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Bones in Her Pocket was originally published in a digital edition by Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc., in 2013. Swamp Bones and Bones on Ice were originally published in digital editions by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, in 2014 and 2015 respectively.

William Heinemann
The Penguin Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

William Heinemann is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

For

Fred Weber

July 14, 1945–April 21, 2016

CHAPTER
1

I CLUNG TO an upright as the Mule bounced and lurched, engine churning, parts rattling like a junker from the Korean War. Though the sky was overcast, it was still warm for October. I blew upward in a vain attempt to unstick hair from my forehead, unwilling to release my death grip on the four-wheel-drive ATV.

However I’d pictured an artist colony, the image definitely involved more numerous and better-maintained roads. This one consisted of dense forest, a cleared seam for power lines, and rough tracks spidering through bushy undergrowth. North Carolina meets Jurassic Park.

But I hadn’t come to commune with nature, or to nurture the creativity of my right brain. I’d come to recover a corpse.

My plan for the day had been a nice run on Charlotte’s Booty Loop, lunch with my friend Anne, and a crawl through the galleries in NoDa, the art district north of Davidson Street. I’d gotten as far as lacing my Nikes when the call came from my boss.

“It’s Saturday,” Anne had protested when I gave her the bad news. “Why can’t it wait?”

“It’s my case.” As forensic anthropologist for the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner, I considered unidentifiable human remains my domain. “A fibula, tibia, and two vertebrae were discovered at Mountain Island Lake a few weeks ago. Cops thought it was a missing person named Edith Blankenship.”

“Grad student at UNCC.” I referred to the University of North Carolina–Charlotte, my other employer.

“I still haven’t ID’d the guy.” John Doe was in a box at my lab. Case file: ME422-13. I’d requested a sonar scan of the cove where the bones washed ashore. Perhaps not needed now. Less paperwork. Small consolation.

The Mule jogged left and shot downward through an invisible break in the trees, nearly tossing me headfirst out the open side. The guy at the wheel shouted over his shoulder.

My driver was an art cowboy named Emmett Kahn, his term not mine. He’d greeted me an hour earlier with a smile and a bone-crushing handshake.

I guessed Kahn’s age at somewhere north of sixty. Shaggy black hair, olive skin, lidded dark eyes, muttonchops the size of prime ribs. A successful art dealer, Kahn owned the three hundred acres through which we were taking Mr. Toad’s wild ride.

“I call the place Carolitaly because the property’s shaped like a boot. We’re heading to The Toe.” The last conveyed in capital letters. “Know much about Mountain Island Lake?”

I shook my head, jaw clamped. By the time we rattled to our goal, I’d need fillings replaced.

“The lake was created in 1929 to support the hydroelectric and steam stations. It’s fed by the Catawba River and is the smallest of the three man-mades in Mecklenburg County.”

“Big.” All I could muster was caveman speak. Land large. Drive bumpy. Tempe rattled.

“That’s why I have a caretaker. Skip handles security.” Kahn tipped his head toward the block of cement riding shotgun. More Thud than Skip, the man was square in every sense of the word. Square shoulders, square back, brush cut that squared the top of his head. Aviator shades hid Skip’s eyes, but I hadn’t a doubt he was scowling.

The Mule leveled, allowing a clear sight line to the eastern horizon. Clouds hung low, dark and bloated with rain.

“County line runs through the middle of the lake. My property spans both sides. My man Skip knew Mecklenburg had a bone lady and suggested I call down there.”

“Forensic anthropologist. I examine bodies too far gone for normal autopsy.”

“Like floaters.” Kahn’s use of the term suggested way too much television.

“Yes. And the skeletal, mummified, decomposed, dismembered, burned, and mutilated.”

“I’ve seen that on TV. You figure out how old the vic is. Man or woman, black or white. How they died, right?”

I had my doubts. Mr. Tibia Fibula’s cortical surfaces were smooth and bleached. Too smooth and bleached. I suspected they’d been around for decades. My money was on a washed-out grave. North Carolina has relaxed laws on private burial. In the Appalachians, it wasn’t uncommon for Grandpa to end up in the backyard with Rover.

“Were all the bones found at the same location?” I bellowed over the roar of the engine.

“Another time.” An ominous rumbling juddered from the clouds. “And today’s find?”

“When the river flooded last week the lake rose fifteen feet. The whole point was underwater, so the bag could have come from either side. Skip was checking out the damage when he saw it snagged on a tree. One whiff and he called me.”

