“Did you take a peek under the scope?”
“Yep.”
“How does the pulp chamber look?”
“Chock-full.”
Laslo and I signed evidence transfer forms and I packed the vial and report into my briefcase.
“Could I ask you one last favor?”
“Absolutely.”
“If my car is ready, could you help me return the one I'm driving, then take me to the shop where mine is being fixed?”
“No problem.”
When I called P & T an automotive miracle had occurred: The repairs were complete. Laslo followed me to High Ridge House, delivered me to P & T, then went on to his conference. After a brief discussion of pumps and hoses with one of the letters, I paid the bill and slid behind the wheel.
Before leaving P & T, I turned on my phone, scrolled through my programmed numbers, and hit “dial.”
“Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department Crime Laboratory.”
“Ron Gillman, please.”
“Who's calling, please?”
“Tempe Brennan.”
He came on in seconds.
“The infamous Dr. Brennan.”
“You've heard.”
“Oh yes. Will we be printing and booking you here?”
“Very funny.”
“I suppose it's not. I won't even ask if there's anything to it. Are you getting things cleared up?”
“I'm trying. I may need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“I have a tooth fragment I want profiled for DNA. Then I want that profile compared to one you've done on a bone sample from the Air TransSouth crash. Can you do that?”
“I don't see why not.”
“How soon?”
“Is this urgent?”
“Very.”
“I'll put it on a fast track. When can you get the new sample to me?”
I looked at my watch.
“Two o'clock.”
“I'll call over to the DNA section right now, smooth the way. See you at two.”
I turned the key and swung into traffic. There were a couple more things I needed to do before leaving Bryson City.
THIS TIME THE LILAC DRAGON WAS BY HERSELF.
“Just need to check a couple of details on microfilm,” I said, beaming my most winning smile.
Her face did a ménage à trois of emotions. Surprised. Suspicious. Stern.
“It would be very, very helpful if I could take several reels at a time. You were so kind about that yesterday.”
Her face softened somewhat. Sighing loudly, she went to the cabinet, removed six boxes, and placed them on the counter.
“Thank you so much,” I purred.
Crossing toward the overflow room, I heard a stool squeak, and knew she was craning in my direction.
“Cellular phones are strictly prohibited in the library!” she hissed to my retreating back.
Unlike my prior visit, I whipped through the spools, taking notes on specific items.
In less than an hour I had what I needed.
Tommy Albright was not in, but a drawly female voice promised to deliver my message. The pathologist rang back before I'd hit the outskirts of Bryson City.
“In 1959 a Cherokee named Charlie Wayne Tramper died in a bear attack. Would a file that old still exist?”
“Maybe, maybe not. That was before we centralized. What do you need to know?”
“You remember the case?” I couldn't believe it.
“Hell, yes. I poked through what was left of that ole boy.”
“Which was?”
“I've seen my share of bear bait, but Tramper was the worst. Those little bastards tore the bejeezus out of him. Carried his head clean off.”
“The skull was not recovered?”
“No.”
“How did you ID him?”
“Wife recognized the rifle and clothing.”
I found the Reverend Luke Bowman gathering fallen branches in his shadowy front yard. Save for the substitution of a black windbreaker, he was dressed exactly as on our previous meetings.
Bowman watched me pull next to his pickup, added his armful to a pile beside the drive, and approached my car. We spoke through the open window.
“Good morning, Miss Temperance.”
“Good morning. Beautiful day for yard work.”
“Yes, ma'am, it is.” Fragments of bark and dry leaves clung to his jacket.
“Could I ask you something, Reverend Mr. Bowman?”
“Of course.”
“How old was Edna Farrell when she died?”
“I believe Sister Farrell was just shy of eighty.”
“Do you remember a man named Tucker Adams?”
His eyes narrowed, and the tip of his tongue slid across his upper lip.
“Adams was elderly, died in 1943,” I prompted.
The tongue disappeared and a gnarled finger sighted on me. “I surely do. I was ten years old when that old fellow wandered off from his farm. I helped search for him. Brother Adams was blind and half deaf, so the whole community pitched in.”
“How did Adams die?”
“Everyone assumed he just died in the woods. We never found him.”
“But his grave is in the cemetery on Schoolhouse Hill.”
“No one's buried there. Sister Adams put the headstone up a couple years after her husband went missing.”
“Thank you. You've been very helpful.”
“I see the boys got your car to running.”
“Yes.”
“Hope they didn't charge too much.”
“No, sir. It seemed fair.”
I pulled into the sheriff 's department lot directly behind Lucy Crowe. She parked her cruiser, then waited with hands on hips as I turned off the engine and retrieved my briefcase. Her face looked drawn and cheerless.
“Rough morning?”
“Some morons stole a golf cart from the country club, left it a mile up Conleys Creek Road. Two seven-year-olds found the thing and ran it into a tree. One's got a broken collarbone, the other a concussion.”
“Teenagers?”
“Probably.”
We spoke as we walked.
“Anything new on the Hobbs murder?”
“One of my deputies was working security Sunday morning. He remembers seeing Hobbs enter the morgue around eight, remembers you. The computer shows she checked the foot out at nine-fifteen, back in at two.”
“She kept it that long after talking to me?”
“Apparently.”
We climbed the steps and were buzzed through the outside door, then again through a barred prison gate. I followed Crowe down a corridor and across an outer workroom to her office.
“Hobbs signed out of the morgue at three-ten. A guy from Bryson City PD was working the afternoon shift. He doesn't recall seeing her leave.”
“What about the surveillance camera?”
“This is beautiful.”
Crowe unclipped a radio from her belt, placed it on a cabinet, and dropped into her chair. I took one of those opposite the desk.
“The thing went out around two Sunday afternoon, stayed down until eleven Monday morning.”
“Did anyone see Primrose after she left the morgue?”
“Nope.”
“Did you discover anything in her room?”
“The lady was fond of Post-its. Phone numbers. Times. Names. Lots of notes, mostly work-related.”
“Primrose was always losing her glasses, wore them on a cord around her neck. She worried about being forgetful.” I felt a cold spot in my chest. “Any clue about her destination Sunday afternoon?”
“Not a word.”
A deputy entered and placed a paper on the sheriff 's desk. She glanced at it briefly, back to me.
“I see your wheels are running again.”
My Mazda was the talk of Swain County.
“I'm heading down to Charlotte, but I want to show you a couple of things before I go.”
I handed her the purloined photo of the Tramper funeral.
“Recognize anyone?”
“I'll be goddamned. Parker Davenport, our venerable lieutenant governor. The little twerp looks like he's fifteen.” She returned the print. “What's the significance?”
“I'm not sure.”