Carved in Bone bf-1 Page 19

  Slipping an elastic strap around his scalp, Waylon switched on a heavy-duty headlamp and leaned in toward one side of the crevice. I heard a low, humming sound, and then, astonishingly, Waylon began to sing. He had a rich bass baritone that filled the cave with a haunting song: “In the deep dark hills of eastern Kentucky/That’s the place where I trace my bloodline./And it’s there I read on a hillside gravestone/‘You’ll never leave Harlan alive.’”

  Sparks flew as the hammer blows rang out in time to the mournful ballad. Every half-dozen or so blows, a chunk of rock would crack off and clatter to the floor. “Where the sun comes up”—CLANG—“About ten in the morning”—CLANG—“The sun goes down”—CLANG—“About three in the day”—CLANG—“You fill your cup”—CLANG—“With whatever bitter brew you’re drinking”—CLANG—“And spend your life diggin’ coal”—CLANG—“from the bottom of your grave.”

  Waylon paused, shifting his stance to attack the other wall. His hair and beard dripped with sweat. “Lucky thing this is such a small piece we got to widen,” he huffed. “Much bigger, and I might pull a John Henry, die with my hammer in my hand.”

  I seriously doubted that.

  After ten minutes and two ballads, Waylon stepped back and sized up his handiwork. “Art, come on up and see if maybe you can shinny through that. I knocked off them knobby parts in the skinniest places. If that ain’t enough, it’s gonna take a lot more work to widen. Careful, though — they’s some sharp edges now.”

  Art sidled up to the crack, and after a few adjustments and contortions — only slightly more severe than Sheriff Kitchings had required to shoehorn his belly into the crystal grotto — he popped through. Waylon grinned. “You fellers always have this much excitement on a case? This forensic shit keeps a man hoppin’, don’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes it’s a real blast.”

  Waylon chuckled, Art groaned, and I said a silent prayer of thanks to be back in the land of bad puns.

  Waylon led us a hundred yards up a gently sloping tunnel; for the latter half of the trek, an irregular oval of light grew larger and brighter. “Uh-oh,” said Art from behind me.

  “What? We’re almost out.”

  “We’re ascending toward a bright, white light. Last time that happened to me, they had to hook jumper cables to my heart. Maybe we weren’t as lucky in that second cave-in as we thought.”

  “If we were dead, we’d be climbing a big marble staircase.”

  “Marble? We’re inside a mountain in Cooke County; I’m guessing the afterlife’s a little more rustic here, too.”

  Before I could think up a retort we emerged, squinting and blinking, into the glare of the late September afternoon. Overhead, the sky shone electric blue; around us, the dogwood and tulip poplar leaves blazed red and yellow. Scrambling up out of a small sinkhole, we angled along a hillside for perhaps a quarter-mile, then scrambled down one end of the bluff behind Cave Springs Primitive Baptist Church. The church looked just as we’d left it, just as it probably had for the past fifty years or more. Beside it, though, my truck bore a fresh coating of limestone dust.

  Waylon’s truck was parked beside mine. It looked freshly washed. Unless he’d somehow scrubbed it after the explosions, Waylon was telling the truth: by the time he’d arrived, the cave’s entrance had been blasted long enough for the dust to settle.

  “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge,” said Art.

  “Wait a second — I’ve got an idea. You still got your forensics kit?”

  “Are you kidding? After that big production you made of hauling it up by your bootstraps, I knew I’d never hear the end of it if I left it behind. Why?”

  “Come with me.”

  I led him back to the cave’s entrance. Just as I’d expected, there in the mud beside the spring was a fresh set of boot prints. They led into the mouth of the cave, vanishing beneath the fresh rockfall.

  “Eureka,” said Art as he knelt down and set about taking a cast from the clearest of the several prints. “Look familiar?” They didn’t, but it could have been a familiar pair of feet inside an unfamiliar pair of boots.

  I studied the surrounding area. As far as I could tell, the tracks led into the cave — but didn’t lead back out again. “You think he’s still in there? Got caught in his own cave-in?”

  Art shrugged. “Maybe. Kinda hope so. But maybe he slipped out the back before setting off that second blast. Or maybe he’s coming out the same way we just did.”

