“It's not locked.” He fixed his eyes on something that was not me.
Drawing two steadying breaths, I turned the knob and entered.
Seated behind a desk on the far side of the room was North Carolina's second in command. Of a zillion thoughts winging through my mind at that moment, this is the one I remember: Parker Davenport's color had improved since I'd seen him on the day of the crash.
To the lieutenant governor's left sat Dr. Larke Tyrell, to his right, Earl Bliss. The ME looked at me and nodded. The DMORT commander's eyes wouldn't meet mine.
“Dr. Brennan, please have a seat.” The lieutenant governor gestured to an armchair directly in front of the desk.
As I sat, Davenport leaned back and laced his fingers on his vest. The view behind him was spectacular, a Smoky Mountain postcard in explosive fall color. Squinting into the glare, I recognized my disadvantage. Had Tyrell been in charge, I'd have known the seating arrangement was strategy. I wasn't sure Davenport was that smart.
“Would you like coffee?” Davenport asked.
“No, thank you.”
Looking at Davenport, I had difficulty imagining how he had lasted so long in public office. He was neither tall nor short, dark nor fair, smooth nor craggy. His hair and eyes were nondescript brown, his speech flat and without inflection. In a system that elects its leaders based on looks and eloquence, Davenport was clearly a noncontender. In a word, the man was unmemorable. But perhaps this was his greatest asset. People voted for Davenport, then forgot him.
The lieutenant governor unlaced his fingers, examined his palms, then looked at me.
“Dr. Brennan, some very disturbing allegations have been brought to my attention.”
“I'm glad we're meeting to clear this up.”
“Yes.” Davenport leaned into the desk and opened a folder. To its left lay a videocassette. No one spoke as he selected and perused a document.
“Let's get right to the meat of this.”
“Let's.”
“Did you enter the site of the Air TransSouth crash on October fourth prior to the arrival of NTSB or medical examiner officials?”
“Since I was in the area, Earl Bliss asked me to stop by.” I looked at the DMORT commander. His eyes remained on the hands in his lap.
“Did you have official orders to go there?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Did you falsely identify yourself as an official representative of the NDMS?”
“No, I did not.”
Davenport checked another paper.
“Did you interfere with local authorities in their search-and-recovery efforts?”
“Absolutely not!” I felt heat rise up my neck and into my face.
“Did you order Deputy Anthony Skinner to remove protective covering from a crash victim, knowing there was risk of animal predation?”
“That's standard protocol.”
I turned to Earl and Larke. Neither man was looking at me. Stay calm, I told myself.
“It is alleged that you broke protocol,” Davenport emphasized my word, “by removing remains prior to documentation.”
“That was a unique situation requiring immediate action. It was a judgment call, which I explained to Dr. Tyrell.”
Davenport leaned farther forward, and his tone grew hard.
“Was stealing those remains also a judgment call?”
“What?”
“The case to which we refer is no longer at the morgue.”
“I know nothing about that.”
The insipid brown eyes narrowed.
“Really.”
Davenport picked up the cassette, crossed to a TV/VCR unit, and inserted it. When he hit “play,” a ghostly, gray scene filled the screen, and I knew instantly I was viewing a surveillance tape. I recognized the highway and the entrance to the morgue parking lot.
Within seconds my car entered the frame. A guard waved me away. Primrose appeared, spoke to the guard, tapped her way to the car, and handed me a bag. We exchanged a few words, then she patted my shoulder, and I drove off.
Davenport hit “stop” and rewound the tape. As he returned to his chair, I looked at the other two men. Both were studying me, their faces unreadable.
“Let me summarize,” said Davenport. “Following a highly irregular-sequence of events, the specimen in question, the specimen that you claim to have wrested from coyotes, is now missing.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
Davenport picked up another paper.
“Early Sunday morning, a data-entry technician named Primrose Hobbs removed fragmented human tissue bearing morgue number 387 from a refrigerated trailer containing cases in process. She then proceeded to the admitting section and withdrew the disaster victim packet associated with those remains. Later that morning, Miss Hobbs was seen transferring a package to you in the morgue parking lot. That transaction was recorded, and we have just observed it.”
Davenport drilled me with a look.
“Those remains and that packet are now gone, Dr. Brennan, and we believe you have them.”
“I would strongly suggest you speak with Miss Hobbs.” My voice dripped icicles.
“That was, of course, our first endeavor. Unfortunately, Miss Hobbs has not reported to work this week.”
“Where is she?”
“That is unclear.”
“Has she checked out of her motel?”
“Dr. Brennan, I realize that you are a board-certified forensic anthropologist of international stature. I am aware that you have consulted to Dr. Tyrell in the past, as well as to coroners worldwide. I am told that your credentials are unimpeachable. That makes your behavior in this matter all the more puzzling.”
Davenport turned to his companions, as if enlisting support.
“We don't know why you've developed an obsession with this case, but it is clear that your interest has gone far beyond what is professional or ethical.”
“I've done nothing wrong.”
For the first time, Earl spoke.
“Your intentions may be honorable, Tempe, but unauthorized removal of a victim shows very poor judgment.”
He dropped his eyes and flicked a nonexistent particle from his pants.
“And is a felony,” Davenport chimed in.
I spoke to the DMORT commander.
“Earl, you know me. You know I would never do that.”
Before Earl could reply, Davenport exchanged the paper in his hand for a brown envelope, and shook two photos from it. He glanced at the larger, laid it on the desk, then pushed it toward me with one finger.
For a moment I thought it was a joke.
“That is you, Dr. Brennan, is it not?”
Ryan and I were eating hot dogs across from the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad Depot.
“And Lieutenant-Detective Andrew Ryan from Quebec.” He pronounced it Qwee-bec.
“What is the relevance of this, Mr. Davenport?” Though my face was burning, I kept my voice frigid.
“Exactly what is your relationship with this man?”
“Detective Ryan and I have worked together for years.”
“But I am correct in assuming that your relationship extends beyond the professional, am I not?”
“I have no intention of answering questions about my private life.”
“I see.”
Davenport pushed the second photo across the desk.
I was too stunned to speak.
“I surmise from your reaction that you know the gentleman pictured with Detective Ryan?”
“Jean Bertrand was Ryan's partner.” Shock waves were passing through every cell in my body.
“Are you aware that this Bertrand is being investigated in conjunction with the Air TransSouth crash?”
“Where is this going?”
“Dr. Brennan, I shouldn't have to spell it out. Your”—he feigned indecision over word selection—“colleague has ties to a principal suspect. You yourself have acted”—again the careful search— “erratically.”
“I have done nothing wrong,” I repeated.
Davenport tilted his head and twisted his mouth, neither smiling nor grimacing. Then he sighed, indicating what a burden this was for all.