A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “No. But I wasn’t really looking.” Remembering the faint, truncated whine. “If Kimrey came by motorcycle, I might not have seen it.”

  “You’re sure this Kimrey snaked the pouch and the folder?”

  “I think so.”

  Slidell’s face did something I couldn’t really describe. But he didn’t lambast me for my ineptitude. “Let’s see the pics.”

  I watched Slidell swipe through the images, expanding some with an index finger and the spitty thumb. When finished, “Send ’em to me.”

  “I will.”

  “Kimrey works a patch off Eastway and Central.”

  “Vodyanov had an apartment in a building near there. Did you get an LKA?” I was asking about a last-known address.

  “When I do, there’s zero chance I’ll be sharing it with you.”

  “You’ll bring Kimrey in for questioning? You have to act fast. He could ditch the stuff. Or destroy it.”

  “Never thought of that.”

  Birdie chose that moment to make his appearance. We both watched him slide around the door frame, circle Slidell’s ankles twice, then disappear into the pantry. For some reason, the cat is exceptionally fond of Skinny.

  “Why clip reports on missing kids?”

  Slidell has a habit of thinking out loud. He was doing that, but I answered anyway. “I don’t know.”

  “Why toss them now?”

  “We don’t know how long they were in the dumpster.”

  “You’re sure the pouch held kids’ teeth?”

  I nodded.

  “They were at the incinerator?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why weren’t they toast?”

  “Raccoons.”

  Slidell raised quizzical brows.

  “I’m guessing wet garbage was allowed to pile up, then hauled to the incinerator. Maybe some was taken straight out there. Either way, the ’coons hit before the next burn.”

  “And one of them dragged the bone back under the netting?” Chin cocking at the fragment.

  “Seems so.”

  “Why would this yahoo Kimrey snatch the shit you collected?”

  “I don’t know.” I was saying that a lot.

  “Is it human?”

  I tipped frustrated palms.

  “DNA clear that up?”

  “Yes. But you know how long it takes.”

  Slidell ran a hand down his face and leaned back.

  “How was your interview with the Cole neighbor?” I asked.

  “Colorful.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Her name’s Cootie Clanahan. She hates Trump, loves Pearl Jam, NASCAR, and the White Sox.”

  “Really.”

  “And roses. Smelled like I was sitting in a goddamn funeral parlor.”

  “What did she tell you?” Not touching the odd metaphor.

  “She remembers a car circling the block the night before the Cole kid vanished. Says it was a 2007 Ford Mustang, forest green with a hinky front. The old gal’s batshit into cars, ’cause of the NASCAR thing.”

  “Hinky?”

  “Had some kinda custom grille work. She showed me in Road & Track what the ’07 Mustang looks like coming off the line. She subscribes, you believe that?”

  “Impressive.”

  “Gotta admit, she seemed solid. Weird but solid. She also said something got my attention.”

  I waited while Slidell chugged more tea.

  “There’s a park at the end of the street where the Coles were living. Clanahan could see it from her front window. I’m guessing she spent a lot of hours with her nose to the glass. Anyway, she remembers a guy hanging around about that same time. Said he looked hinky.”

  “Odd grille work?”

  “You want to practice your stand-up, or should I go on?”

  I gestured for him to continue.

  “She says she saw this guy talking to Jahaan and some other kids.”

  “Did she report that?”

  “When the cops didn’t call her back about the Mustang, she dropped it. Then she moved away. Here’s the thing. A couple months ago, a man came to see her. She found it weird that he’d tracked her down so long after the kid went missing, so she made an entry in her diary. I forgot to mention, Cootie’s writing her memoirs. That’s how she could remember all this detail about the vehicle. The guy claimed to be a cop, but she said he looked hinky.”

  I refrained from comment.

  “I’ve scoured the file. There’s no mention of any follow-up to Clanahan’s call. So that part tracks. Nothing about running down a tip on a Mustang. But back in the spring, when she says she was contacted, the case was colder than a nun’s tit.”

  “No one was conducting interviews at that time?”

