A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(28)

For me, Independence Day was flags and sparklers and the Colonel’s chicken with friends at Lake Norman. A brief respite from days of tension and frustration.

The faceless man began his second week on a stainless-steel gurney in the morgue cooler. Still nameless.

Heavner didn’t call. Ditto Slidell. Pete.

The annex remained unnervingly quiet. My only progress came with the thumb-drive photo I’d snapped and then forgotten thanks to Art and his shotgun. The Cyrillic word Медицинские translated to “Medical.” I had no idea the significance of that.

Friday, everything changed.

It started with an early-morning email from Lizzie Griesser. A one-line message. Cactus time!

I clicked open the attachment. And actually did an arm-pump in the air.

Of course, Slidell didn’t answer his phone. He returned my call at nine thirty.

Before I could share my news, he let fly.

“Don’t chew my ass. I didn’t check in because I been busy.”

“You ran the name Felix Vodyanov?”

“No missing-persons report. No BOLO. No criminal record. No military. No passport or visa info. No prints. Nothing in any database I checked.”

“No dental or medical dossiers.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Did you reach out—”

“To Timbuktu and back. Local, state, federal. It’s like the asshat doesn’t exist.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Eh.”

“Could it be Vodyanov’s a foreign national?”

“There’s no record of anyone with that name entering the U.S. But my guy came through on the thumb drive. Gonna cost me a bottle of Stoli.” Slidell paused. Messing with my head? “The thing had one file, not password-protected, not encrypted.”

“Not a list of Russian sleeper cells.”

“A list of prescription drugs.” I heard paper rustle. “Depacon, Zoloft, Seroquel, couple others.”

Depacon is an anticonvulsant sometimes used as a mood stabilizer. Zoloft is an antidepressant. Seroquel is an antipsychotic. “Vodyanov must have had mental issues,” I said.

“The thing also had info on a doc.”

“Name?”

“A. Yuriev. He’s licensed but does mostly homeopathic wellness and stress-management crap.”

“Where does Yuriev practice?” I was surprised my voice sounded so calm.

“You’re gonna love this. He’s on staff at some sort of Buddhist monk spa outside Winston-Salem. A joint called Sparkling Waters.”

“An ashram?”

“Advertises itself as a spiritual retreat and healing center. Whatever. Yuriev don’t sound Indian to me. I’ll drop a dime.”

“No.” Too quick. “We should drive up there.”

“He’ll pull that doctor-patient crap.”

“That’s why we should go. Catch Yuriev off guard.”

No response.

“We have to give it a try. Felix Vodyanov could be the first break in the Jahaan Cole case.”

“We don’t know who wrote the code for the kid in the notebook.”

“You got any better leads?”

Again, he said nothing.

“I have something that could resolve whether Vodyanov is the faceless man.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain on the way.”

A stretch of decidedly dubious silence. Then, “This better be good.”



* * *



Slidell tossed the printouts sideways. I caught them as he put the SUV into gear and gunned from the annex.

“You’re blowing my mind, doc. For years, you been preaching that DNA’s only good for comparing.”

“Until recently, that’s been the case. An unknown sample was useless in the absence of a ‘possible.’ A name. We had to know whose home or family to go to. Whose toothbrush to collect.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know the drill.” Circling a wrist. “Cops bag leftovers from a scene, a vic, or a suspect, then some lab rat compares the sequencing from that stuff to sequencing from stuff obtained from a known person. The profiles match or they don’t.” More wrist. “A billion to one this, a billion to one that.”

“Yes. Comparative results are stated as statistical probabilities that the materials came from the same individual or a related individual.”

“So what’s this face you got from Lizzie whoever?”

“Lizzie Griesser.”

“She produce those pics?” he asked, gesturing at the pages in my lap.

“And the profile.”

“Yeah?”

Interpreting this as interest, I took a moment to simplify in my head.

“The power of DNA is expanding beyond mere comparison. Lizzie and her colleagues have identified SNPs, single nucleotide polymorphisms—”

Slidell’s Ray-Bans swung my way. “Don’t do it, doc.”

“Think genes that affect facial features and shape, skin, eye, and hair color, that kind of thing.”

“You saying what I think you’re saying? They can tell an unsub’s race?”

“They prefer to think in terms of biogeographic ancestry.”