Fatal Voyage (38 page)

 There were photos of Charlie Wayne Tramper, and his disappearance and
death were reported in several newspaper articles. Otherwise, there was little in the way of
written information.

 The following days were like the first I’d spent at the Alarka Fire
Department, living with the dead from dawn until dusk. Hour after hour I sorted and arranged
bones, determined sex and race, estimated age and height. I searched for indicators of old
injury, past illness, congenital peculiarity, or repetitive movement. For each skeleton I built
as complete a profile as was possible working from remains devoid of living tissue.

 In a way, it was like processing a crash, where names are known from
the passenger roster. Based on Veckhoff’s diary, I was convinced I had a limited population
because the dates entered in his lists matched precisely the disappearance dates of seniors from
Swain and adjoining counties: 1943, Tucker Adams; 1949, Edna Farrell; 1959, Charlie Wayne
Tramper; 1986, Albert Odell.

 Believing them to be the earliest in time, we started with the four
tunnel burials. While Stan and Maggie cleaned, sorted, numbered, photographed, and X-rayed, I
studied bones.

 I found Edna Farrell early. Skeleton number four was that of an elderly
female whose right cheekbone and jawbone deviated sharply from the midline due to fractures that
had healed without proper intervention.

 Skeleton number five was incomplete, lacking portions of the rib cage,
arms, and lower legs. Animal damage was extensive. Pelvic features told me the individual was
male and old. A globular skull, flaring cheekbones, and shoveling on the front teeth suggested
Native-American ancestry. Statistical analysis placed the skull squarely in the Mongoloid camp.
Charlie Wayne Tramper?

 Number six, the most deteriorated of the skeletons, was that of an
elderly Caucasoid male who had been toothless at the time of his death.

 Save for a height estimate of over six feet, I found no unique markers
on the bones. Tucker Adams?

 Skeleton number three was that of an elderly male with healed fractures
of the nose, maxilla, third, fourth, and fifth ribs, and right fibula. A long, narrow skull,
Quonset hut nasal bridge, smooth nasal border, and anterior projection of the lower face
suggested the man was black. So did the Fordisc 2.0 program. I suspected he was the 1979
victim.

 Next, I examined the skeletons found in the alcove with Mitchell and
Adair.

 Skeleton number two was that of an elderly white male. Arthritic
changes in the right shoulder and arm bones suggested repeated extension of the hand above the
head. Apple picking? Based on the state of preservation, I guessed this individual had died more
recently than those buried in the tunnel graves. The apple farmer, Albert Odell?

 Skeleton number one was that of an elderly white female with advanced
arthritis and only seven teeth. Mary Francis Rafferty, the woman from Dillsboro whose daughter
had found her mother’s house empty in 1972?

 By late afternoon Saturday, I felt confident I had matched the bones
with their proper names. Lucy Crowe helped by finding Albert Odelps dental records, the Reverend
Luke Bowman by remembering Tucker Adams’s height. Six foot three.

 And I had a pretty good idea as to manner of death.

 The hyoid is a small, horseshoe-shaped bone embedded in the soft tissue
of the neck, high up behind the lower jaw. In the elderly, whose bones are often brittle, the
hyoid fractures when its wings are compressed.

 The most common source of compressive force is strangulation.

 Tommy Albright phoned as I was preparing to close up.

 “Find any more hyoid fractures?”

 “Five out of the six.”

 “Mitchell, too. He must have put up a helluva fight. When they couldn’t
strangle him, they smashed his head in.”

 “Adair?”

 “No. But there’s petechial hemorrhage.”

 Petechiae are minute blood clots that appear as dots in the eyes and
throat, and are strong indicators of asphyxiation.

 “Who the hell would want to strangle old people?”

 I did not answer. I’d seen other trauma on the skeletons. Trauma I
found puzzling. Trauma I would not mention until I understood more.

 When he hung up, I went to burial four, picked up the thighbones, and
brought them to the magnifier light.

 Yes. It was there. It was real.

 I collected the femora from every skeleton, and took the bones to a
dissecting scope.

 Tiny grooves circled each right proximal shaft and ran the length of
each linea asp era the roughened ridge for muscle attachment on the back side of the bone. Other
gashes ran horizontally, above and below the joint surfaces. Though the number of marks varied,
their distribution was consistent from victim to victim.

