I showed him photocopies of images I’d downloaded from the Internet. He viewed them, then turned back to the phone.
“Who’s the subject?”
I told him about Edward Gulley. And Mason. And Susan Grace.
“I’ll admit, there’s a resemblance to your cast. But how can you be certain it’s this kid Gulley?” Clearly dubious.
“Ever hear of Naegeli-Franceschetti-Jadassohn syndrome?”
“Refresh me.”
“NFJ syndrome is a genetic condition, inherited as an autosomal dominant.”
“So if a parent has it, each child has a fifty percent chance of inheriting.”
“Yes. People with NFJ syndrome sweat very little or not at all, so hot weather and intense physical activity are not well tolerated. An affected individual may have dark spots on the abdomen, chest, or neck. Sometimes around the mouth and eyes. The discolorations are lattice-like in patterning, and tend to appear between the ages of one and five. They may fade during the teen years or persist for life.”
“I see the abnormal pigmentation.” Larabee, still eyeing Edward Gulley. “Reticulate.” Referring to their netlike appearance.
“Other symptoms include thickening of the skin on the palms of the hands and soles of the feet, brittle fingernails, and, less frequently, nails that are poorly aligned on the big toes.”
“Check all of those boxes.”
“Dental anomalies are common, including missing teeth, yellowed and spotted enamel, early cavities, and early tooth loss.”
“I see all of that. But to conclude that—”
“Another defect associated with NFJ syndrome is absence of fingerprints.”
The brows V’ed up. “Oh.”
“The thumb and fingertip from the Burke County overlook had no prints.”
“What’s the population incidence of NFJ syndrome?”
“It’s estimated to be one in two to four million.”
“Pretty good odds.”
“Yes.”
“So it’s likely Mason Gulley’s head was in that bucket.”
“Yes. The fine blond hair from the swabs. Witness statements that Mason was odd. Grandma Gulley’s assertion that he was unnatural. The death mask resemblance to the photos of Edward Gulley. The lack of prints on the pine tar fingertips, assuming they’re his. It all points to NFJ. Thus, to Mason.”
“So all the other remains found so far are his?”
I raised both palms. “All the bones are consistent in terms of age and body size. There are no duplications. I can’t say they’re all from the same person. I can’t say they aren’t.”
“Will a maternal Gulley relative provide a DNA sample?”
“Not a chance with Grandma. Susan Grace is a minor.”
Larabee considered. “So it’s still possible parts of Cora Teague were also recovered.”
“Or someone else.”
“I’m sensing you don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You know it’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“We won’t be giving an NOK notification.”
“No.”
Larabee drummed reflective fingers on the arm of his chair. “It’s pretty clear Gulley was murdered.”
“His head was in a bucket.”
“Any thoughts on that?”
I shared Susan Grace’s comments on Cora Teague, the fatal “fall” of her brother Eli, the SIDS death of the Brice baby. Then asked, “Who was the ME up there back then?”
“Avery County has a coroner,” Larabee said.
“Great.” Unlike medical examiners—doctors in most, though not all, cases in North Carolina—coroners could be anything from a mechanic to a mortician.
“Not sure who the wise voters had in office in 2008 or 2011. Let me look into it.”
“What’s up with Strike?” I asked as Larabee jotted a note.
“Haven’t heard word one from Slidell.”
“He planned to interview Wendell Clyde this morning.”
“The battle of the websleuths.” Larabee gave a tight shake of his head.
“The Internet exchanges between Strike and Clyde were vicious.”
“Shall we make Skinny’s day?” Leaning forward to punch keys on his phone. Two rings, then “Slidell.”
“Tim Larabee here.”
“Can’t talk, Doc. I’m at a scene.” Racket carried through the speaker. A slammed door. The distant wail of a siren. Agitated voices.
“How about a quick update on Hazel Strike?”
“That soap opera just took a new twist.” We waited as Slidell barked an order at someone. “I’m in a condo off Carmel Road, looking at a whole lot of brains on a wall. Selma Barbeau, seventy-two, Caucasian female, widowed, living alone. Some bastard rearranged her face with the Brooklyn Smasher she kept by her bed for protection.”
Larabee’s eyes met mine. “Barbeau was murdered with a baseball bat?”
“Eeyuh.”
“You think it’s the same guy who killed Hazel Strike?”
“Naw, Doc. Widow ladies get bludgeoned on my beat all the time.”
I scribbled a name and raised the paper for Larabee.
“Have you interviewed Wendell Clyde yet?” he asked.
“Clyde’s cooling his heels downtown. Not looking good as our doer anymore, but a little sweat’ll improve his attitude.”
I congratulated myself for not commenting on Slidell’s contradictory imagery.
Back in my office, I was about to hit speed dial on my iPhone when the thing vibrated in my hand. Unidentified caller. Not sure why, but I answered.
“Hi, Mom. This has to be very brief.”
“Oh, God. Katy! I’m so happy to hear your voice.” She sounded a million miles off. I pictured her in a call center, an M16 slung over one shoulder, a line of soldiers waiting at her back.
“How are you? Is everything okay? Do you need anything? I can send a package.” So fast I was almost babbling.
“I’m good.”
“How’s Afghanistan?”
“Perfect today, better tomorrow.”
“Funny. Is it still cold?”
“We hit eighty degrees yesterday.”
“You’re sure you don’t need anything?”
“Mom, I’m good. My unit is moving out. I just wanted to call and say hi.”
“Moving out?” Calm.
“No big deal. But it may be hard to phone for a while.”
“A while?” Absolutely calm.
“Not long. Anything new on the home front?”
I’d told Mama. It seemed only fair to tell Katy. And prudent. “Andrew Ryan has asked me to marry him.” I didn’t add that he’d done it months ago.
A splinter of a pause, almost unnoticeable. Then, “And?”
“I haven’t given him an answer.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you love the guy?”
“Yes.”
“So why are you stalling?”
“I wouldn’t call it stalling.”
“What would you call it?”
“Thinking.”
“Are you still skittish because Dad burned you?”
“No.” Yes.
“It was a dick move, but that doesn’t mean Ryan will cheat.”
“No.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Go for it.”
“That was quick.”
“Someone has to be. Does Grandma know?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“Go for it.”
“Gotta love Daisy.”
“Mmm. Have you talked to your dad?”
“I’m going to call him now. So I should go. Love you!”
“Love you, too, sweetheart. Stay safe.”
“Always.”
She disconnected.
I took a moment to come down. Then, feeling a mix of elation and alarm, which I carefully hid, I phoned Ramsey.
Like Slidell’s, Ramsey’s voice came riding a tumult of sound. He was also mopping up after violent death. His encounter involved a Buick, a Bronco, and a bottle of Jack D.
Over the intermittent sputtering of his radio, I told him about Mason Gulley. And about Slidell’s new theory concerning Hazel Strike. Ramsey must have picked up on something in my voice.
“You’re not buying that Strike’s murder is unrelated to what’s gone on up here? To her investigation into Cora Teague?”