  “No one was doing jackshit.”

  “Did the hinky cop look like the guy in the park?”

  “She wasn’t sure.”

  “OK,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “OK.”

  For several seconds, the only sound was Birdie messing with something in the pantry.

  “What’s up with the Hyundai from Art’s Affordable?” I asked.

  “As I suspected, Poston turned it over to us. Dickwad’s too—”

  “And?”

  “Forensics found nada.”

  “No trace? No prints?”

  “Wiped clean. Ditto the duffel and the stuff inside. Car’s registered to John Ito. Fake name, fake address. Dead end.”

  “What’s happening with the notebook?”

  “Peppers is holding it up in QD. Apparently, we’ve got no Latvian translator, so she’s waiting on you for that.”

  “I’ll phone Pete again. He’s been out of town. But I’ll bet the farm the Estonia references are just notes on another conspiracy theory.”

  Slidell nodded.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “First, I tag and bag your bone and drop it by the lab.”

  “It’s probably nonhuman.” Locking eyes with Slidell. He got my meaning.

  “So the ME don’t need to be involved. Then I pry a judge away from his Sunday-night gin—”

  “We absolutely have to get into that bunker. Fast.”

  “Don’t get your skivvies in a twist. Assuming I score a warrant, and that’s a big-ass assumption, I’m not about to go off half-cocked.”

  “I’ve left a message with a Realtor who specializes in these abandoned military structures.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I’ll ring him again. And I’ll do more cyber-research.”

  “I’ll run Kimrey to ground. Meanwhile, I want you—” Slidell pushed to his feet, head wagging glumly. “Why do I even bother?”

  “Call me the minute you find him.”

  “Yeah. You’re topping my dance card.”

  After Slidell left, I showered, shampooed, and dug sooty mud from under my nails. The bruise on my left side was congealing like the thunderheads before Friday’s storm.

  Cleaner, and decidedly more fragrant, I defrosted a Stouffer’s spaghetti dinner and ate while googling Timothy Horshauser. His story was given less attention than many child disappearances. But the circumstances were painfully familiar.

  On May 22, 2014, nine-year-old Timothy John Horshauser vanished while waiting for a school bus in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. Horshauser’s parents were divorced. Janelle Horshauser was an RN raising her son solo. Paul Horshauser was an auto mechanic, remarried and living in upstate New York. “Timmy” went missing while under the care of his maternal aunt, Brigitte England.

  As was their routine, England made breakfast for her nephew so her sister could leave for a morning shift at the local hospital. Just past seven a.m., England drove Timmy to the bus stop, then continued on to her job as a seamstress at an alteration business.

  Timmy was the first to arrive at the stop. No one recalled seeing him boarding or riding the bus. He did not appear at school that day. He was never seen again.

  A massive search turned up neither the ch
ild nor his remains. The usual persons were investigated—known sex offenders, teachers, family members, coaches, bus drivers, everyone in the boy’s life. No suspect was ever identified or charged.

  The clipped article had appeared in the Uniontown Herald-Standard. Outside the kid’s hometown, there had been minimal statewide and no national coverage.

  I sent an email to Slidell, sharing what I’d learned. And reminding him about the papers from the trench-coat lining that he’d forgotten to take.

  Next, I researched iPhone blackouts and poor battery life. Found numerous opinions that the poor performance might be resulting from inadequate memory due to storage of too many images. I checked. My geriatric device was juggling 33,207 stills and 297 videos. Pure laziness. I didn’t need memories of Halloween 2002 at my fingertips.

  But what to do? Put everything in the cloud as most cyber-nerds were suggesting? Many of the photos were of sensitive case material, including several still in litigation. Were my pictures more secure in cyberspace or on my laptop, which I alone controlled? Not knowing the legal restraints concerning image retention, I’d done no cloud backups.

  Uncertain about the answer, and wanting to be totally safe, I transferred everything to my laptop for temporary storage. Then I googled instructions on how to delete all data in my phone’s library. With great trepidation, I carried them out.

