Flash and Bones

by Kathy Reichs

I didn’t let on. Just nodded as I supplied tissues and empathetic sounds.

  The longer Summer talked, the more horrified I became. How could she have misinterpreted my comments so badly?

  I imagined Pete’s anger at my perceived culpability. What was Harry’s favorite saying?

  No good deed goes unpunished.

  Yep. Serious castigation was barreling my way.

  Finally the whole sad story was told. Ultimatum. Quarrel. Sobbing exit. Slamming door.

  When she’d finished, I offered another tissue.

  Summer dabbed beneath each lavishly mascaraed eye.

  “So.” She drew a wet breath. “What do I do?”

  “Summer, I really don’t feel comfortable—”

  “You have to help me.” The tears started anew. “My life is ruined.”

  “Perhaps I’ve done enough damage already.” I didn’t really believe it, but the conversation was going even worse than I’d anticipated.

  “Exactly. That’s why you have to fix it.”

  “I don’t think that’s my place,” I said gently.

  “You have to talk to Pete. You have to bring him to his senses.” Summer was creeping closer to hysteria with every word. “You have to—”

  “OK. I’ll phone him in the morning.”

  “Honest to God?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cross-your-heart promise?”

  Merciful God.

  “Yes.”

  For one awful moment I thought she would hug me. Instead she blew her nose. Which was now the color of my Christmas socks.

  But the mascara remained flawless. I wondered about the brand.

  I was still wondering when Summer’s head tipped to one side.

  “Oh, sweetie. You are booty-pooty-ful.”

  I followed her sight line.

  Birdie had entered the room. He sat watching us, ears forward, tail curling around one haunch.

  Summer wiggled her fingers and spoke in the same saccharine voice. “Oh, you just come here, you little precious thing.”

  Right. In addition to thunderstorms, my cat dislikes strangers and the smell of strong perfume.

  To my astonishment, Birdie padded over and jumped onto the couch. When Summer stroked his back, he dropped onto his fore-paws and raised his tail high.

  Summer pursed up her lips and uttered another string of baby-talk gibberish.

  The little traitor actually purred.

  “I apologize, Summer. It’s been a long day, and there are things I need—”

  “You must think my mama taught me no manners at all.” Pecking Birdie on the head, Summer gathered her purse and rose.

  At the door, she swiveled and beamed me a smile. “One day we’ll all laugh about this.”

  “Mm.”

  “Tempe, I take back every mean thought I ever had about you.” With that, Summer teetered off into the night.

  Falling asleep, I wondered: Can one take back thoughts? Take them back from whom? To what end?

  Monday morning, Birdie woke me by chewing my hair.

  Fair enough. I’d FURminated off half of his undercoat.

  After steeling myself with a quadruple espresso, toaster waffle, and wedge of cantaloupe, I phoned Pete.

  “Summer came by my place last night.”

  “Did she.”

  “She was upset.”

  “I expect she was.”

  “Look, Pete. I did as you asked. She talked, I listened.”

  “Seems you did more than just listen.”

  “I offered no advice, rendered no opinion.”

  “That wasn’t her take.”

  I struggled to be tactful. “Summer has her own way of viewing the world.”

  “You turned her into a crazoid.”

  She had a huge head start. I didn’t say it.

  “What did you do to make her so touchy?” Pete asked.

  “She’s concerned about your lack of interest in the upcoming nuptials.”

  “Who cares about napkin color? Or the flavor of frosting? Or the shape of a cake?”

  “Your fiancée.”

  “It’s like some monster has taken possession of her mind.”

  Not much to take. Again I kept it to myself.

  “You shouldn’t have told her I hate weddings,” Pete said.

  “I didn’t. I simply said you weren’t big on ceremony.”

  Pete had skipped his high school, college, and law school graduations. Our own marriage extravaganza was organized by my mother, Daisy Lee. Right down to the pearls on the napkin holders, which rested on the china, which complemented the linen tablecloths trimmed with alabaster lace. Pete had simply shown up at the church.

