“What was on it?”
I described the three voices.
“Jesus leaping Christ. You didn’t make her give it up?”
“I had no warrant to compel her to do so.” Curt.
I heard a voice, then the line went hollow as Slidell pressed the receiver to his chest. I was turning in at the annex when he reengaged.
“So the house yielded nothing of interest?” Wanting to wrap up and get inside.
“I didn’t say that. One bedroom was ass to armpit with cartons full of file folders. We’re talking an episode straight out of Hoarders.”
“Websleuthing cases?”
“I got some guys going through ’em.”
“Is Cora Teague in there?”
“I got some guys going through ’em.”
“What about a computer?”
“No cell. No computer.”
“Did you check her car?”
“I don’t know how I’d muddle through without you.”
“She had to have a laptop. She spent a lot of time on—”
“The weird wide web. I get it. The house has wi-fi.”
I killed the engine. Out my windows, the lawns and gardens of Sharon Hall looked as dark and deserted as the grounds of Heatherhill.
“Did you locate Wendell Clyde?” I asked.
“Yeah. The toad still lives in Huntersville. First thing tomorrow, I haul his ass to the bag to discuss his recent accomplishments.”
“Do you want me—”
“I can handle it.”
We both set a land speed record disconnecting.
It was almost eleven. Though exhausted, I knew the subliminal ting-a-ling would be ruthless in denying me sleep.
After appeasing Birdie, I texted Mason’s Johnson City phone number to Ramsey, then got online and started searching. There wasn’t a lot. But what I found explained why the wee synapse had fired.
Oscar Mason was a pioneer in the field of medical photography and radiography and, for over forty years, head of the photography section at New York’s Bellevue Hospital. Throughout his career he provided hundreds of illustrations for works published by physicians associated with the hospital and its medical college. Mason retired in 1906, died in 1921.
Okay. That tracked. Edward Gulley would have been among his later subjects.
Mason served as president of the American Institute, Photographic Section, and held office in the American Microscopical Society.
Impressive. But why had I heard of the guy?
I read on.
Bingo.
In 1866 a morgue was constructed at Bellevue, modeled after the much larger showpiece for the dead in Paris. Beginning the following year, Mason’s duties included photographing deceased unknowns. Photo and corpse were numbered correspondingly, and the bodies were displayed for up to seventy-two hours on stone tables behind a wall made of iron and glass. Unclaimed UIDs were eventually buried at the Hart Island City Cemetery.
Thus the mental bong! Back at the gray dawn of history, I’d learned of Mason through a grad course on the evolution of coroner systems. We’d viewed examples of his work, read an annual report in which he pleaded for a facility to allow him to photograph cadavers indoors.
I followed more links. Found a factoid that caught my eye.
“Oscar Mason’s most notable photos appeared in the great dermatology atlases written by George Henry Fox.”
The World Wide Web is a spectacularly wondrous creation. It took little searching to find Fox’s Photographic Atlas of the Diseases of the Skin. The entire four volumes, published between 1900 and 1905 and now public domain, had been digitized, colorized, and uploaded.
I scanned image after image. The table of contents. Found no mention of an “ectodermal-dental syndrome of unknown origin.” No plate showing Edward Gulley with his shadowed eyes, spotted skin, wonky nails, and mangled dentition. But the style was unmistakable. Grandpa Gulley’s page had come from a Fox publication.
Though unnecessary, I pulled up the picture I’d taken with my iPhone before parting with Susan Grace. As Uncle Edward stared at me glumly, I compiled a list of his oddities.
This round took longer. But my diligence paid off. By 2:00 A.M. I had a diagnosis for Mason and Edward Gulley.
I dropped into bed, saddened, but also elated. And confused.
Sleep came hard and fast.
But the subconscious is also a wondrous creation.
An hour later I was wide awake. This time the synapse was clamorous.
I knew whose face I’d be viewing the next morning in stone.
A breeze was working to stir things up, but with the soft nonchalance characteristic of spring. Sunlight through the magnolias was throwing shifting patterns across the patio bricks.
The early morning beauty was wasted on me. Two hours had passed since I’d phoned Hawkins. I was on fire to get to the lab.
When I arrived, Mrs. Flowers was busy at her gatekeeper post. Flicking her a quick wave, I hurried to change into scrubs.
The concrete was as I’d left it. Except for the layer of chemical remover now coating the silicone sealant.
Not even stopping for coffee, I rang downstairs. Hawkins arrived in minutes. After gloving, he spent an eternity removing the white gook with a small plastic scraper. Finally, the sealant was gone and the cracks were visible.
While I steadied the concrete, which probably accomplished little, Hawkins loosened the clamps. Together, we muscled the mold out of the vise and onto the counter.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded.
Simultaneously, we eased up on the pressure. The concrete split along its original cracks. I held my breath as we both tugged backward.
The two sides parted. The liquid rubber coating had done its job. The mold slid easily from the dental stone filling its interior. As we wiggled the detached halves free, I stabilized the cast, then lowered it onto the counter.
The product of our work lay facedown. The head appeared to be reasonably well formed, though dented where air had bubbled or where the concrete had been damaged. Impressions of hair feathered its outer surface.
Using two hands, and again barely breathing, I carefully rolled the cast, then upended it onto the flat base formed by the top surface of the dental stone.
I’ve seen photos of famous death masks, a few originals. John Dillinger. Dante. Napoleon. Mary, Queen of Scots. Each gruesome effigy had captured, in a cold, macabre way, the spirit of the person no longer among the living.
Each viewing had triggered goose bumps like those now puckering my flesh.
Hawkins and I were standing shoulder to shoulder, staring, when Larabee pushed through the door.
“Do we have liftoff?” Seeing the bust, his grin morphed to an O. “Holy bleeding lizards.” Larabee joined us and planted his hands on his hips. “I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah,” I said softly.
The detail far exceeded my wildest hopes. Except for some minor distortion in the eyelids, it was like looking at a face recumbent in sleep. Long slender nose. Prominent cheekbones. Jaw that would have benefited from a less obtuse angle.
“Is it Cora Teague?” Larabee asked.
“No.”
“Any idea who?” Surprised.
“Mason Gulley.”
“Who the flip is Mason Gulley?”
“Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure.” Looking at his watch. Mind undoubtedly on a body on a table down the hall.
“I’ll meet you in your office. I want to collect my phone and some printouts.”
While Hawkins cleaned up the stinky room, I briefed Larabee on everything that had happened since I’d seen him on Monday. Then I showed him my iPhone image of the G. H. Fox plate.
He studied the screen, brows V’ed low over his nose. “The facial looks like a shot from one of those old-timey photo booths.”
“It’s a page from a historic medical text. The pictures were taken by a Bellevue Hospital photographer named Oscar Mason.”