A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(16)
“I’ve got a builder convinced his lawyer is defrauding him out of billions, a single mom wanting the entire life story of a nanny applicant, and parents terrified that their son may be shacking up with his former high school biology teacher.”
“How old is the teacher?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“And the kid?”
“Nineteen.”
“He’s legal to shag the vicar’s grandmère if he wants. Assuming she’s mentally competent and willing.”
“So I’ve informed them. I’m also doing some digging for the SQ.”
Since police detectives are restricted in ways private investigators are not, they sometimes turn to PIs when a case has dead-ended. Ryan didn’t elaborate, so I didn’t ask.
He went on, “I saw LaManche while riding up to the squad room Friday morning. He mentioned some joy waiting in your lab.”
“We talked on Thursday. The case isn’t urgent, probably old cemetery remains.”
“How’s Daisy?”
“Chemo-peachy.”
“Let me guess. She’s considering nuptials in Uganda. Maybe hiring mountain gorillas as waiters.”
“Ushers.” Though currently she’s too busy banging Sinitch to dream up harebrained travel possibilities. I kept that to myself.
“Got big plans for July Fourth?” Ryan asked.
“My stockpile of sparklers is quite impressive.”
“Did you lay in Valium for the birdcat?”
“It’s not Birdie’s favorite holiday. Assuming he doesn’t need therapy, I may bring him along when I fly north.”
“My toes go all—”
“My relationship with Heavner has become a real train wreck.”
Ryan knew our history. “And?”
“I’m considering something that may send it right off the rails.”
I heard faint moaning up the line between Charlotte and Quebec. The hypothetical preacher’s granny?
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“I’m listening.”
I laid down the full version, holding nothing back. As I spoke, I could feel my voice tighten, thread by thread. Ryan didn’t interrupt.
I started with the mysteriously texted images, concluded with the leaked dossier and Lizzie Griesser.
“You don’t know the source of the pics?”
“No clue. I suspect someone was giving me a heads-up.”
“Why?”
“If I knew that, I’d probably know who sent them. Anyway, I spent hours with those and with my photos. None is first-rate. I had to snap mine quickly with just my phone. But it’s obvious Heavner’s wrong on some points.”
“Such as?”
“In one shot, I can see the left upper posterior dentition.”
“The molars.”
“Yes. Every occlusal surface is worn. In another shot, I can see the superior portion of the right pubic symphyseal face. The hogs yanked the two pelvic halves apart, gnawed one, bypassed the other in favor of the viscera.”
“Very accommodating.”
“The angle’s not perfect, but magnified, I can read the age indicators.”
“It’s Johnny Appleseed.”
“Do you want to hear this?”
Chastened silence.
“The man was older than Heavner implied, I’d say in the thirty-five-to-fifty range, probably the upper end of that. And other than black hair, I can’t imagine how she concluded he might be Asian. His features were toast, but the hogs had yanked his scalp back far enough to expose most of his frontal bone—his forehead, orbital ridges, and the area above his nose. The upper nasal aperture, interorbital distance, and orbital shape all suggest the man was Caucasoid. White.”
Ryan blew out a long breath. Disinterested? Disapproving? I didn’t care. I pressed on.
“Also, one shoulder, one hip, and both upper arms have dark blotches I’d bet the farm are hematomas.”
“Bruises.”
“In varying stages of healing.”
“Meaning the guy had either fallen or been struck on more than one occasion. How could Heavner have missed something like that?”
“Who knows? In her defense, the body was pretty mangled, and the lividity was spectacular.” I was referring to the purple discoloration caused by blood pooling in a corpse’s downside.
Ryan started to speak. I cut him off before his question was out.
“But that’s not all. Along with the money and the chewing tobacco—”
“Snus.” Pronounced with Ryan’s version of a Scandinavian lilt.
“What?”
“You said he had an empty tin of G?teborgs Rapé, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a brand of snus.” Lilty.
“I know you’ll explain that.”
“It’s a spicy, smokeless tobacco. Sometimes comes in little paper packets.”
“To stick in your gums.”
“Yes. You don’t chew it or spit it. I think snus is illegal in some parts of Europe. But the Swedes are apeshit over the stuff.”
“Right.” I didn’t ask how Ryan knew that. Or why anyone would want to suck on tobacco. “Along with the snus”—appropriately lilting—“and the cash, there was a scrap of paper in one of the man’s pockets. Looked like part of a blank page torn from a book. One Russian word was scribbled on it. I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll forward the pic.”