Spider Bones (4 page)

“Take these?” My gesture took in the photo and the Mac.

Ryan’s gaze went to Bandau, then to the gouged front door.

He nodded. “The warrant covers it.”

I couldn’t have known. But that photo would dog me for many days across many, many miles.

And nearly get me killed.

I
AWOKE TO RAIN TICKING ON GLASS. THE WINDOW SHADE WAS A
dim gray rectangle in a very dim room.

I checked the clock. Nine forty.

From atop the dresser, two unblinking yellow eyes stared my way.

“Give me a break, Bird. It’s Sunday.”

The cat flicked his tail.

“And raining.”

Flick.

“You can’t be hungry.”

Arriving back from Hemmingford, Ryan and I had grabbed a quick bite at Hurley’s Irish Pub, then walked to my place. Thanks to Mr. Soft Touch, the cat ended up the beneficiary of my doggie-bagged cheesecake.

I know what you’re thinking. Empty condo. Barren winter. Spring awakening!

Didn’t happen. Despite Ryan’s bid to frolic, the visit remained strictly tea and conversation, mostly about our kids and shared cockatiel, Charlie. Ryan took the couch. I sat in a wing chair across the room.

I explained my concern about Katy’s dissatisfaction with the concept of full-time employment. And about her recent fascination with a thirty-two-year-old drummer named Smooth.

Ryan talked of Lily’s latest setback with heroin. His nineteen-year-old daughter was out of rehab, home with Lutetia, and attending counseling. Ryan was cautiously optimistic.

He left at seven to take Lily bowling.

I wondered.

Was Lily’s fragile progress the reason for Ryan’s recent good humor? Or was it springing from renewed contact with Mommy?

Whatever.

Ryan promised to deliver Charlie the following day, as per our long-standing arrangement. When I was in Montreal, the bird was mine.

When told of the cockatiel’s upcoming arrival, Birdie was either thrilled or annoyed. Hard to read him sometimes.

After Ryan’s departure I took a very long bath. Then Bird and I watched season-one episodes of
Arrested Development
on DVD. He found Buster hilarious.

In Montreal, the week’s major paper comes out on Saturday. Not my preference, but there you have it.

I made coffee and an omeletlike cheesy scrambled egg thing, and began working through the previous day’s
Gazette.

A massive pothole had opened up on an elevated span of Highway 15 through the Turcot Interchange. Two lanes were closed until further notice.

A forty-year-old man had snatched a kid in broad daylight and thrown him into the trunk of his car. The sleazeball now faced multiple charges, including abduction, abduction of a child under fourteen, and sexual assault.

Twelve stories reported on how the economy sucked.

I was reading a human interest piece about a hamster that saved a family of seven from a house fire when my mobile sounded.

Katy.

“Hey, sweetie.”

“Hey, Mom.”

We’re Southerners. It’s how we greet.

“You’re up early.”

“It’s a gorgeous day. I’m going to Carmel to play tennis.” Katy’s lighthearted mood surprised me. Last time we’d talked she was in a funk.

“With Smooth?” I had trouble picturing the dreadlocks and do-rag on the country club courts.

“With Lija. Smooth’s got a gig in Atlanta.” Derisive snort. “His ass can stay there for all I care. Or Savannah, or Raleigh, or Kathmandu.”

There is a God who answers our prayers.

“How’s Lija?” I asked.

“Terrific.”

Katy and Lija Feldman have been best friends since high school. A year back, following Katy’s much-delayed college graduation, they’d decided to try rooming together. So far, so good.

“How’s work?” I asked.

“Mind-numbing. I sort crap, Xerox crap, research crap. Now and then I file crap at the courthouse. Those jaunts through the halls of justice really get the old adrenaline pumping.” She laughed. “But at least I have a job. People are being dumped like nuclear waste.”

Okeydokey.

“Where are you?”

“At the town house. Gawd. I hope we can stay here.”

“Meaning?”

“Coop’s returning from Afghanistan.”

Coop was Katy’s landlord and, from what I could tell, an on-again, off-again romantic interest. Hard to know. The man seemed perpetually out of the country.

“I thought Coop was in Haiti.”

“Ancient news. His Peace Corps commitment ended two years ago. He was in the States ten months, now he’s working for a group called the International Rescue Committee. They’re headquartered in New York.”

“How long has Coop been in Afghanistan?”

“Almost a year. Someplace called Helmand Province.”

Was Coop’s reappearance the reason for Katy’s sunny mood? For Smooth’s heave-ho?

“You sound happy about his homecoming.” Discreet.