  “What do you recommend?” Pete asked wearily.

  Stun gun?

  “Fake it,” I said. “Pick ivory or white. Raspberry or cherry.”

  “She always disagrees with my choice.”

  “At least you’ve made the effort.”

  “I don’t need this shit at my age.”

  Hell-o.

  “Pete?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she really call you a snideybutt?”

  Dial tone.

  After the bout with my ex, I needed physical exertion.

  Birdie watched as I laced on my Nikes.

  “What do you see in that bimbo?” I asked.

  No response.

  “She has the depth of a powder-room sink.”

  The cat offered nothing in his defense.

  The weather was still August-hot. Eight-fifteen and already eighty-two degrees.

  I opted for the short course and ran the loop up Queens and through the park. By nine-thirty I was back home, showered, and dressed.

  Thinking Slidell might call with information on Lynn Hobbs, I worked through e-mail and paid some bills. Then I read an article in the Journal of Forensic Sciences on the use of amino acid race-mization rates in dentition for the estimation of age. Light stuff.

  By eleven the phone hadn’t rung.

  Needing a change of venue, I opted for the MCME. I’d finish my report on the landfill John Doe, then package the bone plugs. Should DNA analysis be needed, the specimens would be ready to go.

  I’d barely hit my office when Tim Larabee burst through the door.

  The look on his face told me something was wrong.

  “WHERE’S THE JOHN DOE?” LARABEE’S BLOODSTAINED SCRUBS suggested he’d already been cutting.

  Not surprising. Mondays can be hectic for coroners and MEs. Especially Mondays coming off hot summer weekends.

  “Sorry?”

  “MCME 227-11. Barrel boy. When you finished on Saturday, what did you do with him?” There was a sharp edge to Larabee’s voice.

  “I told Joe to return the body to the cooler.”

  “It’s not there.”

  “It has to be.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Did you ask Joe?”

  “He’s off today.”

  “Call him.”

  “He doesn’t answer.”

  Slightly annoyed, I hurried to the cooler and yanked the handle. The door whooshed outward, carrying with it the smell of refrigerated flesh.

  Five stainless-steel gurneys sat snugged to the far wall. Four others occupied the sides of the room. Six held body bags.

  As I stepped inside, Larabee watched from the hall, sinewy arms folded across his chest. Moving from bag to bag, I checked case numbers.

  Larabee was right. MCME 227-11 was not present.

  Shivering and goose-bumped, I exited and closed the door.

  “Did you look in the freezer?”

  “Of course I looked in the freezer. No one’s in there but the oldman Popsicle we’ve had for two years.”

  “A corpse can’t just walk away.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You didn’t sign a release for removal of the body?” I asked. Stupid. But this was making no sense.

  Larabee’s scowl was answer enough.

  “Y
ou did your autopsy Saturday morning. I finished with my skeletal analysis around four Saturday afternoon. The body must have been moved after that.”

  Tight nod.

  My mind sorted through possibilities.

  “It couldn’t be a funeral-home mix-up. They don’t do pickups on Sundays.”

  “And everyone else is accounted for.”

  “When did you notice the John Doe missing?”

  “About an hour ago. I went into the cooler to collect a gunshot case.”

  “Was anyone in here over the weekend? Cleaning crew? Maintenance? Repair service?”

  Larabee shook his head.

  “Joe was on duty?”

  “Yes.”

  When alone on night shift, Joe sleeps on a cot in the back of the men’s room. Closed door. Bad ears. An army could march through and he wouldn’t hear a thing.

  “Is it possible someone broke in?” I asked.

  “And stole a corpse?” Larabee sounded beyond skeptical.

  “It happens.” Defensive.

  “Body snatchers would have needed to disarm the security system.”

  “And tinkering is supposed to trigger an alarm.”

  “Supposed to.” Larabee’s tone affirmed his cynicism about modern technology.