Kahn beamed over his shoulder. “You insisted we call if we found anything else, so we did. We didn’t touch a thing, so the scene’s not compromised.” Definitely too much crime TV.

Irritation battled uneasiness. Was this a goose chase? A colossal waste of my Saturday?

With a twist of the wheel, Kahn jerked the Mule ninety degrees, bounced down a hill, and stopped just short of the water. When the motor died, the silence was deafening. “Here we are.”

We were on a finger of land showing signs of recent submersion. Rippled soil. Scattered pebbles and shells. Mud-coated vegetation.

Branches snagged my hair as I picked my way toward the water. Kahn and Mr. Loquacious waited upslope.

A dead fish lay on the muddy shoreline, guts ballooning like mushrooms from its belly. Surprisingly, few flies were availing themselves of the free lunch. Feeding elsewhere? Spooked by the coming storm?

I scanned the length of a pine tree lying half out of the water. Saw an oversized blue canvas bag ten feet out, its surface crawling with flies.

I pulled on gloves, the neural pathways now pinging fortissimo. Smell? Flies on old bones?

Thankful I’d worn rain boots, I waded into the lake. The men watched without comment.

Footing was awkward. The mucky bottom sucked with every step I took. The water rose, eventually topping the rims and spilling into the boots, soaking my socks and chilling my feet.

I stared at the bag, debating. Call for help? Drag it ashore, then phone the lab?

Clouds pulsed with electricity on the far side of the lake. The rumbling sounded louder.

After shooting pics with my iPhone, I leaned toward the bag and tugged. My balance wasn’t good enough to free the thing.

I stepped closer. Calliphoridae bouncing off my face and hair, I yanked the handles from the branches on which they were snagged. The bag dropped with a smack.

Moving as quickly as my water-filled footwear allowed, I lugged my prize toward shore. Irritated flies trailed in my wake.

Skip helped drag the bag across the mud and up onto the rise. Water oozed from the canvas and poured from a six-inch tear on one side.

Back on terra firma, I took several more shots. Then I pulled the zipper and peeled back the top flap. Disenchanted, the flies set off for the fish. Sushi al fresco.

A skull stared out, orbits round and empty, as though startled by the sudden intrusion of sunlight. Hair covered the cranium and trailed the face like long, dark seaweed.

The body was clothed. Beneath the sodden fabric I could see remnants of ligament, a tag of gray-green tissue here and there.

The legs were tightly flexed, the bones slender tubes running below the muck-covered denim.

CHAPTER
2

SKIP HELPED LOAD the bag onto the Mule. The jarring ride might cause damage, but I didn’t want to wait. Lightning was streaking in earnest now.

Our return was subdued, even Kahn silent. At the compound, I picked up sufficient signal to make a call.

Tim Larabee, head pathologist at the MCME, was as surprised as I was. He’d sent me out fully expecting old bones.

Larabee asked if I could toss the bag into my trunk. Hell, no. I’d done that before. Once. The smell lingered in my car as long as I owned it. Maybe in my mind. Either way, I wasn’t going there again.

We waited amid cabins more suited to the Alps than the Carolina foothills. Kahn explained that they contained studios for the use of visiting artists, but I saw no signs of another’s presence. Skip said nothing.

After twenty minutes, Kahn excused himself to handle some business. I wondered if he planned to heads-up his lawyer. Skip stayed with me. Silent as ever.

“Mountain Island Lake sounds like they couldn’t make up their minds.” My stab at small talk.

“Six hundred and fifty feet. Lake’s 3,300 acres, 61 miles of shore.” Two sentences. Skip was on a roll.

Skip didn’t appreciate my humor. “We haul in five or six bodies a year. Mostly drunk boaters. Some we never find.”

“Only my family, my guests, and Skip. At the moment we have two artists in residence. We change the gate code when we think of it, but the place is large and, frankly, porous.”

Kahn waggled a hand. Yes and no. “We share a boundary fence with the Duke Energy folks. But it’s old and pretty much ignored, except by me.”

“The Riverbend Steam Station?” I’d seen it driving in, a hulking set of smokestacks, brick boxes, conveyers, and tangled wiring that looked like something out of a post-apocalypse film.