“Oh, yeah.” The
Oh
lasted a good five beats. “Coop’s awesome. And he’s coming straight to me after he checks in at home.”

“Really.” My tone made it a question.

“Play your cards right, Mommy dearest, I might bring him by.”

A blatant dodge, but since Katy was so excited, I decided to press on for details.

“What’s this awesome gentleman’s actual name?”

“Webster Aaron Cooperton. He’s from Charleston.”

“You met him at UVA?”

“Yep.”

“How is it that young Mr. Cooperton holds deed to a town house in Charlotte?”

“He finished school here.”

“Didn’t like Charlottesville?”

“Wasn’t invited back.”

“I see.”

“He’s really nice. Loads of fun.”

I had no doubt of that.

“And the town house?”

“His parents bought it for him when he transferred to UNCC. As an investment. They’re beaucoup bucks up.”

Thus Coop’s freedom to hold morally admirable but woefully underpaid aid jobs.

Whatever. Shaggy musician out. Humanitarian in. Worked for me.

“You and Coop dated following his return from Haiti?”

“When we could. He was in New York a lot.”

I paused, allowing Katy to get to the reason for her call. Turned out there was none.

“Well, Mommy-o. Have a good day.”

Mommy-o?

Who was this strange woman posing as my daughter?

Ryan delivered Charlie around noon. Eager to be off to Lily, he stayed only briefly. The door had barely closed when the bird fired off two of his bawdier quips.

“Fill your glass, park your ass!”

“Charlie.”

“Cool your tool!”

Clearly, the cockatiel training CD had seen no play time in my absence.

Point of information: confiscated during a brothel raid several years back, Charlie became Ryan’s Christmas gift to me. My little avian friend’s repertoire is, shall we say, colorful.

Jean-Claude Hubert, the chief coroner, phoned at one o’clock. Hubert had located John Lowery’s father, Plato Lowery, and informed him of the fingerprint ID on the body in Hemmingford. At first Plato was confused. Then shocked. Then skeptical.

The United States Army had also been brought into the loop.

“Now what?” I asked Hubert.

“Now we wait to see what Uncle Sam has to say.”

At one thirty I headed to Marché Atwater, near the Lachine Canal in the Saint-Henri neighborhood. A ten-minute drive from my condo, the market there dates to 1933.

Inside the two-story art deco pavilion, shops and stalls offer cheese, wine, bread, meat, and fish. Outside, vendors hawk maple syrup, herbs, and produce. At Christmas, freshly cut trees fill the air with the scent of pine. In spring and summer, flowers turn the pavement into a riot of color.

When I first started shopping at Atwater, the neighborhood was blue-collar and definitely down-at-the-heels. Not so today. Since the reopening of the canal in 2002, upscale condos have replaced low- and modest-cost housing and the area has become a real estate hot spot.

Not sure I’m a fan of such gentrification. But parking is easier now.

Inside, I purchased meat and cheese. Outside, I bought produce, then flats of marigolds and petunias. Made of sterner stuff, I figured their sort might survive my regime of horticultural neglect.

Back home, I planted the flowers around my postage stamp patio and in my little backyard. Rain was still falling. Hot damn. No need to water.

I was cleaning dirt from my nails when my cell phone sounded. 808 area code. Hawaii.

Toweling off, I clicked on.

“Dr. Tandler. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Though a Sunday call
was
unexpected, I had no doubt the topic.

“What? I have to have a reason?”

“Yes.”

Danny let out a long breath. “This Lowery thing is causing some concern on our end.”

Sensing an edge of anxiety in Danny’s voice, I waited.

“Yesterday Merkel got a call from Notter while driving home from the airport. You can imagine how getting tagged that soon after landing brightened his day.”

JPAC employs more than four hundred people, both military and civilian. In addition to the CIL, situated at Hickam Air Force Base, there are three permanent overseas detachments: in Bangkok, Thailand; Hanoi, Vietnam; and Vientiane, Laos; and another U.S. detachment at Camp Smith, in Hawaii. Each is commanded by a lieutenant colonel. The whole JPAC enchilada is under the command of an army major general. For now.

Danny referred to Brent Notter, deputy to the commander for public relations and legislative affairs, and Roger Merkel, scientific director and deputy to the commander for CIL operations. Merkel was Danny’s direct superior.

“After hearing from the Quebec coroner yesterday, Plato Lowery contacted his congressman,” Danny went on.

“Oh, boy,” I said. “What’s Lowery’s juice?”

“Juice?”

“Danny, we both know phone inquiries aren’t handled that fast. It’s been only twenty-four hours since Plato Lowery was informed of the situation. He must have connections.”

