I was puzzled about why she was calling. “Well, I appreciate that,” I said. “I hope we won’t be seeing your dad for a while yet.”
“Actually, I’m afraid you’ll be seeing him really soon,” she replied. “He’s dying of heart failure. His heart stopped yesterday, and they managed to get it going again, but they say it could stop again at any moment. If it stops again, that’s probably the end for him.”
“I’m so sorry, Laura.”
She paused to blow her nose. “But it helps to think his body could do some good after death.”
“If it comes to the Body Farm, it certainly will,” I promised. “Did you say your last name’s Telford? That’s not ringing a bell. How long ago did he send in the donation form?”
“He handed it to you. Last week. My father’s Ernest Miller. Sorry, I should have told you that sooner. I changed my name when I got married. You spoke to Daddy in his hospital room, and he signed the form right then.”
“Of course,” I said. “He mentioned you. He said you’d be here soon. I believe he said you live in Kentucky?”
“Yes, at Fort Campbell. I’d hoped to come right after Daddy was admitted, but my husband’s stationed in Iraq and he can’t get home until next week. My dad has really spiraled down fast, so I figured I should call you as soon as possible. I need to talk to you about a change to his donation paperwork.”
“Of course,” I said, “but I’m a little confused. I thought you said you were comfortable with the idea that he’d come to the Body Farm.”
“I am.”
“Then what’s the change you’d like to discuss with me?”
“Organ donation,” she said, and I felt my breath catch at the sound of the words. “He and I talked about it on the phone Saturday, the day before his heart stopped. He told me about your friend, Dr. Garcia. About how he needs a pair of hands.”
The hairs on my arms and my neck were standing up. “Are you saying your dad changed his mind? That he signed the organ-donor consent form?”
“No, he didn’t,” she said, and I felt something in me collapse.
“Oh. I see. I mean, I don’t see, really.” I drew a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have brought up Dr. Garcia. I was wrong to try to influence your father. It’s his choice, after all.”
“Actually, it’s not,” she said. “That’s why I’m calling you. My dad has given me medical power of attorney, so it’s my choice now, and my choice isn’t the same as my dad’s. My husband’s mom died while waiting for a kidney transplant, Dr. Brockton. My children lost a grandmother, for the simple reason that there aren’t enough organ donors out there. So if I can make a difference in someone’s life by overruling my father’s fear, I’m at peace with that decision. I won’t tell him; I’ll let him die in peace, and then I’ll do what I think is best.” She paused, and the pause created a space in which my hopes soared. “Do you think your friend could use my father’s hands?”
I didn’t know, but I hoped and prayed he could. “Let’s find out,” I said. “And thank you.”
CHAPTER 40
I was still elated by Laura Telford’s offer and Eddie’s good news when I arrived on campus. But the moment I opened my office door, I knew that something was wrong.
At the center of my desk lay a large white envelope, precisely centered in a circle of light cast by the desk lamp. The lamp’s long, hinged arm had been angled downward, close to the desk; the circular fluorescent tube spotlighted the envelope, and the round magnifying lens — through which I’d scrutinized thousands of bones — enlarged and distorted the hand-printed letters of my name.
My foreboding turned to horror as I tugged the contents from the tight confines of the envelope. It contained three things. One was a copy of the photos taken at the strip club in Las Vegas. Another was the folder where I’d filed a copy of the donor consent form from 37–09—a body I’d promised Sinclair — along with a copy of a letter I’d drafted to send to the donor’s family, explaining that a hepatitis infection in the body had made it necessary to cremate his remains. I’d attached a copy of the donor form, on which I’d written “biohazardous due to hepatitis C; incinerated and ashes disposed of 4/8.” It was a lie, of course, one I was supposedly spinning to cover my tracks. I’d sent a copy of the draft to Sinclair, asking for his experienced guidance on such matters.
The third item was a brief letter, printed on Anthropology Department stationery. It was dated the previous day and addressed to Dr. William Brockton, Head, Anthropology Department, University of Tennessee — Knoxville. The body of the letter was brief — as brief as a gunshot to the head. “This letter is to inform you that I hereby resign my assistantship, effective immediately, and withdraw from the graduate program in Anthropology. Furthermore, be advised that I have contacted the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation to report what I believe to be theft, fraud, or embezzlement in your diversion of donated bodies for personal gain. Alas — how swift the tumble from greatness.” It was signed, in neat, careful blue script, “Miranda S. Lovelady.”
CHAPTER 41
Crossing the Tennessee river on Alcoa highway, I stayed in the right-hand lane, the exit-only lane for Cherokee Trail and UT Hospital, and put on my turn signal as the exit ramp loomed. I’d tried to reach both Rankin and Price, but neither was available, and the receptionist at the FBI office had either not known or not been authorized to say when either would be available. I’d left urgent messages for both agents, everywhere I could think to leave them — with the receptionist, on their office voice mails, and on their cell phones. I’d also left a voice mail for Amanda Whiting, UT’s general counsel, warning her that the TBI might be about to swoop down on me and complicate life for the university.
When I fled the stadium, I’d intended to swing by the Body Farm and distract myself by checking on Maurie Gershwin, who I expected was almost down to bare bones by now. But the Body Farm was part of what was weighing on me — for the first time ever, it seemed to fall under the heading of “problem” rather than “solution.” On impulse I changed course. The sun was out and the April afternoon was shirtsleeve warm; winter finally seemed to be packing up for good, and I decided a dose of pure mountain air might clear my head or ease my heart. Flipping the turn signal from “right” to “left,” I moved into the center lane, earning a loud honk from a Subaru station wagon, which had been rocketing along in that lane more swiftly than I’d realized. As the Subaru whipped around me, propelled by turbocharged rage, I glimpsed a protest rally’s worth of bumper stickers on the rear hatch, including MAKE LOVE NOT WAR, MEAN PEOPLE SUCK, and BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT IN THE WORLD. Then the car hurtled out of sight around the curve, the driver extending his middle finger high into the air above the roofline of the peacemobile.
I took the highway south, past the airport, then angled east through Maryville and Townsend to Great Smoky Mountains National Park, which was forty-five minutes from Knoxville but a world away. A mile inside the park, I turned left at the road that led to the educational camp at Tremont, where virtually every kid in East Tennessee, including my now-grown son, spent a week of middle school learning about the flora and fauna of the Appalachians. The road to Tremont meandered up the Middle Prong of the Little Tennessee, a free-flowing river whose emerald pools were strung together with strands of white, tumbling rapids. At its low, the Middle Prong could be crossed in numerous places by the adventurous rock hopper; at its high-water mark, it could test the skill of serious kayakers, or drown those foolhardy enough to take to the torrent in inner tubes.