“Yeah. It’s a coal-fired power plant built in ’29 when the lake was created. Riverbend was brought online to supplement the supply when demands for electricity were highest. The place is so decrepit and poorly maintained the locals are rabid. And the situation has gotten worse since Duke shut her down a few months back. Environmental groups are screaming that coal ash is leaking from the lagoons into the lake, suing for cleanup. We’ll see how that goes.”

“So anyone could access the peninsula? The Toe?” My gut told me the bag was a water dump, but I wanted my bases covered.

Kahn shrugged one shoulder. “Sure. Just blow off the NO TRESPASSING signs. This area used to be Hells Angels turf, so we still get bikers hot-rodding the trails, buzzing us in boats, that kind of thing.”

“Please phone when the van arrives.” To me. “Let me show you something.”

Before I could respond, Kahn circled a cabin and set off down a path barely visible in the underbrush. I followed.

“At Carolitaly we try to integrate art with nature.” Kahn spoke as we walked. “Throughout the compound are living installations. Beauty in unanticipated places.”

Five yards into the woods, Kahn stopped and arced an arm skyward. “Beauty in the trees.”

A Plexiglas and metal capsule sat affixed to the branches of an oak ten feet above our heads.

“A vessel for the contemplation of space. A person seeking tranquility can sit inside and meditate. Glass allows light to enter, but enclosure prevents distraction, allowing one to direct one’s thoughts inward.”

Kahn continued toward a pine-needle-covered mound outfitted with a refrigerator door and porthole. Wordlessly, he tugged open the door and directed me to look inside.

A buried pod held a round table surrounded by a curved bench. The walls, floor, ceiling, and furnishings were plastic, a warmthless, hospital white.

“There are thirteen of these on the property. Thirteen is the number for rebellion, apostasy, defection, disintegration, revolution.”

“For a while now I’ve been seeing signs of a squatter at some of the pods.”

“The fellow you want to talk to is that wing nut, Herman Blount. Back in August, Blount posted some videos online threatening to blow up the Riverbend station. Then he went off the grid.”

CHAPTER
3

WHEN I ENTERED the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner facility early Monday morning, Mrs. Flowers, the receptionist, was at her post. As usual, her outfit was floral, her hair a perfectly permed and sprayed peach helmet.

I waved, crossed the reception area, and carded my way into the biovestibule leading to the autopsy suites and staff offices. “Biovestibule” is what you call a three-hundred-million-dollar hallway. Hot damn.

Our recently built, state-of-the-art, LEED-certified MCME facility still has that new-car smell. After decades in the old, refurbished Sears-Garden-Center-make-do quarters, everyone on staff is loving the new digs.

I headed to autopsy room four, one of a pair specially ventilated for aromatics: decomps, floaters, putrefied corpses. My stinkers.

As I detoured to my office to lock my purse in a drawer, Larabee appeared. In his off time, the chief enjoys long-distance running. A lot of it. The hours on the pavement have turned him into a lean and leathery Ichabod Crane in surgical scrubs.

“Joe said it rained like hell on the drive back. Wind almost knocked the van off the road.”

Joe Hawkins has been a death investigator with the MCME since before Moses discovered clay.

“In the cooler. Joe did prelim photos and X-rays, then left everything on the gurney.”

“Not bad. One stabbing, an electrical death, and a murder-suicide. Nothing for you.”

Relieved I had no other cases, I snapped a form onto my clipboard, went to the locker room to change, then headed to the cooler. I hoped forty-eight hours of chilling had diminished the smell. Knew that wouldn’t be so. At least not for long.

After wheeling the gurney to room four, I gloved and strapped goggles onto my head. Then I slapped a mask onto my face, and finished with a plastic apron tied behind my neck and waist. Fetching.

Ceiling-mounted surgical light on. Industrial-strength fan blades whirring. I was ready.

Joe had done a good job articulating the bones while still leaving them inside the clothes. After years assisting me tableside, he knows what I want.

The skeleton lay supine, with limbs slightly splayed. Savasana posture. Weird, but that phrase popped into my mind. Corpse pose.

The hair mass had sloughed from the skull during transport or handling. It lay to one side, filthy with rotting vegetation and other lacustrine debris.

I flipped on the light box. Joe’s full-body X-rays revealed nothing extraordinary.

Back at the gurney, I paused, studying what remained of a person. Water is not kind to the dead. The bloat is grotesque, the smell nauseating. That phase had largely passed, leaving only bone and shreds of putrid flesh.