“According to Congressman O’Hare, John Lowery came from a family with a tradition of sending its boys into the military.”

“So do a lot of kids.”

“I checked. O’Hare has to run for reelection this year.”

“So do a lot of kids.”

“O’Hare and Notter were frat bros at Wake Forest.”

“That’ll do it.”

“Go Kappa Sig.” Danny was trying hard for casual. It wasn’t working.

“Is Notter worried?” I asked.

“Lowery was pretty upset. Wants to know why some guy in Canada is questioning his son’s proud record.”

“Understandable.”

“Why some Frenchie’s calling his kid a deserter.”

“I doubt the coroner used that term.” Or provided details of the circumstances surrounding John Lowery’s death. I kept that to myself.

“Congressman O’Hare has vowed to protect his constituent from a smear campaign by our neighbors to the north.”

“He said that?”

“In a statement to the press.”

“Why would O’Hare notify the media?”

“The guy’s a showboater, jumps at every chance he sees to ingratiate himself to the voting public.”

“But it’s ridiculous. Why would the government of Canada pick John Lowery of Lumberton, North Carolina, as someone to smear?”

“Of course it’s ridiculous. Merkel thinks O’Hare’s probably in trouble over NAFTA. Lashing out at Canada might make him look good with the home folk.”

That theory wasn’t totally without merit. North Carolina was hit hard by the North American Free Trade Agreement, lost thousands of jobs in the textile and furniture industries. But the agreement had been signed in 1994.

“Lowery senior also demands to know, if John died in Quebec, who the hell’s buried in his son’s grave.”

Understandable also.

“Notter wants to make sure the thing doesn’t turn into a media nightmare.”

“What’s his plan?”

“You live in North Carolina.”

“I do.” Wary.

“Y’all speak the native lingo.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Notter wants you to go to Lumberton and dig up whoever is in that grave.”

P
LATO LOWERY WAS YOUNGER THAN I EXPECTED, EARLY EIGHTIES
at most. His hair was the kind that turns L.A. waiters into stars. Though white with age, it winged thick and glossy from a center part to swoop down over his ears.

But Lowery’s eyes were what grabbed you, black as wormholes in space. His gaze seemed to laser straight into your soul.

Lowery watched as I called a halt to the digging. Others in the assembly: the backhoe operator; two cemetery workers; two coroner’s assistants; a reporter from the
Robesonian
; another from WBTW; a Lumberton cop; an army lieutenant who looked all of sixteen.

It was Tuesday, May 11. Two days since my call from Danny.

Though the time was barely 10 a.m., the temperature already nudged ninety. Sun pounded the cemetery’s psychedelically green lawn. The scent of moist earth and cut grass floated heavily on the air.

I squatted for a closer look at one side of the freshly opened grave.

Stratigraphy told the story.

The uppermost layer was a deep black-brown, the one below an anemic yellow-tan. Four feet down, the bucket’s teeth had bitten into a third stratum. Like the topsoil, the dirt was rich with organic content.

I gestured the tractor back and the cemetery workers to action. Collecting their spades, the men hopped in and began shoveling dirt from the grave.

In minutes a coffin lid took shape. I noted no protective vault, only the remnants of a crushed burial liner. Bad news.

A vault, whether concrete, plastic, or metal, completely encloses a coffin. A burial liner covers only the top and sides and is less sturdy. Dirt is heavy. The absence of a vault boded ill for the integrity of a box forty years underground.

In an hour a casket stood free within the excavated grave. Though flattened at one end, it appeared largely intact.

While I shot pictures, one of the coroner’s assistants drove the van graveside.

Under my direction, a plank was positioned beneath the bottom and chains were wrapped around the casket’s head and foot ends. With the cemetery workers directing movement with their hands, the backhoe operator slowly raised the box up, swung left, and deposited it on the ground.

The coffin looked jarringly out of place on the emerald grass in the warm spring daylight. As I made notes and shot pictures, I thought of John Lowery’s other sun-drenched resurrection far to the north.

And of the buoyant young man in the photo from Jean Laurier’s desk drawer.

I’d read the entire IDPF that morning, the Individual Deceased Personnel File, including paperwork sent by the military back in 1968. DD Form 893, the Record of Identification Processing Anatomical Chart; DA Form 10–249, the Certificate of Death; DD Form 1384, the Transportation Control and Movement Document; DD Form 2775, the Record of Preparation and Disposition of Remains.

