Speaking in Bones (22 page)

But the subconscious is also a wondrous creation.

An hour later I was wide awake. This time the synapse was clamorous.

I knew whose face I’d be viewing the next morning in stone.

A
breeze was working to stir things up, but with the soft nonchalance characteristic of spring. Sunlight through the magnolias was throwing shifting patterns across the patio bricks.

The early morning beauty was wasted on me. Two hours had passed since I’d phoned Hawkins. I was on fire to get to the lab.

When I arrived, Mrs. Flowers was busy at her gatekeeper post. Flicking her a quick wave, I hurried to change into scrubs.

The concrete was as I’d left it. Except for the layer of chemical remover now coating the silicone sealant.

Not even stopping for coffee, I rang downstairs. Hawkins arrived in minutes. After gloving, he spent an eternity removing the white gook with a small plastic scraper. Finally, the sealant was gone and the cracks were visible.

While I steadied the concrete, which probably accomplished little, Hawkins loosened the clamps. Together, we muscled the mold out of the vise and onto the counter.

“Ready?” he asked.

I nodded.

Simultaneously, we eased up on the pressure. The concrete split along its original cracks. I held my breath as we both tugged backward.

The two sides parted. The liquid rubber coating had done its job. The mold slid easily from the dental stone filling its interior. As we wiggled the detached halves free, I stabilized the cast, then lowered it onto the counter.

The product of our work lay facedown. The head appeared to be reasonably well formed, though dented where air had bubbled or where the concrete had been damaged. Impressions of hair feathered its outer surface.

Using two hands, and again barely breathing, I carefully rolled the cast, then upended it onto the flat base formed by the top surface of the dental stone.

I’ve seen photos of famous death masks, a few originals. John Dillinger. Dante. Napoleon. Mary, Queen of Scots. Each gruesome effigy had captured, in a cold, macabre way, the spirit of the person no longer among the living.

Each viewing had triggered goose bumps like those now puckering my flesh.

Hawkins and I were standing shoulder to shoulder, staring, when Larabee pushed through the door.

“Do we have liftoff?” Seeing the bust, his grin morphed to an O. “Holy bleeding lizards.” Larabee joined us and planted his hands on his hips. “I’ll be damned.”

“Yeah,” I said softly.

The detail far exceeded my wildest hopes. Except for some minor distortion in the eyelids, it was like looking at a face recumbent in sleep. Long slender nose. Prominent cheekbones. Jaw that would have benefited from a less obtuse angle.

“Is it Cora Teague?” Larabee asked.

“No.”

“Any idea who?” Surprised.

“Mason Gulley.”

“Who the flip is Mason Gulley?”

“Do you have a few minutes?”

“Sure.” Looking at his watch. Mind undoubtedly on a body on a table down the hall.

“I’ll meet you in your office. I want to collect my phone and some printouts.”

While Hawkins cleaned up the stinky room, I briefed Larabee on everything that had happened since I’d seen him on Monday. Then I showed him my iPhone image of the G. H. Fox plate.

He studied the screen, brows V’ed low over his nose. “The facial looks like a shot from one of those old-timey photo booths.”

“It’s a page from a historic medical text. The pictures were taken by a Bellevue Hospital photographer named Oscar Mason.”

I showed him photocopies of images I’d downloaded from the Internet. He viewed them, then turned back to the phone.

“Who’s the subject?”

I told him about Edward Gulley. And Mason. And Susan Grace.

“I’ll admit, there’s a resemblance to your cast. But how can you be certain it’s this kid Gulley?” Clearly dubious.

“Ever hear of Naegeli-Franceschetti-Jadassohn syndrome?”

“Refresh me.”

“NFJ syndrome is a genetic condition, inherited as an autosomal dominant.”

“So if a parent has it, each child has a fifty percent chance of inheriting.”

“Yes. People with NFJ syndrome sweat very little or not at all, so hot weather and intense physical activity are not well tolerated. An affected individual may have dark spots on the abdomen, chest, or neck. Sometimes around the mouth and eyes. The discolorations are lattice-like in patterning, and tend to appear between the ages of one and five. They may fade during the teen years or persist for life.”