Yet this had been a human being. I felt the usual stab of sorrow. Hair always does that to me. Evokes the simple act of brushing, ear-tucking, tossing in a breeze.

Somehow my brain was channeled on yoga. It now fired an image, a class I’d recently attended. “Set your intention,” the instructor had said. “There is power in your thoughts.”

First I ran a magnifying lens over the clothing. Spotted a few short hairs, likely animal. Plucked and placed them in a plastic vial.

Next, using scissors, I cut up the center of the thin olive T-shirt proclaiming HAPPILY EVER RAPTOR, and spread the two halves to either side of the torso. The jeans took more effort, but eventually they, too, lay halved and peeled back on the stainless steel. When finished with the bones, I’d remove and examine the clothing more closely.

A skeletal inventory revealed every element present. Surprising, given the breach in the bag.

A nonprominent nuchal crest, smooth brow ridges, and small mastoids suggested female gender. Pelvic traits were in agreement with those on the skull.

The cranium was relatively long and thin. The nasal bridge was low, the opening wide. I ran measurements through a software program called Fordisc 3.0. Every indicator pointed to African American ancestry.

Determination of age requires more minute examination. At birth, the skeleton is only partially complete. Throughout childhood and adolescence extra bits appear and attach to the ends and edges of bones. Components of the vertebrae and pelvis fuse.

The clavicle is the last to complete the process. I examined both, where they met the breastbone. Each had a cap firmly affixed to its tip, but a faint squiggly line told me fusion had occurred shortly before death.

I checked the arm and leg bones. The pelvis where the two halves met in front. The ribs where they attached via cartilage to the sternum.

To confirm my skeletal estimate, I pulled the postmortem dental X-rays from their tiny envelope and popped them on a light box.

Minimal wear on all occlusal surfaces. Root formation complete throughout the arcade. Every age indicator told the same story. Young adult.

A femoral measurement placed the woman’s height at solidly average. Small muscle attachments suggested she’d been of slight to medium build.

Female. Black. Twenty-three to twenty-seven years of age. Between five foot five and five foot eight.

I found the missing person file the cops had sent over with the first four bones.

A girl smiled from under a tasseled mortarboard, curly black hair framing her face. She wasn’t pretty, wasn’t homely either. Just plain. But the set jaw and straight-at-the-camera gaze conveyed confidence and determination.

The media had flashed the same image for a week or so. Until fresher crimes drew the attention of law enforcement. Until news coverage shifted to flooding in the Midwest. Then Edith Blankenship dwindled to tattered flyers posted on telephone poles in northwest Charlotte.

Edith’s case was briefly reinvigorated by the Mountain Island Lake bones. Those investigating her disappearance were certain the file would shift to Homicide or move to the “closed” category in some other way. I’d dashed their hopes.

Fall had been unseasonably warm, even for North Carolina. The torn bag had allowed access to fish, turtles, and other aquatic scavengers. They, along with the normal spectrum of bacteria, had done their job.

My first impression, the level of decomp looked good for an early September immersion. But I’d need to verify.

I straightened, arched backward, then rolled my shoulders. I was again thinking yoga when my stomach growled.

I removed my mask and tossed my goggles to the counter. Stripped my gloves and apron, balled them, and tried a layup into a biohazard can. Two points.

Quick hand wash, then I returned to my office. I was fantasizing about a giant sub when the desk phone rang.

CHAPTER
4

Charlotte Mecklenburg PD Homicide investigator Erskine “Skinny” Slidell had not been pleased by my call on Saturday. I’d fled behind the transport van, leaving him debating jurisdiction with Officer Skip. Junkyard dog vs. Jersey barrier.

“Oh, yeah. Prick looked like Saddam friggin’ Hussein peering outta his spider hole. I’ll let him sweat awhile, think about the good times out hugging trees. Then I’ll grill him.”

The Law Enforcement Center is on East Trade Street, in uptown Charlotte. The drive took ten minutes.

Skinny met me on the second floor, beside a door marked VIOLENT CRIMES DIVISION. Behind it were Homicide and ADW, assault with a deadly. Blount was in the farthest of three interview rooms on the opposite side of the hall.

“Mr. Birkenstocks and lentils has spent the past six weeks underground. Smells like shit.”

“Guy’s got a beef with coal power. And hydroelectric. And logging, mining, farming, ranching, pesticides, the fur trade, animal testing, zoos, circuses, rodeos, McDonald’s …”

“Asshole hasn’t shut up since I hauled his sorry butt outta his hidey-hole. Keeps grinding on about coal ash and arsenic and fish having trouble porking.”

