My inward inventory was interrupted by the crunch of tires on the gravel at the entrance. A Jeep Cherokee, bearing the familiar insignia of the Cooke County Sheriff’s Department, eased to a stop in the clearing. The front doors opened, and two khaki-clad officers emerged. “Your secretary told me you’d be out here,” said a familiar voice. “Couldn’t pass up a chance to see the place at last.”
I rose and shook hands with Jim O’Conner. “Hey, Sheriff. I heard about the special election; congratulations. You look good in that uniform. So do you, Waylon.” The burly mountain man had traded in his camo for a deputy’s uniform, the largest I’d ever seen. Waylon flashed me a tobacco-flecked grin. Some things never change, I thought.
O’Conner adjusted his gun belt and struck a tough-cop pose, then laughed. “Feels kinda funny still—I’m tempted to arrest myself for impersonating an officer. Been a long time since I wore a uniform; back when I got out of the military, I swore never again. Just goes to show: never say never.”
“I never do,” I said. “By the way, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the service, but I thought it was nice, considering. It was generous of you to pay for the three Kitchings funerals, in light of your history with the family. Sweet of you to put up a headstone for Leena next to her parents, too.” The TBI had never found Leena’s postcranial skeleton, despite turning the sheriff’s offices and every Kitchings residence inside out. What little we had of her—the skull, hyoid, and sternum—had been buried in a small ceramic urn that Jim O’Conner had made from clay he dug from one of his mountains.
“You think we’ll ever find the rest of her?” O’Conner asked.
“I don’t know, Jim. At first I thought Tom or Orbin took her, then I figured it was part of Williams’s scheme to implicate the sheriff for obstruction.” He nodded; either scenario would have been credible. “Now, though, I suspect they were stolen by Knox County’s medical examiner—former medical examiner—along with another skeleton. Maybe he took Leena as a red herring. Or maybe just to get even with me. I haven’t heard the last of him, he says, and I’m afraid he’s right. But if we ever recover Leena’s missing bones, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I’ve bought the cemetery plot on the other side of hers,” he said. “I hope I don’t need it for a while, but Cooke County sheriffs do seem to die prematurely and violently.”
“I’m betting you’ll be the exception to that rule, Jim.”
“Hang onto that thought. Listen, I wanted you to hear this from me face to face. Leon Williams and his lawyer—some slick Knoxville guy named DeVriess—just cut a deal with the U.S. Attorney.” I grimaced at the mention of DeVriess, but I supposed if I were in the deputy’s bloody shoes, I’d hire Grease, too. “Leon’s pleading guilty to second-degree murder in Tom’s death and first-degree in Orbin’s; in return, he avoids a possible death sentence. He’s also confessed to shooting the prior sheriff during that drug bust three years ago. Apparently he’d been plotting against the Kitchings clan and aiming to be sheriff—pun intended—for quite awhile.”
“Any chance of parole?”
“None.”
“Good.”
“The prosecutor’s also talking plea bargain with Mrs. Kitchings,” he added. “I figure she’ll end up doing only a couple years for second-degree or manslaughter. She doesn’t seem to care what her sentence is. She’s got nothing and nobody left to come home to when she does get out.”
I nodded. “Sounds about right. I figure Williams deserves whatever an ex-cop gets in prison, but Mrs. Kitchings has already suffered about as much as a human being can bear.”
He agreed. “There’s one other thing I want you to know. I appreciate what you did for us up there; what you did for me, especially.”
I held up a hand. “Don’t mention it. I hate to think of Kitchings pinning Leena’s murder on you—or Williams framing you for Orbin’s death.”
“You saved my neck in a couple of ways,” he said. “But I’m not just thanking you for keeping me out of prison. I hadn’t realized how much emotional shrapnel I’ve been carrying around ever since I lost Leena. It still hurts—hell, feels like somebody’s just stomped on my heart all over again—but I think maybe this time it’ll heal, sooner or later.” He wiped his eyes. “I never did stop loving that girl, Doc; it damn near killed me to think she’d stopped loving me. I like to think now that she didn’t, after all.”
