A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(6)
I still hear the old woman’s words in my head. Bloodsucking trash. Using my sweet baby’s death to glorify her own self. Lord Jesus knows it’s wrong.
Hardin Symes. That was the dead kid’s name.
I later learned that the caller was Bethyl Symes, Hardin’s grandmother. I’d heard of Nick Body, of course, the fiery provocateur. I’d never listened to a Body broadcast or read one of his blogs. I’m not his demographic.
But Bethyl was a regular. And she was incensed that Heavner had made a piss storm, her words, of her grandson’s murder. Exposed her family’s aching heart to the world.
Because of Bethyl, I tuned into the Heavner interview and subsequently launched the missiles that kicked off the feud.
I never heard from Bethyl Symes again.
Agitated, I got out of bed, did some questionable grooming, mostly teeth, then descended to the kitchen. After brewing coffee, I filled the bowl of my judgmental cat. Then I snagged the Observer from the back stoop and settled at the table to scan stories I’d already seen on the internet.
Why the dinosaur approach to news? Loyalty to the kid who’s been tossing papers onto my stoop for the past three years, winging them from his bike with NASA precision. Derek. Derek claims he’s saving up to attend Harvard. Maybe I’m a sucker. The story also gets him a ridiculous holiday tip.
A pileup on I-77 had taken the lives of an Ohio family en route to Charleston for their annual beach week. New condos were going up in South End. The DOJ was opening an inquiry into the finances of a local member of Congress.
Nothing on the faceless man. My real reason for looking.
Another coffee, then I pulled my MacBook Air from my carryall and ran a quick online search. Found no mention of the discovery of human remains near Charlotte.
I puttered until eight. Dishes. Email. A load of laundry. Then, knowing he was a dawn riser, I dialed Hawkins’s mobile. He answered after one ring.
“Shoot.” Hawkins’s normal greeting.
“Is a thank-you in order?”
“For what?”
“Did you text me last night?”
“Nope.”
Surprised, I explained the photos. “Any idea who sent them?”
“Nope.”
“Is the body at the MCME?”
“Yep.” To say Hawkins is taciturn would be the understatement of the millennium.
“What’s the scoop?”
“Guy was pig feed.”
“I was guessing dogs.” One glance at the texted images had told me the mutilation was due to animal scavenging.
“Wild hogs.”
“Where?” When talking to Hawkins, I often adopt his brusque manner. Not a conscious choice, the clipped rhythm just sucks you in.
“Cleveland County.”
I left an encouraging pause. As usual, the ploy didn’t work.
“Body dump?”
“Unclear.”
“When did he roll in?”
“Yesterday.”
“The autopsy will take place on Monday?”
“This morning. I caught it.”
“It’s Saturday. Why the urgency?”
“No idea.”
“Who’s doing the cutting?”
“Heavner.”
“What do you know so far?”
“Stiff’s got no face, no belly, no hands.”
I could hear a television in the background. Hawkins was at home, wherever home was. In all our years together, I’d never asked where he lived. He’d never volunteered.
“So no visual ID and no IAFIS.” I was referring to the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, the FBI’s national database of prints and criminal histories. Sometimes you’re lucky and get a cold hit.
“Nope.”
“Unless the guy’s carrying a license in his pocket, Heavner will need a bio-profile to give to the cops.”
“Social Security card would do.” Clattering overrode the rise and fall of the TV dialogue. Hawkins was either cooking or building something.
“I’ll let you know if I hear from Heavner.” Saying the words made my stomach curl in. I knew Dr. Morgue would never call.
* * *
She didn’t.
Not all morning while the autopsy was under way.
At ten, I went for a long run, pushed myself hard, came back drenched and almost trembling with muscle fatigue. There was no voice message on my mobile. No flashing red light on my answering machine.
I know. More stegosaurus technology. There’s zero reason for keeping the landline. No noble delivery boy. Just habit. Like my old prescription meds, expired and useless but never thrown out.
As the hours ticked by, I kept seeing the images. Kept asking myself who might have sent them. Came up with no plausible candidate. Or explanation.
Heavner didn’t phone at midday, when she and Hawkins probably broke for lunch.
Birdie was still pouting. Mama didn’t check in to see if my head had exploded. Or ablaze with new travel ideas. Though each was the surviving spouse of a long-term marriage, she and the dry-cleaning tsar were planning the mother of all destination weddings. At least, Mama was.
Ryan didn’t ring with news from Montreal.
Time was I could always visualize Ryan’s whereabouts. The Crime contre la personne squad room, eight floors below my lab in the édifice Wilfrid-Derome on rue Parthenais. His condo at Habitat 67, all angles and glass and views of the Saint Lawrence River, Vieux-Montréal on the opposite shore. Since his retirement—another stressor for my curve—I can’t pinpoint him with any precision.