She looked Grady up and down, apron hem to cap.
“You look like you’re chasing snakes out of Ireland,” she said.
* * *
• • •
MARTHA’S GREETING TO ROBERT Hanson, the county medical examiner, followed a routine. She would hold out the bag of doughnuts between thumb and forefinger, shake it, raise her eyebrows, and follow Hanson into his office for a cup of coffee, where she would run her eyes over the photographs on the wall. The photos, when she’d first met him, had predominantly outdoor themes—the Chinese Wall in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, the White Cliffs of the Missouri River, the River of No Return in Idaho. They were bucket list destinations. Several were places he’d been to and were rewarding enough that they merited an encore.
But in the past three years the photos on the wall had changed. Before, they’d had no women in them, now several showed Hanson with the handsome, dark-haired woman who had finally made him happy, and the settings were in Italy, mostly, for she was Italian.
“How’s Sophia?” Martha asked.
“Still in remission.” Hanson rapped his knuckles against the wood top of his desk.
“Where to next?”
“Sicily. She has people there.”
“Land of revenge served cold,” Martha said.
“And hot,” Hanson said. “There was enough blood spilled on that island to go around.”
“Speaking of which, I suppose you’ve heard about Sharon’s Lab. We’ve become our own little island of revenge. A lot of itchy trigger fingers.”
Hanson nodded. “I had breakfast at Josie’s and the cat was all the talk, but I swear, Martha, I never once heard anyone express any sympathy for the victim. For the dog, yes, but not for the woman. Remember how, before the Emancipation Proclamation, a black person was counted as three fifths of a human being in the Constitution? Our Jane Doe is rumored to have been a prostitute, so that makes her life less valuable. What we’re experiencing is human nature at its basest denominator. It’s an excuse to run a cleaning patch down a dusty bore and answer a primal call to arms. To slay the dragon that threatens the community. People say ‘poor girl,’ but that’s lip service. The victim is only the excuse for vigilantism. The value of her life has been lost in the shuffle.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here, Bob. To see if we can’t make her a larger fraction of a human being, preferably one with a name. Are you going to be able to help me?”
“I’ll just mop the powdered sugar off my mustache while you cover up.”
Martha unbuckled her duty belt, emptied the cylinders of her revolver, pocketing the ammo, and donned hospital scrubs. She shuffled into the examining room wearing paper booties.
Hanson drew back the sheet that covered the stainless-steel examining table. Martha thought she was prepared, having seen the remains earlier, but that was on the mountain where death was the grist in the cycle of life and, as such, beautiful in its way. By contrast, in the sterile atmosphere of the morgue, the same tissue and bone looked obscene.
“What am I looking at, Bob?”
Hanson directed her attention with a steel pointer. “In terms of cause of death, this is straightforward,” he said. “Although part of the throat is missing, the neck vertebrae, specifically the C-two and C-three, are dislocated and the wounds to either side of the neck are consistent with those that could be made by a cat with large fangs. Here, here, and here.”
“Cats have four canines.”
“This one apparently doesn’t. Where the fourth fang should have penetrated, the right upper”—he pointed—“we have bruising but no penetration. So it is not entirely missing, but broken short. Note also the subconjunctival hemorrhage in the whites of the eyes.” He pointed to the blood spotting. “That can be indicative of strangulation. Whether she died from suffocation caused by the grip on her throat, or by the interruption of the spinal cord, that I can’t tell you. But one or the other or a combination of the two killed her. You’ll want to see Wilkerson. She’s running markers on the victim’s DNA to see if we get a bingo with someone who gave a sample in an arrest. Gigi also requested the right boot the woman was wearing, complete with foot and a few other specific tissue samples. I’d rather you get her professional opinion than try to put words in her mouth.”
“What about fingerprints? I distinctly recall seeing a hand up there. If she was a pro, she’ll have been arrested, and if she’s been arrested, she’ll have been printed.”
“There we have an issue. I received no hand parts from recovery.”
Martha frowned. “Well, shit, Bob. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t.”
Martha nodded, though she was cursing herself under her breath. She had made the decision to leave the remains in the state in which they were found, for proper cataloging and transport. She and Sean, and Sam, for that matter, had heaped branches on the bones and draped their jackets, and Sam had urinated for good measure. But apparently that had not been enough, and in the two or three hours between the time they had left the kill site and the WHART team had arrived on scene, something had removed the hand, and with it, the easy ID. One of the eagles? A coyote? It didn’t matter.
“You’ve got your faraway face on,” Hanson said. “You must be thinking deep thoughts.”
“Yeah. ‘Deep Thoughts Martha,’ that’s me.”
* * *
• • •
THE METAL QUONSET HUT that housed the regional crime lab looked more like a building where you’d judge a dog show or hang confiscated game animals for public auction—purposes for which it had previously served—than a structure designed to solve crimes. But there you were, and Martha was happy to have it, happier yet that it was run by Dr. Georgeanne Wilkerson, Ouija Board Gigi as she was affectionately known. In addition to being a senior crime scene investigator, Wilkerson was the foremost forensic scientist in the state, and, as captain of her own ship, had the authority to prioritize cases her team was personally involved in, though she was fair-minded, as a rule. One of the people who could get her to bend was Sean Stranahan, and Martha was heartened to see his response to the message she’d texted him after leaving the morgue.
