Fatal Voyage (23 page)

 “Did you have official orders to go there?”

 “No, sir, but ”

 “Did you falsely identify yourself as an official representative of
thendms?”

 “No, I did not.”

 Davenport checked another paper.

 “Did you interfere with local authorities in their search-and-recovery
efforts?”

 “Absolutely not!” I felt heat rise up my neck and into my face.

 “Did you order Deputy Anthony Skinner to remove protective covering
from a crash victim, knowing there was risk of animal predation?”

 “That’s standard protocol.”

 I turned to Earl and Larke. Neither man was looking at me. Stay calm, I
told myself.

 “It is alleged that you broke protocol” Davenport emphasized my word,
“by removing remains prior to documentation.”

 “That was a unique situation requiring immediate action. It was a
judgment call, which I explained to Dr. Tyrell.”

 Davenport leaned farther forward, and his tone grew hard.

 “Was stealing those remains also a judgment call?”

 “What?”

 “The case to which we refer is no longer at the morgue.”

 “I know nothing about that.”

 The insipid brown eyes narrowed.

 “Really.”

 Davenport picked up the cassette, crossed to a TV VCR unit, and
inserted it. When he hit “play,” a ghostly, gray scene filled the screen, and I knew instantly I
was viewing a surveillance tape. I recognized the highway and the entrance to the morgue parking
lot.

 Within seconds my car entered the frame. A guard waved me away.

 Primrose appeared, spoke to the guard, tapped her way to the car, and
handed me a bag. We exchanged a few words, then she patted my shoulder, and I drove off.

 Davenport hit “stop” and rewound the tape. As he returned to his chair,
I looked at the other two men. Both were studying me, their faces unreadable.

 “Let me summarize,” said Davenport. “Following a highly irregular
sequence of events, the specimen in question, the specimen that you claim to have wrested from
coyotes, is now missing.”

 “What does that have to do with me?”

 Davenport picked up another paper.

 “Early Sunday morning, a data-entry technician named Primrose Hobbs
removed fragmented human tissue bearing morgue number 387 from a refrigerated trailer containing
cases in process. She then proceeded to the admitting section and withdrew the disaster victim
packet associated with those remains. Later that morning, Miss. Hobbs was seen transferring a
package to you in the morgue parking lot. That transaction was recorded, and we have just
observed it.”

 Davenport drilled me with a look.

 “Those remains and that packet are now gone, Dr. Brennan, and we
believe you have them.”

 “I would strongly suggest you speak with Miss. Hobbs.” My voice dripped
icicles.

 “That was, of course, our first endeavor. Unfortunately, Miss. Hobbs
has not reported to work this week.”

 “Where is she?”

 “That is unclear.”

 “Has she checked out of her motel?”

 “Dr. Brennan, I realize that you are a board-certified forensic
anthropologist of international stature. I am aware that you have consulted to Dr. Tyrell in the
past, as well as to coroners worldwide.

 I am told that your credentials are unimpeachable. That makes your
behavior in this matter all the more puzzling.“

 Davenport turned to his companions, as if enlisting support.

 “We don’t know why you’ve developed an obsession with this case, but it
is clear that your interest has gone far beyond what is professional or ethical.”

 “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

 For the first time, Earl spoke.

 “Your intentions may be honorable, Tempe, but unauthorized removal of a
victim shows very poor judgment.”

 He dropped his eyes and flicked a nonexistent particle from his
pants.

 “And is a felony,” Davenport chimed in.

 I spoke to the DMORT commander.

 “Earl, you know me. You know I would never do that.”

 Before Earl could reply, Davenport exchanged the paper in his hand for
a brown envelope, and shook two photos from it. He glanced at the larger, laid it on the desk,
then pushed it toward me with one finger.

 For a moment I thought it was a joke.

 “That is you, Dr. Brennan, is it not?”

 Ryan and I were eating hot dogs across from the Great Smoky Mountains
Railroad Depot.

 “And Lieutenant-Detective Andrew Ryan from Quebec.” He pronounced it
Qwee-bec.

 “What is the relevance of this, Mr. Davenport?” Though my face was
burning, I kept my voice frigid.

 “Exactly what is your relationship with this man?”

