Bare Bones

Also By Kathy Reichs

GRAVE SECRETS

FATAL VOYAGE

DEADLY DÉCISIONS

DEATH DU JOUR

DÉJÀ DEAD

SCRIBNER

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New York,NY10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 by Temperance Brennan, L.P.

Al rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

SCRIBNERand design are trademarks of Macmil an Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.

DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING

Text set in Stempel Garamond

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Reichs, Kathy.

Bare bones/Kathy Reichs.

p. cm.

1. Brennan, Temperance (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Forensic anthropology—Fiction. 3. Women anthropologists—Fiction. 4. Endangered species

—Fiction. 5. Smuggling—Fiction. 6.North Carolina —Fiction. I. Title.

PS3568.E476345B375 2003

PS3568.E476345B375 2003

813’.54—dc21

2003040725

ISBN 0-7432-6008-2

Visit us on the World Wide Web:

http://www.SimonSays.com

Dedicated to al those fighting to protect our precious wildlife,

especial y:

TheUnited States Fish and Wildlife Service

The World Wildlife Foundation

The AnimalsAsia Foundation

Acknowledgments

IWISH TO EXPRESS GRATITUDE TOCAPTAINJOHNGALLAGHER(retired); to Detective John Appel, Guilford County, North Carolina, Sheriff ’s Department (retired); to Detective Chris Dozier, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department; and, especial y, to Ira J. Rimson, P.E., for help with the Cessna/drug scenario.

Many of those working to protect endangered wildlife gave generously of their time and expertise. Special thanks to Bonnie C. Yates, forensics specialist, Morphology/Mammals Team Leader, and Ken Goddard, director, Clark R. Bavin National Fish and Wildlife Forensics Laboratory; to Lori Brown, investigative assistant, and Tom Bennett, resident agent in charge, United States Fish and Wildlife Service; and to Agent Howard Phelps, Carolyn Simmons, and the staff at the Pocosin Lakes National Wildlife Refuge. You are on the front lines, battling to save what we can’t afford to lose. Your efforts are appreciated.

David M. Bird, Ph.D.,McGil University , provided information on threatened bird species. Randy Pearce, DDS, and James W. Wil iams, J.D., shared their knowledge of the Melungeons of Tennessee. Eric Buel, Ph.D., director, Vermont Forensics Laboratory, coached me on amelogenin. Michael Baden, M.D., and Claude Pothel, M.D., enlightened me on the details of diatoms and death by drowning.

Captain Barry Faile, Lancaster County Sheriff ’s Department, and Michael Morris,LancasterCounty coroner, were patient with my questions. Michael Sul ivan, M.D., welcomed me at the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner facility. Terry Pitts, D.Min., NCFD, offered suggestions on funeral home basements. Judy H. Morgan, GRI, kept me accurate onCharlotte real estate and geography.

I appreciate the continued support of Chancel or James Woodward of the University of North Carolina–Charlotte.Mercito André Lauzon, M.D., chef de service, and to al of my col eagues at the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale.

A thousand thanks to Jim Junot for answers to a mil ion questions.

Thanks to Paul Reichs for comments on the manuscript, and to the whole ragtag beach bunch for title suggestions and other minutiae.

My incredibly patient and bril iant editor, Susanne Kirk, took a rough piece of work and made it flow.

A special thanks to my supersonic agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh. You delivered Wyatt Z. the same day I deliveredBare Bones.It was a very good year.

ASIWAS PACKAGING WHAT REMAINED OF THE DEAD BABY,THEman I would kil was burning pavement north towardCharlotte .

I didn’t know that at the time. I’d never heard the man’s name, knew nothing of the grisly game in which he was a player.

At that moment I was focused on what I would say to Gideon Banks. How would I break the news that his grandchild was dead, his youngest daughter on the run?

My brain cel s had been bickering al morning. You’re a forensic anthropologist, the logic guys would say. Visiting the family is not your responsibility. The medical examiner wil report your findings. The homicide detective wil deliver the news. A phone cal .

Al valid points, the conscience guys would counter. But this case is different. YouknowGideon Banks.

I felt a deep sadness as I tucked the tiny bundle of bones into its container, fastened the lid, and wrote a file number across the plastic. So little to examine. Such a short life.

As I secured the tub in an evidence locker, the memory cel s floated an image of Gideon Banks. Wrinkled brown face, fuzzy gray hair, voice like ripping duct tape.

Expand the image.

A smal man in a plaid flannel shirt arcing a string mop across a tile floor.

The memory cel s had been offering the same image al morning. Though I’d tried to conjure up others, this one kept reappearing.

Gideon Banks and I had worked together at theUniversity ofNorth Carolina atCharlotte for almost two decades until his retirement three years back. I’d periodical y thanked him for keeping my office and lab clean, given him birthday cards and a smal gift each Christmas. I knew he was conscientious, polite, deeply religious, and devoted to his kids.

And he kept the corridors spotless.

That was it. Beyond the workplace, our lives did not connect.

Until Tamela Banks placed her newborn in a woodstove and vanished.

Crossing to my office, I booted up my laptop and spread my notes across the desktop. I’d barely begun my report when a form fil ed the open doorway.

“A home visit real y is above and beyond.”

I hit “save” and looked up.

TheMecklenburgCounty medical examiner was wearing green surgical scrubs. A stain on his right shoulder mimicked the shape ofMassachusetts in dul red.

“I don’t mind.” Like I didn’t mind suppurating boils on my buttocks.

“I’l be glad to speak to him.”

Tim Larabee might have been handsome were it not for his addiction to running. The daily marathon training had wizened his body, thinned his hair, and leatherized his face. The perpetual tan seemed to gather in the hol ows of his cheeks, and to pool around eyes set way too deep. Eyes that were now crimped with concern.

“Next to God and the Baptist church, family has been the cornerstone of Gideon Banks’s life,” I said. “This wil shake him.”

“Perhaps it’s not as bad as it seems.”

I gave Larabee the Look. We’d had this conversation an hour earlier.

“Al right.” He raised a sinewy hand. “It seems bad. I’m sure Mr. Banks wil appreciate the personal input. Who’s driving you?”

“SkinnySlidel .”

“Your lucky day.”

“I wanted to go alone, butSlidel refused to take no for an answer.”

“Not Skinny?” Mock surprise.

“I think Skinny’s hoping for some kind of lifetime achievement award.”

“I think Skinny’s hoping to get laid.”

I pegged a pen at him. He batted it down.

“Watch yourself.”

Larabee withdrew. I heard the autopsy room door click open, then shut.

I checked my watch. Three forty-two.Slidel would be here in twenty minutes. The brain cel s did a col ective cringe. On Skinny there was cerebral agreement.

I shut the computer down and leaned back in my chair.

What would I say to Gideon Banks?

Bad luck, Mr. Banks. Looks like your youngest gave birth, wrapped the tyke in a blanket, and used him as kindling.

Good, Brennan.

Wham-o! The visual cel s sent up a new mental image. Banks pul ing a Kodak print from a cracked leather wal et. Six brown faces. Close haircuts for the boys, pigtails for the girls. Al with teeth too big for the smiles.