“That’s a really nice offer,” I said, “but I don’t think I’d feel comfortable with that.”
“But . . . of course you would,” he said. “This is your big moment, Bill. Yours and UT’s. You can’t possibly pass it up.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I can. And I do. Like I say, I’m deeply honored, and I’m very grateful to UT for providing such a supportive place for me all these years. But standing there in the middle of the stadium, in the glare of the spotlight? Can’t do it.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, his tone somewhere between cajoling and scolding. But I was already on the way out, one hand raised in the air to wave good-bye and, in the process, to snatch away his glittering fantasy.
PEGGY FIXED ME WITH AN ODD, INTENSE STARE WHEN I walked into the departmental office a few minutes later. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Ish,” I said. “Okay-ish. It’s been a strange morning.”
She raised her eyebrows, inviting me to elaborate, but I didn’t want to go into it. “Tell you later,” I said. “Hold my calls, would you?” And with that, I retreated—from her office, and from the interaction—leaving her looking hurt and rejected as I began the hundred-yard run the length of the football field, to my sanctuary. My hideaway. My self-imposed exile. Was it my imagination, or did she mutter Yeah, right as I started down the hall?
IT WAS A DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE SORT OF DAY. ON the sunny Dr. Jekyll side of the street, a prestigious national educational group had just decided I was the best professor in the entire United States. In the dark alley of Mr. Hyde, a sadistic serial killer wanted to destroy me, and probably my family, too, in the most painful way his twisted brain could devise. Like a Ping-Pong ball, I ricocheted back and forth, back and forth, from best to worst, from elation to despair. Finally, on the millionth bounce, I said, “Enough!” I desperately needed to reboot.
Suddenly, stunned, I remembered: Shafiq! 16–17! Were they indeed one and the same? Was it possible that, digitized within the phone clipped to my belt, was another nugget of information that could answer the question once and for all?
I opened the phone’s camera application and began scrolling through the images I had taken. There were more than a hundred of them—some crisp, some blurred, all maddeningly, illegibly tiny. I would die of eyestrain, I realized, before I made it halfway through the documents I had photographed.
Miranda picked up the intercom on the second beep. “Hey,” I said, not bothering with a greeting. “You’re pretty savvy with a cell phone, right?”
“Compared to the average twelve-year-old, I’m a dolt. Compared to you, I’m Stephen Hawking.”
“Then come be brilliant,” I said. “I took a bunch of pictures with my phone, but they’re tiny. Is there a way to see them on a computer screen, lots bigger?”
“There is,” she said, “but it would take a genius. I’ll be right there.”
MIRANDA LOADED THE PICTURES—ALL 127 OF them—onto her laptop, which she’d brought from the bone lab. “I’ve got Photoshop and iPhoto on this machine,” she said. “You’re probably still running Hieroglyph 1.0. Here, give me your phone.” She connected a short cable and pressed a few keys. As if by magic, photos began flashing across her laptop screen. “First thing, let’s get rid of the ones that aren’t in focus. That’ll cut out the number in half, at least.” She began scrolling through the photos at a blistering pace, hitting the delete key with a staccato speed that put me in mind of an old-time telegrapher.
“How do you even know the ones you’re deleting aren’t good?” I said. “They’re only on the screen for a nanosecond before you get rid of them.”
“Trust me, they’re bad,” she said. “If they look like a Weather Channel satellite photo, we’re not going to be able to read the words, no matter how long we stare at them. Here, I’ll show you.” She went into the trash file and pulled out one of the deleted pictures. Everything was a swirling blur.
“Looks like Hurricane Miranda,” I acknowledged grudgingly. “Okay, carry on. Sorry I doubted you.”
“Never do it again,” she said, quoting one of her favorite lines from The Princess Bride. Once she had separated the fuzzy chaff from the crisp wheat, she went back to the beginning, starting with the passport images. The first one showed the document’s two-page spread, but the next one was a close-up, zoomed in on the young man’s face. “Wow,” said Miranda. “Joanna really nailed it, didn’t she? I mean, the only thing she missed is that mole on his left cheek.” She shook her head. “Poor kid.”
