Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    A Conspiracy of Bones
    A Conspiracy of Bones
    A Conspiracy of Bones
    Ebook484 pages8 hours

    A Conspiracy of Bones

    By Kathy Reichs

    3.5/5

    ()

    Switch to audiobook
    Read preview

    About this ebook

    #1 New York Times bestselling author Kathy Reichs returns with an “edgy, eerie, irresistible” (Sandra Brown) novel with “plenty of twists” (The New York Times Book Review) featuring forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan, who must use her skills to discover the identity of a faceless corpse, its connection to a decade-old missing child case, and why the dead man had her cell phone number.

    It’s sweltering in Charlotte, North Carolina, and Temperance Brennan, still recovering from neurosurgery following an aneurysm, is battling nightmares, migraines, and what she thinks might be hallucinations when she receives a series of mysterious text messages, each containing a new picture of a corpse that is missing its face and hands. Immediately, she’s anxious to know who the dead man is, and why the images were sent to her.

    An identified corpse soon turns up, only partly answering her questions.

    To win answers to the others, including the man’s identity, she must go rogue, working mostly outside the system. That’s because Tempe’s new boss holds a fierce grudge against her and is determined to keep her out of the case. Tempe bulls forward anyway, even as she begins questioning her instincts. But the clues she discovers are disturbing and confusing. Was the faceless man a spy? A trafficker? A target for assassination by the government? And why was he carrying the name of a child missing for almost a decade?

    With help from law enforcement associates including her Montreal beau Andrew Ryan and the quick-witted, ex-homicide investigator Skinny Slidell, and utilizing new cutting-edge forensic methods, Tempe draws closer to the astonishing truth. “A complete success” (Booklist, starred review), “this is Kathy Reichs as you’ve never read her before” (David Baldacci).
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScribner
    Release dateMar 17, 2020
    ISBN9781982138905
    Author

    Kathy Reichs

    Kathy Reichs’s first novel Déjà Dead, published in 1997, won the Ellis Award for Best First Novel and was an international bestseller. Fire and Bones is Reichs’s twenty-third novel featuring forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan. Reichs was also a producer of Fox Television’s longest running scripted drama, Bones, which was based on her work and her novels. One of very few forensic anthropologists certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, Reichs divides her time between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Charleston, South Carolina. Visit her at KathyReichs.com or follow her on Twitter @KathyReichs, Instagram @KathyReichs, or Facebook @KathyReichsBooks. 

    Read more from Kathy Reichs

    Related to A Conspiracy of Bones

    Titles in the series (20)

    View More
    View More

    Related ebooks

    Mystery For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      The Paper Wasp

      Jun 3, 2019

      The Paper Wasp
      13 min read

    • Article

      Reports From Near And Far

      Nov 25, 2021

      susanne paola antonetta MY HOMETOWN of Bellingham, Washington, is a last corner of the continental United States, a final chew of land before the long drink of the Pacific. We’re bound to the west by water, to the east by mountain, and twenty miles t

      17 min read

    • Article

      Dark Tales

      Dec 2, 2021

      Dark Tales
      6 min read

    • Article

      Two Poems by Phillip B. Williams

      Dec 15, 2017

      The masters are yet dead. Wanting to be human,I tried to rewrite The Waste Land. The canon’s reachcasts ruinous light. The masters’ pens breachthis page where, above, my own hand spectates. Babylonrisen, exorcism in reverse, whose nature upended now?

      6 min read

    • Article

      I and Thou: A Bigfoot Encounter

      Dec 16, 2019

      I and Thou: A Bigfoot Encounter
      17 min read

    • Article

      Nick Laird

      Dec 15, 2017

      I was trying to write like an adult.I had children.I was at the end of something. As I waited at my table by the window for the coffee,I saw that the sirocco had depositeda scrim of dust on the sill overnight,and it was the dark red of powdered blood

      3 min read

    • Article

      It’s About Altares

      Aug 17, 2021

      It’s About Altares
      7 min read

    • Article

      Speedboat

      Mar 24, 2022

      Nobody died that year. Nobody prospered. There were no births or marriages. Seventeen reverent satires were written – disrupting a cliché and, presumably, creating a genre. That was a dream, of course, but many of the most important things, I fi nd,

