Bare Bones (22 page)

Zamzow was on a rol .

“Some of these poachers are as blatant as Seventh Avenue hookers. Leave a business card at a hunting lodge saying you want to buy bear gal , they’l phone you right back.”

Ricky Don Dorton. Wilderness Quest. Cocaine. Bears. Exotic birds. Random particles of thought were again seeking each other’s company in my head.

“How do these rings operate?”

“Nothing complex. Contact is made by a poacher via word of mouth or a phone cal to a buyer. The buyer meets the poacher in a parking lot, maybe at an isolated location, and the transaction is made. Poacher gets thirty-five, maybe fifty bucks for each gal , middleman gets seventy-five to a hundred. Street value skyrockets in Asia.”

“Where do the gal s leave the country?”

“A lot traffics through Maine, since that’s one of the few states where it’s legal to sel black bear gal s to Asia. But, again, it’s il egal to sel bear parts kil ed in North Carolina inanystate. Lately Atlanta’s become a big gateway.”

“How are the gal s preserved?”

“Poacher freezes them intact ASAP outta the bear.”

“And then?”

“He turns them over to his Asian contact. Since freshness determines value, most gal s are dried in the destination city. But not always. Some Asian contacts do their drying in the United States so they can transport larger quantities. A gal is about the size of a human fist and weighs less than a pound.

Drying shrinks it to a third that size.”

“How is it done?”

“Nothing high-tech. The gal is tied with monofilament line and hung over a low heat. Slow drying is important. If a gal is dried too fast, the bile is ruined.”

“How are they smuggled out?”

“Again, no mind-bender. Most are transported in carry-on luggage. If the gal s are spotted on a security scanner, the carrier claims he’s bringing dried fruit to his mama. Some grind the gal s up and put them in whiskey.”

“Less risky than smuggling drugs,” I said.

“And very lucrative. A single preserved gal usual y brings about five thousand dol ars in Korea, but prize gal s have sold for as much as ten thousand.

That’s U.S greenbacks we’re talking.”

I was stunned.

“Ever hear of CITES?” Zamzow asked.

“Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species.” That was the second reference in as many days.

“Bear gal s have been classified under Appendix Two.”

“There are bears in Asia. Why come al the way to North America for gal ?”

“Al five Asian bear species, the sun, sloth, Asiatic black, brown, and giant panda are threatened. Only fifty thousand bears are thought to be left in the wild in Asia, from India al the way across to China and down into Southeast Asia.”

“Because of the demand for bile.”

“With the exception of the giant panda, bears are the only mammals that produce significant amounts of ursodeoxycholic acid, or UCDA.”

“That’s what people are paying thousands of dol ars for?”

“That’s it.” Zamzow snorted in disdain. “At least twenty-eight different forms of packaged medicines purporting to contain bear bile are legal y available in China. Singapore has banned the sale of products extracted from bears, but shops stil sel bear bile pil s, powder, crystals, ointments, and whole dried gal s. Crap like bear bile wine, shampoo, and soap hit the market every day. You can find them in Chinatowns across the United States.” Disgust tightened my stomach.

“Can’t bears be raised domestical y?”

“China began bear farming in the eighties. It’s almost worse. Animals are crammed into tiny cages and milked through holes cut into their abdomens.

Their teeth and claws may be filed down. Sometimes their paws are even chopped off. Once the animals stop producing bile, they’re kil ed for their gal s.”

“Can’t UCDA be produced synthetical y?”

“Yes. And many botanic alternatives exist.”

“But people want the real thing.”

“You’ve got it. Popular thinking is that artificial UCDA isn’t as effective as the natural form. Which is ass backwards. The amount of natural UCDA in a bear gal can vary from zero to thirty-three percent, hardly a reliable source of the drug.”

“Long-held cultural beliefs die hard.”

“Phrased like an anthropologist. Speaking of which, why are you interested in Spix’s macaws and black bears?” I sorted through the events of the past week. What to share? What to hold back?

Tamela Banks and Darryl Tyree?

Possibly unrelated. Confidential.

Ricky Don Dorton and the Cessna crash?

Ditto.

Yesterday’s cyber threats?

Probably irrelevant.

I told Zamzow about the findings at the Foote farm, excluding only the part about Tamela Banks’s license. I also told him about the Lancaster County skeleton.

For a ful thirty seconds I listened to nothing.

