And I'm going to answer it.
Chapter 17
I took a deep breath. As usual, Claudel had made me furious.
When I felt calmer, I looked at my watch. Four-forty It was late, but maybe I could catch her
Checking my Rolodex, I dialed SBI Headquarters in Raleigh. Kate Brophy picked up on the first ring.
"Hi, Kate. It's Tempe."
"Hey, girl, are you back in Dixie?"
"No. I'm in Montreal."
"When are you going to get your skinny tail down here so we can tip a few?"
"My tipping days are over, Kate."
"Oops. Sorry. I know that."
Kate and I had met at a time when I was as committed to alcohol as a college freshman on spring break. Only I wasn't eighteen and I wasn't at the beach. Past thirty, I was then a wife and mother, and a university professor with exhausting teaching and research responsibilities.
I never noticed when I joined the rank of brothers and sisters in denial, but somewhere along the way I became a champion rationaiizer A glass of Merlot at home in the evening. A beer after classes. A weekend party I didn't need the booze. I never drank alone. I never missed work. It wasn't a problem.
But then the glass became a bottle, and the late-night binges required no company. That's the beguiling thing about Bacchus. He has no entrance fee. No minimum drink order. Before you know it you're in bed on a sunny Saturday afternoon while your daughter plays soccer and other parents cheer.
That show had closed down, and I wasn't about to re-raise the curtain.
"It's funny you called," said Kate. "I was just talking to one of our investigators about the biker boys you glued together back in the eighties."
I remembered those cases. Two entrepreneurs had made the mistake of dealing drugs on turf claimed by the Hells Angels. Their body parts were found in plastic bags, and I'd been asked to sort dealer A from dealer B.
That foray into fresh forensics had been a catalyst for me. Until then I'd worked with skeletons unearthed at archaeological sites, examining bones to identify disease patterns and estimate life expectancies in prehistoric times. Fascinating, but minimally pertinent to current events.
When I began consulting to the North Carolina medical examiner, I felt an excitement not present in my early work. Kate's bikers, like the cases that followed, had an urgency that ancient deaths did not. I could give a name to the nameless. I could provide a family with closure. I could contribute to law enforcement's efforts to reduce the slaughter on America's streets, and to identify and prosecute perpetrators. I'd shifted my professional focus, gone dry in my personal life, and never looked back on either front.
"How did you end up in Tulio's case review session?" Tasked.
"I drove a couple of my analysts up to Quantico for a VICAP training session. Since I was there, I decided to sit in to see what's new
"What was?"
"Other than the fact that your biker boys are knocking each other off with greater alacrity than most social clubs, looks like the same old."
"I don't think I've worked a Carolina biker case in years. Who's down home these days?"
"We've still got three of the big four."
"Hells Angels, Outlaws, and Pagans."
"Yes, ma'am. No Banditos yet. And it's been quiet for some time, but you never know. Things could heat up next month when the Angels hold their run at Myrtle Beach."
"It's still pretty wild up here, but that's not why I'm calling."
"Oh?"
"Ever hear of a young girl named Savannah Claire Osprey?"
There was a long silence. Across the miles the connection sounded like the ocean in a seashell.
"Is this a joke?"
"Absolutely not."
I heard her take a deep breath.
"The Osprey disappearance was one of the very first cases I worked for the bureau. It was years ago. Savannah Osprey was a sixteen-year-old kid with a lot of medical problems. Didn't hang with a wild crowd, didn't do drugs. One afternoon she left her house and was never seen again. At least that was the story.
"You don't believe she ran away?"
"The local police suspected the father, but no one could find a thing to prove it.
"Do you think he was involved?"
"It's possible. She was a timid kid, wore thick glasses, rarely went out, didn't date. And it was common knowledge the old man used her for a punching bag." Her voice was filled with contempt. "The guy should have been locked up. Actually he was, but not until later. Got busted on a drug charge, I think. Died about five years after his daughter disappeared."
What she said next hit me like a blow to the chest.
"He was such a peckerwood shit and she was such a pathetic little thing that the case really bothered me. I've kept her bones all these years."
"What did you say?" I gripped the phone, barely breathing.
"The parents never accepted it, but I know they're hers. I still have them stored at the ME office. Doc calls every now and then, but I always ask him to hang on to the stuff"
"Her remains were found?"
"Nine months after Savannah disappeared a female skeleton turned up near Myrtle Beach. That was the thing that shined the light on Dwayne Osprey. While he was never what you'd call a steady worker, around the time she went missing he was making deliveries for a local cheesecake company. The day of his daughter's disappearance Daddy made a trip to Myrtle Beach."
I was so shocked I could hardly formulate a question.
"But did you ever get a positive on the remains?"
"No. There was too much missing and what was recovered was too damaged. And of course we weren't doing DNA back then. Why are you asking about Savannah Osprey?"
"Did you recover a skull?"
"No. That was the main problem. The victim had been dumped in the woods then covered by a sheet of corrugated tin. Animals pulled parts of the body out and scattered them all over creation. The skull and jaw were never found, and we figured they'd dragged them off. The bones left under the tin were intact but weren't very useful, and the rest of the skeleton was so badly chewed that it was hard to tell much except gender. Some pathologist was doing the anthropology back then. His report stated that nothing remained to indicate age, height, or race.
A pathologist would not have known about microscopic aging, or about calculation of stature from partial long bones. Not a good job, Doc.
"Why do you think it's Savannah?" I asked.
"We found a small silver charm in the vicinity of the bones. It was a bird of some sort. Though she denied it, I could tell from the mother's reaction that she recognized the thing. Later I did some research. The charm was an exact replica of a fish hawk."
I waited.
"The fish hawk is also known as the osprey."
I told her about the skull and leg bones in Montreal.
"Holy shit."
"Is the mother still around?"
"Anything's possible since they cloned that sheep. I'll find out." "Do you still have the file?"
"You bet."
"Antemortem X rays?"
"Zillions."
I made a quick decision.
"Get those bones, Kate. I'm coming down."
Patineau authorized the trip, and I booked a morning flight to Raleigh. Kit and I had a late dinner that night, both of us avoiding mention of the bundle in the entrance hall that I had brought from the lab and would be taking with me. He was looking forward to tomorrow s outing with Crease and had no problem with my absence.
The plane was crowded with the usual assortment of students, businessmen, and weekend golfers. I stared out the window as attendants served coffee and soft drinks, wishing I, too, were off to a course-Pinehurst, Marsh Harbor, Oyster Bay, anything but the grim analysis of a teenage girl's bones.
My eyes dropped to the athletic bag under the seat in front of me. It looked innocuous enough, but I wondered what my fellow passengers would think if they knew the nature of its contents. I have flown out of Dorval often enough that the X-ray machine operators no longer ask for an explanation. I wondered how it would be leaving Raleigh.