Filling the screen, the image was more poignant than it had been as a thumbnail. The boy’s face was slender, his brown eyes large and frightened. Was he afraid of traveling to an unknown land, or afraid because he lived in a country ruled by military tyrants his parents despised? Or was he afraid—was it possible?—because he possessed, somehow, some uncanny, sixth-sense premonition about the terrible darkness that lay in wait for him in the not-too-distant future?
After the passport came contact information: the address of the apartment where he was living; the name and number of his landlord and roommates; the address and telephone number, back in Egypt, of his parents—before they were arrested, I assumed, not in the hellhole where they were probably now being beaten and “interrogated.”
Miranda had been overly generous when she estimated that half my images might be usable; as it turned out, only 31 of the original 127 had survived her merciless culling, and it was number 31 that made me jump to my feet. “Look,” I said, tapping the screen with one hand and grabbing Miranda’s arm with the other. “Look!”
“Oww,” she said. “Use your words, not your painful viselike grip. What?”
“Sorry. It’s a letter from a doctor. He says Shafiq needs a reduced course load because he’s been injured in a car accident.”
“So it does. ‘Orthopedic surgery on the right humerus and right femur.’ Golly.” Miranda read more, her tone becoming as excited as mine. “‘Bones repaired with plates and screws’—my God, it really is him!”
“It really is,” I echoed. “We’ll need to see if we can rustle up some x-rays or some DNA—maybe he left some personal effects at the apartment where he lived, like a hairbrush or a cap that would have some hair and follicles. But it’s him. It’s got to be him.”
“This is awesome,” said Miranda.
“It is,” I agreed. “Awful, too.”
“Awful, too,” she echoed.
CHAPTER 30
THE NUMBER THREE HAS LONG BEEN CONSIDERED A magic number—a mystically powerful number—in many cultures around the world. And so it is, judging by three events that occurred in swift succession in my forensic-anthropology classroom, two days after Kevin McNulty had tripped Mona Faruz.
Event number one: I arrived early for class, as I generally do, but for once, I wasn’t the first one in the auditorium. Two students—girls who tended to sit in the back and disappear behind their computer screens, e-mailing or posting on Facebook, judging by their grades—stood just inside the doorway. “Well, you’re certainly here early,” I observed cheerily. They blushed and looked from me to each other, as if they had some sort of secret about which they felt both self-conscious and pleased. They didn’t seem inclined to confide it to me, though, so I gave them a generic smile and headed up to the table at the front, to unpack today’s teaching specimens. It wasn’t long before their secret came to light, though: As soon as another female student entered, the two girls at the door offered her an assortment of brightly covered scarves. The new arrival selected one, then arranged it over her hair like a hijab, and the two scarf-bearers did likewise. As more students arrived, the ritual was repeated: the scarves were offered to every female student, and every one chose and donned a scarf. The male students—initially puzzled, then swiftly grasping the message—reacted, for the most part, by giving thumbs-up signs and smiles of approval. One, though, reacted rather differently: Kevin McNulty arrived only moments before class was due to start; seeing the di
splay of hijab solidarity, he blanched, then turned crimson. I half expected him to turn and flee, but surprisingly—bravely—he walked slowly to the front row and took a seat, all eyes riveted to him. I, too, looked at him, raising my eyebrows, and he responded with a barely perceptible nod.
Event number two: I checked my watch, then cleared my throat. “All right, let’s get started,” I said. “We’re talking about postcranial skeletal trauma today, and we’ve got a lot to cover. But first, I believe, Mr. McNulty has something to say?”
