Speaking in Bones (26 page)

“Your guy’s out.”

“My guy.” Not following.

“Wendell Clyde.”

“You ran him?”

“All over the map.”

“Does he have a criminal record?”

“Couple drunk and disorderlies, twenty years back. Nothing recent.”

“What do you mean he’s out?”

“He’s a dick and a half, but he ain’t the doer.”

“On Strike.”

“No. On JFK. I’m working some grassy knoll angles in my spare time.”

I bit back a retort and raised my eyebrows.

“First off, did you know Clyde’s about nine foot eleven?”

“Is that relevant?”

“It is when you’re wrestling the baboon into a backseat. I nearly—”

“The average baboon weighs fifty pounds.” Juvenile. And slightly inaccurate. But I wasn’t discussing species variation with Skinny.

Slidell pulled a paper from his jacket and tossed it onto the blotter. I unfolded it and studied the image, probably taken with a phone and printed on a computer.

The subject was seated in one of the small interview rooms at the Law Enforcement Center. I recognized the faux wood table and gray metal chair, the mauve patchwork carpeting and off-tone upper wall.

Slidell hadn’t exaggerated. But Wendell Clyde wasn’t just tall. He looked like an Easter Island head with arms and legs. His deep-set orbits were hooded by slashing brows and separated by a jack-o’-lantern nose.

“You interviewed Clyde?”

“No. I read his mind. Which ain’t impressive.”

“Your point?”

“Some guys you get the feeling there’s more than meets the eye? This prick, what meets the eye’s more than he’s got.”

“Meaning?”

“Low on charm, high on T.” Slidell’s shorthand for testosterone.

“Clyde was aggressive?”

“He had his moment.”

“Until you snapped him with a wet towel.”

“Something like that.”

“What’s his story?”

“He’s an honest plasterer, searches for dead people as a hobby.”

“What did he say about Hazel Strike?”

“He didn’t send the lady birthday cards.”

“Was he willing to take a polygraph?”

“Eager as a beagle on bacon. But it don’t matter. Clyde alibis out.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Tell me.” Deflated. The mood collapse was now total.

“Clyde claims he was at the Selwyn Avenue Pub from seven
P.M.
Saturday until one
A.M
. Sunday. Says a lot of people saw him there.”

“That doesn’t clear him. He could have—”

“You want to talk or listen?”

My molars clamped tight.

“He claims he was being interviewed for a piece on websleuthing. A blogger from Dubuque named Dennis Aslanian.”

Slidell paused, maybe daring me to interrupt. I didn’t.

“From the pub, Clyde went with Aslanian to a couple more bars, eventually to the guy’s room at a Motel 6 by the coliseum. The star-crossed lovers stayed together until Aslanian left Charlotte early Monday morning.”

Slidell was right. If Hazel Strike died on Sunday, and Aslanian backed Clyde’s story, Clyde couldn’t have killed her.

“You’ve talked to Aslanian?”

“There’s an idea.”

I took a deep breath. Got a noseful of Stetson or Brut.

“I’ve left messages with Aslanian advising a timely reply. Today, I’ll swing by the Motel 6, the pub when it opens, float Clyde’s mug.”

“Where is he now?”

“Had to cut him loose.”

“Do you still believe there’s a serial killer targeting elderly women in Charlotte?”

“I do.”

“So Clyde’s not topping your list.”

“Not even close.”

“Why are you telling me, not Larabee?”

Slidell didn’t move or say anything for a long moment. Then, “Brief me on this Brown Mountain thing.”

“I don’t know that Brown Mountain is really a factor.”

“Yeah yeah yeah.” He actually snapped his fingers.

I told him about the remains, including the printless fingertips and the head in the bucket, about Mason Gulley and his NFJ syndrome, about Granger Hoke and the Jesus Lord Holiness church, about Cora Teague and the innocent dead that seemed to litter her path, about the alcoholic coroner, Fenton Ogilvie, about Terrence O’Tool and his inept diagnosis.

When finished, I stared at Slidell. He stared back at me. A full minute passed.

Sometimes Skinny surprises me. He did so now.