 I cranked the magnification as high as it would go.

 When I focused, the grooves crystallized into sharp-edged crevices,
V-shaped in cross section.

 Cut marks. But how could that be? I’d seen cut marks on bone, but only
in cases of dismemberment. Except for Charlie Wayne Tramper and Jeremiah Mitchell, these
individuals had been buried whole.

 Then why? And why only the right femora? Was it only the right
femora?

 I was about to begin a reexamination of every bone when Andrew Ryan
burst through the door.

 Maggie, Stan, and I looked up, startled.

 “Have you been listening to the news?” Ryan asked, flushed and
perspiring despite the coolness.

 We shook our heads.

 “Parker Davenport was found dead about three hours ago.”

 “DEAD?”

 Emotions snapped inside me. Shock. Pity. Anger. Wariness.

 “How?”

 “A single bullet to the brain. An aide found him at his home.”

 “A suicide?”

 “Or a setup.”

 “Is Tyrell doing the post?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Has it hit the media?”

 “Oh, yeah. They’re pissing their pants for information.”

 Relief. The pressure would lift from me. Guilt. A man is dead and you
think first of yourself.

 “But the thing’s wrapped tighter than the U.S. war plan.”

 “Did Davenport leave a note?”

 “None found. What’s up here?” He gestured toward the autopsy
tables.

 “Got some time?”

 “The crash was due to carelessness and mechanical failure.” He spread
his arms. “I’m a free man.” The wall clock said seven forty-five. I told Stan and Maggie to call
it a day, then led Ryan to my cubicle and explained the Veckhoff diary.

 “You’re suggesting that random elderly persons were murdered following
the deaths of prominent citizens?” He tried but failed to keep the skepticism from his voice.

 “Yes.”

 “And no one noticed.”

 “The disappearances weren’t frequent enough to suggest a pattern, and
the selection of aged victims created less of a ripple.”

 “And this granny-napping has been going on for half a century.”

 “Longer.”

 It did sound preposterous, and this made me edgy. When edgy, I get
mouthy.

 “And gram ps was fair game, too.”

 “And the perps used the Arthur house to dispose of the bodies.”

 “Yes, but for more than just disposing.”

 “And this was some sort of group in which everyone had a code
name.”

 “Has,” I snapped.

 Silence.

 “Are you talking cult?”

 “No. Yes. I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I do think the victims
were used in some sort of ritual.”

 “Why is that?”

 “Come with me.”

 I walked him from table to table, making introductions and pointing out
details. Finally, I took him to the dissecting scope and focused the lens on Edna Farrell’s right
femur. When he’d studied it, I inserted one of Tucker Adams’s thighbones. Rafferty. Odell.

 The pattern was unmistakable. Same nicks. Same distribution.

 “What are they?”

 “Cut marks.”

 “As in knife?”

 “Something with a sharp blade.”

 “What do they mean?”

 “I don’t know.”

 Each bone made a soft thunk as I replaced it on the stainless
steel.

 Ryan watched me, his face unreadable.

 My heels clicked loudly as I crossed to the sink, then walked to my

 cubicle to remove my lab coat and put on my jacket. When I

 returned, Ryan was standing over the skeleton I believed to be the
apple farmer, Albert Odell.

 “So you know who they are.”

 “Except for that gentleman.” I indicated the elderly black male.

 “And you think they were strangled.”

 “Yes.”

 “What the hell for?”

 “Talk to Mcmahon. That’s police work.”

 Ryan followed me out to the parking lot. As I was sliding behind the
wheel, he shot off one more question.

 “What kind of twisted mutant would snatch old people, choke them to
death, and play with their bodies?”

 The answer would come from an unexpected source. c Back at High Ridge
House, I made myself a ham salad sandwich, grabbed a bag of Sunchips and a handful of sugar
cookies, and headed out to dine with Boyd. Though I apologized profusely for my negligence over
the past week, his eyebrows barely moved, and his tongue remained firmly out of sight. The dog
was annoyed.

 More guilt. More self-censure.

