Carved in Bone (Body Farm 1)

I looked from one to the other, bewildered. Welton explained, “The Hobbs Act outlaws robbery or extortion that interferes with commerce. It was passed back in 1946 to keep the Teamsters Union from taking over the trucking industry.” I appreciated the history lesson, but I wasn’t sure whether I was getting less bewildered or more. “Marijuana cultivation isn’t legal commerce,” he went on, “but I think we can make the case that in Cooke County, it’s established commerce. A pillar of the underground economy, in fact.” I was beginning to see his reasoning, but could it really be possible that Orbin’s crime was obstructing drug trafficking? “By the way,” he added, “speaking of pot patches, if your friend Vern has booby-trapped his, the way a lot of these backwoods guys do”—I felt a rush of panic on Waylon’s behalf but tried not to show it—“he could be looking at ten years in federal prison for that alone.” I made a mental note to warn Waylon at the first opportunity.

“So tell me about colorful law,” I said. “What’s that?”

“Excuse me? Oh, color of law. The ‘color of law’ statute is something we’ve found useful in prosecuting corrupt law enforcement officers. Basically, it says that if a public official deprives a person of their rights under what’s called ‘the color of law’—that is, using their position and power to commit the crime — it’s a federal offense. By swooping down in that helicopter and committing assault, extortion — hell, even shooting the dog, which probably falls within the technical definition of ‘taking’—this chief deputy has stepped way over the color-of-law line.”

Price nodded. “So maybe we haul in Sky King, hold a ten-year sentence over his head, and get him to turn witness against big brother?”

“Maybe,” cautioned the lawyer, “but be sure you do it right. As a law enforcement officer, the deputy’s considered a highly sensitive source. You’ll need to bring headquarters into the loop before you do it. Probably means you need to create a formal task force.” Price frowned, and I recalled her earlier description of the mountain of paperwork involved.

“Excuse me,” I interjected. “Do you mind if I ask a couple more things?” Price frowned but assented. I turned to Morgan. “Steve, did your TBI techs find anything at my office? Any prints? Any other evidence that might point to the sheriff — or rule him out?”

Morgan shook his head. “As we expected, mostly your prints. Some we haven’t ID’d yet — probably students — but definitely not the sheriff’s or either deputy’s. Your prints on the doorknob were smeared, which means that whoever broke in was wearing gloves.”

“Can’t you get a search warrant and go look for the skeletal material?”

“Look where?” he said. “The sheriff’s office? His house? His brother’s house? The other deputy’s house? The sheds at the cockfight pit?” He shook his head, the former student now reprimanding his professor. “We can’t just go fishing all over Cooke County for it, even if we wanted to. Any judge in the state would hand me my head if I asked for a multiple-choice search warrant.”

I hesitated; this was not going quite as well as I’d hoped. But I had to ask one more question. “There’s another thing I’m wondering about. Concerned about.” I’d promised Morgan to keep our stairwell conversation to myself, but I hadn’t made any such promise about what I saw from the bushes after my first meeting here. I looked at Price. “The last time I was here, I saw a Cooke County sheriff’s deputy coming in as I was leaving.” Price looked daggers at Morgan; he reddened, eyes locked on his notepad. “I assume Deputy Williams is another one of your sources for this investigation. Does that mean I can consider him one of the good guys? It sure would be nice to know that kind of thing.”

Price’s voice rang like case-hardened steel. “Dr. Brockton, this investigation is a matter of strictest confidence — or should be, at any rate.” She shot another glare at Morgan. “You are not, under any circumstances, to speak with any person about any matters under discussion in this room. I thought I made that clear at our first meeting.”

“You did. I just assumed—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t assume anything, about anything or anyone. If you do, you could jeopardize this entire investigation, you could jeopardize your own safety, you could jeopardize the lives of other people. Is that one hundred percent clear this time, Dr. Brockton?”

“Yes, ma’am,” was all I could muster. She spun and left the room, and with that, it seemed, the meeting was adjourned. I got a few awkward glances and head nods as I walked out, but not much more. Morgan silently escorted me past the glassed-in receptionist and as far as the elevator, then left me without a word.

Down in the lobby, Officer Shipley gave me a smile and a wave as I stepped off the elevator. “Hey, Doc, you hear the one about the CIA interviewing people for an assassin’s job?” I held up a hand to fend him off, ducked my head, and got out of the federal building as quickly as I could.

CHAPTER 30

Just seeing Cave Springs Primitive Baptist Church gave me the willies all over again. Even the mortar between the stones seemed to ooze menace.

