A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(113)

Rising, I went to the bedroom, dug an item from my suitcase, and returned to the window. The warm ginger sunset wrapped the little elephant-headed deity lying in my palm. Ganesha, the remover of obstacles. The god of beginnings. Even with one tusk. For a very long moment, I just gazed at him. He gazed back. Challenging me?

OK, old friend. I accept. I will blend my life with Ryan’s and set forth on a new course. Leading to a strengthened bond? To a sad ending? Hard to know.

A horn honked far below on Sherbrooke. Another answered.

My thoughts drifted back to Body. He claimed he was free to spew any cockamamie theories or toxic falsehoods he chose. Sadly, he was right. And the world was worse for it. But he wasn’t free to pander the abuse of children for the sick pleasure of pedophiles. To line his pockets by exploiting the vulnerability of people living in poverty. To harm kids. Happily, Slidell and I had helped shut him down.

Jahaan Cole was dead, the location of her body as yet unknown. Unger or Body was responsible. Perhaps both. I had confidence Slidell would sort that out and that justice would finally be served.

Timothy Horshauser remained missing. Others. Body and his cronies claimed to know nothing about their disappearances. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they did. We might never find out.

So many unknowns. But one thing was certain. Slidell and I wouldn’t stop looking. Despite his bluster and bullying and bad suits, Skinny was one of the good guys.

I’d continue to search for clarity, for answers. For health. For happiness with Ryan.

And, always, I would search for the missing children.





FROM THE FORENSIC FILES OF DR. KATHY REICHS


A Conspiracy of Bones provides a peek into the field of forensic entomology via a fleeting reference to Ophiocordyceps camponoti-balzani. Zombie ants. (Seriously. Check them out.) Why mention ants here? Because I’m a bit like the wee buggers, my feelers always out and sniffing for fresh booty, be it from a case at the lab, a newspaper or journal article, or an incident related to me by a colleague. Anything I do, read, hear, or see can be grist for the next Temperance Brennan novel.

My writing process unfolds in three phases. First comes the ant phase, when my mind collects and stashes tidbits. Some info is so timely and compelling that a book practically writes itself. Other items must germinate a while, intermingling and cross-pollinating until an idea for a plot line arises from the cerebral mix. Then I move to the paper phase, making lists, drawing charts, scribbling outlines, and testing whether the potential story has the muscle to grow into a book. What if this occurs? I ask myself. What if that? What setting? What contemporaneous happenings in our heroine’s life? When all the weaving and twisting and juxtaposing are done, and questions of plausibility have been considered and potential winners selected, it’s on to the computer phase. Bum to the chair, eyes to the screen, fingers to the keyboard.

A Conspiracy of Bones was no exception. The ant gathering began years ago when a friend shared her misgivings concerning the sinking of the ferry Estonia. Too busy with a new job to continue studying the tragedy, she offered me her trove of research materials. Intrigued, but unable to find that all-important engine to drive a plot line, I let the idea lie dormant for almost a decade.

Also sleeping in my gray matter was an article I’d read about Somerton Man, a real-life death investigation and now a very cold case. Somerton Man’s body was discovered on a beach near Adelaide in the winter of 1948, and the case is described as one of Australia’s “most profound mysteries.” All labels had been cut from his clothing. A pants pocket held a scrap bearing a Persian phrase meaning “it is ended.” Investigators tracked the scrap to a book containing indented writing—phone numbers and encrypted script. Theories were wide-ranging. Was Somerton Man a postwar refugee? An assassinated cold war spy? An eccentric local who’d overdosed or taken his own life? To this day the gentleman’s name and cause of death remain unknown.

Great starters. I could imagine sinister links to the Estonia incident. But Somerton Man had a face and teeth and fingers. A corpse arriving in Tempe’s lab could very well lack such identifiers.

A third tidbit slumbering in the old noggin, as Skinny Slidell would say, was a homicide case I worked on in the mid-nineties. The remains, found in a heavily forested area, were badly decomposed and scattered due to scavenging by bears. My skeletal autopsy suggested a white female in her forties. The profile matched that of a local woman missing several months. The victim’s boyfriend, a recently paroled felon, was eventually convicted of her murder.

Though far from my sole case involving animal damage to bone, the circumstances of this woman’s death touched me deeply. Every murder is wrong, but hers seemed doubly so. She’d fought for her killer’s release from prison. He’d thanked her by taking her life.

The bear-scavenged remains offered useful elements for a Temperance Brennan case: no features, no dentals, no prints. But for this novel I wanted our heroine in Dixie, not the northern woods or South Australia. While we have bears, feral hogs are a real nuisance in parts of North Carolina.

I envisioned a tragedy around which swirled theories of treachery. A body bearing ominous clues. A corpse lacking identifiers. This trio could work. But what about context? What is going on with our heroine?

In the novella First Bones, readers learned of the death of Tim Larabee, Mecklenburg County’s longtime medical examiner. Why not follow up on this misfortune and create a story arc in the manner that we relied on in the Bones writers’ room? How has this loss affected Tempe? Is the new boss an ally? Does the new boss appreciate Tempe’s expertise? Or, to the contrary, does this new person wish her ill? Good stuff. Next.