“I see the abnormal pigmentation.” Larabee, still eyeing Edward Gulley. “Reticulate.” Referring to their netlike appearance.

“Other symptoms include thickening of the skin on the palms of the hands and soles of the feet, brittle fingernails, and, less frequently, nails that are poorly aligned on the big toes.”

“Check all of those boxes.”

“Dental anomalies are common, including missing teeth, yellowed and spotted enamel, early cavities, and early tooth loss.”

“I see all of that. But to conclude that—”

“Another defect associated with NFJ syndrome is absence of fingerprints.”

The brows V’ed up. “Oh.”

“The thumb and fingertip from the Burke County overlook had no prints.”

“What’s the population incidence of NFJ syndrome?”

“It’s estimated to be one in two to four million.”

“Pretty good odds.”

“Yes.”

“So it’s likely Mason Gulley’s head was in that bucket.”

“Yes. The fine blond hair from the swabs. Witness statements that Mason was odd. Grandma Gulley’s assertion that he was unnatural. The death mask resemblance to the photos of Edward Gulley. The lack of prints on the pine tar fingertips, assuming they’re his. It all points to NFJ. Thus, to Mason.”

“So
all
the other remains found so far are his?”

I raised both palms. “All the bones are consistent in terms of age and body size. There are no duplications. I can’t say they’re all from the same person. I can’t say they aren’t.”

“Will a maternal Gulley relative provide a DNA sample?”

“Not a chance with Grandma. Susan Grace is a minor.”

Larabee considered. “So it’s still possible parts of Cora Teague were also recovered.”

“Or someone else.”

“I’m sensing you don’t think so.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You know it’s not enough.”

“I know.”

“We won’t be giving an NOK notification.”

“No.”

Larabee drummed reflective fingers on the arm of his chair. “It’s pretty clear Gulley was murdered.”

“His head was in a bucket.”

“Any thoughts on that?”

I shared Susan Grace’s comments on Cora Teague, the fatal “fall” of her brother Eli, the SIDS death of the Brice baby. Then asked, “Who was the ME up there back then?”

“Avery County has a coroner,” Larabee said.

“Great.” Unlike medical examiners—doctors in most, though not all, cases in North Carolina—coroners could be anything from a mechanic to a mortician.

“Not sure who the wise voters had in office in 2008 or 2011. Let me look into it.”

“What’s up with Strike?” I asked as Larabee jotted a note.

“Haven’t heard word one from Slidell.”

“He planned to interview Wendell Clyde this morning.”

“The battle of the websleuths.” Larabee gave a tight shake of his head.

“The Internet exchanges between Strike and Clyde were vicious.”

“Shall we make Skinny’s day?” Leaning forward to punch keys on his phone. Two rings, then “Slidell.”

“Tim Larabee here.”

“Can’t talk, Doc. I’m at a scene.” Racket carried through the speaker. A slammed door. The distant wail of a siren. Agitated voices.

“How about a quick update on Hazel Strike?”

“That soap opera just took a new twist.” We waited as Slidell barked an order at someone. “I’m in a condo off Carmel Road, looking at a whole lot of brains on a wall. Selma Barbeau, seventy-two, Caucasian female, widowed, living alone. Some bastard rearranged her face with the Brooklyn Smasher she kept by her bed for protection.”

Larabee’s eyes met mine. “Barbeau was murdered with a baseball bat?”

“Eeyuh.”

“You think it’s the same guy who killed Hazel Strike?”

“Naw, Doc. Widow ladies get bludgeoned on my beat all the time.”

I scribbled a name and raised the paper for Larabee.

“Have you interviewed Wendell Clyde yet?” he asked.

“Clyde’s cooling his heels downtown. Not looking good as our doer anymore, but a little sweat’ll improve his attitude.”

I congratulated myself for not commenting on Slidell’s contradictory imagery.

Back in my office, I was about to hit speed dial on my iPhone when the thing vibrated in my hand. Unidentified caller. Not sure why, but I answered.