      14 min read

    • Article

      Brain as Adventurer

      Jun 1, 2023

      Brain as Adventurer
      5 min read

    • Article

      The Final Truth

      Jan 21, 2020

      The Final Truth
      5 min read

    • Article

      Where Night Stops

      Jan 15, 2018

      Where Night Stops
      6 min read

    • Article

      The Buck Stops Here

      Apr 29, 2020

      The Buck Stops Here
      5 min read

    • Article

      A Year in Reading: Tim Lane

      Dec 8, 2021

      We stopped at the Topaz Internment Camp, where my wife’s family was held during World War II, near the tiny town of Delta, Utah. We found the apocalyptic remnants of one of our country’s great shames. The post A Year in Reading: Tim Lane appeared fi

      7 min read

    • Article

      Three Poems

      Sep 1, 2022

      1. Here there’s no rainy season.Sun scalds my forehead,yet the pool is empty. Beside it,a toppled table, its glass surface shattered.The asphalt is too hot for bare feet. 2. Far away: white hillocksand white dunes under a deepblue sky. Swirling winds

      5 min read

    • Article

      Forgive Us Our Trespasses

      Jun 3, 2021

      Forgive Us Our Trespasses
      4 min read

    • Article

      Solo (wo)man

      Sep 4, 2023

      Solo (wo)man
      5 min read

    • Article

      Learning To Walk

      Oct 28, 2019

      Learning To Walk
      5 min read

    • Article

      Blursday Blues

      Oct 18, 2020

      Blursday Blues
      2 min read

    • Article

      Lost And Found

      Dec 5, 2021

      Lost And Found
      9 min read

    • Article

      Then the Birds Began to Die

      Jul 22, 2021

      Then the Birds Began to Die
      8 min read

    • Article

      Notes From The Struggle

      Nov 10, 2022

      “That’s the thing,” my friend Tomas said. “They always get it wrong. Every time, they get it wrong. They always get the wrong people. Once we get out of this,” he spread his arms and shook his head, as if to say—This colossal fuck-fest of a mess we’v

      15 min read

    • Article

      Chost Stories

      Apr 12, 2021

      Chost Stories
      8 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for A Conspiracy of Bones