I swung the truck wide in the parking lot so I could glimpse the opening of the cave. The heavy steel grate remained in place — secured with a shiny new padlock, which seemed odd, since the cave-in had left the tunnel impenetrable anyhow. Although it was midday, I switched on my headlights and flipped to the high beams. Within the blackness of the opening, the light grazed the fringes of the rubble pile that had nearly entombed Art and me.

Circling back to the other side of the parking lot, I parked the truck near the house that adjoined the church. Art and I had guessed that this was the parsonage, where Reverend Kitchings and his wife lived. Most Knoxville ministers these days lived miles from their churches, in upscale suburbs where they blended invisibly with the doctors and lawyers and accountants, but I suspected Cave Springs had more in common with nineteenth-century Knoxville than twenty-first-century Knoxville, and that the pastor—“shepherd,” the word originally meant — still hovered close to his flock. I wasn’t sure I’d catch Reverend or Mrs. Kitchings at home, and if I didn’t, I’d have made a long drive for nothing, but it seemed risky to phone ahead and announce my arrival — either to the couple or to their two excitable sons.

The house reminded me of my grandparents’ home, a simple wooden farmhouse built in the 1920s. A broad covered porch ran the full width of the front of the house. The angle of the roof changed, the slope lessened, where the tin flared above the porch. A dormer window broke the roofline above, letting light into an upstairs bedroom or, judging by my grandparents’ house, an attic crammed with musty furniture and fading mementoes. I wondered if any of those mementoes were of Leena.

The wooden steps had once been gray, but now the paint — where paint remained — had turned the murky color of used mop water. The ends of the porch’s floorboards projected an inch or so beyond the joist that supported them; each weathered end tilted and warped with a mind of its own, giving the edge of the porch the appearance of a mouthful of crooked teeth.

Two rockers — a high ladderback and a lower, spindle-backed one — flanked the front door on either side. The rockers of the ladderback were worn and blunted at their tips, suggesting years of vigorous rocking. The other chair’s rockers were worn in exactly the opposite pattern, ground nearly flat in their central region.

The screen door was slightly ajar, having sagged enough over the years to drag across the floor, etching a pale, paintless quarter-circle to mark decades of comings and goings. I imagined some of them: The family headed to church every Sunday, Tom and Orbin first as toddlers, then as rambunctious boys, then as sullen teenagers. A procession of troubled parishioners — philandering spouses and injured parties, problem drinkers, delinquent youths. A movable feast of roasts, stews, casseroles, cakes, and pies, tasty enough to offset the long hours and low pay that define a country parson’s life.

I tugged open the screen door, adding my own modest mark to the history etched on the floor. The do

or’s rusty spring screeched at exactly the same hair-raising pitch my grandmother’s screen door spring once wailed. My knock on the front door rattled the pane of glass, whose glazing putty was shrunken and cracked with age.

There was no response, so I knocked again, then closed the screen door so as not to seem too pushy. After a pause, I heard slow, creaking footsteps. A lace curtain was pulled back a fraction of an inch, then released, and I heard the click of an old-fashioned lock being opened. An elderly woman frowned at me through the dusty screen.

“Yes?”

“Are you Mrs. Kitchings?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I was hoping I might talk to you for a few minutes. My name is Dr. Bill Brockton, and I’m up here helping your son Tom with a case.”

“What kind of case?”

“Well, it’s an old case that’s just now come to light. The death — the murder — of a young woman I’m told was your niece.”

“Oh, yes — Evelina. Tommy told me Leena had been found. Strangled. After all these years. What a shame.”

“Yes, ma’am. Would you mind if I come in and talk to you about it?”

“Well, I’d have to think about that. Tommy’s the sheriff, and I done told him everthing I know. She just run off one day. We never did know why at the time. Tommy says you figgered out she was expectin’. I reckon that explains it. We never did see her again. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Mrs. Kitchings, I know it’s been a long time, and it might be hard to remember details, but if you wouldn’t mind a few questions, you might just remember something that will help us.” The flimsy screen door was like an impenetrable force field between us.

“Would you mind if I come in for just a few minutes?”

She shook her head. “Not meaning any disrespect, Doctor, but my husband ain’t home, and I don’t let strange men in my house when I’m alone.”

“I’m not quite as strange as I look, and I promise I don’t bite.” She was not amused. “Tell you what — it’s a nice day; how about if we sit out here on the porch in these rocking chairs?”