I understood the acronym TSN-RVN. Tan Son Nhut–Republic of Vietnam. Lowery’s body had been identified and readied for transport at Tan Son Nhut, one of two U.S. military mortuaries in Vietnam.

The preparing official, H. Johnson, probably a GS-13 civilian identification officer, had listed John Lowery as the decedent on the DD 893, and provided Lowery’s grade and service number. He’d checked both “decomposed” and “burned” for condition of the remains.

In the front and back body views, Johnson indicated that Lowery’s head was severely injured, and that his lower arms and hands and both feet were missing. He diagrammed no scars or tattoos.

In the remarks section, Johnson stated that Lowery was found wearing army fatigues but no insignia, dog tags, or ID. Odd, but not unheard of. I’d handled one such case during my time consulting to the CIL. Since villagers had been caught looting bodies in the area, Johnson suggested these items had probably been stolen before Lowery’s body was found.

A medical officer with an indecipherable scrawl had completed the DA 10-249, listing cause of death as “multiple trauma.” Again, a common finding, particularly with victims of plane and chopper crashes.

Finally, a mortician named Dadko had signed the section titled Disposition of Remains. Dadko had also handled the DD 2775.

The DD 1384 listed Saigon as Lowery’s point of exit from Vietnam, and Dover Air Force Base, Delaware, as his point of arrival onto home soil.

No form detailed the basis for the positive ID.

Who, I wondered, had we just raised from this grave?

Ordering the chains removed, I took a few final pictures. Then, with much grunting and sweating, the plank was lifted by joint effort of the cemetery workers, the cop, the backhoe operator, the army lieutenant, and one less-than-enthusiastic television journalist.

I glanced at Plato Lowery as the coffin was transferred to the coroner’s van. Though his face remained rigid, his body jerked visibly at the sound of the slamming doors.

When the vehicle pulled away, I walked over to him.

“This must be very difficult.” Banal, I know, but I’m lousy at small talk. No, that’s being generous. When it comes to offering condolences, I totally suck.

Lowery’s face remained a stone mask.

Behind me I could hear car doors closing and engines starting up. The journalists and the cop were heading out.

“I promise to do everything I can to sort this out,” I said.

Still no response. Consistent. When we were introduced earlier, Lowery had neither spoken to me nor offered a hand to shake. Apparently I was one of the targets of his anger. For my role in Quebec? For intruding into his world to unearth his dead son?

I was about to try again when Lowery’s eyes flicked to something over my shoulder. I turned.

The lieutenant was hurrying our way, a gangly man with close-cropped hair and olive skin. Guipani? Guipini? Undoubtedly he’d been sent from Fort Bragg to put the best possible spin on a bad situation.

“Dr. Brennan. Mr. Lowery, sir. I’m so pleased this went well.” Sun glinted off bars on his shoulders and a plaque on one pocket.
D. Guipone.
“We’re all pleased, of course.”

A nervous smile revealed teeth that should have worn braces.

“The army knew that it would, of course. Go well.”

Not a muscle fiber stirred in Lowery’s face.

“My colleagues at the Central Identification Laboratory say Dr. Brennan is the best. That’s how this will be handled, sir. Only the best. And total transparency, of course.”

“Of course.” Lowery’s voice was gravel.

“Of course.” Firm nod from Guipone.

“A horse is a horse.”

“Sir?”

“Of course.”

Guipone cast a confused glance my way.

“Of course,” I said, deadpan as the old man.

Guipone was either too young or too dumb to realize he’d been made the butt of a joke.

“Well then.” Again the snaggletoothed smile, directed at me. “What happens now?”

“This morning, using cemetery records and the grave marker, I established that this was, indeed, the plot assigned to John Lowery.” I gestured toward the open grave. “Now, in the coroner’s presence, I’ll open the coffin, record the condition of the remains, then seal the body in a transport container. As soon as the army completes arrangements, the remains will be flown to JPAC for analysis.”

“My son died a hero.” Taut.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. We will get to the bottom of this.”

Turning his back to Guipone, Lowery spoke to me. “I want to see him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” As gently as I could.

The ebony eyes bore into mine. Seconds passed. Then, “How do I know my son will be treated with the respect he deserves?”

Reaching out, I placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder.

“My husband was a marine, Mr. Lowery. I am a mother. I understand the sacrifice made by the man in that coffin. And by those who loved him.”

Lowery tipped his face to the sun and closed his eyes. Then, lowering his head, he turned and walked away.

Medical examiners are appointed. Most are physicians, preferably pathologists, ideally board-certified forensic pathologists.

Coroners are elected. Candidates can be mechanics, teachers, or unemployed pole dancers. Most are morticians or funeral home operators.