 After giving Boyd the sandwich, chips, and cookies, I filled his bowls
with water and chow, and promised him a long walk the following day. He was sniffing the Alpo as
I slipped away.

 I re provisioned myself and took the snack to my room. A note lay on
the floor. Based on the mode of delivery, I suspected it had come from Mcmahon.

 It had. He asked that I stop by FBI headquarters the next day.

 I wolfed down my dinner, took a hot bath, and phoned a colleague at
UNC-Chapel Hill. Though it was past eleven, I knew Jim’s routine. No morning classes. Home around
six. After dinner, a five-mile run, then back to his archaeology lab until 2 A.M. Except when
excavating, Jim was nocturnal.

 After greetings and a brief catch-up, I asked for his help.

 “Doing some archaeology?”

 “It’s more fun than my usual work,” I said noncommittally.

 I described the strange nicks and striations without revealing the
nature of the victims.

 “How old is this stuff?”

 “Not that old.”

 “It’s odd that the marks are restricted to a single bone, but the
pattern you’re describing sounds suspicious. I’m going to fax you three recent articles and a
number of my own photos.”

 I thanked him and gave him the morgue number.

 “Where is that?”

 “Swain County.”

 “You working with Midkiff?”

 “No.”

“Someone told me he was digging up there.”

 Next, I phoned Katy. We talked about her classes, about Boyd, about a
skirt she’d seen in the Victoria’s Secret catalog. We made plans for the beach at Thanksgiving. I
never mentioned the murders or my growing trepidation.

 After the phone call, I climbed into bed and lay in the dark,
visualizing the skeletons we’d recovered from the cellar. Though I’d never seen an actual case, I
knew in my heart what the strange marks meant.

 But why?

 I felt horror. I felt disbelief. Then I felt nothing until the sun
warmed my face at 7 A.M. Jim’s photos and articles lay on the fax machine when I arrived at the
morgue. Nature, Science, and American Antiquity. I read each and studied his pictures. Then I
reexamined every skull and long bone, taking Polaroids of anything that looked suspicious.

 Still, I could not believe it. Ancient times, ancient peoples, yes.

 These things didn’t happen in modern America.

 A sudden synapse.

 One more phone call. Colorado. Twenty minutes later, another fax.

 I stared at it, the paper trembling slightly in my hand.

 Dear God. It was undeniable.

 I found Mcmahon at his temporary headquarters in the Bryson City Fire
Department. As with the incident morgue, the function of the FBI office had changed. Mcmahon and
his colleagues had shifted their focus from crash to crime scene investigation, their paradigm
from terrorism to homicide.

 Space formerly occupied by the NTSB was now empty, and several cubicles
had been merged to create what looked like a task force squad room.

 Bulletin boards that had once featured the names of terrorist groups
and militant radicals now held those of eight murder victims. In one cluster, the positive IDs:
Edna Farrell. Albert Odell. Jeremiah Mitchell. George Adair. In another, the unknown and those
still in question: John Doe. Tucker Adams. Charlie Wayne Tramper. Mary Francis Rafferty.

 Though every name was accompanied by a date of disappearance, the
amount and type of information varied considerably from board to board.

 On the opposite end of the room, more boards displayed photos of the
Arthur house. I recognized the attic cots, the dining room table, the great room fireplace. I was
examining shots of the basement murals when Mcmahon joined me.

 “Cheerful stuff.”

“Sheriff Crowe thought that was a copy of a Goya.”

 “She’s right. It’s Saturn Devouring His Children.”

 He tapped a photo of the raft scene.

 “This one’s by Theodore Gericault. Know him?”

 I shook my head.

 “It’s called The Raft of Medusa.”

 “What’s the story?”

 “We’re checking.”

 “Who’s the bear?”

 “Same answer. We ran the name but came up with zip. Can’t be that many
Baxbakualanuxsiwaes out there.”

 He removed a thumbtack with his nail and handed me a list.

 “Familiar with anyone on the playbill?”

 “The names from the tunnel walls?”

 “Yeah. Special Agent Rayner’s working them.”

 Three folding tables lined the back of the room. One held a computer,
the others cardboard boxes, each marked with date and provenance:

 Kitchen drawer L3. Living room, north wall bookcase. Other boxes were
stacked on the floor.