Flesh and Bone

by Jefferson Bass

  “What about for protection at home?”

  “A lot of people end up getting shot with their own guns. Don’t have one, never have, don’t expect I ever will.”

  “So when we search your house—and we’ll have that search warrant within the hour—you’re saying there’s no chance we’ll find the gun that killed Dr. Carter.”

  A horrible thought occurred to me, and it must have occurred to DeVriess at the same moment. “Don’t answer that,” he said. “You don’t know what else might have been planted in your home besides that blood.”

  “Are you saying we might find other incriminating evidence in your home?”

  “Detective, my client can’t speculate about what may or may not have been planted in the house in his absence. If we’re down to hypothetical and rhetorical questions, I think maybe it’s time for us all to go home and get some sleep.”

  “Fine, counselor,” he said, “you can go on home. But Dr. Brockton? You can’t. Your house is still secured as a probable crime scene. And we now have a signature on a search warrant.”

  “So where am I supposed to go?”

  “Not my problem, Doc,” he said. “Just don’t go far.”

  I didn’t. As DeVriess and I walked out the front door of KPD for the third time in less than twenty-four hours, I realized that not only did I have no place to go, I had no way to get there. “Damn,” I said. “They’ve stranded me again.”

  DeVriess shook his head. “Those bastards. You know they realize they’re doing that. Just one more way to wear you down. You want me to take you to a hotel?” He pointed toward the bluff above the river, where the stepped-pyramid wedge of the Marriott reared against the skyline like some TVA hydroelectric dam that had missed its mark by a quarter mile. “Hell, let’s get you a room there.”

  I shook my head. “I’m tired of being in other people’s space,” I said. “You’re going to think I’m nuts, but would you be willing to drop me at my office over at the stadium? I’ve got an old sofa in there that I’ve spent the last twenty years breaking in. I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather try to sleep right now than on that sofa, surrounded by my skeletal collection.”

  He laughed. “You’re right, Doc,” he said. “I do think you’re nuts. But come on, I’ll drop you off.”

  There was no mistaking which of the handful of cars in the KPD parking lot was Burt’s. Parked beneath one of the sodium vapor lights was a gleaming black Bentley. It looked like what you’d get if you mated a Jaguar with a Rolls-Royce, and I suspected it was worth nearly as much as my house. The seats were upholstered in a butter-soft leather of silvery gray, and the dash was covered in what looked like burl oak, which I could tell, even in the dimness of the night, was not plastic. The door swung shut on what felt like jeweled bearings, and when the engine started, I could barely hear it, but what I heard sounded big and softly powerful. Burt pulled out of the lot and turned onto Hill Avenue, taking the same arched bridge I had crossed on foot a few hours before, on my way to hire him. Crossing the bridge in the Bentley, though, was like cruising in a luxury yacht.

  I guided DeVriess through the labyrinthine route along the base of the stadium to the end-zone gate where a stairwell led to my office. Besides my pickup and UT maintenance trucks, few vehicles ever threaded this single lane of asphalt snaking among the girders and pilings; I was quite sure this was the first Bentley to do so, and probably the last. By the time the car stopped, I was half asleep in the leather.

  “You want me to make sure you get in all right?” DeVriess asked.

  I thanked him but refused. “I’ll be fine,” I said. It wasn’t true—I was far from fine—but getting safely inside wasn’t going to be the problem. It was being inside, and alone, that had me worried, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to fix that.

  As I unlocked my office and walked inside, I caught a fleeting glimpse out the window of expensive taillights disappearing into the labyrinth. And then it was dark, and I was alone. Pausing only long enough to step into my small bathroom and pee, then take off my shoes, I crawled onto the battered sofa beneath the bank of dirty windows. Even as I laid my head on the soiled armrest, I felt myself spiraling down into blackness.

