“That was exactly the argument until this was discovered.”
I passed them another photo.
“What the hell is that?” McMahon gave it to Ryan.
“After seven people were killed, cooked, and eaten in a small underground room at this site, one of the diners squatted over the cold hearth and defecated.”
“Holy shit.”
“Exactly. Archaeologists call preserved feces coprolites. Biochemical tests showed traces of digested human muscle protein in this particular beauty.”
“Could the protein have gotten there by some other route?”
“Not myoglobin. Tests also showed this guy had eaten almost nothing but meat for eighteen hours prior to his grand gesture.”
“That is great stuff, Tempe, but I've got eight stiffs and a pack of reporters breathing down my neck. Other than perps with a morbid taste in art and literature, how is this relevant? You're showing me people who have been dead for centuries.”
I placed three more photos on his desk.
“Ever heard of Alfred G. Packer?”
He glanced at his watch, then at the pictures.
“No.”
“Alfie Packer is reputed to have killed and eaten five people in Colorado during the winter of 1874. He was tried and convicted of murder. The victims were recently exhumed and analyzed.”
“What the hell for?”
“Historic accuracy.”
Ryan circled behind McMahon. As the two men studied the bones of the Packer victims, I got up and spread my Polaroids across the desk.
“I took these at the morgue this morning.”
Like spectators at a tennis match, their eyes shifted among the Neanderthals, the Anasazi, the Packer victims, and my Polaroids. For a very long time no one spoke.
McMahon broke the silence.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in a bloody pear tree.”
NO ONE HAD ANYTHING TO ADD TO THAT.
“Who the hell are these lunatics?” Ryan's question broke the silence.
McMahon responded.
“The H&F Investment Group is buried under more layers than Olduvai Gorge. Veckhoff 's dead, so he's not talking. Following up on your suggestion, Tempe, we tracked down Rollins and Birkby through their fathers. Rollins lives in Greenville, teaches English at a community college. Birkby owns a chain of discount furniture stores, has homes in Rock Hill and Hilton Head. Each gentleman tells the same story: inherited his interest in H&F, knows nothing about the property, never visited there.”
I heard a door open, voices in the corridor.
“W. G. Davis is a retired investment banker living in Banner Elk. F. M. Payne is a philosophy professor at Wake Forest. Warren's an attorney in Fayetteville. We found the counselor on his way to the airport, had to spoil his little getaway to Antigua.”
“Do they admit to knowing one another?”
“Everyone tells the same story. H&F is strictly business, they never met. Never set foot on the property.”
“What about prints inside the house?”
“The recovery team lifted zillions. We're running them but it will take time.”
“Any police records?”
“Payne, the professor, was busted for pot in seventy-four. Otherwise, nothing came up. But we're checking every cell these guys have ever shed. If one of them peed on a tree at Woodstock, we'll get a sample. These assholes are dirty as hell, and they're going down for murder.”
Larke Tyrell appeared in the doorway. Deep lines creased his forehead. McMahon greeted him, went in search of additional seating. Tyrell spoke to me.
“I'm glad you're here.”
I said nothing.
McMahon returned with a folding metal chair. Tyrell sat, his spine so erect it made no contact with the backrest.
“What can I do for you, Doc?” McMahon.
Tyrell removed a handkerchief, wiped his forehead, then refolded the linen in a perfect square.
“I have information that is highly sensitive.”
The Andy Griffith eyes shifted from face to face, but he did not say the obvious.
“I'm sure you are all aware that Parker Davenport died of a gunshot wound yesterday. The wound appears to be self-inflicted, but there are disturbing elements, including an extremely high level of trifluoperazine in his blood.”
We all looked blank.
“The common name is Stelazine. The drug is used in the treatment of psychotic anxiety and agitated depressions. Davenport had no prescription for Stelazine, and his doctor knows of no reason he would be taking it.”
“A man in his position wouldn't have trouble getting what he wanted.” McMahon.
“That's true, sir.”
Tyrell cleared his throat.
“Minute traces of trifluoperazine were also detected in the body of Primrose Hobbs, but immersion and decomposition had complicated the picture, so a definitive finding was not possible.”
“Does Sheriff Crowe know this?” I asked.
“She knows about Hobbs. I'll tell her about Davenport when I leave here.”
“Stelazine wasn't found among Hobbs's belongings.”
“Nor did she have a prescription.”
My stomach tightened. I had never seen Primrose take so much as an aspirin.
“Equally disturbing are phone calls made by Davenport on the evening of his death,” Larke went on.
Tyrell handed McMahon a list.
“You may recognize some of the numbers.”
McMahon scanned the printout, then looked up.
“Sonofabitch. The lieutenant governor phoned the H&F officers just hours before blowing his brains out?”
“What?” I blurted.
“Or had them blown out.” Ryan.
McMahon passed me the list. Six numbers, five names. W. G. Davis, F. M. Payne, F. L. Warren, C. A. Birkby, P. H. Rollins.
“What was the sixth call?”
“The number traces to a rented cabin in Cherokee. Sheriff Crowe is checking it out.”
“Tempe, show Dr. Tyrell what you just showed me.”
McMahon reached for his phone.
“It's time to run these bastards to ground.”
Larke wanted to examine the marks firsthand, so we went straight to the morgue. Though I'd had nothing since coffee at seven, and it was after one, I had no appetite. I kept seeing Primrose, wondering what she'd discovered. What threat she'd posed. And a new question: Was her murder linked to the death of the lieutenant governor?
Larke and I spent an hour going over the bones, the ME looking and listening closely, now and then asking a question. We'd just finished when my cell phone rang.
Lucy Crowe was in Waynesville but had something she needed to discuss. Could we meet around nine at High Ridge House? I agreed.
As we were disconnecting she asked a question.
“Do you know an archaeologist named Simon Midkiff?”
“Yes.”
“He may be involved with this H&F bunch.”
“Midkiff?”
“His was the sixth number Davenport dialed before his death. If he tries to contact you, agree to nothing.”
As we talked, Larke photocopied the pictures and articles. When he was done, I told him what Crowe had said. He posed a single question.
“Why?”
“Because they're crazy,” I answered, still distracted by Crowe's comment about Midkiff.
“And Parker Davenport was one of them.”
He slid the photocopies into his briefcase, impaled me with exhausted eyes.
“He tried professional sabotage to keep you from that house.” Larke swept an arm in the direction of the tables. “To divert you from this.”
I did not reply.
“And I was suckered in.”
Still, I remained silent.
“Is there anything I can say to you?”
“There are things you can say to my colleagues.”
“Letters will go to the AAFS, the ABFA, and the NDMS immediately.” He grabbed my wrist. “And I will phone the head of each organization first thing Monday to explain personally.”
“And the press?” Though I knew he was suffering, I could force no warmth into my voice. His disloyalty had hurt me, professionally and personally.