“You think it ain’t epilepsy? That maybe this kid’s crazy?”

“ ‘Crazy’ is not a medical term.”

“That maybe she’s goofy as a guppy and killed her brother, the baby, and the pooch? That maybe someone’s covering for her?” The bags under Slidell’s eyes twitched as another theory darted into his brain. “Or maybe someone snuffed her?”

“Who?”

“You said the father’s a hot wire.”

“He’s tightly wrapped. But kill his own daughter?”

“Maybe some kind of honor thing. Or maybe one of Hoke’s wingnut Jesus freaks did it.”

“Why?”

“Murder draws eyes. Maybe they saw the kid as a threat to their nasty little secrets.”

“Maybe they killed Mason Gulley.” On impulse, I swiveled my chair, grabbed Ramsey’s envelope, and slapped a photo onto the blotter. “That’s Cora Teague. Somehow I don’t see a teenage girl dismembering a body and distributing pieces from assorted overlooks. Also, the voice recorder isn’t consistent with the girl as killer.” Slidell was voicing the same suspicions I’d been refusing to accept.

Slidell eyed the snapshot, opened his mouth, closed it. Another long moment passed before he tried again.

“Hazel Strike was the one first poked a stick down the hole?”

“She was,” I said.

“She went to Avery?”

“Yes. She searched an overlook and I know that she talked to Cora’s parents. And that she called Cora’s school and the hospital where Eli died. I think she was up there again the Saturday she phoned me.” The day before she was killed.

“She was.”

“Seriously?”

“I checked Strike’s cellphone records. Jesus Christ, you’d think I was asking for a tap on Obama’s private line.”

“And?”

“She hardly uses the thing, but they got a couple pings early that morning. Towers put her on I-40, probably heading for Avery. After that the thing’s either shut off or the battery dies.”

“Have you found the phone?”

“No.”

“Any progress on her laptop?”

“I got a message from IT asking for a callback. Why is it those geeks always sound like they just swallowed a gerbil?”

Taking the question as rhetorical, I offered no theory.

Again, Slidell’s lips parted. I’ll never know what he intended to say. When the landline shrilled, he inhaled deeply and dropped his eyes to his hands.

The call was coming from the CMPD crime lab.

It was the start of a cascade that would end with horrific results.

E
arly in the twentieth century a French investigator named Edmond Locard observed that when two objects come into contact there is always some exchange of material. Ditto two people. I touch you. You touch me. We share bits of ourselves. The notion became known as Locard’s exchange principle.

Seems obvious in the age of
CSI
and
Bones,
but back then the idea was madly cutting-edge. Today the concept keeps thousands employed in forensics labs around the globe. Hair, fur, fibers, fabric, rope, feathers, soil, glass, biological or chemical substances, whatever. Trace evidence experts identify and compare materials hoping to tie a suspect to a victim or to a crime scene. And the process can be quite high-tech.

Which is why the analyst, a newbie named Bebe Denver, was droning on.

Across from me, Slidell took out a Swiss Army knife and began mining a surprisingly unclogged thumbnail. It was like rubbernecking a traffic wreck—I had no desire to watch but couldn’t help myself.

“…elemental analysis using atomic absorption, or with a scanning electron microscope equipped with an energy-dispersive spectroscope. Using the gas chromatograph or the mass spec one can separate out chemical components. Are you with me, Dr. Brennan?”

I didn’t want to be rude, or to dampen her enthusiasm, but it wasn’t my first trace rodeo. I just wanted the bottom line before Slidell left blood spatter all over my office.

“Sounds like you were very thorough,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Could we stick to the results for now? Later, if I have questions, discuss the process?”

“Of course. I’ll put everything in my report. Every single detail.”

Hot damn. A dissertation on elemental analysis. Life doesn’t get better than that.

“Perfect,” I said.

“The concrete itself is a mixture of portland and a number of other cements. I identified hydrated lime, shale—”

“The basics?”

“Right. It appears to be a blend of cements, sand, and gravel—a concrete designed to set quickly.”

“Like Quikrete.”

“Exactly.”

“Available at any Home Depot.”