  CHAPTER 32

  JESS WAS STRETCHED OUT in my bed, lying on her back as we made love, her hands gripping the spindles of the cherry headboard. And then I looked in her eyes and saw that she was dead, and I got up and began refashioning the bed into a coffin for her. I fitted the wooden lid in place and began hammering the nails home. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

  “Dr. Brockton? Are you in there?” Tap, tap, tap. “Dr. Brockton? Bill?”

  I shook my head and rubbed the sleep from my eyes and the numbness from my face. Sunlight was casting short shadows from the girders of the stadium, which meant I must have slept until midday. Not surprising, maybe, considering the day and the night I’d just had, and the fact that I hadn’t curled up on the sofa until nearly daybreak.

  “Dr. Brockton?” As I hauled myself awake, I realized that I was hearing two different voices outside my door. One belonged to Peggy, my secretary; the other was less familiar, but finally I recognized it, and I knew this wasn’t going to be good news.

  “Yes, I’m here. Just a minute, please,” I called out. I hurried into the small bathroom and rinsed my face with cold water, then straightened my mangled hair as best I could. Then I went and unlocked the door. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I must have dozed off for a minute there.”

  “I tried your phone,” said Peggy, “but I think you have it set on DO NOT DISTURB.” She was right.

  “Bill, we need to talk,” said the woman with Peggy. It was Amanda Whiting, UT’s general counsel.

  “Come in, Amanda,” I said, “have a seat. Thank you, Peggy.” Peggy backed out, looking at me with concern and at Amanda with suspicion. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I know you’ve had a rough couple of days,” she said, “and I hate to add to your troubles, but we have two major problems. As I feared, this creationist attorney, Jennings Bryan, has filed a civil suit seeking damages on behalf of his client. Your student Jason Lane.”

  “I am sorry,” I said. “I wish I could hit REWIND and do that day’s class over again. I hate it that I upset him so badly, and I hate it that UT is now bearing the burden and the expense of defending against a suit like that.”

  “That’s…one of the issues we need to discuss,” she said. “As you know, our policy is to defend academic freedom vigorously—when a professor is making a point relevant to the course material. In this case, it’s been called to my attention that a tirade against creationism is not, in fact, pertinent to a class in forensic anthropology.”

  “Wait, wait,” I said. “Are you telling me the university might not stand behind me in this?”

  “I’m afraid I am,” she said. “The trustees met in special session yesterday. They spoke with Mr. Bryan, and with the president of the faculty senate—who agrees, by the way, that you overstepped the bounds of academic freedom in this instance. In exchange for a letter from the board of trustees expressing a similar position, Mr. Bryan has agreed to drop the university from his suit.”

  “But he’s not dropping the lawsuit altogether?”

  “No. He now plans to sue you for actual and punitive damages.”

  “How much?”

  “One million in actual damages. Three million in punitive.”

  “Four million dollars for embarrassing a kid in class?” She nodded grimly. “And the university’s basically cutting me loose to fight this on my own?”

  “I’m afraid so, Bill. I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”

  “Well. When it rains, it pours. Which reminds me, you said there were two big problems. What’s the other big problem?”

  “I can’t imagine you’ll be surprised to hear that it’s the murder of Dr. Carter. I’ve been informed that you are considered a suspect in that murder. Bill, we’re a school. Parents entrust their kids to our s
afekeeping. We have no choice but to suspend you until this is cleared up.”

  “Jesus, Amanda, what ever happened to the notion that a man is innocent until proven guilty?”

  “Legally, that’s the presumption,” she said, “but we’re a publicly funded educational institution, Bill, and the public holds us accountable to other, stricter standards.” She glanced down at my desk, where I had photos of Jeff ’s boys. “Are those your grandkids?”

  “Yes.”

  “If one of their teachers were a suspect in a child abuse case, wouldn’t you want that teacher out of the classroom until the matter was resolved?”

  If she had picked any other example, I could have argued with her. “Dammit, Amanda, you are taking away one of the last things I am clinging to for sanity right now.” She looked regretful, but not regretful enough to change anything. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to pack up some things,” I said stiffly. “I’ll be off campus within an hour. Thanks a lot, Amanda. It’s been a swell twenty-five years.” I turned my back on her and began to gather papers.