“Are you stil there?” I asked, thinking we’d been disconnected.

“I’m here.”

I heard him swal ow.

“You at the ME office?”

“Yes.”

“You’l be working awhile?”

“Yes.” Where the hel was this going?

“I’l be there in three hours.”

ZAMZOW ARRIVED JUST PAST NOON. HE WAS A HEAVYSET MAN,probably in his forties, with thick, bristly hair cropped very short. His skin was pasty, his eyes the identical ginger of his hair and freckles, giving him a pale, monochromatic appearance, like someone who’d been born and lived his whole life in a cave.

Seating himself in the chair opposite my desk, Zamzow got straight to the point.

“This may be nothing, but I was going to be passing on my way to the Pee Dee Wildlife Refuge in Anson County this morning, so I thought I’d divert over to Charlotte and lay it on you in person.”

I said nothing, completely at a loss as to what was of such importance that Zamzow felt it needed a face-to-face.

“Five years back, two FWS agents disappeared. One worked out of my office, the other was in North Carolina on temporary assignment.”

“Tel me about them.” I felt a shiver of excitement ripple down my spine.

Zamzow drew a photo from a shirt pocket and laid it on my desk. In it, a young man leaned against a stone bridge. His arms were folded and he was smiling. On his shirt I could see the same badge and shoulder patch that Zamzow was wearing.

I flipped the picture.Brian Aiker, Raleigh, 9/27/1998had been handwritten on the back.

“The agent’s name was Brian Aiker,” Zamzow said.

“Age?” I asked.

“Thirty-two. Aiker had been with us three years when he went missing. Nice fel ow.”

“Height?”

“Tal guy. I’d say six-one, six-two.”

“He was white,” I said, flipping back to the front of the photo.

“Yeah.”

“And the visiting agent?”

“Charlotte Grant Cobb. Odd duck, but a good officer. Cobb was with the service more than ten years.”

“Do you have a picture?”

Zamzow shook his head. “Cobb didn’t like being photographed. But I can request her file if you think it’s warranted. The service has a photo ID of every agent.”

“Cobb is female?”

“Yeah. White, I’d say mid-thirties.”

“What was she working?”

“Operation FDR. Sea turtles.”

“FDR?”

Zamzow shrugged one shoulder. “Franklin wore a lot of turtlenecks. I didn’t pick the label. Anyway, think your unknown could be Aiker or Cobb?”

“Cobb’s out. DNA from the Lancaster bones came up male. But there could be a link. Was Aiker working the sting with Cobb?”

“Not official y, though I know he spent time with her.”

“Tel me what happened.”

“Not much to tel . Six, seven years ago we were tipped about poachers trucking turtles up to Charlotte from the coast, transferring them on to buyers in New York and D.C. Service sent Cobb to try to infiltrate the ring. Figured a female might get inside quicker.”

“How?”

“The usual. Cobb was hanging around places the suspects frequented. Bars, restaurants, some gym.”

“She was living in Charlotte?”

“Had an apartment. One of those month-to-month deals.”

“How was it going?”

“No idea. Cobb didn’t report to me.” Zamzow snorted. “And the lady wasn’t what you’d cal the social type. When she was in Raleigh, Cobb pretty much kept to herself. Guess it’s tough being under-cover in this business.”

“Or being female.”

“Could be.”

“Did Cobb and Aiker disappear at the same time?”

“Aiker failed to show up one Monday in December. I remember. It was cold as hel . We phoned for two days, eventual y busted into his apartment. No sign of him.”

Zamzow looked as though he hadn’t spoken of Aiker in a long time, but had returned to the man many times in his thoughts.

“When we backtracked, last anyone had seen him was the previous Friday. We thought he might have gone through ice somewhere. Checked rivers, dredged ponds, that sort of thing. Nothing. Never found Aiker or his car.”

“Any signs he planned on leaving? Emptied bank accounts? Missing prescription medications?” Zamzow shook his head. “Aiker ordered two hundred dol ars’ worth of fishing tackle over the Net the week before he disappeared. Left fourteen grand in a savings account at First Union.”

“Doesn’t sound like a man intending to take off. What about Cobb?”

“Cobb’s disappearance was harder to nail down. According to neighbors she stayed to herself, kept odd hours, often disappeared for days at a stretch.