  That done, I turned to the newly stored images on my Mac. I didn’t really expect to hear from Slidell. Still, every few minutes, I glanced up to check the time.

  With my mobile in camera mode, I’d been unable to use the flashlight app while under the camo netting. Shooting blind hadn’t gone well. Many images were badly framed, out of focus, or too dim to make out the subject. But now and then, I’d nailed it. An empty Campbell’s tomato soup can. A crumpled Doritos bag. A child’s neon-pink sneaker.

  Uptick in my pulse.

  Focus.

  Maybe because my movement was constricted by the size of the opening. Maybe because the light from my flash was trapped inside the bin. The objects in the dumpster were captured with crystal clarity, still-life trash in an inky sea.

  I was working through that series when my eyes fell on a tangled washcloth flaring white amid the jumbled fill. Stitched across it was a line of blue script.

  DeepHaven.

  The logo or name of a towel manufacturer? A place? Maybe a resort or hotel?

  Google produced links to several possibilities. A town in Minnesota. A mortgage company. A family camp in New Hampshire. A series of romance novels.

  I explored the camp. Followed links to every business in Deephaven, Minnesota. Looped through Zillow listings of real estate on Deephaven Courts, Deephaven Lanes, and Deephaven Roads across the country. Nothing seemed promising,

  But repetition has its rewards. Seeing the name over and over triggered memories of my foray down into the dark web.

  DeepHaven. On a facecloth in a bunker near the creek where Felix Vodyanov’s mutilated body was found.

  DeepUnder. Vodyanov, Yates Timmer, and Nick Body together at an MKUltra and mind-control conference in 2010.

  I don’t believe in coincidence.

  Switching to the TOR browser, I took another plunge down the DeepUnder vortex. This time, instead of choosing one of the tabs, I typed Nick Body into the search box beside the black-and-red banner.

  The screen darkened, swirled like ink spinning down a drain, then filled with a long list of text. I scrolled through it. Found nothing but links to Body’s podcasts and blogs.

  A low-level headache sent feelers up the back of my skull. A migraine? Nope. Wrong cranial zip code.

  I tried the name Felix Vodyanov. The cursor blinked, puzzled or defiant.

  Yates Timmer. More swirling. Slowly, the page loaded. Three URLs were listed. Homes at the End of the World, LLP and World’s End House. Familiar with those, I went for the third.

  And found myself reading a full-screen infomercial, an ad touting the desirability of underground living and promising the investment opportunity of a lifetime. An Atlas F missile site in upstate New York backlit the bold black message in pastoral greens and blues.

  Interested parties were encouraged to contact Yates Timmer by phone. The number was the one at which I’d left my voice mail.

  At the bottom of the page, in extraordinarily wee font, was the surprising invitation: Qualified individuals are invited to DeepHaven. An address was provided in GPS coordinates: 35°20'00"N 80°59'58"W. Beside the address, blank rectangles requested a username and password.

  Knowing it was the longest of long shots, I checked my images and began with the passcodes scribbled on the folded scrap. RABUK 1973. DALIHP2580. UATNOM1739. No winner there. Then, though hopeless, I began entering random combinations. Timmer, Body, Vodyanov, WorldsEnd MKUltra Body Language.

  I’d been at it several minutes when the screen went black. A beat, then I was bounced to the TOR home page. I’d been ejected.

  I returned to DeepUnder and entered the password I’d been using. No go.

  I unplugged the modem to obtain a new IP address and adjusted settings. Repeated the process several times. With no success.

  I’d been barred from the site. Busted? If so, what had they learned about me?

  And how? Had my laptop been hijacked? Altered to permit a remote user to spy on me with my own camera? To secretly record me? I’d read about such hackers. And there was that FaceTime bug that allowed anyone to make a group call, add their own number, and gain access to audio and video of the recipient without the recipient’s knowledge. Had Apple fixed that? Had I downloaded the update?

  I powered down, slammed the lid, and yanked the plug. Irrational, I know. But my frustration and anxiety were stratospheric. And the throbbing in my side and up my neck and occipital wasn’t helping.