  I shook my head. “Doubt it. If he’d been in there with us, seems like he’d’ve come after us. Anybody that’s packing explosives is surely carrying a gun, too. He’d have shot us before we climbed up out of the grotto. The thing I can’t figure out is, why not just shoot us in the first place?”

  “Too suspicious. Cave-in could be passed off as an accident. Bullet holes are harder to explain — might bring an angry mob of vigilante UT professors up here hankering for vengeance. If the cave-in plan had worked, though, our bodies might be buried under a hundred tons of rock. We might go down as ‘missing, presumed dead’ or some such.” I was beginning to grasp Cooke County’s colorful reputation among my law enforcement colleagues. “Hey, you want your laces back? Or do you like the freedom of movement you get with your feet sliding around inside those boots?”

  I’d clean forgotten. Taking the laces from Art, I used the rear bumper of my truck as a prop as I relaced my boots. As I retied the laces, I glanced once more at the church’s rock sign, and I saw something I hadn’t noticed earlier. Beneath the church’s name, in paint so faded I could barely read it, was a line of script. I called to Art and pointed. Over my shoulder, I heard his low whistle of amazement.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said.

  “Possibly,” he agreed. “But I don’t think you’ll be the only one. There might be a Kitchings or two down there to keep you company by the fire.”

  The faded line read, “Thomas Kitchings, Sr., Pastor.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The skull rocked gently back and forth with each step I took. I had cradled the occipital on a doughnut-shaped cushion and lined the sides of the box with bubble wrap, so I wasn’t worrying about damage, merely noticing the movement. I found myself counting the slight, rhythmic bumps, like the clicks of some macabre pedometer. Now there’s a moneymaking idea, I thought, the Brockton SkullDometer — the perfect gift for the forensic anthropologist who has everything. Other ludicrous marketing slogans began popping into my head: “Two heads are better than one.” “Give the gift that keeps on giving — throughout the extended postmortem interval.” “Don’t stop — I’m gaining on you!”

  Normally I don’t take skeletal material from open forensic cases to class, but today — fresh from the cave that had entombed Leena, and had nearly swallowed me — I was completely preoccupied with the Cooke County woman. As I counted the bumps within the box, I hoped that going over the case in class might spark some new insight.

  The lecture hall was nearly filled by the time I entered, even though it was still several minutes before class time. One student who was not in her customary seat this morning, though, was Sarah Carmichael. My heart sank. I had hoped that we’d be able to pretend nothing had happened in my office that recent night. Actually, what I really hoped was that I had dreamt it all, but I knew that wasn’t so. Still, I had told myself, if we could just ignore the whole thing, maybe it would fade into a dreamlike memory. No such luck, the empty front-row seat told me.

  I set the box on the desk at the front of the auditorium and carefully removed the bones, balancing the skull on the cushion and laying the hyoid and sternum in front of the mandible. “I have good news and bad news today,” I announced. “The good news is, you get to play forensic detective. This skull belongs to a recently discovered homicide victim, case number 05–23, and we’re looking for the killer right now.” There was a general stirring and murmuring throughout the room. I had their attention.

  A wary voice drifted down from the back. �
�What’s the bad news?”

  “The bad news is, our murder victim here is the subject of a pop quiz. Go ahead and put your name on a piece of paper.” The murmurs gave way to scattered groans and a few whispered curses. “Don’t get excited,” I added, “it’s only three questions, and they’re purely for extra credit. You get one point added to your midterm average if you can tell me both the race and the sex of this individual; you get another point if you can tell me the manner of death — in other words, how was this person killed? If you’ve read the chapter on the cranium and didn’t miss class last week, these should be easy for you.” Judging by the expressions on the sea of faces in front of me, some of them had done the reading and stayed awake during the lecture, while others suddenly wished they had. Several students leaned forward and began scrutinizing the skull from afar. Others flipped open their texts and began scanning pages. At the back of the room, I thought I saw the door open just a crack.