She found Wilkerson at her desk, which was set against the curved inside wall of the hut. She was, as always, surprised-looking, with her goggle eyes magnified by the powerful lenses of her glasses.
Wilkerson rose and they shook hands. “I’ve invited McGregor for a look-see, as she’s the regional biologist and a bit of a cat woman. I was hoping Sean would be with you.”
“He’s on his way.”
Even as Martha spoke, Wilkerson was looking past her, a smile spreading the corners of her mouth. “Speak of the devil,” she said.
Martha had known Sean for eight years, and he remained one of those people you can’t quite put your finger on, who keep that little bit of mystery about themselves while seducing practically everyone they meet, men and women alike, but particularly women. Some wanted to mother him, to tell him not to take so many chances. Some wanted to do other things with him. Martha suspect that Gigi fell into the latter category.
“What have I missed?” he asked.
“Nothing yet.” Martha’s tone was businesslike. “Gigi? Doc said you were running a DNA comparison with the database.”
“He was jumping the gun. I’ll run the test, but it takes time. You’ll know when I know.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because we don’t need DNA markers for basic tissue identification. We have a spectrometer that can do that in the field. With respect to species, I can tell you right now that saliva from a mountain lion was deposited on what were human remains. Also saliva identified as belonging to a bald eagle.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Wilkerson opened a drawer and placed a transparent reclosable plastic bag on the table. Martha bent o
ver it, studying what looked like a long stiff hair with a banding pattern. “Is that a mountain lion whisker, Gigi?”
“I think so. That’s one of the reasons I invited McGregor, who’s standing right behind you.” She looked past Martha’s shoulder and smiled.
The state biologist from region three tipped an imaginary cap as she approached the group, belly first, for she was well along in her pregnancy. She shook Martha’s hand, kissed Wilkerson on the cheek, and pressed the palm of Sean’s hand against the swelling. “Almost cooked,” she said. “Dinger’s set to go off in a month. Yep, April sex. What else is there to do in the spring except get stuck in the mud?”
Martha’s false smile was the smallest of gestures. She handed the plastic bag to the biologist.
“It’s a cat whisker,” McGregor said. “I can tell that much. Puma concolor, I can’t say. That’s a cougar or mountain lion to you lay types. But it could also be a lynx whisker. Bobcat, I doubt. Their whiskers are shorter. Where did you find it?”
Wilkerson told her that it had been on the housecoat found with the body. McGregor nodded. “They’re brittle. You often find them at kill sites. The whiskers are so sensitive they actually help the lion position its bite. I got a video of a lion killing a bighorn sheep, a ram. You can slow-motion it way down and actually see the lion’s whiskers vibrating against the sheep’s throat. Pretty cool.”
But, Martha thought, like the saliva identification, the whisker was no more than corroborative evidence that a cat was at the scene. “Anything else, Gigi? We’re assembling a task force and I’ve agreed to give a statement to the media this afternoon.”
“Well, I have some irons in the fire, DNA-wise. I’d say a couple days. You’re first on the list when I have the results.”
“Anything you can tell me now?”
“The victim had breast implants. One was missing; the logical explanation is the cat ate it. The other was excised very neatly, probably with one claw. My guess is it didn’t like the taste of the first one—they were silicone implants, not saline—hence the removal of the other.”
“A prostitute with breast implants doesn’t exactly narrow the field.”
“How big were they?” Sean said.
Martha looked hard at him.
Sean shrugged. “I’m trying to put together a picture of the victim. If she chooses small implants, maybe she just wants to enhance her appearance. Wants just enough of a rack to hang her clothes on and figures if God didn’t give it to her, a surgeon can. If she chooses big implants, then she wants to attract men, to please them. She could have low self-esteem.”
“Aren’t we the psychologist this morning?” Martha said.
“I’ve never seen the attraction of big breasts.”
“Good to know,” Martha said.
“No, he’s right,” Wilkerson said. “It’s a valid question. They’re on the smaller side. I called Gary Robson, the plastic surgeon, about an hour ago. Gave him the dimensions and gram weight. He said an implant of this size would up the bra size by only a cup or cup and a half. A woman who was a thirty-two-A might jump to thirty-four-B. I checked the size on a couple bras the victim had in her luggage and they were thirty-four-B. She was still a petite woman.”
“Thirty-six-C, that’s what I’m packing,” McGregor said. “All natural, too. Nothing like a pregnancy to give you killer boobs. I tell Karl to enjoy them while I got them.”
“Let’s get back on track,” Martha said. “Gigi, is there any chance the implant can be traced? Without fingerprints, we’re still looking at a Jane Doe.”