“Hi, Mom. This has to be very brief.”

“Oh, God. Katy! I’m so happy to hear your voice.” She sounded a million miles off. I pictured her in a call center, an M16 slung over one shoulder, a line of soldiers waiting at her back.

“How are you? Is everything okay? Do you need anything? I can send a package.” So fast I was almost babbling.

“I’m good.”

“How’s Afghanistan?”

“Perfect today, better tomorrow.”

“Funny. Is it still cold?”

“We hit eighty degrees yesterday.”

“You’re sure you don’t need anything?”

“Mom, I’m good. My unit is moving out. I just wanted to call and say hi.”

“Moving out?” Calm.

“No big deal. But it may be hard to phone for a while.”

“A while?” Absolutely calm.

“Not long. Anything new on the home front?”

I’d told Mama. It seemed only fair to tell Katy. And prudent. “Andrew Ryan has asked me to marry him.” I didn’t add that he’d done it months ago.

A splinter of a pause, almost unnoticeable. Then, “And?”

“I haven’t given him an answer.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you love the guy?”

“Yes.”

“So why are you stalling?”

“I wouldn’t call it stalling.”

“What would you call it?”

“Thinking.”

“Are you still skittish because Dad burned you?”

“No.” Yes.

“It was a dick move, but that doesn’t mean Ryan will cheat.”

“No.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Go for it.”

“That was quick.”

“Someone has to be. Does Grandma know?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“Go for it.”

“Gotta love Daisy.”

“Mmm. Have you talked to your dad?”

“I’m going to call him now. So I should go. Love you!”

“Love you, too, sweetheart. Stay safe.”

“Always.”

She disconnected.

I took a moment to come down. Then, feeling a mix of elation and alarm, which I carefully hid, I phoned Ramsey.

Like Slidell’s, Ramsey’s voice came riding a tumult of sound. He was also mopping up after violent death. His encounter involved a Buick, a Bronco, and a bottle of Jack D.

Over the intermittent sputtering of his radio, I told him about Mason Gulley. And about Slidell’s new theory concerning Hazel Strike. Ramsey must have picked up on something in my voice.

“You’re not buying that Strike’s murder is unrelated to what’s gone on up here? To her investigation into Cora Teague?”

“No.” A sudden thought struck me. “I think Strike was in Avery County last Saturday. When we were together in Burke, she had issues with you. Do you suppose she could have sent that boulder our way?”

“Why?”

“To distract us? Because we pissed her off? Because she was crazy?”

“Or could Wendell Clyde be our guy? Maybe thinking Strike was down there with us?”

Always questions. Never answers.

“Any success with the impressions?” I was referring to the hollow vacated by the rock.

“Tool mark guys are saying crowbar.”

“Any particular kind?”

“No.”

Great. That narrowed the possibilities to roughly ten zillion.

“The Devil’s Tail bucket definitely contained Mason Gulley’s head,” I said, as much to organize my own thoughts as to continue briefing Ramsey. “And I’m sure the Burke County thumb and fingertip were his. That suggests that the original torso bones from Burke are also Mason’s. Which leaves only the Lost Cove Cliffs material.”

“You hear back from the WCU prof on that?”

“No.”

We both waited out a loud burst of static. Ramsey must have turned down the volume, because the crackling grew more muted.

“So someone cut this kid up and tossed his body parts from at least two, maybe three overlooks.”

“Looks that way,” I said.

“Who?”

“I’m not liking what I’m hearing about Cora Teague. Dead sibling. Dead baby. The she-devil ref.”

“Killer, not vic.” Ramsey’s tone suggested he’d been dipping his toe in the same murky waters.

“Maybe we’ve been going at it all wrong.”

I heard him inhale deeply. Exhale. “What do you propose?”

“I’ll try again to contact the anthropologist who did the analysis on the Lost Cove Cliffs remains. I’ll also phone our DNA folks to see if they’ve had any luck sequencing anything. I’d sure as hell like to know if we’re looking at a single victim.”