In most jurisdictions, weekends mean paychecks, idle hours, and booze. Daddy gets hammered and clocks Mommy with the blender. Junior kills a six-pack and then himself, going ninety in a buddy’s Camaro. Sis leaves a bar to score crank and ends up in a dumpster. Bottom line. Mondays are often hectic for those looking after the dead.
Today was no exception. With the MCME humming around me, I went in search of Larabee, half hoping he’d already started an autopsy. No such luck. He was on the phone, but gestured me into his office.
Larabee listened, chin propped on one palm. I updated him on Ramsey, the Teagues, including Cora and Eli, Mason Gulley, the Church of Jesus Lord Holiness, Brown Mountain, the Devil’s Tail trail, the bucket, concrete, and bones. Everything but my romp with the renegade rock.
“You can’t just hit the mall on weekends?”
That merited no response.
“The priest, a guy who calls himself Father G, advised Teague to cooperate.”
“Holiness doesn’t sound Catholic to me.”
I summarized what Aunt Ruby had said, mentioned the serpent folks. Larabee knew of them, had a colleague who’d autopsied a preacher with substandard handling skills.
“I may roll a few questions past a more traditional member of the clergy.” I already had one in mind.
“Troubling that the parents never reported her missing.”
“Yes.”
“You still think she’s dead.” More statement than question. Larabee is uncanny at reading me.
“I do.”
“You want to cast the head,” he said.
“I want to try.”
“Did you obtain antemorts?”
“Ramsey said he’d get pics from the parents.”
“Long shot.”
“To the moon and back.”
“You really think Teague is capable of killing his daughter?”
I pictured the fiery eyes. Heard the venomous voice.
“I think it’s possible.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day. Nothing’s landed that needs anthropology expertise.” He swiveled his chair, typed a few keystrokes, then ran a finger across the spreadsheet that appeared on his monitor.
“Log it as case number ME135-15.”
“The concrete, too?”
He thought about that. “Sure. Who knows what’s trapped inside.”
Larabee stood. Meeting over.
The landline was ringing when I entered my office. Ramsey was in the lobby. I told the receptionist, Mrs. Flowers, to send him back. He arrived carrying a large canvas satchel.
“What did they say at the lab?” I asked.
“They’ll check for prints, trace, body fluids, the usual. Based on the background I provided, they weren’t optimistic.”
“Did you tell the Teagues they should provide DNA samples?”
“I did. Not a chance.”
I looked at the satchel. The pull on its handles and the double sag in its belly suggested considerable weight. “Do you mind carrying that to an autopsy suite?”
“Lead on.”
“You can leave your jacket here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
In the stinky room, I asked Ramsey to glove and remove the two hunks of concrete. At my direction he placed them on the counter, hollow side up.
First I shot a series of photos. Then, after gloving and masking, I ran sterile cotton balls and swabs around the interior of each hollow, repeated the process again and again.
Ramsey watched, feet spread, thumbs hooking his belt.
I was sealing the specimens into plastic evidence bags when I noticed two pale filaments wrapping the cotton topping one stick. I looked more closely at the others. A few had collected similar strands.
Could we get that lucky?
Heart beating a little faster, I took the swab to a dissecting scope, flipped the light switch, and adjusted focus.
The filaments were mere microns in diameter, like fibers of silk, only more brittle. Each was gossamer pale, almost translucent.
“Damn,” I muttered under my breath.
Or out loud. I heard Ramsey shift, but he said nothing.
“I thought it might be hair, but these look so fine.”
Ramsey’s heels clicked across the tile. Wordlessly, I held out a mask. He took it. I stepped back. He bent and squinted into the eyepiece.
Seconds passed. Then, “What about a kid?”
“The hollow is too big to have been made by the head of a child.”
“What’s the shiny stuff?”
“What do you mean?”
“The cotton’s glossy in spots.”
“Let me see.” Not so gently nudging him sideways.
Ramsey was right. Here and there the white fluff looked oily and discolored. Hair product? Lotion? Decomp? Sweat? Possibilities ping-ponged in my brain.
I took a million more swabs, labeled and sealed them. When I was certain nothing more could remain in the smallest crevice or recess, I inspected the edges along which the concrete had split.
My recall was correct. The surfaces were clean and smooth. Miraculously, there was no evidence of chipping or erosion.
Hawkins had come through in response to my request. On the counter were aerosol cans of a liquid rubber coating product and containers of silicone sealant. In the sink was an apparatus I assumed to be a vise, maybe intended for furniture repair, maybe for something entirely different. I didn’t care. It was perfect.
After spraying every inch of the hollow, I applied the sealant to the broken edges. Then, using muscles I knew would later demand an accounting, I counterbalanced Ramsey as we jammed the two halves of concrete tight to each other.
And waited a full five minutes.
Then with further Maria Sharapova grunting on my part, we maneuvered the restored mold into the apparatus, bottom side up. Ramsey held it steady while I tightened the clamps.
More sealant. More tightening.
Satisfied the glue would hold, I went in search of a power drill. Found one in the back of the last storage closet I checked.
Returning to the stinky room, I donned goggles and handed a pair to Ramsey. Then I plugged in the cord and placed the drill tip where I expected the least thickness in the concrete.
My eyes rolled up to Ramsey’s. His looked back from behind the big plastic lenses. He raised a thumb.
I fired up the drill. It screamed and spit dust and tiny shards into the air. The acrid smell of scorching metal and hot rock permeated the room. I held my breath, willing the concrete not to crack.
It seemed like an aeon. But in less than a minute the tip of the bit poked through to the hollow interior. I pulled the drill upward and, exerting circular outward pressure, enlarged the opening I’d created.
No spiderwebbing fissures. No radiating fault lines.
On its own, my arm shot up in a high-five gesture. To my surprise, the deputy’s hand met mine. Mildly embarrassed, we both turned to removing our goggles. Then I mixed a batch of Duraplast, a fiber-reinforced plastic not unlike the material used by the Avery techs to take tool-mark impressions at the Devil’s Tail.
While Ramsey watched, I inserted the spout of a plastic funnel into the opening and began to pour. The soft glug-glug-glug seemed to go on forever.
When the hollow was full, I set the funnel on the counter. For a moment, we both studied the pasty white liquid through the little round hole.
Was I nuts? Overreaching? Saying I had misgivings would be like saying Descartes had qualms about God.
“Did you get photos?” I broke the silence.
“Yes, ma’am. In my jacket.”
“Okay. Bones first, then pics.”
While Ramsey returned to the satchel, I covered the autopsy table with a plastic-backed paper sheet. As I palmed the fold lines flat, he placed a small Tupperware tub at its center.
I pried off the lid, deposited and distributed the fragments so none overlapped. All had come from an adult human skull. All were weathered and badly chewed.
Quick inventory. Six bits of parietal. Two bits of occipital, one with a squiggly remnant of lambdoid suture. Four bits of frontal, one with a portion of supraorbital rim.