  To calm my frazzled nerves and battered ribs, I took a very long, very hot bath. Then, fingers pruny, body smelling of honey-apple-blossom lotion, I crawled into bed and dialed Ryan.

  No answer.

  I left a message.

  It was too late to call anyone else.

  On impulse, I downloaded a new ringtone.

  Sleep eluded me for a very long time. Finally, spurred by some impulse I couldn’t explain, I got up, crossed to my dresser, and searched a drawer two-handed in the dark. Found the object I was seeking. Smooth and round with a plump belly, long trunk, and one broken tusk.

  Returning to bed, I set the little elephant-headed figure on the bedside table and stared into his eyes. He stared back. Ganesha. The god of beginnings. The remover of obstacles.

  Somehow, I felt lighter.

  When Birdie curled at my knee, I stroked his back and explained why I’d been so tense of late. Tomorrow was Monday, I assured him. A new week. Things would improve. A breakthrough in the case was imminent.

  A new beginning.

  I was wrong.

  Life was about to go from bad to pure hell.

  21

  MONDAY, JULY 9

  I woke to Bob Marley urging me to chill. My eyes flew to the clock.

  9:48. Impossible.

  ’Cause every little thing gonna be all right …

  I grabbed my mobile. Slidell was already talking when it hit my ear.

  “—bench slug says it ain’t enough, I should—”

  “A judge refused to issue a warrant?” Overenunciating to sound fully awake.

  “According to her thinking, which is on par with my cousin Blanton’s senile gerbil, undocumented photos, a bone of dubious origin, and a hearsay tale don’t constitute probable cause.”

  “Damn.”

  “She suggested, not so politely, I come back with more.”

  “Then we’ll do that.”

  “We? I don’t recall you standing there getting your head handed—”

  I told him about the washcloth, DeepHaven, the GPS coordinates buried in Timmer’s ad.

  “I’m sure you looked them up.”

  “Not yet.” I didn’t men
tion my ouster from DeepUnder and the subsequent paranoia that my Mac was now spying on me. “But I’m conversant enough to know the location is just south of Charlotte.”

  “You think it’s some kinda real estate office?”

  “If so, Timmer’s not putting it out high-profile.”

  “You say this yak’s hawking old missile sites. Maybe a buyer’s gotta be vetted to get the inside skinny.”

  That made sense.

  “What’s up with Kimrey?” I asked.

  “In the wind. I’ll get him.”

  “Find anything more on Vodyanov?”

  “Nada. It’s like the skank never existed. I checked records for the unit in Ramos’s building. You’re right. The tenant in number six had no cable, no phone, no internet. Swung by for a chat with the landlady. There’s a piece of work. Ramos claims she hardly ever saw the guy. Got the same story from a neighbor.” Pages flipped. “Hugo Garcia. Looks like Vodyanov used the place as a drop, maybe a safe house.”

  “Drop for what? Safe from what?”

  “Who the hell knows?”

  “Why swab the apartment with antiseptic?”

  “Same answer.”

  I changed gears. “What about Cootie Clanahan’s Mustang lead?”

  “Got someone helping me dig through DMV records—licenses, registrations, citations, the usual. The CCU ain’t overstaffed, so it’s probably gonna take the rest of our lives.” I could hear the frustration in his voice.

  “How about the holding company that owns the property?”

  “Working on that, too.”

  Thirty minutes later, Marley sang again.

  I recognized the number. I’d worked at that end of the line for decades.

  “Good morning.” Uber-cheerful.

  “This is not a social call.” Heavner’s tone was overtly hostile.

  “It’s still a good morning,” I chirped.

  “I thought I was explicit in asking that you refrain from interfering in cases assigned to my office.”

  “You received my second email.”

  “It seems I have not made myself clear.”

  “Did you follow up on the Vodyanov ID?”

  “How the hell did you obtain a sample for DNA testing?”

  “Did I explain that Detective Slidell and I tossed Vodyanov’s car and confiscated personal items?” True but irrelevant. I wanted to divert Heavner. The dodge worked.