 “Detective Ryan and I have worked together for years.”

 “But I am correct in assuming that your relationship extends beyond the
professional, am I not?”

 “I have no intention of answering questions about my private life.”

 “I see.”

 Davenport pushed the second photo across the desk.

 I was too stunned to speak.

 “I surmise from your reaction that you know the gentleman pictured with
Detective Ryan?”

 “Jean Bertrand was Ryan’s partner.” Shock waves were passing through
every cell in my body.

 “Are you aware that this Bertrand is being investigated in conjunction
with the Air Trans South crash?”

 “Where is this going?”

 “Dr. Brennan, I shouldn’t have to spell it out. Your” he feigned
indecision over word selection “colleague has ties to a principal suspect. You yourself have
acted” again the careful search “erratically.”

 “I have done nothing wrong,” I repeated.

 Davenport tilted his head and twisted his mouth, neither smiling nor
grimacing. Then he sighed, indicating what a burden this was for all.

 “Perhaps, as Mr. Bliss has suggested, your only offense has been one of
misjudgment. But in tragedies of this nature, with so much media attention, and so many grieving
families, it is of utmost importance that those involved avoid even the appearance of
impropriety.”

 I waited. Davenport began gathering papers.

 “Reports of suspected misconduct are being lodged with the National
Disaster Medical System, the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, and the Ethics Committee of
the American Academy of Forensic Sciences.

 The chancellor of your university will also be informed.“

 Cold fear shot through me.

 “Am I suspected of committing a crime?”

 “We must consider every possibility, painstakingly and
impartially.”

 Something snapped. I shot to my feet, fingers tightening into
fists.

 “There’s nothing impartial about this meeting, Mr. Davenport, and you
have no intention of treating me fairly. Or Detective Ryan. Something’s wrong, very wrong, and
I’ve been set up as some sort of scapegoat.”

 Tears burned the backs of my lids. It’s the glare, I told myself. Don’t
you dare cry!

 “Who turned this meeting into a publicity circus?”

 Red splotches appeared in Davenport’s cheeks, looking oddly out of
place in the bland complexion.

 “I have no idea how the press found out about this meeting. The leak
did not come from my office.”

 “And the surveillance photo? Where did that order originate?”

 Davenport did not answer. The room was deathly quiet.

 I uncurled my fingers and drew a deep breath. Then I impaled Davenport
with a look.

 “I perform my duties scrupulously, ethically, and out of concern for
both the living and the dead, Lieutenant Governor Davenport.” I kept my voice level. “I do not
deviate from protocol. Dr. Tyrell knows that and Mr. Bliss knows that.”

 My eyes moved to Larke, but he looked away. Earl’s attention remained
focused on his pants. I turned back to Davenport.

 “I don’t know what’s going on, or why it’s going on, but I will find
out.”

 I pointed a finger to emphasize every word.

 “I. Will. Find. Out.”

 With that, I turned and walked from the room, quietly closing the door
behind me. The trooper trailed me down the corridor, into the elevator, and across the motel
lobby.

 The parking lot was an encore of my arrival. Though my escort defended
one flank, I was accosted on all others. Cameras rolled, microphones jabbed, and strobes flashed.
Questions were shouted in the round.

 Pushing forward, head down, arms clasped to my chest, I felt more
trapped than I had by the coyote pack.

 At Ryan’s car, the trooper restrained the onslaught with both arms
while I unlocked and opened the door. Then he bullied the crowd back, and I broke free and shot
onto the highway.

 As I drove, my face cooled and my pulse normalized, but a million
questions swirled in my brain. How long had I been under surveillance?

 Could this explain the ransacking of my room? How far would they
go?

 Why?

 Would they be back?

 Who were “they”?

 My eyes flew to the rearview mirror.

 Where in God’s name was that foot? Had someone actually taken it? If
so, for what purpose?

 How did they know it was gone? Who had wanted that foot on Monday?
Why?

 Where was Primrose Hobbs?

 The lieutenant governor’s office was not typically included in the
disaster inquiry loop. Why was Davenport taking such an interest?

 Could I actually be facing criminal charges? Should I obtain
counsel?