    3.5/5

    118 ratings18 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 4/5
      Not only are the author's books about Temperance Brennan entertaining but they are also a source of knowledge that one might not seek out without some incentive. Her description of the Dark Web is enlightening. Alas, Reichs still has Brennan acting like Mike Hammer, leading with her head. Brennan goes into the most ridiculous situations with just her head and the rest of her body with both usually getting severely pummeled. As usual, her characterizations are very well done -- one cannot almost see these folks in one's mind's eye.
    • 2/5
      A CONSPIRACY OF BONES is author Kathy Reichs newest addition (2020) to her Temperance Brennan series.Temperance Brennan is a forensic anthropologist dividing her ‘work time’ between Charlotte, North Carolina and Montreal, Quebec, Canada.We open with Tempe (in Charlotte) recovering from very serious neurosurgery. Out of the blue, she receives a series of text messages, each containing a picture of a mutilated corpse. (This is confusing, as these messages drive the plot and are only very briefly explained on the last pages of the book. Who sent them? Why?)Tempe ramps up an investigation involving ex-homicide investigator, Skinny Slidell. (This is confusing, also, as Slidell is retired yet seems to have full access to police information and facilities.)Tempe is like a deranged 90 year old Nancy Drew tanked up on Red Bull and a cocaine overdose. Her behavior is unprofessional, uninteresting, blatantly irresponsible and dangerous, extremely disorienting.I enjoy (usually) this character very much - her intellect, her expertise, her professionalism, but this title leaves me baffled as to Tempe’s current state of mind.I disliked the book from the start - the confusing plot; an array of nutty characters; Tempe’s very repulsive treatment of everyone she comes into contact with. By her own admission, she is haggard (worn-out, exhausted, gaunt), resentful, and outraged. There is little interaction with Ryan and even less time in Montreal.Many readers have said they disliked the book because of the author’s political bias (read that as anti-republican and condemning of conspiracy theories and corruption). I would say that is the ONLY aspect of the book that I did like. That, and the section, ‘From the Forensic Files of Doctor Kathy Reichs’. She describes her writing process and her own diagnosis of an unruptured cerebral aneurysm.
    • 3/5
      Tempe is on the outs with her new boss. When she receives some strange text messages about an unidentifiable corpse. She oversteps in more ways than one.It has been quite a while since I have read a book by this author. Years ago she was a favorite. But, as the years have passed other authors have worked their way in. So, I took advantage when this came up for me.I will be honest, this was just a so-so read for me. I did not feel like the story really went anywhere. It was a slow start and just never really grabbed me. Plus, I hated Tempe’s boss! You will have to read this to discover what that witch…ugh..excuse me…woman was up to. But, I still found it intriguing in places. Especially the mystery around the child’s disappearance and the unidentifiable body. I did wonder how Tempe was going to link all the clues together. It is a fast moving, quick read. I just think there are other books by Kathy Reichs which are much more captivating.I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
    • 5/5
      Kathy Reichs has just released A Conspiracy of Bones - the 19th entry in her long running Temperance Brennan series.I was a few books behind but it was easy to catch up in the opening chapter. A quick recap of what's going on in Tempe's life had me up to speed - and ready to see what was next in store for this forensic anthropologist. A lot, as it turns out....An unidentified corpse missing many parts - but has Tempe's phone number in his pocket, a new boss who despises Tempe (the feeling is mutual), missing children, conspiracists and their theories, the dark web and more. And on top of it all, she's been diagnosed with a brain aneurysm.The book starts out strong and I was caught up from the opening pages. And it only gets better as it progresses. Honestly, there was no way to predict where the plot was going to go. I actually stopped listening at one point to go online and see if some of the plot devices actually happened. Frighteningly, the answer was yes - MKUltra is a fact. Each new piece of evidence and every revelation only intrigued me more. And just when I thought I had the ending figured out - there were three or four additional chapters that changed the outcome I had predicted. I really enjoy being surprised.I've always liked Tempe as a character. She comes across as believable. Love interest Ryan makes an appearance as well - another long running character and relationship that adds another layer to the books. I also like Tempe's mom - her bawdy one liners make me laugh and I picked up some computer knowledge from her explanations. But the supporting player I really like is ex-homicide investigator Skinny Slidell. He's irreverent, loud and a bit obnoxious. But he's a dogged investigator and he and Tempe make a formidable team. He too has some great lines.As I mentioned, I chose to listen to A Conspiracy of Bones. Having read physical copies of the previous books, I noticed a big difference. I really, really enjoyed the audio version! The reader was Linda Emond and she was fantastic. She has a very versatile voice. Her voice has movement, rising and falling as she narrates. I've never watched the television show Bones, so I didn't have a preconceived notion of what Tempe's voice should sound like. Emond's voice was perfect and will for me always be the voice of Tempe. (I hope she reads forthcoming books) The voice for Slidell was spot on as well - loud, with a down home accent that was just right. When they're talking, you could believe there are two people speaking. She did a good job with Ryan's French accent as well. I found by listening to this one, I took in more. I heard the humor in Reich's writing. Yes, there are lots of funny lines in such a 'deadly' book. Her voice is pleasant to listen to and easy to understand. And as I always say, I feel more drawn in to a tale when I listen. PS - make sure you listen to the author's notes at the end!
    • 5/5
      serial-killer, series, forensics, suspense, thriller*****I think that everyone is somewhat familiar with Dr Temperance Brennan after over 20 years of books and the spinoff TV series of a number of years. Obviously I've missed a few of the books, because the murder of her boss and the stenting of a cerebral aneurysm in her own brain were total news to me!About reviewing the book. Hard for me to do because it has a lot about serial killer and child abduction/torture/murder. The story is well written and always has a spate of snarkiness just when the awfulness is getting to me. Lots of interesting learning opportunities as well: the darkweb/tor, conspiracy obsessives, and changes in DNA recovery. The secondary thread is the unwise behaviors and animosity from the new boss as well as backstory regarding Temperance's mother and some other characters from earlier books. Bottom line is that the material is something that I find distressing but the writing remains on target.I requested and received a free ebook copy from Scribner via NetGalley. Thank you!