  “I expect a lot in this class,” I went on, “and it’s not because I like to trip you up, or keep you too busy to party. It’s because mastering this material could be a matter of life and death someday. Our dead friend here, for instance: I don’t know who committed the crime, or why, or exactly when. And until we can figure those things out, somebody’s getting away with murder.”

  The mood in the classroom had turned dead serious. “I can’t pass this around, and I can’t let you touch it,” I said. “It’s forensic evidence, so it has to be protected from damage or contamination. But if you’ll line up and file past, you’ll see everything you need to see to answer those three questions. Jot your answers down quickly. For question number one, just put ‘M’ for ‘male’ or ‘F’ for ‘female. For question two, put ‘C’ or ‘N’ or ‘M,’ depending on whether you think it’s Caucasoid or Negroid or Mongoloid, and for three, just put one word that describes what you think caused the death. Hand me your paper as you head back to your seat.”

  A boy at one side of the room — a quadrant from which I’d heard snores on more than one occasion — raised his hand. “Did you say Mongoloid?” I nodded. “Man, that’s harsh. Why would somebody kill a retard?”

  The room erupted in groans. I checked the seating chart. “Do your reading, Mr. Murdoch!” I thundered. “In physical anthropology, ‘Mongoloid’ refers to peoples of Mongolian descent — Asians and Native Americans.” He slumped in his seat.

  I motioned to the first row, and they formed a line to one side of my desk. As the students scrutinized the bones — student by student, row by row — their faces were alive with curiosity, wonder, sometimes sadness and even reverence. I was so intent on watching their reactions that I stopped keeping tabs on the line, so I was surprised when the last student filed past. I was doubly surprised to see that it was Sarah. She must have slipped in the back door after the line had formed.

  She didn’t meet my eyes as she approached; I wasn’t sure whether to be worried or relieved by that. The fact is, none of the other students had met my eyes, either: they were all focusing exclusively on the skull. The only difference was, I hadn’t shared a passionate and inappropriate kiss with any of them since the last class.

  Sarah lingered over her paper, scrawling considerably more than the letters “F” and “C” and a one-word description of a murder. When she handed me her paper, I saw it bore several lines of script, but I was afraid to risk reading it while standing in front of 270 students. The last thing I wanted to do was fall apart in front of them again.

  “Okay, how many of you said this was a male?” A few hands shot up, Mr. Murdoch’s among them. He looked around furtively.

  “Small features, sharp upper edge to the eye orbit, no external occipital protuberance at the base of the skull: class, what does that tell us?” The rest of the students called “female” in unison. “The mouth structure is vertical, rather than having teeth and jaws that jut forward,” I said. “What’s the race?” The chorus of “Caucasoid” was less robust, and I thought I heard a “Negroid” or two. “Caucasoid,” I said. “Remember the pencil test: if a pencil or a ruler can touch both the base of the nasal opening and the chin, it’s Caucasoid; if the teeth slant forward too much to allow that, it’s probably Negroid. Mongoloid peoples have flatter cheekbones and shovel-shaped incisors, Mr. Murdoch.” He wasn’t the only student looking chagrined, though.

  “Now, the hard one: manner of death.” I held up the sternum, pointing to the small, round foramen. “How many said gunshot?” Nearly everyone in the room raised a hand proudly. I wagged a finger and shook my head, smiling. “That was a trick question. One of my best graduate students almost got fooled by that hole in the sternum.” I explained how to tell the difference between a foramen and a gunshot wound, and then I pointed out the fractures in the hyoid. “Did anyone guess strangulation?”

  One hand went up in the back row. It was Sarah’s. “Well done, Miss Carmichael,” I said. “You’ve got the makings of a good forensic anthropologist. I hope you’ll stick with it.” She reddened and ducked her head, but she nodded. When class ended, though, she was out the back like a scalded cat.

  Walking back to class, the box tucked under one arm, I unfolded Sarah’s quiz paper. Beneath her answers to the three quiz questions, she’d written two things. I stopped at the top of the department’s exterior staircase to read them. “P.S.,” read the first one, “She has no lateral upper incisors. Genetic?” Golly, she was sharp! I went on to the second addition. “P.P.S. I was deeply moved by your story and your sorrow,” it said. “I’m embarrassed by what happened next, but I’m not actually sorry.”