 I was completely absorbed in these questions, driving robotically,
seeing and responding to my surroundings, but registering nothing on a conscious level. I don’t
know how far I’d driven when a loud whoop sent my eyes back to the rearview mirror.

 A police cruiser rode my bumper, headlights flashing like a
strobotron.

 I SLOWED AND PULLED ONTO THE SHOULDER. THE CRUISER FOLlowed.

 Traffic whizzed by, normal people on their way to normal places.

 I was staring in the rearview mirror when the cruiser’s door opened and
Lucy Crowe climbed out. My first reaction was relief. Then she put on her hat, squared it
carefully, suggesting this was not a social call. I wondered if I should get out too, decided to
stay put.

 Crowe walked to my car, looking tall and powerful in her sheriff’s
livery. I opened the door.

 “Mornin‘,” she said, giving her inverted nod.

 I nodded back.

 “New car?” She spread her feet and placed hands on her hips.

 “Borrowed. Mine took an unscheduled sabbatical.”

 Crowe was not asking for a license or posing the usual questions, so I
assumed this was not a traffic stop. I wondered if I was about to be arrested.

 “Got something you’re probably not going to want to hear.”

 The radio on her belt sputtered, and she adjusted a knob.

 “Daniel Wahnetah turned up last night.”

 I almost couldn’t ask.

 “Alive?”

 “Very. Knocked on his daughter’s door around seven, had dinner with the
family, then went home to bed. Daughter called me this morning.” She spoke loudly over the rush
of traffic.

 “Where was he for three months?”

 “West Virginia.”

 “Doing what?”

 “She didn’t offer that.”

 Daniel Wahnetah was not dead. I couldn’t believe it.

 “Any developments on George Adair or Jeremiah Mitchell?”

 “Not a word.”

 “Neither really fits the profile.” My voice was tight.

 “Guess this doesn’t help you much.”

 “No.”

 Though I’d never allowed myself to say it, I’d been counting on the
foot belonging to Wahnetah. Now I was back to zero.

 “But I am happy for the Wahnetah family.”

 “They’re good people.”

 She watched my fingers worrying the steering wheel.

 “I heard about the news report.”

 “My phone’s ringing so much it’s now off. I just left a meeting with
Parker Davenport, and there was a crazy media scene outside the Sleep Inn.”

 “Davenport.” She hooked an elbow over the top of the car door.
“There’s

 a real pecker wood

 “What do you mean?”

 She looked up the road, then back at me. Sunlight glinted off her
aviator shades.

 “Did you know that Parker Davenport was born not far from here?”

 “No, I didn’t.”

 She was quiet a moment, lost in memories that were hers alone.

 “I take it you don’t like the man.”

 “Let’s just say his poster’s never going to hang above my bed.”

 “Davenport told me that the foot is now missing and accused me of
taking it.” I had to pause to keep the tremor from my voice. “He also said that a data technician
who helped me take measurements has also disappeared.”

 “Who’s that?”

 “An elderly black lady named Primrose Hobbs.”

 “I’ll ask around.”

 “You know this is all bullshit,” I said. “What I can’t figure out is
why Davenport is gunning for me.”

 “Parker Davenport has his own mind about things.”

 A truck rumbled by, blasting us with a wave of hot air. Crowe
straightened.

 “I’m going to talk with our DA, see if I can’t inspire a push for that
warrant.”

 Something suddenly struck me. Though Larke Tyrell had cited trespass
when he’d banished me from the investigation, the issue of the courtyard house hadn’t been raised
today.

 “I tracked down the owners.”

 “I’m listening.”

 “The property has belonged to an investment group called H&F since
1949.

 Before that it was owned by Edward E. Arthur, before that Victor T.

 Livingstone.“

 She shook her head.

 “You’re talking way before my time.”

 “I’ve got a list of the H&F officers in my room. I could bring it
by your office after I check on my car.”

 “I need to swing by Fontana when I’m done with the DA. We’ve got Fox
Friggin‘ Mulder over there thinks he’s found an alien.” She looked at her watch. “I should be
back by four.”

 I drove back to High Ridge House, feeling feverish with anxiety. To
work off the tension I offered Boyd a jog. I also felt I should make up for breakfast. Not one
for grudges, he accepted with enthusiasm.