  For months I’d been putting off a project whose deadline had come and gone: I’d promised a textbook publisher to revise and update my osteology handbook, which I’d written right after I began teaching, to help students identify bones in the field. But the combined demands of teaching, research, administrative duties, and forensic cases had made it impossible to set aside enough time to burrow into the revisions. Maybe now—barred from teaching, but not yet behind bars—I could finally get it done. I stuffed all the journal articles and research reports I’d accumulated as reference material into my briefcase, along with a triple-spaced version of the existing edition’s text, then turned out the light in my office and closed the door. As I locked it behind me and headed down the stairs and out the east end of Stadium Hall to my parking space, I wondered if I would ever return.

  My parking space was empty. Of course: my truck had been seized, and the Taurus I’d rented remained parked in my driveway, five miles away, thanks to my one-way trip downtown in a police car last night. “Dammit!” I shouted. “Is it too much to ask?”

  A horn tooted behind me for a fraction of a second. I turned and saw Miranda leaning out the window of her Jetta. “Is what too much to ask?”

  Relief swept over me. I nearly cried at the sight of her face, looking at me in the same open and friendly way it had for years. “Is it too much to ask for a ride home,” I said, “and maybe a few kind words along the way?”

  “Get in,” she said, “you brilliant, handsome, kindhearted man.”

  Now I did cry.

  CHAPTER 33

  I PULLED THE RENTAL car into the driveway at Jeff’s house, after checking my rearview mirror to make sure no one had followed me here. The double-width garage door was open, and inside, I saw both Jeff ’s Camry and Jenny’s Honda minivan.

  The front door was open, and through the glass storm door I saw Tyler and Walker in front of the television. I rapped on the door, then opened it and stuck my head inside. “Hey there,” I called to the boys, “look who’s here!”

  Both boys turned in my direction. Walker was the first to scream, but a split second later Tyler joined him. Jenny came rushing out of the kitchen, an onion in one hand, a big knife in the other. When she took in the scene, the knife and the onion fell to the carpet. Jenny hurried over to the boys and knelt down, wrapping an arm around each. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she soothed. “Come in the kitchen with Mommy. Come on. Everything’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  A moment later Jeff emerged from the kitchen, looking embarrassed but angry. “God, Dad, I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish you had called before you came.”

  Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know that…that I needed to.”

  Jeff made a face. “Some of the kids at school…You know how mean kids can be. I guess some of the parents let their kids watch the news. We don’t, but not everybody is as picky as we are about what their kids see. Anyhow. Obviously. They’re…confused about you right now.”

  “Terrified of me, I’d say.” He winced, but nodded in acknowledgment. “I guess this is not such a great place for me to take refuge from the media, then, is it?” He blanched, and looked nearly as terrified as the boys had. “I should be going, then.” I turned and went out the front door.

  He followed me out. “Dad, wait. Come on, don’t just run away. What do you need? What can I do to help?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Jeff. I don’t know a whole hell of a lot right now. Everything I thought I knew—everything that seemed stable and reliable about my life—has imploded in the past few days. A woman I was starting to fall in love with has been killed, I’m on the verge of being charged with her murder, the university is suddenly treating me like a pariah, and my grandsons think I’m a villain out of some horror movie. I don’t know what I need, or what anybody can do to help. It’s like I’ve stumbled into the Twilight Zone, or some negative-polarity universe where every good thing I had and stood for has gotten twisted into its polar opposite.”

  “Tyler and Walker are little kids,” he said. “They don’t understand; they can’t understand. But I can. And I’d like to help. Let’s think about this for a minute. Do you need a lawyer?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve already hired one.”

  “Who is it? Somebody good?”

  I shrugged. “Yes and no. Burt DeVriess.” He groaned. “I know, I know—he’s the best of lawyers and the worst of lawyers. Believe me, I’m painfully aware what a Faustian bargain I’m making. But somebody has done a damn good job of making me look guilty. Now’s not the time to be squeamish about Grease.”