    • 4/5
      This is a series I’ve dipped in & out of over the years & it’s been a while. But one thing obviously hasn’t changed. Tempe still has a gift for getting in over her head.This instalment finds her on shaky ground, personally & professionally. She recently had brain surgery & is ready to return to work as a consultant for the medical examiner’s office. Unfortunately there’s a new ME in town & they have some history. Tempe’s made it known she views Dr. Margot Heavner as a glory seeking publicity hound. So it’s no surprise when Heavner lets Tempe know her services are no longer required.But when a faceless corpse ends up in the morgue, it’s clear someone wants her involved. Tempe receives anonymous photos of the body. And that’s just the beginning. Cryptic texts, weird messages on the dark web, missing kids, night time prowlers…..hmmm. Only one thing to do really. ID the body & figure out how he got so dead. And if she shows up Heavner in the process, well that’s just a bonus. Tempe begins her own investigation & ropes in a couple of accomplices including Skinny Slidell, a grouchy PI with an interest in the case. They may bicker like siblings but a grduging mutual respect means he has her back.Initially there are a lot of separate threads to the story. Strange things are happening & it feels like Tempe is being lured down a dark rabbit hole. But because of her fragile state, we’re not even sure how much of it is real. Turns out neither is she. Personal issues, stress & too much time on her hands result in erratic behaviour & questionable decisions. And long hours spent with conspiracy theorists on the dark web certainly don’t help.I think I would have enjoyed this more if I’d kept up with the series. My bad. At times I felt like I was missing some crucial background info that would have helped me understand her character better. We spend a lot of time in Tempe’s head as she grapples with doubt & paranoia. She veers from endless speculation about the case to acting on rash decisions that put her in danger.When an author gets to book #19 in a series, you know they’re doing something right & I really believe this will appeal to faithful fans. The mystery behind the body in the morgue is clever & intricate but I think you’ll get more out of the story as a whole if you’ve been following along.
    • 3/5
      I was eagerly awaiting this, since it's been awhile since the previous book in the series was published. (And yikes to that story, glad that the author is okay).The mysteries were interesting. Tempe is on the outs with the new ME in North Carolina. And then when she doesn't get called in on a case (where the dead guy is a John Doe) she finds herself on the case anyway when someone sends her some photos of the deceased anyway. So, she enlists the help of the Detective Slidell (Skinny), as well as Ryan just a little bit. And, is on the case. Although, sometimes it seems as though maybe the whole case is just in her head.I was of two minds about this book. IT was much more character driven than some of Reichs' plot/mystery driven ones. Tempe is in her head a lot, not to mention she really goes outside of the usual legal system that she works in during the other books (and that's saying something).It was a fun read, but, it was also a really slow read and I wish I'd been able to like it more.I was given this ARC by Netgalley on behalf of Scribner.
    • 4/5
      When a new corpse arrives at the morgue, it has, unfortunately, been badly damaged by feral pigs making it almost impossible to identify. Forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan is intrigued and determined to discover the identity despite having been frozen out of the lab by her new boss. Still, she won't let that stop her and immediately sets out to investigate with a little (actually a lot) of help from Erskine 'Skinny' Slidell, a long-time and old school detective with the Charlotte police department. But even he can't keep Tempe from getting herself in several dangerous situations.It seems like lately I've been revisiting series that I had not visited in a very long time and I'm not sure if it's my memory or the series but they haven't lived up to my expectations. This is true of A Conspiracy of Bones, the latest book by Kathy Reichs. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed it well enough. perhaps it was that, outside the lab, Brennan seemed less professional but no less reckless than what I remember from those past books. Or maybe it's just that, despite few references to books I haven't read, I felt somewhat disoriented and it took me a while to find the pace. Regardless, the story did keep me reading if not completely immersed for the most part. There is one section where she makes a record of what has already happened that seemed closer to how real forensic anthropology is likely done that I found interesting. However, I have read some reviews that seemed to find it tedious. Anyway, overall, I'd recommend it mainly to fans of the series if purchasing. For anyone else, I suggest the library.One caveat: I would recommend, for anyone averse to cruelty to animals as I am, you might want to skip ahead a few paragraphs at the word 'kitten' Thanks to Netgalley and Simon & Schuster for the opportunity to read this book in exchange for an honest review
    • 3/5
      I received a copy of this novel from the publisher via NetGalley.I have read many of these over the years, and in lots of ways this was very familiar: Tempe acts with utter disregard for her personal safety; chapters end with dramatic hooks (e.g. "Life was about to go from bad to pure hell."); there are several sections where a character recites what is obviously the fruits of the author's research to another in a big info dump.This one was a little different though: Tempe does no work in Quebec, and, having been frozen out by her boss in Charlotte, does no work at all there either for the whole of the period of the book, despite fretting about money, so we never get to see her excel at her job. Instead she is entirely free to go around putting her life in danger as previously discussed, investigating a case that she thinks her boss should have asked her to consult on.After a slightly mystifying opening chapter, which didn't really grab me and make me want to keep reading, things picked up and the plot did carry me along until the final third, where Tempe has some sort of out of body experience, which is never fully explained. After that the bad guys are identified, but then the book drags on for a few chapters, in what is probably a very realistic depiction of what police work is like, but which destroyed all the momentum of the story and made me impatient for it to end.Not enough Montreal and not enough Ryan. Disappointing.
    • 2/5
      Pictures of a faceless corpse have been sent to Temperance Brennan's phone. Why and who is he? But with a new boss at work, one that she is in conflict with, Brennan's search for the truth results in an unofficial investigation with the help of retired detective, Slidell.
      I finished the book but I just could not get my interest involved in the story and at times I felt that there was too much indepth pointless information.
      A NetGalley Book
    • 4/5
