A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(9)

The adrenal buzz gave way to heat, a flush that crawled up my throat and spread across my cheeks.

“How’d the guy die?” Gerry.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss cause of death.”

“You thinking murder? Suicide?”

“Same answer.”

“You organized this party. What can you discuss?”

“My office will provide further information as it becomes available.” Heavner hesitated, probably for effect. Then, doing earnest and forthright, “In the interest of the soonest possible closure, there are a few details I’m willing to share.”

My fingers tightened on the car keys forgotten in my hand.

“Oddities that might mean something to someone reading or hearing about them.”

Gerry tried to interrupt. Heavner ignored him.

“The man carried no credit cards, license, or any form of identification. He had no wallet, but a roll of cash totaling over two hundred dollars. The only other item in his possession was a can of Swedish chewing tobacco, brand name G?teborgs Rapé. His shoes appear to be of European origin. His clothing is high-end. The shirt is ecru linen with small ivory buttons. The pants are tan, a wool-cashmere blend. The boxers are made of high-quality black silk.”

A pregnant pause. A nuanced gaze.

“The labels had been removed from every garment. The tobacco can yielded not a single print. The roll of cash was made up of both euros and dollars.”

Heavner awaited their eager reaction. They only stared at her, confused. Then the elf launched a somewhat listless volley of questions. Others tagged along.

“The labels were cut off?”

“That appears to be the case.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why no prints on the can?”

“I don’t know. The outer surfaces are smooth, and the can was protected from the elements inside a pants pocket.”

“Did the man die where his body was found?”

“I can’t comment on that at this time.”

“Why not?”

“If the guy was mugged, why leave the two hundred bucks?”

“Why, indeed.”

“How’d he get out to this creek?”

“That, too, is a mystery. Thank you for your patience.” Heavner flicked a wave, turned, and disappeared through the glass doors at her back.

The FOX 46 reporter spoke into a camera, probably handing over to her anchor.

My bullshit monitor was banging like a kettledrum.

Heavner had called a presser. Before I’d arrived, she’d explained where the body was found. Was she really engaging the media in the hope someone would come forward? Was I again being paranoid? Misjudging her motives?

Or were my instincts correct? The grisly allure of feral hogs and a faceless corpse. The high drama of missing labels and strangely absent prints. Was Dr. Morgue at it again? Had her performance been Act I in a limelight-grab leading up to a new book launch?

Screw that.

Ignoring a voice screaming that this was a bad idea, I entered the front door, dropped my purse in my office, threw on a lab coat, and hurried through additional security and down the bio-vestibule to the large autopsy room.

One table was occupied. I crossed to it and drew back the blue paper sheeting covering the body.

The faceless man lay naked on the stainless steel, his flesh jarringly pale under the cruel fluorescents.

Wasting no time, I pulled my iPhone from my pocket and, beginning at his head and working toward his feet, started snapping pics. When I’d finished with the corpse, I moved to the counter and took a series of shots of the man’s clothing and belongings. Then I laid down my phone and pulled on latex gloves.

Hawkins arrived as I was digging a swab kit from a drawer. He looked his usual zombie self—tall and skeletal, with dead-black hair oiled back from a face centering on a bony nose, gaunt cheeks, and wire-thin lips. I couldn’t have guessed his age. Sixty? Eighty? For years, the joke at the MCME was that Hawkins had died in the eighties and no one had noticed.

Cocking one quizzical brow, Hawkins watched without comment as I scraped a sample from the open thorax of the faceless man.

“You really didn’t text me pics of this guy?” I asked, voice low.

“Nope.”

“Any idea who might have sent them?”

Hawkins wagged his head no.

“Who had access to him?”

“A few folks.”

I knew that was true. I’d been running through a mental Rolodex of suspects. An MCME pathologist. Another death investigator. A first responder at the scene. A tech manning the transport vehicle. The kids who discovered the body. But none of those felt right. And the sender had to be someone with access to my mobile number.

“Appears the boss lady’s angling for a spot on Dateline.” Hawkins also spoke mezza voce.

“Not if I can block her.” Placing the swab in a tube.

“Maybe I can smoke out your mole.”

“You’ll ask around?”

“Diplomatically.”

I glanced at Hawkins. “I don’t want to jam you up.”

“Won’t happen.”

I’d barely tightened the vial’s cap when a voice spoke at our backs, nasal and whiny. As I slipped the sealed specimen into my pocket, Hawkins discreetly palmed my mobile from the counter.