Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(81)

“Yes again. Which suggests he was alive.”

I pictured the cherry-red blood and organs Larabee would see when he made his Y incision. The slivers of liver, lung, stomach, kidney, heart, and spleen still cherry red when floating in formalin. Still cherry red when sliced into thin sections and placed on microscope slides.

“Remind me. When does the blood-settling thing start?”

“Livor. Within two hours of death. Peaks in six to eight.” Larabee stood. “But it’s cold out here. That would slow the process.”

“The livor in the fingers. That says no one moved the body, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he ain’t in rigor.” Slidell pronounced it “rigger.”

“There’s some stiffening in the smaller muscles of the face and neck. But that’s it.”

“Rigor starts when?”

“In roughly two hours. But low temperatures would slow that, too.” Larabee stood. “I’ll run a full tox screen.”

“Looking for what?”

“Whatever he had in him. People often self-medicate before killing themselves.”

“What’s the story in the house?”

“According to the first responders, the bed was made, the TV and radio were off, there was a single coffee cup in the sink, clean and upside down.”

“No note?”

“No note.”

“Nothing to suggest a visitor.”

“Not last I heard.”

“I’m done with my prelim.” Larabee turned to Hawkins. “Joe?”

Hawkins shot a couple more angles, the flash burning Ajax white-hot onto my retinas. Draped over the wheel, he looked like a man dozing, or drunk after a night on the town.

Slidell and I stepped outside. Hawkins positioned the gurney as close to the car as possible. Then he bent and grasped Ajax by the shoulders. Ajax slid free, lifeless and limp. Hawkins pinned the arms to his chest. Larabee caught the legs before the feet hit the ground. Together they transferred him to the body bag.

Flash recall. Maneuvering Pomerleau from her barrel in Vermont with Cheri Karras.

After collecting Ajax’s glasses and placing them by his head, Hawkins zipped the bag. Then he rolled the gurney to the van, loaded it, and slammed the doors.

I watched the van disappear. Feeling cold inside and out.

“I want to see what this piece of dog shit’s got in his trunk.”

I turned. Slidell was pulling on gloves. After yanking the key from the ignition, he circled to the rear of the Hyundai and jammed it into the lock.

The trunk popped with a soft thunk.

An odor floated out. Sweet, acrid.

Familiar.





CHAPTER 35


IT WAS OUR worst nightmare.

And Ryan’s big bang.

Jaw clamped, Slidell lifted a Ziploc from a cardboard box holding other Ziplocs and a small plastic tub.

Through the clear side of the bag, I could make out four things. A silver seashell ring. A key on a red cord. A yellow ribbon. A pink ballet slipper.

We all stared. Dejected. Appalled. Angry.

“Whose ribbon?” My voice sounded high and taut.

“It don’t matter. This nails the sonofabitch.”

Slidell laid down the bag and chose another. It contained vials filled with a dark liquid that looked like blood. A third held hypodermic needles. A fourth had cotton-tipped swabs, a fifth wadded-up tissues.

“What’s in the tub?” Larabee asked.

Slidell pried off the lid. A noxious odor slapped our nostrils.

“Bloody hell.” Slidell’s head jerked sideways.

“Let me see,” I said.

Slidell extended his arm. Have at it.

Larabee’s breath caught. I think mine did, too.

I saw pale hair floating in muddy brown soup. An unrecognizable mass below.

“It’s some kinda body part, right?”

No one had an answer to that.

“Another souvenir?”

Or to that.

“You believing this? All the time the bastard’s stonewalling us, he’s driving around with this freak show in his car.” To Larabee. “Take the body parts. I’ll send the rest to the lab.”

Larabee nodded.

Yanking off a glove with his teeth, Slidell stormed over to the CSS techs. I couldn’t hear his instructions but knew what they were. Bag and tag everything, impound the car, burn the house down looking for more.

As Larabee sealed the plastic tub into an evidence bag, the techs pulled rolls of yellow tape from their truck and began securing the scene. Slidell hurried to his car and threw himself in.

I watched him gun up the street, mobile mashed to one ear.

Larabee decided to examine the tub first. He didn’t really need me, still asked that I assist. Said if there was anything requiring an anthropology consult, I could proceed with that while he autopsied Ajax.

I agreed willingly. I was jittery and on edge. Knew the annex would feel cramped and claustrophobic, peopled with the ghosts of five dead girls. Maybe six.

Besides, I had no ride home.

We were at the MCME by eight. After changing into scrubs, I met Larabee in the stinky room. Hawkins was busy doing prelims on Ajax, so we’d decided to proceed unassisted.

As I readied the camera, Larabee set the tub on the counter. I asked the case number, prepared labels, and shot pics. When I set the Nikon aside, Larabee gloved and raised his mask. I did the same. He opened the tub. Same stench. Same hair and shit-brown slop.