Landlord was persuaded to open the apartment a week after Aiker disappeared. Looked like Cobb had been gone awhile.” I thought a moment.

“Were Aiker and Cobb an item?”

Zamzow frowned. “There was talk. Aiker made several trips to Charlotte while Cobb was here. Records showed they talked on the phone, but that could have been business.”

I kept my voice level to mask my excitement.

“The skeleton I examined is tal , white, and male. From what you tel me, Aiker’s age fits and so does the time frame. Sounds like it could be your missing agent.”

“As I recal , the Raleigh PD got dental records on both Aiker and Cobb. Never needed them.” I was so eager to talk to Slidel I nearly hustled Zamzow out of my office. But I had one more topic to broach.

“Do you know an agent named Palmer Cousins?”

Zamzow shifted in his chair.

“Met him.”

I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I asked, “Your impression?”

“Young.”

“And?”

“Young.”

“I talked to Cousins the other night, asked about bear poaching in the Carolinas. He seemed to know very little.” Zamzow looked me straight in the eye. “Your point?”

“He knew nothing about the smuggling of exotic birds.”

Zamzow checked his watch. Then, “Don’t know Cousins myself, but the man attracts his share of admirers.” I found the comment odd, but didn’t pursue it.

“Good luck to you, Doc.”

Zamzow stood.

I stood.

As he turned to go, I picked up the photo of Brian Aiker. “May I keep this?”

Zamzow nodded. “Don’t be a stranger.”

With that, he was gone.

Staring at the chair Zamzow had vacated, I wondered what had just happened. Throughout our conversation, the RAC had been friendly and candid. At the mention of Palmer Cousins, the man closed up like an armadil o poked with a stick.

Was Zamzow holding ranks, refusing to speak badly of a fel ow officer? Did he know something about Katy’s friend that he was unwil ing to share? Was he simply unacquainted with the man?

Tim Larabee interrupted my thoughts.

“Where’s your little pal?”

“If you mean Detective Ryan, he flew back to Montreal.”

“Too bad. He’s good for your complexion.”

A hand rose to my cheek.

“Gotcha.” Larabee made a finger pistol and fired it at me.

“You’re so hilarious, Hawkins may have to rol a gurney in here when I die laughing.” I told him what I’d learned from Wal y Cagle about the Lancaster skeleton, and about my conversations with Hershey Zamzow.

“I’l cal Raleigh. See if someone can drive Aiker’s dental records down,” Larabee said.

“Good.”

“Could be a breakthrough day. Jansen cal ed. Slidel cal ed. Tea party in half an hour.”

“Do they have news?”

Larabee checked, then tapped his watch.

“Main bal room in thirty minutes. Dress is casual.”

The corners of Larabee’s mouth curled upward.

“Your hair’s got a gleam to it, too.”

My eyes rol ed so far back I thought they might never return.

When Larabee moved on, I checked again with Mrs. Flowers. Stil no fax from Cagle.

I gathered and glanced through my message slips.

Jansen.

Slidel .

Cagle.

I tried Cagle’s cel . No answer.

A crime reporter with theCharlotte Observerhad cal ed.

A col eague at UNC-Greensboro.

I tried Cagle again. He stil wasn’t picking up.

I looked at my watch.

Showtime.

Placing the pink slips in the middle of my blotter, I headed for the conference room.

Larabee and Jansen were discussing the merits of the Panthers versus the Dolphins. The NTSB investigator was dressed in jeans, sandals, and a tan cotton tank from Old Navy. Her short blonde hair looked like it had just been blow-dried.

Slidel and Rinaldi arrived as Jansen and I were shaking hands.

Rinaldi was in blue blazer, gray chinos, and a turquoise and lemon Jerry Garcia tie.

Slidel was in shirtsleeves. His neckwear looked like something one got from a Kmart bargain table after the good ones had already been picked.

While the others coffeed up, I helped myself to a Diet Coke.

“Who goes first?” I asked when we’d al taken seats.

Larabee waved a palm in my direction.

I repeated what I’d told the ME about the Lancaster remains, described how I’d gotten the details from Wal y Cagle, and explained the skeleton’s possible link to the privy head and hands. I outlined what I’d learned from Hershey Zamzow and Rachel Mendelson concerning bear poaching and about the il egal trade in rare and endangered species. Final y, I dropped my bombshel about the missing wildlife agents Brian Aiker and Charlotte Grant Cobb.