In 1965, the North Carolina General Assembly passed legislation allowing individual counties to abolish the office of coroner and to appoint medical doctors to investigate deaths within their borders.

Today North Carolina has a centralized death investigation system. County MEs are appointed for three-year terms by the chief medical examiner in Chapel Hill.

Sound progressive? Actually, the setup is not so hot.

In counties lacking willing or capable doctors, nonphysicians—sometimes registered nurses—still serve. Instead of coroners, they’re now called “acting medical examiners.”

And get this. On its Web site, the North Carolina Medical Examiner System describes itself as a network of doctors who
voluntarily
devote their time, energy, and medical expertise.

Read between the lines. Doctors or dog walkers, in North Carolina, MEs are paid zilch.

Robeson County’s acting medical examiner was Silas Sugarman, owner and operator of Lumberton’s oldest funeral home. By prearrangement, following exhumation the casket would go from the cemetery to Sugarman’s facility.

I’d driven from Charlotte to Lumberton in my own car, departing as the first tendrils of dawn teased the Queen City awake. Though careful timing was required, I managed to shake Guipone and leave alone from the cemetery.

It wasn’t just that I found the lieutenant annoying. I had a plan.

Over the years, I’ve driven countless times from Charlotte to the South Carolina beaches. The back route I favor involves a long stretch on Highway 74 and brings me close enough to Lumberton for a barbecue detour. That was my target today. Being already in Lumberton, it only made sense to score some “que.”

I headed straight for Fuller’s Old Fashioned BBQ. A bit of a diversion, but I wasn’t due at the funeral home until two. And my stomach was broadcasting deprivation distress.

At one fifteen, most of the lunch crowd was gone. Ignoring the buffet, I ordered my usual. Barbecue pork, coleslaw, fries, and hush puppies. A tumbler of sweet tea the size of a silo.

OK. No smiley heart. But the owners, Fuller and Delora Locklear, know how to do pig.

Exiting the restaurant was like stepping into the molasses I’d left untouched on my table. The temperature inside my Mazda was 150.

After cranking the AC, I punched an address into my portable GPS and wound south toward Martin Luther King Drive. Within minutes the robotic voice was announcing arrival at my destination.

Sugarman’s Funeral Home looked like Tara on steroids. Redbrick. White antebellum pillars and trim up and down. Elaborate drive-through portico in front.

The interior could only be described as rose. Rose carpet. Rose drapes. Rose floral wallpaper above the wainscoting and beadboard.

In the main lobby, a faux-colonial placard listed two temporary residents. Selma Irene Farrington awaited mourners in the Eternal Harmony Room. Lionel Peter Jones cooled his heels in Peace Ever After.

A young woman materialized as I was pondering the relative merits of harmony versus peace. When I requested directions to the owner’s office, she led me past the Lilac Overflow Reposing Room and the Edgar Firefox Memorial Chapel.

Sugarman was seated at a massive oak desk with carved pineapples for feet. At least six-four and three hundred pounds, with greasy black hair and a crooked nose, he looked more mafioso than mortician.

Also present were the good lieutenant and a small, rat-faced man with short brown hair parted with surgical precision.

The trio was chuckling at some shared joke. Seeing me in the doorway, they fell silent and rose.

“Dr. Brennan. It is indeed an honor.” Sugarman’s voice was surprisingly high, his drawl as thick as the Fuller’s molasses.

Sugarman introduced rat-face as his brother-in-law, Harold Beasley, sheriff of Robeson County. Beasley nodded, repositioned a toothpick from the right to the left side of his mouth. No comment, no question. Obviously he’d been prepped on my role in the day’s activities.

“And you know the lieutenant.”

“Yes.” I resisted the impulse to add “of course.”

Sugarman arranged his beefy features into an expression of appropriate solemnity. “Ma’am, gentlemen. We all understand the sad business the Lord has chosen to send our way. I propose we get to it without further ado.”

Sugarman led us down a hall and through a door at the back of the facility. No name plaque. Everlasting Embalming? Perpetual Preparation?

The room was windowless, and maybe fifteen by twenty.

From the west wall, a door opened to the outside. Beside it, metal shelving held the usual array of instruments, chemicals, cosmetic supplies, plastic undies, and fluids whose purpose I didn’t really want to know.

A deep sink jutted from the south wall. Aspirating and injection machines sat on a counter beside it. So did a crowbar and small electric saw.

Dressing and embalming tables had been snugged to the north wall. An open casket yawned ready inside an aluminum transport case on a gurney pushed up to them.