With a slowness that seemed painful, McNulty stood, took two steps toward me, and then turned to face the class. His eyes swept the room until they found Mona, who was seated, for once, in the very back row. “I behaved badly at the end of the last class,” he began. “Rudely, meanly, and stupidly. I should have known better. My great-grandfather’s grandfather—or maybe it was his great-grandfather, I lose track of the ‘greats’—came to America in 1838. He was about my age, and about my size, but he weighed half as much as I do. That’s because he was starving, like a lot of people in Ireland were. I found this out by talking to my grandmother for a long time last night. ‘Big Paddy,’ that’s what they called him—even his nickname was a joke. He barely survived the voyage from Ireland, and then he nearly starved once he got to New York, because he couldn’t find work. He got beaten up, more than once, and got called a lot of names, and got treated like dirt.” He paused, and looked down, collecting himself, then looked at Mona again and went on. “The point is, my family got treated the same way I treated Mona the other day. Mona, I apologize. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way. I’m sorry, and I’m ashamed.” He extended his arms to either side, palms up. “I hope you can forgive me.”
The room was silent—silent, but electric—and everyone turned toward Mona, following his gaze. After what seemed a long time, Mona stood, as slowly as McNulty had. “Yes,” she said finally. “I can. I do.” Then she pressed her hands together as if in prayer and bowed slightly. Another charged silence followed, and then—almost like a replay of the prior class ending—one student began to clap, and soon the entire auditorium was filled with applause, the students on their feet clapping and cheering, some of them smiling, some of them crying.
Event number three: As the students quieted and settled into their seats, Miranda—whom I hadn’t even realized was present—came from one side of the auditorium and said to me, “Dr. B? May I have a moment?” I nodded, and she turned to face the class, her coppery hair, like that of the other female students, covered with a scarf. “I behaved badly last time, too. I let my anger run away with me. I said things and I did things that I’m embarrassed about and sorry for. I apologize to all of you for my outburst. Kevin, I particularly apologize to you. I was wrong to grab you, and I was wrong to speak to you the way I did. And I hope that you can forgive me.” McNulty stood up again. He looked at her for a long moment, then gave a slow, sheepish smile and stretched out his hand, and they shook.
Class—even to me; even though I was showing my favorite examples of skeletal trauma—was more than a bit anticlimactic.
“DOC,” GROWLED THE VOICE ON MY PHONE SHORTLY after I had returned to my office, still processing the remarkable events of class. “Bubba Meffert. Listen, I’m just leaving the prison. Been talking to inmates about ol’ Satterfield. Found out some mighty interesting stuff. Got a minute?”
“Sure, Bubba, go ahead. Whatcha got?”
“Well, first off, Steve Morgan was tellin’ me—”
I couldn’t resist interrupting. “Steve’s an inmate now? About time. I knew he couldn’t keep scamming the TBI forever.”
Bubba chuckled, though the laugh sounded forced and feeble. I hoped he wasn’t pushing himself too hard so soon after chemo. “Nah, Steve’s still got his badge—he’s still half a step ahead of Internal Affairs. Anywho, I was swapping notes with Steve yesterday evening, and he said you’d asked him if there was anything up at Shiflett’s place that tied him to Satterfield.”
“I did ask him that.”
“At the time,” he went on, “Steve thought it was a weird question. Thought it came outta left field, or outta a certain lower part of your anatomy. Actually, though, it was a brilliant question.”
My Spidey Sense was starting to tingle. “Go on.”
“Turns out Satterfield and Shiflett were thick as thieves. They developed quite the bromance, apparently.”
I drew back and gave the phone a puzzled, questioning look. “They had a sexual relationship?”
“God, no,” said Meffert. “Not as far as I know, anyhow. Buddies. Brotherly love. Well, brotherly hate, more like it. They were both mixed up with skinhead groups, neo-Nazis, neo-Klan. It all kinda runs together, you know? Anything that helps the whites and hurt the blacks and the browns—the ‘mud people,’ they called ’em.”
“But how did Shiflett and Satterfield even meet? Satterfield was in prison for more than twenty years. Did Shiflett do time there, too?”
“No, but that’s where they met. They met through Satterfield’s cellmate. Guy name of Stubbs. Shiflett was in the army with Stubbs—they served in Afghanistan together, ten or twelve years ago.”