      A Conspiracy of Bones by Kathy Reichs is a 2020 Scribner publication. Following surgery for an aneurysm, Tempe is experiencing migraines and strange dreams, and is possibly seeing things that aren’t really there. After receiving a text message with the image of a dead man, with no face or hands, she is intent on discovering the who the man is…But- her new boss despises Tempe and has frozen her out of the investigation, which leaves her no other choice but to go rogue… with the help of Skinny Slidell. While Tempe is not actually working in the lab- the forensics she in an expert is still featured prominently. I think I liked having her out ‘in the field’ working the case like a detective would. She and Slidell made a really good team. The mystery is very engrossing, but the subject matter is quite very dark and quite disturbing, as is the use of the Dark web- unfortunately, though, it was all too realistic. Overall, an interesting addition to the series. Looking forward to the reading Reich’s newest release! 4 stars
    • 4/5
      Something was a little off about the book. Maybe because the author is "ageing" Tempe which I always dislike but is the natural way of things. There was a lot of action and a great deal of information on the dark web which hopefully I'll never need to use! Overall a good book.
    • 3/5
      I've read all the Tempe Brennan novels and enjoyed almost all of them, but this was a disappointment. The novel finds Tempe in a bad place -- recovering from surgery a brain aneurysm, and at odds with her new boss. She gets a series of text messages showing pictures of an unidentified (and unidentifiable) corpse. But she can't investigate even once she learns that the corpse is in the morgue where she used to practice -- her new boss won't let her anywhere near the case. The plot thickens as Tempe pursues her own investigation with the help of Skinny Slidell, and grows darker and darker as missing children become a part of it. The pacing is fine, and the story is engrossing, but Tempe is maddening. Contrary to common sense and good advice, she crashes forward, ignoring her own misgivings. This does get the job done, but it's not the way things usually work in a Tempe Brennan novel. Also, there are too many questions, literally. Too many paragraphs recount Tempe's interior monologs, and are entirely made up of questions. I finished the book, but was not happy with it. Hope the next one is better.
    • 3/5
      I have been reading the Temperence Brennan series since it started. I will admit that Kathy Reichs' shotgun delivery style takes a little getting used to, but I have found that it this style is getting more abrupt and disjointed as the series has gone on. I found this style even more prevalent in this book. Also, at the very beginning we find out that a close colleague of Tempe has died, and she has suffered a major medical event. I didn't find out until the end that the colleague's death was covered in one of her mid-way novelettes that I hadn't read. All of this made it very difficult for me to get on board and into the swing of this book. I found too that the tension and suspense was diminished somewhat by the very detailed explanations regarding the internet and the dark web that are throughout the book. These lengthy descriptions made the book too long and certainly watered down the action. I just seemed to be about two steps behind Tempe and Slidell in this one, and didn't catch up until the very end when I read her author's notes at the end. Even the ending was kind of left up in the air. So although I enjoyed the story behind all the rush, I just can't give this one more than three stars. My copy also had a novella at the back about Tempe's origin story. I enjoyed that much more than the actual book. It was nice to meet a young Temperence Brennan and see her introduction into the world of forensic science. The little novella deserved 4 stars in my opinion. I will continue to read these books as I love Tempe and her gang, and I love the forensic information that comes out of every book.
    • 4/5
      Life difficulties reflected in the author's work drive the fiction as it should. Tempe faces this series of crimes; angst-ridden and often in despair. Paired with Skinny Slidell for the investigation does little to lighten the mood. A faceless, handless corpse that provides one puzzle and missing children for the rest guarantees bleakness while providing serious issues to resolve. Minimal forensic investigation and much of the time Tempe places herself in dangerous situations, almost inviting the villains to try and stop her. There are some complex issues problems to unravel and connect but she does have some good help. Tapping into some high-level investigative resources from former and current colleagues; she begins to unravel the numerous puzzles that seem to all be related. And, for serious WEB and computer support and analysis, there is MOM! Different but still very good
    • 4/5
      Forensic anthropologist Tempe Brennan, recovering from surgery on a brain aneurysm, returns to work to face three problems. Her medical conditions has resulted in migraine headaches and, at times, an inability to discern between reality and her imagination. Pictures of a faceless, handless corpse are sent to her. Her new boss, Margot Heavner, not only would not share information with her but also ordered her to keep away from the case. The two have a history and Brennan has a reason to not trust Heavner. When Tempe is able to get some information from other sources, such as the name of a long-time missing child and her own telephone number in a pocket, she decides she must work on the case regardless. There is some politicizing early in the book, which might upset some conservative readers, the story itself moves quickly with lots of twists. The book is well-written. The characters are plausible. There is a lot of technical information, which could easily be skipped if desired.
    • 3/5
      A Conspiracy of Bones by Kathy Reichs is nineteenth in the Temperance Brennan series but it is a definite departure from the usual. Having been a fan of this series, I was disappointed in this book. Tempe Brennan is a forensic anthropologist in Charlotte, North Carolina and also the subject of the popular tv series “Bones”. Tempe has received photos of a faceless and printless corpse from an anonymous source. Who could this victim be and who sent her the photos? Someone had previously been spotted close to Tempe’s home and she believes this body may be him. At this point, this mystery becomes unrealistic, when the forensic anthropologist starts doing the work of a police detective instead of being a scientist. The investigation is confusing and all over the place and our hero is getting into too much trouble. As sometimes happens, an author writes a series past the point of having fresh material. Kathy Reichs is a talented writer and hopefully this is an exception. Thank you to Simon & Schuster Canada and NetGalley for the e-ARC in exchange for an honest review. This is only my opinion.
    • 5/5
      A CONSPIRACY OF BONES by Kathy ReichsTemperance has been summarily ejected from her own office in this outing by forensic scientist Kathy Reichs. Out maneuvered at every turn, Temperance is stymied but undeterred when a body with no face and no hands is brought to the lab.Also battling a life threatening condition, Temperance battles to keep her job, discredit her opponent and discover who the faceless man is and how he came to die.Exciting and full of red herrings, this is one of the best tales by an expert in the fields of writing and forensics.5 of 5 stars

