LC 02 - Questionable Remains (16 page)

"I appreciate it, Paul. I'm sorry it's so much trouble."

"No trouble. Judd and I never liked the Fergusons. We
went to school with some of the older boys. None of them's
ever been any good. Don't like reporters much either, so I
guess we can take care of all of them."

Lindsay smiled again. "What do the reporters want? I
can't imagine I'm that interesting a news item."

"Denny's lawyer's kind of keeping the whole thing in the
news as much as she can. Anytime there's a slow news day,
the reporters come over here. I don't think there's much to
it. The last time, one called on the phone wanting to know
something about a killing at a site you were working on."

How news travels, thought Lindsay. Paul didn't ask
Lindsay what it was about, and she didn't volunteer any
information.

"Thanks for taking care of my house," she said again.

"No problem. You take care, and don't worry. We have
things covered here."

She hung up the phone. Her mind turned to Gil Harris,
wondering if his death was connected to the unfortunate
Ken Darnell, if Grace Lambert was right, and Ken's wife, or
someone, had killed him. Lindsay put on her nightshirt and
lay down to a restless sleep. Tomorrow she would drive to
Ellis County and talk to the authorities in person about the
death of Ken Darnell.

THE ONLY CORRESPONDENCE the Lamberts had
received about the death of Grace's brother came from
Tucker Prescott, the coroner of Ellis County, Tennessee.
Lindsay doubted that Tucker Prescott would answer any
questions from her if she just walked in off the street, so she
had asked the coroner of her home county to fax her a letter
of introduction. Dressed in beige blouse, light brown skirt,
and matching jacket, and her hair up in a French twist, she
drove to the Ellis County coroner's office.

The office was in a small white house next to a large redbrick steepled courthouse. The reception area was freshly
painted white with robin's-egg blue trim around the windows, the floor, and the ceiling molding. Someone had hung
lace curtains. A table by a window held freshly cut flowers
in a white hand-painted vase. A woman in her mid-fifties
with gray hair wearing a pink polyester pantsuit was sitting
behind the desk, typing. Lindsay waited by the woman's
desk. When she came to the end of a paragraph, she looked
up at Lindsay and smiled.

Lindsay held out her hand. "I'm Lindsay Chamberlain, a
forensic anthropologist." She handed the woman the letter of
introduction with her card paper-clipped to it. "I don't have
an appointment, but I would like to see Tucker Prescott."

"He's not in at the moment. He's due back soon, if you'd like to wait." The woman pointed in the direction of three
wooden hardbacked chairs against the wall. Apparently,
they discouraged people from waiting very long.

"Thank you," said Lindsay, and took a seat. The woman
resumed her typing. "Did you do the china painting?"
asked Lindsay, gesturing to the vase. "It's very nice."

The woman stopped typing and gave Lindsay a broad
smile. "Yes, I did. I do quite a lot of china painting. It's very
relaxing. I'm not a great artist, but it passes the time."

"Oh, I think you have captured the irises very well. You
must grow them." Lindsay had a policy of always, whenever possible, making friends with the gatekeepers of the
world.

The woman's smile grew broader. "Thank you. Yes, I do
grow them. It was so nice of you to recognize it. Mr. Prescott
shouldn't be too much longer. He makes a trip down to the
drugstore every day at this time. He never stays more than
thirty minutes. He left, let me see . . . ," she looked at the
round school clock on the wall behind her desk, "about
twenty minutes ago." She went on to tell Lindsay about Mr.
Prescott, how her mother taught him in school and he was
such a bright kid, and that it was a shame he couldn't finish
his medical degree because of the quota system. Lindsay listened politely.

This time, Tucker Prescott stayed thirty-five minutes, if
his secretary was accurate, for he came strolling in the door
fifteen minutes later. Lindsay allowed the secretary to tell
him he had a visitor and introduce her before she stood and
held out her hand.