“Your artist buddy was right about the videos.” Slidell shook his head in disgust. “The dude with the squirrels growing on his face—”

“Blount posted a bunch of boom-boom DIYs on YouTube. Going for an Oscar in dumbfuckery.”

“Does he have a record?” I made a mental note to check out Herman Blount’s stylings on sabotage.

“String of minors. Criminal trespassing. Vandalism. Destruction of property. Got busted for spiking trees about eight years back, did a bump with the feds. Caused $400,000 in damage to logging equipment. Dumb moob left prints all over the spikes.”

“Iredell County cops like him for two nonlethal pipe bombs. One at a chinchilla ranch, another at a joint that offs dogs so surgeons can learn how to cut. The guy’s slippery as goat snot. Nothing’s sticking so far.”

“This is only a prelim, but the bones in the bag look good for Edith Blankenship.”

“Still don’t mean murder. She could have OD’d, or had some other kinda accident, her pals panicked and off-loaded the body.”

“As a corpse decomposes, the body cavity fills with methane gas produced by bacteria in the gut. The bloating, helped by flooding, likely floated the bag.”

“An experienced killer would puncture the gut and intestines, then weight the container so it stays down. Blankenship was amateur hour.”

“They’re into the same save-the-Earth shit.” Slidell pulled a small spiral from his jacket, spit-thumbed a few pages, and read. “Blankenship’s enrolled in the environmental sciences master’s program at UNCC. Before that she worked for Impact Watch, a nonprofit that studies the effects of development on wildlife in western North Carolina. Their HQ is in Mount Holly.”

“Grandmother.” Slidell’s eyes dropped to his notes. “Ada Wilkins. Blankenship lived with her. Went to school one day, never came home.”

“Hoogie Smith. He says Blankenship was a loner. Didn’t work, no boyfriend, no besties. Father was never in the picture, mother was dead. He followed up what leads he had. Interviewed a few profs, Ada Wilkins, some of her neighbors. Wilkins admitted her granddaughter had taken off once before, after the mom died. The kid had no credit cards, nothing like that. Everyone figured she got fed up and legged it out of town.”

“Traced to a tower near UNCC the morning she went missing. Then the thing stopped working.”

I knew what happened when the leads fizzled out. Blankenship’s folder went into a stack with other MP files. Was buried deeper and deeper as the pile grew higher.

In seconds a small monitor kicked to life and tinny sound began sputtering through a wall-mounted speaker.

Blount looked up as Slidell crossed the room. He wasn’t what I expected. Surfer-dude blond hair, chiseled features, electric blue eyes. Save for the ratty beard, he looked more Christian quarterback then eco-saboteur.

And Blount had obviously seen some gym time. Broad shoulders. Upper arms the size of utility poles. Washboard abs beneath a long-sleeved T.

Slidell took a seat. Placed a folder on the table. One by one withdrew pages. Positioned them neatly. Slowly read. Or pretended to. I knew the routine. Put the interviewee off balance by making him wait.

Slidell continued as though Blount hadn’t spoken. After several unhurried moments, he finally laced his fingers and dropped his hands to the roll lapping over his belt.

“Here’s what I’m asking myself, Herman. You good with that? Me calling you Herman?”

“Every day we’re surrounded by cancer-causing high-voltage power lines. I go to earth periodically to give my cells a break from the constant bombardment of electromagnetic radiation.”

“That why you sabotage utility companies? ’Cause they’re frying your balls?”

“I don’t sabotage anyone. But if I did, it would be a justifiable act of self-defense. The Riverbend Steam Station is poisoning people by dumping coal ash into the water supply. It should be stopped.”

Stoked either by zealot fervor and/or lunatic fury, Blount’s eyes blazed like two gas flames. Mesmerizing. I wondered if Edith had been caught in his spell.

“The courts are useless. The government’s complicit. Pollutants keep people weak and submissive.”

“Explosives are much more direct.” Skinny leaned forward to consult the file. “Like at Destin’s Chinchilla Ranch and Arnett Labs.”

Blount held Slidell’s eyes, confident, composed. But a blanching of his lips suggested pent-up emotion. Anxiety? Rage?

The quick segue was meant to catch Blount off guard. I watched his face closely. No reaction.

