The Devil's Bones (Body Farm 3)

“Kinda,” she said. “Like the pope is kinda Catholic.”

“Are you okay?”

“I will be,” she said. “Soon as I get a chance to take a long, hot shower and wash the scum off.”

“If he contacts you again, tell me,” I said. “We’ll call the campus police or KPD. The last thing he needs right now is to be any higher on the radar screen of the cops.”

She thanked me and hung up. From what she’d said, it sounded plausible that Stuart Latham had sent the flowers, and the possibility was troubling. Two other possibilities-two other suspects, as I thought of them-had occurred to me, and both of those were troubling as well.

One possibility was Edelberto Garcia, who I still feared might be interested in Miranda as more than a colleague or occasional babysitter. There was something about Garcia’s cool smoothness I didn’t fully trust, although I recognized that it might be jealousy rather than logic that lay behind my suspicions.

The other possibility was Garland Hamilton, and the thought that Hamilton might have sent Miranda the flowers chilled me to the bone. A few months before, Hamilton had locked his sights on Jess, and now Jess was dead. When I considered this possibility, I couldn’t help praying that the flowers had come from Stuart Latham.

By midmorning I was lost in the pages of the latest issue of the Journal of Forensic Sciences-one of my colleagues was fine-tuning a way to estimate age by studying cranial sutures-when I gradually became aware of a soft, insistent tapping sound and then a familiar voice saying, “Doc, mind if I come in?” I roused myself back to the present.

“Sorry. Sure, come on in.” I looked up at the same moment I placed the voice. Steve Morgan walked in, and the sight brought a smile to my face, despite the stress of the past two days. Steve was a TBI agent who’d been a student of mine years before; more recently he’d been part of a joint TBI-FBI investigation into official corruption in the Cooke County Sheriff’s Office.

“I hope you’re here to tell me y’all have caught Garland Hamilton,” I said.

He winced and shook his head. “I wish I were, but I’m not,” he said. “I think you’ll find this interesting, though. We’ve been watching his bank accounts and looking at his credit cards.”

“And?”

“We found a storage unit he rented about six months ago, and inside was something that belongs to you.” He stepped back into the hallway, then reappeared, cradling a cardboard box in his arms. The box was 36 inches long, 12 inches high, and 12 inches deep. I knew the exact dimensions because I had spent years putting skeletons into boxes just like this one. I had a pretty good idea whose skeleton was in this particular box, too: I’d have bet a year’s salary that the box contained the postcranial skeleton-the bones from the neck down-of Leena Bonds, a young woman killed in Cooke County thirty years earlier. I had recovered the woman’s body from deep in a cave in the mountains, where the combination of cool air and abundant moisture had transformed her soft tissue into adipocere, a soaplike substance that preserved her features remarkably well over the decades. Midway through the investigation into Leena’s murder, someone had broken into my office and stolen the box. That someone had been Garland Hamilton.

I motioned toward my desktop, and Morgan set the box down. I raised the lid, which was hinged along one of the three-foot sides. Inside, I saw the bones of a young white female, each bone bearing the case number in my writing. Two parts of the skeleton were missing, as I knew they would be: the skull and the hyoid, both of which I had taken to show my anthropology class the day the box was stolen. The woman’s skull-Leena’s skull-and the fractured hyoid bone from her throat had been buried eight months ago up in Cooke County by Jim O’Conner. O’Conner was now the county’s sheriff, but thirty years earlier he’d been simply a young man who loved Leena, when she was still an innocent girl. Before her uncle had molested her and her aunt had strangled her.

The bones took me back in time, the way the smell of baking bread or fresh-mown grass can take you back to your childhood. For me, seeing a skeleton was like reading a diary-a diary recording injuries, illnesses, handedness, and a host of other parts of life that remained written in the bones long after death. In the room that adjoined my office, I had a library full of such diaries-diaries of life and death. Every one was uniquely fascinating, and I always remembered its details. Every one was uniquely sad, too-Leena’s doubly so. I shook myself free of the memory and looked up at Morgan.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just taking a quick trip down a dark stretch of memory lane.”

He nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Take your time.”

“I’m done,” I said. “You mentioned you were looking at Garland Hamilton’s credit-card receipts. Anything that points to where he is now?”

“No,” he said. “The storage-unit rental was about six months ago, and he paid for a whole year up front. Latest activity”-he hesitated-“was a couple hours after he escaped. A security camera at a SunTrust ATM on Hill Avenue shows him using the cash machine. He got a four-hundred-dollar cash advance and four hundred dollars out of checking. The most the machine would let him get.”

“Where’d he get the cards?”

“I don’t know,” said Morgan. “He didn’t have them in jail, so he must have had them stashed someplace safe and easy to get to. Maybe the storage unit.”

“Weren’t his accounts frozen?”

Morgan shook his head. “If he were bankrolling international terrorism or embezzling millions, the feds would freeze his accounts. Otherwise there’s no legal basis for it. He won’t get real far on eight hundred bucks, but it lets him drop off the radar at least for a while.”

“Any idea where he might be? You think he’s staying put, or do you think he’s on the run?”

Morgan frowned. “Hard to tell. Typically, escaped murderers run, but he’s not typical. He’s smarter than most, and he knows how cops think.”

“So he might run after all,” I said. “Figuring that you guys would expect him not to.”

“Hell, you can chase your tail in circles second-and third-guessing that way. Doesn’t get you anything except dizzy, though. His picture’s all over the media, and we’ve sent an APB to every law-enforcement agency in the country. We’ll get him.”

“I hope sooner rather than later,” I said.

“It’ll be sooner,” he said. “Meantime, though, I was wondering-have you thought about carrying a gun?”

“Me? A gun? When I’m out in the field, I’m generally on all fours, with my butt sticking up in the air.” The description got a laugh from Morgan. “What good would a gun do me?”

“I meant for when you’re not in the field,” he said. “When you’re in the office, or at home. I know you’re not a gun-totin’ kind of guy. But maybe for now, till we catch him.”

In fact, I had already considered it. “You think I’m in danger?” I asked.

He considered that. “Depends on which matters more to Hamilton,” he said, “getting away or getting even. He already tried to kill you once. He might consider that unfinished business-a score he’s got another chance to settle, now that he’s on the loose.”

“Gee, this is making me feel better,” I said.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” he said. “I’m just being realistic. Get a weapon. Hell, you’re a TBI consultant; I’m sure we can get you a permit. We’d just need to take you out to the firing range and get you qualified.”

“Damn,” I said. “I hate this. But if you can make it happen, I’ll do it.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll see what hoops we need to jump through. And I’ll let you know as soon as we find anything on Hamilton.” He shook my hand and turned to go. “Be careful,” he said.

“Sure.”

After Morgan left, I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Cooke County Sheriff,” said a brisk voice in an East Tennessee twang. “Kin I hep you’uns?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m wondering if the sheriff’s in.?

??

“Kin I tell him who’s calling?”

“It’s Dr. Bill Brockton from UT.”

“I’ll tell him, hon,” she said. I felt like I was in a truck-stop café rather than on the phone with a law-enforcement agency.

“Hang on, if you don’t care to.” The expression-which actually meant “if you don’t mind”-made me smile.

Ten seconds later, I heard Jim O’Conner’s voice. “Doc, you all right? I hear things have gotten exciting down there.”

“I’ve had better times, but I’m okay,” I said.

“I’m sorry he’s loose.”

“Not half as sorry as I am,” I said. “Listen, you gonna be around late this afternoon?”

“Should be,” he said. “Unless somebody does some spectacular lawbreaking up here in Cooke County. Which,” he added, “is always a distinct possibility.”

“Mind if I come see you?”

“Come on up. Any particular occasion?”

“Got something to show you,” I said.

“I’ll be here. You remember how to find us?”

“Sure,” I said. “Drive east till civilization ends, then follow the sound of the gunfire.”

He laughed. “Yup, you remember. If something comes up and I can’t be here, I’ll give you a call.”

“Same here,” I said. “It’ll be good to see you, Jim.”

“Be good to see you, too, Doc.”