Tucker Prescott was in his early thirties, Lindsay guessed.
He was heavyset in a way that made him appear chubby.
He had dark hair and probably should shave twice a day to
appear clean shaven by the late afternoon. He was dressed
in a white, short-sleeved shirt, navy blue pants, brown
shoes, and white socks. He had no wedding ring, which
confirmed the words of her great aunt Margaret that sprang into her mind: "No decent woman would ever let a man out
of the house dressed like that."

"Lindsay Chamberlain," he said, as if trying out the
name. "What can I do for you?" He gestured into his office.
Lindsay entered and he followed, closing the door.

His office had not been recently painted. It was covered
in inexpensive brown paneling, scratched and worn with
age. His desk was not an antique, but it was old and as worn
as the walls and the same color of brown. He gestured to a
chair, the same kind of hard chair that sat in the reception
area. The only new piece of furniture in the room was his
Naugahyde executive office chair. A degree hung on the
back wall, a B.S. from the University of Tennessee. In this
county the coroner was an elected official, just as in
Lindsay's home county, and was not required to have an
advanced degree.

"Thank you for seeing me," she said. "Miles and Grace
Lambert asked me to find out what I can about the death of
Grace's brother, Ken Darnell."

"I pronounced the death an accident." Tucker Prescott
swiveled slowly back and forth in his chair. He studied
Lindsay as he tapped his pen on the desk, letting his finger
slide down the shaft, then turning it over and repeating the
process.

Lindsay chose her words carefully. "You were the only
official kind enough to give them any information at all.
That's why I came to you. The Lamberts know very little
about his death. Mrs. Lambert loved her brother and feels a
need to know more. Is there anything you can tell me?"

He shrugged. "I am aware that Mrs. Lambert thinks her
brother was murdered. There was absolutely no evidence
that supported that. He was a caver who made a mistake.
We get our share of caving mistakes in this region. I understand there were some bad feelings between Mrs. Lambert
and her sister-in-law."

"Who identified the bones?"

"Is there some suspicion that the bones were not Ken
Darnell's?"

"They haven't expressed any." Lindsay smiled. "When a
body has been skeletonized..." She searched for words that
wouldn't offend him. "I'd like to know the identification
process, so that I can explain the entire procedure to the
Lamberts. Understanding how things are done will help
them understand why the death was declared an accident."

"There was no question of the identification. I am very
careful about those things," he said, as if he hadn't heard
Lindsay or didn't believe her motives. "The Lamberts themselves identified the jewelry as belonging to Darnell. The
wife identified the clothes. I sent the bones to the University
of Tennessee to Nigel Boyd. He used dental charts. I believe
there was also a broken left arm in the Darnell case. Dr.
Boyd said that there was no doubt about any of them."

"I know Nigel. He is very good."

"Then you can put their minds at ease that no one got
away with murder in this county."

"Do you happen to have any close-up pictures of the
bones?"

"No. The sheriff probably has them."

"Was Ken Darnell well known here?"

"No. He just happened to get killed in one of our caves.
He picked the most dangerous to explore. As I said, we are
not strangers to caving accidents. Karst topography, they
call it. It's what we have here. There's Hell Slide, where
Darnell and his two friends were killed. There's the Grand
Serpentine, Bone Cave, and, of course, Cumberland
Caverns in the next county. We've got dozens in this area.
People come from all over to explore 'em, and some of them
are either unlucky, stupid, or both." He stopped moving his
chair and looked straight at Lindsay. "I got a call the other
day from the FBI. Wanted to know if the name Gil Harris
surfaced in connection with Ken Darnell. Now that I think
about it, the FBI agent may have mentioned your name."

"I see. Were you able to tell him anything?"

"Just what I told you. The guy died through misadventure. Never heard of a Gil Harris."

Lindsay could sense that she was not going to get any
more information from Tucker Prescott. She thanked him
for his time and went back to her motel. She changed into
more comfortable clothes and stretched out on the bed to
think. She knew Nigel. He was very competent. He would
have examined the bones thoroughly, and if he didn't find
anything suspicious, then there probably wasn't anything
to find.

She dug out her address book and found Nigel's office
number. He did not answer his phone. She left a message
and her motel phone number, then decided to get something to eat and try him again later. First, however, she tried
Derrick. She let the phone ring until it turned over to the
answering service. She left him a short message with her
phone number.

