barely parted teeth.

  “Whose?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “How’s Cruikshank fit in?”

  “What?”

  “The PI found swinging in the Francis Marion. How’s he fit in?”

  “You reported that Aikman’s mother lives in Mount Pleasant, yet I can’t find a listing.”

  “Cruikshank?”

  This was going nowhere. I had to give him something.

  “Noble Cruikshank’s death is being viewed as a probable suicide.”

  “Probable?”

  “The coroner’s investigation is ongoing.”

  “What was he looking at?”

  “Cruikshank specialized in missing persons.”

  “Like Lonnie Aikman?”

  “I have no reason to suspect that Cruikshank’s death is connected to the disappearance of Lonnie Aikman. Now I’m itching, Mr. Winborne.”

  “Fair enough. Susie Ruth Aikman remarried. Phone’s in her new husband’s name.”

  “May I have the number?”

  “Doc, you know better. Giving that out would be violating a confidence, exposing an informant to who knows what.”

  All my molars were now tightly clamped. “Would you call Mrs. Aikman and ask her to phone me?”

  “Sure, Doc. This is going well, don’t you think?”

  Twenty minutes later he phoned bac
k.

  “Four days ago a car was hauled from a creek bed off Highway 176, northwest of Goose Creek. A woman was behind the wheel.”

  Winborne sounded shaken.

  “Susie Ruth Aikman is dead.”

  27

  “COPS ON THE SCENE FOUND NO SIGNS OF FOUL play, figured Susie Ruth fell asleep or konked out and veered off the road.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Seventy-two.” All jollity had left Winborne’s voice.

  “Was she ill? Heart problems? Dementia?”

  “Not that anyone knew.”

  My mind was racing. An unexplained traffic fatality would normally call for a coroner’s investigation. Susie Ruth Aikman’s body was found on Tuesday. Emma and I had spent that whole day together. Why hadn’t she mentioned the old woman’s death? She was too ill? Forgot? Didn’t see the relevance?

  “Look, I wasn’t bucking at the bit to crash your dig. That was my editor’s brilliant idea. But when you found those bones. . .” Winborne hesitated, as though weighing how much to reveal, how much to hold back. “I’ve been poking at something for a couple months now.”

  I waited out another, longer pause.

  “I don’t want to do this over the phone. Meet me tomorrow.”

  “Tell me when and where.”

  “Unitarian Church, corner of Clifford and Arch-dale. Follow the brick walkway to the path connecting to King. I’ll be there at nine. I’ll wait ten minutes.”

  “Do I come solo and dress in black?”

  “Yeah, come alone. Wear what you want.”

  I was treated to another dial tone. Lately that was happening a lot.

  While preparing for bed, I told Ryan about my upcoming rendezvous with Winborne.

  “Hang a flag on the balcony?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I agreed. “Very Deep Throat.”

  Ryan removed my panties and draped them on the deck.

  * * *

  At nine the next morning I was passing through the Unitarian churchyard gates. Ryan was next door at St. John’s Lutheran. Bells were gonging at the cathedral, First Baptist, Emmanuel A.M.E., Bethel United Methodist, St. Michael’s Episcopal, and First Scots Presbyterian. Really. It’s no fluke Charleston’s nicknamed the Holy City.

  The Unitarian churchyard was like a hothouse gone feral. Lush trees ruled the path. Crepe myrtles, lantana, and daylilies held sway at the cemetery.

  Winborne was at the spot he’d described, five-o’clock shadow making his face resemble an unwashed ashtray. My guess? Plankton looked unshaven long before stubble was cool.

  Winborne watched me approach, a guarded smile on his lips.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” I replied. This better be good, I held back.

  “Look, I know we got off on the wrong foo—”

  “I appreciate your holding the Cruikshank story.”

  “My editor killed the piece.”

  I should have known. “What is it you have to tell me?”

  “I’ve been digging into something.”

  “So you said last night.”

  Winborne glanced over his shoulder. “Something’s rotten in this town.”

  Did the little twerp really say “rotten in this town”?

  “What is it you’ve been investigating, Mr. Winborne?”

  “I’m looking at Cruikshank. I already told you that. What I didn’t tell you is that March’s story on Lonnie Aikman wasn’t my first. I did a piece when the guy first went missing in 2004. Cruikshank dug it up and tracked me down.”

  “You met with Cruikshank? When?” I wanted to ask how he’d learned of the Cruikshank ID, but put that off until later.

  “Last March. Cruikshank came asking about Lonnie Aikman. You know me, first thing, I gotta know why. Cruikshank wouldn’t give, so I had to use my powers of persuasion.”

  “Itchy and scratchy.”

  “Name of the game. And I got a nose.” Winborne tapped a finger to one nostril. “I see a PI bird-dogging a lead, I figure maybe there’s a story. So I start sniffing down the same hole.”

  An old man shuffled up the path, grunted hello as he passed. We both nodded. Winborne watched the man’s retreat, looking as relaxed as a vegan in a stockyard.

  “Cruikshank tells me he’s looking for some church lady or clinic worker or something went missing last fall, thinks she may have known Aikman. So I tell him about Lonnie, but I’m suspicious, see. Lonnie vanished in 2004. How could this chick have known him? So I follow him, and sure enough, Cruikshank doesn’t go places a nun would be hanging.”

  “Meaning?”