“Yes.” A little dispirited.

Slidell stayed focused on his nails. But I knew he was listening.

“And the material I swabbed from the interior surface?”

“That’s interesting.” Keys clicked. “The substance contained triacylglycerols, triglycerides or fats, and small quantities of free fatty acids, glycerol, phosphatides, pigments, sterols—”

“So what is it?”

“Olive oil.”

Denver took my nonresponse as confusion.

“Triacylglycerols are normally composed of a mixture of three fatty acids. The oleic-oleic-oleic triacylglycerol is most prevalent in olive oil, followed by palmitic-oleic-oleic, then oleic-oleic-linoleic, then palmitic-oleic-linoleic, then stearic-oleic-oleic, and so on.”

“Olive oil.” Thinking aloud.

“Olive oil contains more oleic acid and less linoleic and linolenic acids than other vegetable oils.” Again, mistaking my comment as a request for elaboration.

“You’re sure?”

“I also found microscopic bits of olive.”

I was chewing on that as Denver surged forward.

“The other substance was more challenging. I found a small concentration on just one swab, barely enough to analyze.” More keys. “Acid resin, gum, boswellic acids, 4-0 methyl glucuronic acid, incensole acetate, phellandrene—”

“Translation?”

“I’m not certain. The boswellic acid is interesting.”

Something unimaginable winged from under Slidell’s nail onto my blotter. I plucked a tissue, gathered the gunk, and dropped it into the waste. Slidell trolled on.

“Boswellic acid comes from plant resin. In African and Indian traditional medicine it’s used to alleviate inflammation. Studies are looking into its usefulness in the treatment of autoimmune diseases like rheumatoid arthritis and Crohn’s. Also certain cancers—leukemia, brain, breast.”

“Where does one get boswellic acid?”

“Online, a pharmacy, a health food store. It’s readily available.”

Like Quikrete.

“Thanks, Bebe.” Hiding my disappointment poorly. “I appreciate your diligence.”

After disconnecting, I shared Denver’s report with Slidell.

“So why’s the stuff in a bucket of concrete with Mason Gulley’s head?”

I pictured Edward Gulley, with his unfortunate hair, nails, skin, and teeth.

“Maybe Mason mixed boswellic acid with olive oil and put it on his hair or scalp.” I knew the suggestion was lame as I made it. “Or applied it to his skin or cuticles.”

“Stylin’.” Refocusing on the manicure.

“Could you give that a rest?”

“What?” Slidell’s eyes rolled up.

I gestured toward the grooming routine. “It’s distracting.”

Sighing theatrically, Slidell folded and repocketed the knife.

“Where’s your buddy Ramsey on the Gulley thing?”

“
Deputy
Ramsey is pursuing a number of leads.”

Slidell snorted, then de-de-de’ed the opening riff from “Dueling Banjos.”

“You of all people should understand he hasn’t the luxury of concentrating on just one case.”

“Well oh my God in a tutu. Ex-
cyooz
-ay moi.”

A dozen neurons fired at once. Images exploded.

Hazel Strike in the chair now overflowing with Skinny. Conversation threads in a websleuthing chat room. A page in an outdated medical text. Susan Grace Gulley in the dark in my car.

Awareness exploded in my forebrain.

I snatched up the phone and dialed Ramsey. Launched in without preamble.

“Oscar Gulley was named for the photographer Oscar Mason, right?”

“You’re talking about Grandpa.” Ramsey, confused but trying to loop in.

“Yes. Susan Grace said her grandfather was named for Oscar Mason. Suppose she meant both her grandfather
and
her brother were named Oscar Mason Gulley. Gramps went by Oscar, Mason went by—well you get it, right?”

“Yes.” Drawn out. Indicating he didn’t.

“OMG. The person who posted on CLUES about Cora Teague’s disappearance. The websleuthing site.” I knew I was talking way too fast. “I took the username to mean Oh My God. But what if it’s initials, not cyberjargon?”

Slidell was watching me, left eyebrow cocked.

“Oscar Mason Gulley,” Ramsey said.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be darned. What made you think of that?”