Now my Spidey Sense was shrieking. I sat bolt upright in my chair, then leaned forward, closer to the phone, as if by getting right next to it, I could hear better and therefore hear a different name. “Stubbs? Did you say Satterfield’s cellmate was named Stubbs?”
“Yeah. Stubbs.”
“Tell me you’re not talking about Tilden Stubbs. Militant racist? Doing time for stealing weapons from the army?”
“I am. He was,” said Meffert.
“Come again?”
“Was doing time. Did the time. Served five years. Got out a month ago.”
“Wait. He’s out? Crap. I hate to hear that, Bubba.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.” Meffert’s tone seemed to suggest that he had something else to say, but he was silent.
“Bubba? You got more bad news?”
“Yeah.” He drew out the word—easing into it on the front end, dragging out the vowels, trailing off reluctantly at the end. “This is where it gets creepy, Doc.”
“You’re saying that neo-Nazis, militias, and army heists aren’t creepy?”
“Not compared to this.”
“Hell, Bubba. You do know how to sugarcoat the pill, don’t you? Just spill it. What is it you’re so worried about telling me?”
“The Cooke County case—the murder by bear?”
“Yeah? What about it? Creepy, for sure, but I already know all about it.”
“No, you don’t. That was supposed to be you. Chained to the tree.”
“What?” My skin prickled, my hackles rose, and sweat popped out on my forehead.
“I heard it from two different inmates.”
“But that’s crazy,” I said. “I never heard of Jimmy Ray Shiflett. Why in hell would some Cooke County redneck want to chain me to a tree and feed me to a bear?”
“It wasn’t Shiflett.”
“What do you mean?”
“Shiflett wasn’t the one planning to do it to you. Wasn’t Stubbs, either.”
A wave of nausea crashed over me as his meaning sank in. “Satterfield,” I breathed.
“Satterfield. Satterfield must’ve told Stubbs about it. Maybe Satterfield told Shiflett, too. Or maybe Shiflett heard it from Stubbs on a prison visit. Doesn’t matter. It was completely Satterfield’s plan. For you.”
WHEN I CALLED ANGELA PRICE TO RELAY MEFFERT’S update, she agreed that the Satterfield task force needed to discuss it. An hour later, I dialed a special phone number, to join a conference call that Price’s assistant had set up. Rattled as I was, I kept misdialing the second set of numbers, the sequence needed to connect me with Price’s group, rather than some other group of, say, investment bankers or Las Vegas bookies or whoever else was huddled around phones at this particular moment.
After my third botched attempt to make the connection—
and my third string of profanities—Peggy came through the doorway from the outer office. “Let me help,” she said. She came behind the desk and stood beside me, leaning forward to read the numbers I had scrawled on a notepad. She put the phone on speaker to free up her hands. Her left hand deftly dialed the numbers; her right hand came to rest on my shoulder, a calming weight that seemed to add some ballast and balance to my unsteady keel. Reaching up with my right hand, I laid it on hers and gave a grateful squeeze. Funny thing: I still didn’t know how to talk to her, except as my secretary, but somehow her hand and my hand were better at bridging the awkward gap.
A computerized voice in my phone announced, “You have joined the conference. There are five other people in the conference.” Peggy slid her hand off my shoulder, tiptoed from the room, and closed the door. “Hello, it’s Bill Brockton,” I said. “Am I the last one to the party?”
“I think so,” said Price. “A couple of folks couldn’t make it, but I think we’ve got most of the key players. From the TBI, we’ve got Special Agents Meffert and Morgan. From ATF, Special Agent Kidder. From KPD, Captain Decker. And our retired behavioral consultant, Pete Brubaker.”
“Can’t think of anybody I’d rather have on the case,” I said. “Where do we start?”
“Agent Meffert,” she said, “would you start us off? Tell us what you learned at the prison.”
“Sure,” he said and led the group through the connections between Satterfield, Stubbs, and Shiflett.
“Sounds like a real shitstorm’s brewing,” said someone. “This is Kidder, by the way.”
“Say some more, Agent Kidder,” said Price.
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