  “One night, he parks in a tavern on King’s. Real sleaze joint. Second night he’s cruising the titty bars, schmoozing the working girls, if you take my meaning.”

  That made no sense. Cruikshank was hired to find Helene Flynn. Was he doing that? Or sliding into a binge?

  “How do you know Cruikshank was on the job?” I asked.

  Winborne shrugged.

  “Did you confront him?”

  Winborne’s eyes slid to his shoes, came back to a spot somewhere over my shoulder. “Third night out he spotted my tail.”

  I could picture that scene, Winborne with his Nikon, Cruikshank threatening to make liver mush of him.

  “I played it cool, told him I thought he was feeding me a line, said I’d keep on him until he came clean.”

  “Cruikshank told you to scram or he’d beat the crap out of you,” I interpreted.

  “OK. I backed off. So what? You ever meet the dude?”

  I’d seen Cruikshank’s photo, and had to confess. Though not big, the guy looked wiry and mean. He’d have frightened me, too.

  “When was this?”

  “March nineteenth.”

  “What did you tell Cruikshank about Lonnie Aikman?” I asked.

  “What his mother told me. Guy was weird, thought government agents had implanted some kind of device in his brain. Used to e-mail everyone from the dog catcher right up to George W. Thirty-four years old, unemployed, lived with his mom. Nice lady, by the way.”

  “In your article you described Aikman as schizophrenic. Did he take medication?”

  “On and off, you know how that goes.”

  “Do you know where he was treated?”

  “Subject never came up.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “Didn’t seem important.” Winborne crossed hairy arms over an ample chest. “Susie Ruth worked her whole life for some tailoring service. Maybe she had insurance that she was able to keep him on because of his disability.”

  “Was she employed at the time Lonnie went missing?”

  “She’d been retired for years.” Digging into a back pocket, Winborne unfolded a copy of his 2004 article and handed it to me. “Mama Aikman’s little boy.”

  The text provided nothing beyond what had appeared in Winborne’s follow-up story. It was the photo that caught my attention.

  Lonnie Aikman’s eyes were dark and luminous, his mouth wide, his lips parted, revealing widely gapped teeth. Shoulder-length hair. Studded ears. Aikman looked about seventeen.

  “How old was this print?” I asked.

  “The guy was under the delusion that the CIA was monitoring his brain. Wouldn’t let anyone take his picture, trashed every old one he could find. That was copied from a high school shot Susie Ruth kept hidden.” Winborne curled the fingers of both hands. “Now you. Give. What’s the deal with Cruikshank?”

  I weighed my words carefully. “From his files, it appears Cruikshank was looking at MPs in the Charleston area. Some were addicts or sex trade workers, others were not.”

  “Hookers and druggies drop out of sight all the time.” Winborne sounded like Cleopatra’s jilted owner, Isabella Halsey. “Gimme a who’s who.”

  Pulling out a paper, I read the names I’d copied from my spreadsheet, leaving out Unique Montague and Willie Helms. “Rosemarie Moon. Ruby Anne Watley. Harmon Poe. Parker Ethridge. Daniel Snype. Jimmie Ray Teal. Matthew Su
mmerfield.”

  “And the church lady. Who was she again?”

  “Helene Flynn.”

  “One of those storm-trooping to save everyone’s butt from fiery retribution, right?”

  “GMC.”

  “Creeping Christians are a pain in the ass, you ask me. Jimmie Ray Teal and that councilman’s kid, Matthew Summerfield, got coverage lately, so I’m hip to those names. The others . . .” Shrugging, Winborne pooched out his lips.

  I offered him the paper on which I’d jotted the names. “Do you remember any more details about Aikman?”

  “It wasn’t exactly the story of the year.”

  Impulse. “Ever hear of a guy named Chester Pinckney?”

  Winborne shook his head. “Why?”

  “Cruikshank might have known him.” I didn’t share the fact that Pinckney’s wallet had been found in Cruikshank’s jacket. “Call me if you think of anything else,” I said, wondering why this conversation had warranted a clandestine meeting.

  I was two steps up the path when Winborne’s voice stopped me.

  “Cruikshank did let one thing slip.”

  I turned.

  “Said he’d stumbled onto something bigger than a missing church worker.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t know. But within months Cruikshank’s found hanging from a tree.” Again Winborne glanced over his shoulder. “And now Susie Ruth Aikman’s found dead in her car.”

  * * *

  As soon as Ryan and I got home I booted my laptop and opened the file in which I’d saved Cruikshank’s CD images. Pete joined us as we were cruising through the JPEGs. I could feel the two of them on either side of me, each as truculent as an elk in rut.

  Though a few of those pictured bore a vague resemblance to Lonnie Aikman, no one entering or leaving the clinic was a dead ringer match. Big surprise. Susie Ruth’s photo was at least fifteen years out of date, and the detail in Winborne’s photocopy was lousy. In addition, many of the subjects in Cruikshank’s shots were turned away from the camera. Those faces that were visible became unrecognizable blurs when enlarged.

  As we searched, Pete and Ryan matched sarcasm for sarcasm, the air of politeness never leaving their voices. After an hour I tired of their jousting and went to my room to try Nelson Teal’s number again. My efforts were unrewarded.

  In my absence Pete made sandwiches and Ryan phoned Lily. His daughter’s mobile continued to ignore him. A call to Lutetia confirmed that Lily was fine, but still refusing contact with her father.