“She died wearing your name around her neck, Jim. I’d say that’s pretty convincing proof.” How odd, to hear myself quoting a line from Grease.
He drew a deep breath and forced it out through pursed lips. “Part of me’ll always grieve for what happened to her—and for my inability to protect her from it. But at least I know the truth now.”
“And the truth can set you free,” I finished the thought. “If you let it.”
“I think I will.” He looked into me. “How ’bout you?”
I took a breath. “I’m trying.”
He nodded. “Good. You deserve to be at peace, too.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Mostly I am now. Except when I’m looking over my shoulder for a vengeful medical examiner. Listen, I hope we can stay in touch. Maybe keep tabs on each other’s progress. Form our own twelve-step program for griefaholics.”
“We can try,” he said, “but we might have to hold the meetings by telephone for a while. Me and Chief Deputy Waylon here got us some cockfightin’ and pot-growin’ and meth-cookin’ scoundrels to track down, don’t we, Waylon?”
Waylon frowned. “Let’s not be too hasty about them cockfights. TBI might want to keep workin’ ’em undercover.” O’Conner snorted, but Waylon seemed unfazed. “Doc, Cousin Vern says to tell you ‘hey.’ Wanted you to know he’s gettin’ into a new line of farming—raising sang ’stead of weed, up at Jim’s place. The sang don’t grow near as fast, but it’s a mite safer.” I felt safer myself, knowing Waylon didn’t need to booby-trap the ginseng operation.
“Vernon’s got quite a gift for horticulture, too,” said O’Conner. “I think Cooke County Black Ginseng is going to make a big splash next fall over in China.”
Waylon fidgeted in his uniform. “Vern’s boy’s doing real good since you got him in to see that doctor at Children’s Hospital, too.” I nodded, glad that what I’d diagnosed as leukemia had proved to be merely salmonella poisoning plus a kidney infection. “Oh! and he’s got him a new pup, too—another redbone hound. Sweet little thing—named her Duchess in memory of Duke.”
I smiled. “You give Cousin Vern my best,” I said. “If you don’t care to.” Waylon nodded and clapped me on the shoulder, nearly sending me sprawling. “Hell no, I don’t care to.”
O’Conner caught Waylon’s eye and nodded at the Jeep. “We better head on back,” he said. “I’m afraid to leave the county for more than an hour at a time. I’m not sure I’ll be back this way until I get another deputy hired and up to speed, so don’t be surprised if you don’t see me for a while. On the other hand, probably won’t be long before some unidentified, varmint-chewed, vermin-infested body turns up in some backwoods hollow or chop-shop junkyard. We are talking Cooke County, after all.”
“Well, I reckon I could find my way back to your neck of the woods if duty calls,” I said. “And you know where to find me. Either under the stadium or out here communing with the dead.”
He grinned and nodded. We shook hands again, and he climbed back into the Cherokee and backed out the gate.
I checked my watch and realized I should be going, too. I was expected at Jeff’s house for dinner in a couple of hours, and it wouldn’t do to show up reeking of corpses. Besides, after I got cleaned up, I’d need to swing by the Hilton to pick up Jess Carter, who was back in town to do another autopsy. “My God, is this a date?” Jeff had asked when I asked if I could bring her along.
“I don’t know,” I said. “She might still be happily lesbian.”
He laughed. “That could make a difference, Dad. You might want to find out at some poi
nt.”
“I intend to, son,” I said. “Should be interesting.” He concurred.
As I swung the gates shut and snapped the locks onto their chains, I looked up at the barren branches ringing the facility. Above them, a narrow ray of sunshine threaded a gap in the clouds. The light caught and backlit the wing of a buzzard. The bird was gliding effortlessly, patiently above the Body Farm, riding the wind, the scent, and his own mysterious yearnings.
He might not fully comprehend why he was drawn to delve into the messy details of death. But delve he did—with grace and gusto.
I couldn’t help but admire that.