“Maybe you two hooked up at Impact Watch. She Xerox your manifesto for you? You can write, can’t you, Herman?”

Blount didn’t rise to the bait. “Impact Watch is made up of lackeys. The government pats them on their heads, pretends to listen. The problems continue, nothing is solved.”

“Let me jog your memory, Herman.” Skinny leaned in until his face was inches from Blount’s. “On September 8 you uploaded your thoughts on how to demolish the Riverbend Steam Station.”

Blount drew back to give himself distance. “I had a court appearance in Buncombe County. I was hours away. Check it out.”

“You and Blankenship pour valve-grinding compound into engines together? A little hit and run at Belvedere Logging last May?”

Blount shook his head in feigned disappointment. “You guys just don’t get it. We’re an army. We’re fighting back. You can’t wish us away. You can’t bully us away.” Now it was Blount who thrust his face forward. His next words were barely above a whisper. “We’re everywhere.”

Slidell didn’t blink. I was surprised. By now he’d typically be going all bad cop.

“Edith Blankenship and her sort lack the guts to ‘hench.’” Air quotes. “Protests and petitions will never stop the destruction. Action is needed.”

“So Edith disagreed with your radical politics. Threatened to turn you in. So you capped her.”

“Turn me in for what? Being able to handle a knife? To stalk prey without making a sound? To kill what I eat? Survival skills, detective.” Blount sat back and arm-draped his chair. “Just stayin’ alive.”

Slidell clicked his tongue and pointed a finger. “College boy, right? Ivy League?”

“Pipe bombs 101. That on their fancy-pants curriculum? That what they taught you? To blow shit up?”

“I learned that distrust of the government and belief in free speech aren’t crimes. I learned that we humans face extinction because we’re consuming the earth. That nature must be protected at any cost.”

“I’m not responsible for the crimes of others, even if I applaud them.” Blount’s neon stare now seemed cold as ice. “You have nothing linking me to this Blankenship woman. We both know that or I’d be under arrest.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. But know this, you pompous little sack of shit.” Slidell’s voice was now hard as granite. “I’ll find that link. And until I do, you can forget about death rays and tinfoil hats. I’m your worst nightmare.”

CHAPTER
5

“Course he’s lying. Everyone lies. About what? You tell me. I gotta kick him.”

I knew Slidell couldn’t detain Blount without grounds. And that he’d put a tail on him. Still, it was frustrating.

“He’s a loon, but he’s not dumb. He knows I’ll check with Buncombe County. The alibi’s gonna hold.”

“September 8 is the day Edith Blankenship went missing. We don’t know when she died.”

There was a long silence. Then Slidell said, “I need more. Get me cause and time of death.”

Back at the MCME, I inhaled a tuna sandwich, knocked back a Diet Coke, then recostumed and returned to autopsy room four. The bones lay as I’d left them.

Rule of thumb. One week aboveground equals two submerged. But a whole lot of variables come into play.

I contacted the National Weather Service. My recollection was correct. The North Carolina Piedmont had experienced a very warm fall.

I called Duke Energy. Discharge from the Riverbend Steam Station raised temperatures in Mountain Island Lake to levels higher than normal. The water was reasonably oxygen-saturated. Aquatic life was abundant.

I reviewed what I knew about underwater decomp. The fat layers in skin expand, deforming a corpse within twenty-four hours. One week out, the flesh and connective tissue loosen and parts begin to fall off.

Given conditions, and the state of the body, I estimated PMI at roughly four weeks.

Again, I started with the skull. No bullet entrances or exits. No radiating, depressed, or linear fractures. No cuts, nicks, or slashes.

The hyoid is a small u-shaped bone that hangs between the mandible and the larynx in the soft tissue of the throat. I examined Edith’s for damage indicative of manual strangulation. Saw zip.

No surprise. In younger individuals, bone elasticity allows the hyoid to undergo compression without breaking.

And there it was. A minute fissure jagging the edge of the body where it met the wing.

I pictured the woman’s last moments, body bucking, hands clawing, so desperate for air her nails gouged her own flesh.

Adhered to the belly side of the right innominate was a small gray mass. Using one finger, I teased it free.

As I probed, the outer casing split, revealing a jumble of delicate bones. A single tooth.

But no. The shapes were off. The half mandible was too oblong, the clavicle too sharply s-curved. Though tiny, the tooth looked fully formed.