  “Let’s check for signs of forced entry.”

  We did.

  Found none.

  “This is insane.” I was at a loss for more ideas.

  “There’s something I should tell you.” Larabee and I were standing beside the roll-on scale at the receiving dock.

  I looked a question at him.

  “Let’s go to my office.” Now the ME sounded nervous.

  We entered and Larabee closed the door. He sat behind his desk. I took a chair facing him.

  “As I was leaving on Saturday, I got tagged by the FBI.”

  I took a wild guess. “Special Agents Williams and Randall?”

  Larabee glanced at a paper lying on his blotter. “Yes. They were asking about the John Doe.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I shared my autopsy findings and your bio profile. I said I’d collected samples for tox analysis and warned that a final report would take time.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “Williams offered to deliver the samples personally. Said he’d try to get them bumped up the queue. I called the Charlotte field office. The two are legit, so it seemed kosher to me. I asked Joe to handle it.” Larabee’s brows dipped sharply. “A report faxed in around ten this morning.”

  “You’re kidding.” I was astonished. Normally it takes weeks, even months, to get lab results.

  “My mention of pulmonary lesions and edema coupled with gut ulceration and hemorrhage must have triggered something for Williams. He had my specimens driven to the CDC and fast-tracked through immunochromatographic analysis.”

  Larabee referred to a type of immunoassay, a chemical test designed to detect organic substances. I wasn’t an expert but knew a little about the process.

  Short course.

  Antigens are molecules recognized by our immune systems as outsiders. Could be toxins, enzymes, viruses, bacteria. A transplanted lung that looks wrong. Antibodies are proteins that attack and neutralize these foreign invaders.

  Antibodies are present normally in our bodies or are produced in response to specific antigens. This is known as an immune reaction.

  Immunoassay tests are based on the ability of antibodies to bind to specific antigens. Threat X triggers response Y. Gotcha! In forensics, the technique is used to identify and quantify unknown organic compounds in samples. This antibody reacted, so this substance must be present.

  I waited.

  “The test indicated the presence of ricin in two of my samples.”

  “Ricin?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice.

  Ricin is a naturally occurring toxin derived from the beans of the castor-oil plant, Ricinus communis. One of the deadliest poisons known, it can cause death in thirty-six to seventy-two hours after exposure.

  In addition to binding specificity, the other key feature of an immunoassay is that the test produces a measurable signal in response to a particular antigen-antibody hookup. In the case of ricin, a green light is given off. That’s the chromatographic part of the long term.

  The green light is measured by a spectrophotometer or similar piece of equipment. Basically, the brighter the glow, the more ricin there is in a sample.

  Larabee nodded.

  “That explains the fast turnaround time,” I said.

  In the past few years immunoassay testing has become quick and simple. There are now kits for the detection of ricin, anthrax, plague, tularemia, and many other biotoxins.

  “But it doesn’t explain how ricin got into our John Doe,” Larabee said.

  “That’s the stuff that killed Georgi Markov.” I referred to a Bulgarian journalist murdered in London in 1978.

  “I doubt our John Doe was ass-stabbed with an umbrella.” “Markov was jabbed in the leg,” I said.

  Larabee gave me a look.

  I thought a moment. If ingested, inhaled, or injected, ricin causes nausea, muscle spasm, severe diarrhea, convulsion, coma, and ultimately, death.

  “Ricin poisoning would fit your autopsy finding,” I said.

  “And would explain the interest of the feds.” The phone rang. Larabee ignored it. “The military has been studying ricin for years. They’ve tried coating bullets and artillery rounds with it. They’ve tested it in cluster bombs. I did a quick check after this thing came in.”

  He flapped a hand at the fax. “Ricin is listed as a schedule-one controlled substance under both the 1972 Biological Weapons Convention and the 1997 Chemical Weapons Convention.”

  “But other toxins are much more effective bioweapons. Anthrax, for example. You’d need tons of ricin compared to a kilo of anthrax.” I’d read that somewhere. “And ricin breaks down relatively quickly. Anthrax spores can remain lethal for decades.”

