“You suspect Cora Teague’s voice is on that recording.” Indicating the Ziploc.
“I do.”
“You think she was killed and dumped. And that part of her body was recovered and sent to this lab.”
“I’m suggesting you consider the possibility.”
“What makes you think Teague is at this facility?”
“About a year and a half ago, you made an entry on NamUs detailing a partial torso found in Burke County. Burke is right down the road from Avery. The time line fits. The geography fits. The descriptors fit.” Strike straightened and spread her arms wide. “Call me crazy, but I think it’s worth a look-see.”
A specimen cart rattled by in the hall. A door opened, releasing the whine of an autopsy saw cutting through bone. Closed abruptly, truncating the sound.
In my head I heard the wretched little voice on the tape.
Please don’t kill me.
Please.
Kill me.
As before, I felt a chill crawl up my spine.
“How did this come into your possession?” Gesturing at the key chain recorder.
Strike leaned back into her chair.
“As I said, I kept scanning sites listing UIDs, hoping a set of remains might link to Cora Teague. Nothing ever did. Then I got sidetracked by personal matters. Had to let it go for a while.”
Strike paused, perhaps pondering the unnamed matters that had temporarily halted her search.
“Last week, I got back to sleuthing. When I spotted your entry on NamUs it was like harps burst into tune. You know. Like on TV.”
I didn’t. But I nodded.
“Your entry included information on where the torso was found, so I decided what the heck? It’s not a long drive. Why not go up and poke around?”
“You went to Burke County? Seriously?”
“I did. Once I got there, it seemed obvious there was only one place a person in a hurry would off-load a body from that overlook. I walked a pattern downhill from the spot. For hours, turned up nothing but bugs. I was about to quit when I spotted a key chain wedged in the roots of a big old tree. Figured the thing was probably there by happenstance. But, being safe, I brought it home.”
Strike’s mouth squashed up to one side, and she went silent.
“You discovered the recording function and played the audio,” I suggested.
“Yeah.” Tight.
“And then?”
“And then I called you.”
A very long silence stretched between us. I broke it, using carefully chosen words.
“Mrs. Strike, I’m impressed with your enthusiasm. And with your commitment to the goal of returning nameless victims to their families. But—”
“You can’t discuss the specifics of a case.”
“That’s correct.”
“About what I expected.” Strike took a quick breath and set her jaw. Preparing to argue? Or to accept rejection?
“But I promise you,” I said, “I will look into the situation.”
“Yeah.” Strike gave a humorless sniff of a laugh. “Don’t let the door smack your arse on the way out.”
Strike snatched up the Ziploc and pushed to her feet.
I rose. “If you leave the key chain, I will ask someone at the crime lab to evaluate the audio.”
Strike repeated the mirthless snort. She really had it down. “I don’t think so.” Dropping the Ziploc into her pack.
I extended a hand. “I will call you. One way or another.”
Strike nodded. Shook. “I’d appreciate that. And your discretion.”
I must have looked confused.
“Until an ID is confirmed, no sense getting the media in a twist.”
“I never grant interviews.” Unless ordered to do so by those higher up the chain of command. I didn’t say that.
“I apologize. Didn’t need saying. It’s just, I prefer doing what’s best for the family.”
“Of course.”
I walked Strike down the hall and watched her disappear into the lobby, all the while debating if and how to share her tale with my boss, Mecklenburg County’s chief medical examiner. I knew the look Tim Larabee would give me. And the questions he’d ask.
Back at my desk, I rolled Strike’s visit around in my head. Considered possibilities.
Strike was a mental case. A con artist. A shrewd detective lacking a badge.
I started with door number three. Strike was a well-meaning though somewhat overzealous websleuth. She’d found the recorder just as she’d claimed. Problems. How had the police failed to spot the thing when they recovered the torso? How had it survived out in the elements for so long?
Say the girl on the audio actually was Cora Teague. Say Strike was correct, Teague is dead and I have her remains in storage. Had the key chain been hers? Had Teague recorded her thoughts while held in some sort of brutal captivity? Had she been murdered?
I moved to an alternate explanation. Strike fabricated the whole story. Faked the audio. Problem. The scam would be quickly discovered and Strike revealed as a fraud. Why do it? Because she’s nuts? Because she craves media attention? Doors one and two.
Or maybe Teague was the scammer and Strike her gullible victim. Perhaps Teague and two male companions staged the interchange on the recording, and somehow led Strike to the key chain. Teague had been in the wind for three and a half years. Perhaps she wanted to stay there. Problem. The tape sounded eerily real. The anguish in that voice would have the opposite effect on anyone who listened.
Or maybe Teague was working in league with Strike. Same question. Why? What did they hope to accomplish?
In my line of work, I encounter a range of human motivations as broad as the South China Sea. I’m pretty good at spotting deception. At assessing character. Looking back on that encounter, I’m forced to admit, I hadn’t a clue what to think of Hazel “Lucky” Strike.
I stared at the bright yellow file on my blotter. Larabee would be anxious for word on the mummified corpse.
I was still staring when my iPhone beeped an incoming message. The flight reminder triggered an unexpected wave of uneasiness.
Decision.
Deep breath, then I dialed. As my call winged north, I pictured Ryan and chose words to structure my argument.
Andrew Ryan, lieutenant-détective, Service des enquêtes sur les crimes contre la personne, Sûreté du Québec. Translation: Ryan works homicide for the Quebec Provincial Police. I am forensic anthropologist for the Bureau du coroner in La Belle Province. For years we have investigated murders together.
For a period, Ryan and I were also a couple. We both chose to end it. Then he chose to drop off the map. Recently, he’d chosen to return from exile and propose marriage. Months down the road, my mind was still too boggled to deal.
I pictured Ryan’s face. No longer young, but the crags and furrows in all the right places. The sandy hair and electric blue eyes. Eyes that would now show disappointment.
I grinned, despite my apprehension over the upcoming conversation. Ryan had that effect on me. I really did miss him.
Ryan answered, sounding cheerful as a balloon on a string. “Madame. I have reserved a prime table for two at Milos. And organized a full range of postprandial activities. Also for two.”
“Ryan—”
“ ‘Postprandial’ means after supper. Said activities will take place in the privacy of my home.”
“I hate to do this, but I have to cancel.”
Ryan said nothing.
“A case has come up. Two, actually. I’m sorry.”
“Well, there’s some things a man just can’t run away from.” In a bad John Wayne imitation.
“Stagecoach.” I guessed the film. It was a game we played. “Do you want to hear about the cases?”
“Perhaps later. When can you reschedule?”
“As soon as I’ve finished.”
A beat, then, “Tempe, deep down I fear that quote really nails it.”
“What does that mean?”