Teratomas are tumors that can contain tissues or structures from any of the three cell types into which an embryo differentiates. Hair, teeth, bones. Rarely, a whole organ such as an eye or a hand.

Baffled, I collected the whole assemblage and laid it on a tray. Then I returned to the gurney.

I’d examined the victims of sexual sadists. Knew the depravity of which humans are capable. Had Edith been tortured? Had some sick bastard forced this obscenity inside her? What was the slang term? Gerbilling?

My eyes roved the sink, the cabinets, the stainless steel around me. Returned to the gurney. I looked at the skeleton. At the sodden attire bisected and splayed beneath it.

Edith’s clothes? Lifting one tattered side of the T, I laid the fabric back across the ribs. Read the faded words.

I lifted the leg and pelvic bones, scooched the jeans free, and cut away the back pockets. More gray masses. I opened and emptied each.

I could have explained by phone. Skinny at the morgue would be much more amusing.

CHAPTER
6

THE DOOR OPENED. Slidell strode in and tossed an envelope onto the counter. A hint of BO competed with l’eau de floater.

Without comment, I popped Edith’s dental X-rays onto the light box beside the postmortem shots Joe had taken. On one of the little black squares in each set, two snowy white caps sat atop molars. Restorations. I compared their positioning, their shapes. The root configurations.

“We’ll need confirmation by an odontologist, but I’ll bet the farm it’s a match.”

Slidell nodded, already all sweat and heartbeat. Decades on the murder desk, yet an autopsy room still set him on edge.

“And voles, maybe a few mice.” I indicated the gray masses, now disemboweled. “The bones came from these.”

“Carolina Raptor Center?” Slidell sounded light years beyond dubious. “Like eagles and hawks?”

I nodded. “Raptors are amazing carnivores. They consume the whole animal—bones, organs, flesh. Kind of like you at a barbecue.”

“Thanks. Owls are different from other raptors. They can’t digest fur, teeth, bones, claws, or feathers.”

“As indigestible materials pass through the digestive tract, the gizzard compacts them into a pellet that the owl regurgitates.”

“I found two owl pellets in Edith Blankenship’s pelvic cavity, below where her front jeans pocket would have been.”

“She had four more pellets in a back pocket. I suspect she was researching owls.”

Slidell was twenty minutes early. I left my unfinished Cheerios and took my coffee in a travel mug.

Full-body latex is as appropriate for Skinny’s car as it is for autopsy room four. Fast-food cartons. Cigarette butts. Remnants of old bagged lunches. I perched gingerly, minimizing contact with the seat and floor.

We drove north out of town on Route 16. Soon the high-rise condo and office buildings gave way to suburban homes and strip malls, then to fields and the occasional muffler shop, church, or barbecue joint.

Forty-five minutes out, Slidell turned from the highway onto a narrow two-lane. Nothing but shoreline, woods, and pasture. Here and there a startled equine, a boat access ramp.

Soon we saw an arrow pointing to our destination. Slidell hooked left into a gravel parking area and cut the engine. A sign warned PROTECTED BY ALARMS, CAMERAS, AND SHARP TALONS.

The Carolina Raptor Center was bright and airy, festive with photos and avian carvings. Eagle replicas hung from the ceiling. Baskets overflowed with tourist goodies—stuffed peregrines, owl key chains, T-shirts proclaiming BIRD NERD and GIVE A HOOT. On one wall a verdant mural depicted the life cycle of the red-tailed hawk.

“Hello!” chirped a septuagenarian with an astonishingly hot pink smile. “I’m Doris. May I help y’all?”

Doris looked like a character straight from The Far Side. Cat-eye glasses, bouffant gray hair, cable-knit cardigan with more pills than a Walgreens. Small but stocky. Fit.

“Oh my!” The woman pressed a liver-spotted hand to her heart, eyes darting left and right as if fearful of a SWAT team hit. “Is there a problem?”

Slidell pulled a photo from an inside jacket pocket. “Do you recognize this woman?”

“Of course. That’s Edith.” Doris frowned. “Such a puzzle. I’d never have believed she’d just leave us like that.”

“Many of Professor Olsen’s students do projects at the center. He brings a group every Tuesday afternoon. Edith loved our birds so much she stayed on as a hospital volunteer.”

“More than seven hundred injured and orphaned raptors come to our facility every year. We’re one of the few centers in the Southeast that rehabilitates the American bald eagle.” If people really can beam, Doris was doing it. Then her face collapsed. “It’s horrible that so many of these majestic creatures are hit by cars and electrocuted by power lines.”