Reprinted from Human Osteology: A Laboratory and Field Manual (Fourth Edition), by William M. Bass. © Missouri Archaeological Society, Inc., 1995.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some novels are pure fiction; others are fiction that is built on a foundation of facts. This book is of the latter type. Although the story is fictional, the science is factual, and some of the places and events described here contain a sizable kernel of reality. Many of the real-world forensic cases my graduate students and I have examined during the past thirty-five years have occurred in East Tennessee, where this story is based. It would be impossible (or at least foolish) to write a story that was not shaped and colored by those experiences.
So many people contribute to a story like this, it’s impossible to acknowledge everyone by name. First and foremost, this book could not have been written without Jon Jefferson, a fine collaborator and eager student of forensic anthropology. I also want to thank my hundreds of graduate students, the many local and state law enforcement officers I’ve worked with, the members of the media who have produced accurate accounts of our investigations, and the thousands of loyal readers who are interested in my work and my stories. We hope you enjoy reading this book as much as we’ve enjoyed writing it.
—WMB III
Truth is not only stranger than fiction, it’s much easier to write, I now realize. Thanks to the many people who have helped me navigate the new territory of fiction. Arthur Bohanan—the real-life Art—gave us gracious and good-humored permission to borrow his name, his reputation, and a few of his accomplishments, in return for nothing more than a promise to call attention to the urgent need for more research on finding ways to detect children’s fingerprints. Thanks, Art—that’s a promise we’re privileged to keep. Dr. Jim Corbin, of the North Carolina Department of Agriculture—a pioneering scientist in the fight against ginseng poaching—answered numerous questions about ’sang; lest his reputation suffer, I’ll hasten to absolve him of all blame for the fictional liberties I’ve taken on the subject of cultivation. For helicopter and air ambulance research—on the ground and in the air—I’m indebted to the flight crews of Smoky Mountain Helicopters and the University of Tennessee Medical Center’s LifeStar air ambulance program. Thanks also to Dr. Sandra Elkins of the Regional Forensic Center; to Dr. Ed Uthman, via his website and emails; and to Lynn Faust, John, and Rick.
Many members of local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies were kind enough to answer myriad questions. Among them: KPD firearms examiner Patty Resig; sheriff’s deputy (and K9 trainer extraordinaire) Art Wolff; District Attorney General Al Schmutzer; Assistant District Attorney Marsha Mitchell; Assistant U.S. Attorney Guy Blackwell; DEA agent Tim Wilson; TBI agent Greg Monroe; and half a dozen members of the FBI’s Knoxville district office—Special Agent in Charge Joe Clark, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Tim Cox, Special Agents Gary Kidder, Beth O’Brien, and Robert Gibson III, and Chief District Counsel James Van Pelt.
Thanks also to my stepsons (and firearms consultants), Adam and Lee Robinson; to our energetic and capable literary agent, Giles Anderson; and to our intrepid editor at William Morrow, Sarah Durand.
As ever, working with Dr. Bill Bass remains a great pleasure, an amazing education, and a high honor.
—JWJ
About the Author
JEFFERSON BASS is the writing team of Dr. Bill Bass and Jon Jefferson. Dr. Bass, a world-renowned forensic anthropologist, founded the University of Tennessee’s Anthropology Research Facility—the Body Farm—a quarter-century ago. He is the author or coauthor of more than two hundred scientific publications, as well as a critically acclaimed memoir about his career, Death’s Acre. Dr. Bass is also a dedicated teacher, honored as National Professor of the Year by the Council for Advancement and Support of Education. Jefferson is a veteran journalist, writer, and documentary filmmaker. His writings have been published in the New York Times, Newsweek, USA Today, and Popular Science and broadcast on National Public Radio. The coauthor of Death’s Acre, he is also the writer and producer of two highly rated National Geographic documentaries about the Body Farm.
www.jeffersonbass.com
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Credits
Jacket design by Tom Lau
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CARVED IN BONE. Copyright © 2006 by Jefferson Bass, LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © JANUARY 2006 ISBN: 9780061804885
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jefferson Bass
Carved in bone / Jefferson Bass.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-06-075981-0
ISBN-10: 0-06-075981-X
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