  I laughed out loud. “Okay, then neither am I,” I said. Two passing students gave me a sidelong glance, then looked quickly away. The nutty professor, I could feel them thinking. I didn’t care. I practically danced down the maze of ramps and stairs leading to the base of the stadium, then took the steps to my office two at a time. When I saw my door, though, my euphoric bubble burst.

  The steel frame bowed outward into the curving hallway, while the metal door itself bent inward. Just above and below the knob, the pea-green paint hung in slivers from two spots where a wrecking bar had pried open the door to my office.

  Heartsick, I stepped inside. The filing cabinet hung open, its locked drawers also mangled by the pry bar. Forensic case folders lay strewn across the floor, examination reports and field notes and newspaper clippings commingled like some mass grave of moribund murder investigations. Sorting and refilling the mess would take hours, if not days. A single folder lay atop the cabinet. I knew without looking which report it would be: 05–23. Leena Bonds.

  When I repacked the skull, sternum, and hyoid in a small hatbox for the trip up to class, I had left the big box containing the rest of her skeleton sitting on my desk. That box, like the scores of others lining the shelves in the adjoining room, measured three feet long by a foot in cross-section. It would be hard to miss. And now, as I whirled to look, I saw that her box was missing. “Damn,” I muttered, setting down the student papers and the hatbox. “Damn.” Then a flood of relief washed over me as I realized that all was not lost. Leena’s skull and hyoid — the key to her identification and her manner of death — were safe in the hatbox. Whoever had come looking for them had gone away frustrated. He hadn’t left empty-handed — the theft of the rest of her skeleton was a bitter loss — but I still held the trump cards, if the case ever came to trial. Thank God I had taken her to class.

  Using my handkerchief, I picked up the handset of my phone and dialed the campus police. “This is Dr. Brockton in Anthropology,” I told the dispatcher. “Someone’s just broken into my office and files. They’ve also stolen some skeletal material.” The dispatcher promised to send an officer right away. “Tell him to park at the east end zone access portal,” I told her. “There’s a stairway that leads from there straight up to my office.” She read the directions back to be sure she had them right. “The stolen material is part of a murder case,” I added. “I’ll need to call in some o
utside cavalry, too. Just so you know.” She promised to give the responding officer a heads-up.

  My next call was a quick one to Art. I told him what I thought I should do, and he concurred, so I pressed the switchhook, pressed “8” again for another outside line, and dialed the number on the business card I fished from my wallet. “FBI,” snapped a no-nonsense male voice. I identified myself and asked for Agent Price. “One moment, I’ll see if she’s in,” he said, swiftly parking me on hold.

  Ten seconds later, Angela Price picked up. “Dr. Brockton, how are you?” Price’s voice was crisp but cordial. “You’re not calling with a field report from another cockfight, I hope?”

  “No, I’m calling from my office at UT. Somebody’s just broken in and stolen the postcranial skeleton from my Cooke County murder case.”

  “Postcranial?”

  “Everything below the skull, or nearly everything. Luckily, I had the cranium and the hyoid bone — the bone from her throat that shows she was strangled — in a classroom with me. So those are still safe, for the moment.”

  “What would you like me to do, Dr. Brockton?”

  “Well, you said to let you know if anything else cropped up, and this sure counts as cropping up in my book. Does this merit sending the Bureau’s crime scene wizards over to take a look? Just informally, of course. I’m also wondering if you folks could take temporary custody of the skull and hyoid for me, too? It’s easy to get into a professor’s office, but I can’t imagine somebody breaking into the FBI’s evidence vault.”

  “Hang on a second.” She, too, was quick with the “Hold” button; must’ve been emphasized in the curriculum at Quantico. I hung in limbo for several minutes. Just as I was about to hang up and redial, she picked back up. “I’m not trying to dodge you, Dr. Brockton, but Steve Morgan, your former student? He already knows his way around that labyrinth over there. He’s on his way now, and some TBI evidence techs will be right behind him in a mobile crime lab.” She must have sensed some disappointment on my end of the line. “We just don’t have either the jurisdiction or the resources right now, and TBI does. Can you understand that?”