  “The average person can’t lay his hands on anthrax. Or botulin. Or tetanus. The castor bean plant is a friggin’ ornamental. Any loon can grow it in his garden.”

  I started to comment. Larabee wasn’t finished.

  “Close to a million tons of castor beans are processed every year. About five percent of that ends up as waste containing high concentrations of ricin.”

  “So how’d our John Doe die of ricin poisoning?” I asked.

  “And end up in a barrel of asphalt in a landfill in Concord?”

  “And where the hell is he?”

  Without a word, Larabee put his desk phone on speaker and jabbed the buttons. Ten beeps, a buzzy ring, then Hawkins’s voice answered.

  “Can’t survive without me, eh, Doc?”

  “Sorry to bother you on your day off.” Taut.

  “No bother.”

  “This may sound odd. But we can’t find the body from the landfill.”

  There was no response. In the background I could hear the cadence of a televised baseball game.

  “You there?”

  “I’m here. Just trying to figure the question.”

  “MCME 227-11. The man in the asphalt.”

  “I know who you mean.”

  “Dr. Brennan and I can’t locate him.”

  “’Course you can’t. He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Larabee was twisting and untwisting the receiver cord with his free hand.

  “A funeral home came and got him.”

  “I didn’t sign for release of the body,” Larabee snapped.

  Joe answered with silence.

  “Sorry. I just want to understand.”

  “The FBI agent. I forget his name—”

  “Williams.”

  “Yeah. Williams. You said give him what he needs. That’s what I did.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He took your tox samples on Saturday. Called Sunday, said a van was coming, that I should prepare the John Doe for transport. Took
all the X-rays, too.”

  “The body left the morgue yesterday?”

  “The paperwork’s there, Doc.”

  Larabee’s eyes met mine. “Thanks, Joe.”

  Larabee cradled the receiver.

  Together we hurried to Mrs. Flowers’s station.

  “Did Joe leave a transfer form yesterday?”

  Mrs. Flowers flipped through her in-box, pulled a paper, and handed it to Larabee.

  “What the hell’s SD Conveyance?” Larabee spoke as he read.

  “Never heard of it,” I said.

  “Special Agent Williams signed for the body.”

  “Not a funeral home?”

  “No.” Larabee thrust the paper my way.

  Behind us, Mrs. Flowers had gone very quiet. I knew she was listening.

  “This is outrageous. The medical examiner must operate independently. I can’t have government agents waltzing into my morgue and confiscating remains.”

  Sudden synapse.

  “You said the government is interested in ricin as a potential bioweapon.”

  “So?”

  “Ted Raines works for the CDC.”

  “The guy who went missing last week?”

  I nodded.

  Catching my implication, Larabee began pacing.

  Mrs. Flowers watched, eyes shifting like a spectator’s at a tennis match.

  “Sonofabitch.” Larabee’s face had gone crimson.

  “Don’t have a heart attack,” I said.

  “How do I ID a body without the body? Or the X-rays?”

  “Maybe the feds don’t want this body identified.”

  We were gnawing on that when my brain cells fired up another offering.

  “I cut bone plugs from the John Doe in case we decided to do DNA testing.”

  Larabee and I raced to the stinky room.

  I checked the counter. The cabinets. The small refrigerator used for storage of specimens.

  The large autopsy suite.

  My office.

  The shelves in the cooler.

  The microscopy lab.

  The bone plugs were gone.

  I’D JUST RETURNED TO MY OFFICE WHEN THE PHONE RANG.

  “I asked him to wait, but he wouldn’t listen.” Mrs. Flowers was peeved. “He never does.”

  Heavy footsteps alerted me to the source of her irritation.

  “It’s all right,” I said.

  I was replacing the receiver when Slidell appeared in my doorway. Today’s jacket was tan polyester. The tie was black, the shirt orange.