Lindsay walked to a restaurant across the street and had a
salad. Though she hadn't eaten since breakfast, she had no
appetite. What, she wondered, is making me so restless. The
image of Marilee appeared unsummoned in her mind. She
had seen a bookstore about a block away. She thought that
after she ate she would look there for some books for Marilee.

Lindsay returned to her motel room with three books:
one on Native Americans, one on archaeology, and one on
identifying rocks and minerals. The archaeology book came
with its own miniature "dig"-a box with some "artifacts"
buried in plaster for a child to unearth, as if at an archaeological site. When she laid them on the bed, she wondered
how she was going to explain to Marilee's parents why
she'd bought so many gifts for her, especially since she didn't get any for Joshua. Lindsay wasn't sure she could
explain it to herself. She could deliver them, she thought,
when she brought back Joshua's Spanish knife, all cleaned
up. She could also fib and tell Marilee's parents they were on sale really cheap. She couldn't pass them up, but didn't
know who she could give them to, and thought of Marilee.
"That is stupid," Lindsay said aloud to herself. "I probably
should just save them for Christmas and give them to
Derrick's youngest brother." He was about the same age as
Marilee and would enjoy them. The phone rang in the middle of her thoughts, and she picked it up.

"Just what the hell do you think you are doing?" The
voice was so full of anger that for a moment Lindsay didn't
recognize it.

"Kelley? Is that you?"

"What are you doing to my aunt? You have her thinking
now that Ken may still be alive somewhere."

"What? I've done no such thing!" exclaimed Lindsay.

"No? Then why did the coroner of Ellis County call and
explain to her that no matter what Dr. Chamberlain's suspicions, it was Ken's remains he had identified?"

"He did that? When?" asked Lindsay.

"About an hour ago," said Kelley

"He completely misrepresented what I said to him. I
voiced no such suspicions."

"Then why did he call?" asked Kelley.

"I don't know. It was a very cruel, irrational, and
unfounded thing to do."

"Then you really didn't tell him you doubted the identification of the bones?"

"Of course not," said Lindsay.

Kelly was silent for a moment. When she spoke she
seemed calmer. "Aunt Grace doesn't know what to think."

"May I talk to her?"

"I don't want you to upset her further."

"I won't."

"Just a minute."

Grace Lambert came on the line. She did not seem as upset
and confused as Kelley described, just puzzled. "Hello,
Lindsay. Kelley told you about the strange call we got?"

"Yes, and I'm so sorry. When I talked to him, the identity
of the remains was not an issue. I don't know why he
thought it was." Lindsay suspected that simple paranoia on
his part made him think he was hearing something different
from what she was saying to him.

"I had kind of hoped-"

"I know. I asked him who identified the remains so that I
could talk to them about any marks that might indicate
what happened to Ken. As it turned out, I know the person
well, and he is very competent. I'll talk to him, unless you
would like me to stop altogether."

"No. Please continue. Please. I want to know everything
I can find out."

"All right. Bear in mind, there may not be much to know."

"I know, but I'll have tried everything I could to find out
what happened to Ken. I have to do that."

"Very well. I'll keep in touch."

The phone rang immediately, just as Lindsay hung it up.
When Nigel said hello, she realized she had hoped it was
Derrick.

"Lindsay, love. Great to hear from you. How about coming over to England? I'll take you over to Paris, and we can
fly back to the States together."

"You're in England?" said Lindsay.

"Visiting the folks, catching up on my culture," he said.

"Sounds nice, Nigel. How are they?"

"Good as ever. You still seeing that Derrick fellow?"

"Yes."

"Rats."

"He's kind of mad at me at the moment."

"Great, there's hope. Why's he mad?"

"I kind of stood him up to do detective work."

"Uh, oh, I see his point already. You mentioned something about a Ken Darnell case?"

"Yes. Do you remember it?"

"Didn't do it."

"You didn't. But the coroner-"

"They contacted my office about it, but I wasn't available."