Doris nodded solemnly. “Because their wing span is so broad they can touch two lines at once. It near broke Edith’s heart. She’d sit hours in the ER with injured birds. She was on our ambulance team, too, responded to calls about feathered friends in trouble. But mostly she tended our residents.”

“We house over a hundred raptors that can’t be released due to injury, amputation, or human imprinting. Visitors can observe twenty-three different species by walking our raptor trail.”

“She cleaned cages, filled feeders, performed routine health checks.” Doris laughed, a sound halfway between a hiccup and a cough. “I swear that girl liked birds more than people. Especially owls. They were her favorite.” Doris’s smile crumpled again. “I mean are.” She shook her head. “Oh, dear. It’s just so troubling.”

“Excuse me! Absolutely no dogs allowed!” Moving faster than I thought someone her age could move, she hustled the offenders back out the door.

I nudged Slidell. Pointed to a bulletin board beside a nest big enough to accommodate pterodactyls. A thumb-tacked flyer proclaimed “Fight Back At Duke Energy—Learn To Live Off The Grid.” The contact listed was hermanblount2@gmail.com.

Doris returned to her counter, vivid lips smashed up into a scowl. “Really. There are signs everywhere. Don’t people understand that dogs are dreadful for birds?” She rotated her upper arm to display a bruise, an eggplant arch curving the pallid flesh. “A dog bit me last week. Truth be told, I don’t trust the creatures.”

“Did Edith know a man named Herman Blount?” I tried to steer the interview back on track.

“I can’t fault Herman’s love of animals. Though it’s poor judgment to own a Rottweiler, any bird’s worst nightmare. But he’s a bit … extreme for my taste.” Doris’s eyes went wide. “Has Herman done something wrong?”

“He once brought in an injured barred. That’s an owl. Edith helped nurse it. Poor thing didn’t survive. Edith and Herman were both passionate about forcing power companies to make their lines safer for birds. And, well, if you’ve met him, you know. Herman isn’t hard on the eyes.” Doris flicked her brows in a “get my drift?” message that was quite unsettling.

“I don’t want to speak ill. But that girl might do anything to protect her birds.”

“Any tiny detail could be a big help.” I smiled what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

“If someone has hurt Edith, we need to find out in order to bring him to justice.”

Doris’s hands started worrying the edge of the counter. “I’ve said too much.”

“Edith only mentioned him once, in the very strictest confidence. They’d fought, and she was upset. I think she realized he was never going to leave his wife.”

CHAPTER
7

SLIDELL ASKED A few more questions, then we returned to the Taurus. While gunning from the lot, he called the biology department at UNCC. From his end of the conversation, I guessed he wasn’t getting what he’d hoped.

I was totally amped by the lead Doris had given us. Wanted to jump straight on it. Slidell had another target on his mind.

Minutes after leaving raptorville, Skinny parked in front of a squat building with a sign featuring a grinning pig in a puffy chef’s hat. Lancaster Barbecue. I’ve never understood why BBQ joints put cheery smiles on the farmyard friends they serve up for lunch.

Entering was like crossing from Kansas to Oz, lackluster exterior yielding to NASCAR wonderland. Neon signs, antique gas pumps, vintage car paraphernalia adorning every surface, including the ceiling. A zillion TVs broadcast race reports in keeping with the stock car theme.

I didn’t need a menu. Pulled pork sandwich, hush puppies, slaw. North Carolina gold. Slidell was on the same page.

Our food had just arrived when Slidell’s phone rang. He listened, said “yeah” a lot. I watched him scribble an address on a paper napkin.

ALSO BY KATHY REICHS

Also by Kathy Reichs and Brendan Reichs

BONES IN HER POCKET

CHAPTER
1

CHAPTER
2

CHAPTER
3

CHAPTER
4

CHAPTER
5

CHAPTER
6

CHAPTER
7

ALSO BY KATHY REICHS

Also by Kathy Reichs and Brendan Reichs

BONES IN HER POCKET

CHAPTER1

CHAPTER2

CHAPTER3

CHAPTER4

CHAPTER5

CHAPTER6

CHAPTER7

CHAPTER
1

CHAPTER
2

CHAPTER
3

CHAPTER
4

CHAPTER
5

CHAPTER
6

CHAPTER
7