  “Okay, I understand. You need a place to stay?”

  “Yeah. I imagine KPD’s forensics unit has moved into my house. And a small fleet of TV trucks has taken up residence in the street.”

  “Damn,” he said, “I’m sorry. I know how painful this must be.”

  “Oh, I doubt it,” I said. “Even I can’t quite comprehend how awful this is.”

  He looked frustrated, and I saw him biting back something, and I felt bad for snapping at him in self-pity. “You’re right, I don’t,” he said, “but I’d like to help. Let’s figure out someplace quiet you could go, someplace off the grid.” He thought for a moment. “You don’t really need computer access or television, do you?”

  “No,” I said. “In fact, I’d prefer to be as far from TVs as possible.”

  “Here’s an idea,” he said. “What about a cabin up at Norris Dam State Park? Remember that week you and Mom and I spent up there, back when I was about ten? Paddling a canoe around the lake, hiking the trails in the woods? That was great.”

  “It was,” I agreed. “Cheapest vacation we ever took. Maybe the best, too.”

  “Jenny and I took the boys up there one weekend last fall. I don’t think they’ve done a thing to those cabins since I was ten.”

  “Still lit by kerosene lanterns? Nothing but grills to cook on?” He smiled and nodded. “Sounds nice,” I said. “But I probably need to be someplace with a phone. And I can’t use my cellphone—I switched it off after the hundredth media call.”

  “That’s easy,” he said. “I’ve got an extra cell at the office; the seasonal tax accountants use it when they’re working off-site at clients’ locations. We can run by and get it, make sure there’s a car charger for it. I’ll go to the grocery store with you, if you want, help you load up a cooler with milk and cereal and sandwich fixings and stuff you can grill.” He seemed to be building genuine enthusiasm for the idea, and I felt at least a bit of that energy flowing into me.

  “I like it,” I said. “Do me some good to get out of Knoxville and walk in the woods. Let’s go.”

  He went inside to confer with Jenny. Five minutes later Jeff and I pulled our cars into the parking lot of his office, and in another ten we were cruising the aisles of Kroger, arguing the relative merits of hot dogs versus
hamburgers, mesquite chicken versus honey ham, whole wheat bread versus seven-grain, and Honey Nut Cheerios versus plain. A hundred fifty bucks after that, we loaded the trunk of the Taurus with a cooler laden with sandwich meat, milk, mayo, mustard, and pickles; bread and cereal; fruits and berries; and various members of the crunchy, salty food group. I thanked Jeff for the idea and the cellphone, and left the suburban McMansions of Farragut for the rustic cabins of Norris.

  Jeff had called Norris Dam State Park on the way to the grocery store, and by great good fortune had snagged the only cabin available, which had just come open because of a last-minute cancellation. As I left Knoxville behind, I felt a bit of the weight drop from my heart. I found myself looking forward to a quiet week in a cabin where I could divide my time between revising my book and wandering trails beneath towering oaks.

  Between Chattanooga and Knoxville, I-75 angled northeast; beyond Knoxville, though, it veered northwest, forsaking the Tennessee Valley for the Cumberland Plateau. And just at the edge of the plateau where the green waters of the Clinch River threaded deep wooded valleys, TVA had built the first of its network of hydroelectric dams in the 1930s, bringing electricity and industrial jobs to a region of rural subsistence farmers. Norris Dam State Park straddled the slopes on either side of the dam; the south side boasted modern chalets and a swimming pool; the north side, which I greatly preferred, had a rustic tearoom and primitive cabins. Mine, it turned out, was at the back of the loop road, right at the base of a trail leading up the hill into a huge, pristine watershed. I unloaded my groceries, brought in my bulging briefcase, and set off up the hill. By the time I returned two hours later, darkness was falling, my legs were spent, and I crawled into bed without eating a bite.