“I put that question to Robson. He said all breast implants have a lot and serial number but that the serial numbers aren’t always physically stenciled on the implants—they’re just in the records. He’s going to come by for a look, but my preliminary doesn’t show any numbers or labeling. But there is something I can leave you with. May be important, may not be.”
“Jesus, Gigi, don’t keep us in suspense.”
“You know I told you we have a spectrometer to determine tissue origin that doesn’t require genetic testing?”
“Yes, it confirmed that a lion ate the remains.”
“Well, we don’t have the victim’s fingers for a print match, but what we do have are two acrylic fingernails. They were buried in the snow near the victim. The color is black, which matches the nail polish found in the trailer. Apparently the nails broke off, possibly in a struggle. The interesting thing is that each nail has a small deposit of tissue adhering to the underside. I ran the tests just before you came over.”
“Lion flesh,” Martha prompted.
“No. It wasn’t lion. The tissue is human.”
There was silence as they absorbed this.
“As in she scratched somebody,” Martha said. And when there was no reply, added, “Well, what do you know?”
* * *
• • •
“WHEN’S THE TASK-FORCE MEETING?” Sean asked.
They were walking to their rigs.
“Four. You’re invited, of course. But I ought to tell you, Buster Garrett will be there. I know you’ve had your differences.”
“We’ve had words,” Sean said.
“As I recall, the last time you had words, you left him lying on a barroom floor in his own vomit.”
“Actually, there weren’t many words. He told people that the next time he saw me, he was going to flush my head in a toilet. I decided to end the suspense.”
“You cold-cocked a drunk.”
“He swung first.”
“You say. But it was his hangout, the witnesses were his cronies. If he’d pressed charges, you would have assault on your record and the county wouldn’t get near you. We wouldn’t be having this discussion.”
“Do we always bicker like this?”
“Only on Wednesdays.”
“Don’t we usually have sex on Wednesday nights, Martha?”
“That’s me forgiving you for nothing you did wrong or me trying to get away from myself. A little of each. And it works, sort of. I seem to get brighter right on through to the weekend. But there’s a desperate quality that shouldn’t be there. We should be celebrating each other, not arguing about things that don’t matter.”
“What do you want to do about it?”
“I don’t know. One difference between men and women is men look for a solution and women just want someone to listen to the problem. And despite popular opinion, I am a woman. So I guess I just want you to listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“I know.”
“Hey, I’ve got an idea. We could move sex up a day to Tuesday. Then maybe you could be on an upswing the rest of the week. Preempt the blues altogether.”
“Are you saying that because today’s Tuesday?”
“Is it? I don’t keep track.”
Martha laughed.
“I guess you can’t blame a guy for trying.” They were at their cars. “Meeting’s in the Trophy Room. Second floor, just down the hall from Judge Brown’s court.”
“Are you going to bring up the fake nails?”
“No, I don’t want to confuse the issue. We have a mountain lion at the scene of a human death. Two and two equals four. As concerns our course of action for right now, anyway.”
“You sure you want me in the same room with Garrett?”
“Considering most everyone will be packing heat, I think we can keep the peace.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Three-Pipe Problem
With four hours and change until the meeting, Sean drove to the T-junction in town without knowing which direction to turn and letting the rig make the decision. He called it “following the wheel,” a term he’d made up as a kid when riding his bike and heading nowhere in particular—and after a moment of indecision, he let up on the clutch and followed the whe
el up Grand Avenue to the Bridger Mountain Cultural Center. His art studio had previously been in room 221A, but when the adjacent room opened up the previous fall, he traded, not so much because it was better digs, though it did have two more windows, but because 221B had been Sherlock Holmes’s address on Baker Street in the stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The number was etched into the stippled glass door, just above the words BLUE RIBBON WATERCOLORS, and below, in discreet script, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.
Reaching the second floor, he saw a man sitting on a bench across from his door. The man rose as Sean approached—he was two or three inches shorter than Sean and looked a few years older, ballpark mid- to upper forties. Silver wings at the temples framed dark, wavy hair that looked like it could withstand a zephyr before losing its part. He wore a worn corduroy sport coat over a button-down shirt that showed fraying at the cuffs. It was professor attire, right down to the elbow patches on the jacket. The smile that creased the man’s cheeks tried for sincerity and faltered, and the hand that Sean shook was clammy.
“Where’s your deerstalker cap, Detective?” the man said.
“It’s hanging on the hat rack in the studio. You’re one of the few people who made the connection.”
“And I suppose you have a big drooping old pipe, too?” The voice had initially been chesty, authoritative, someone used to being a presence in a room, but now it was shaky, followed by a dry cough. Sean saw the Adam’s apple work as the man swallowed.
“Actually, the drooping pipe is called a calabash,” Sean said. “Holmes never smoked one. It was only for the stage. Come inside and I’ll show you the ones he did smoke.” He smiled encouragingly.
The man followed him into the studio. Sean indicated the chair opposite the desk that served double duty as his fly-tying table, and took the facing chair.
“I don’t see a deerstalker hat,” the man said, running his eyes around the room and taking in the artwork.
The Bangtail Ghost Page 5