    Book preview

    A Conspiracy of Bones - Kathy Reichs

    1

    FRIDAY, JUNE 22

    Reactions to pressure vary. Some people are ductile, able to stretch. Others are brittle, powerless to bend. Physicists talk of stress-strain curves. One thing is certain. If the burden is too great, or the loading too rapid, anyone can snap.

    I know. I reached my breaking point the summer after my boss was murdered. Moi. The igneous rock of emotion. And I’m not talking about just the nightmares.

    To be fair, Larabee’s death wasn’t the immediate or sole trigger. There was Andrew Ryan, my longtime lover and cop-partner in investigating homicides in Quebec. Succumbing to pressure, I’d agreed to cohabitate with Ryan on both the Montreal and Charlotte ends of our geographically complex relationship. There was Katy’s posting in Afghanistan. Mama’s cancer. Pete’s news about Boyd. My diagnosis, then surgery. The migraines. A world of stressors was chafing my personal curve.

    Looking back, I admit I spun out of orbit. Perhaps going rogue was an attempt to steer unsteerable forces. A bird-flip to aging. To the renegade vessel threatening havoc in my brain. Perhaps it was a cry for Ryan’s attention. A subconscious effort to drive him away? Or maybe it was just the goddamn Carolina heat.

    Who knows? I was holding my own until the faceless man sent me over the edge. His remains and the subsequent investigation punched a black hole in my smug little world.

    My mother spotted the changes long before the enigmatic corpse turned up. The distractedness. The agitation. The short temper. She blamed it all on the aneurysm. From the moment of its discovery, Mama was convinced the little bubble would burst and my own blood would take me out. I scoffed at her critique of my behavior, knowing she was right. I was ignoring emails, the phone. Declining invitations in favor of solo bingeing on old Hollywood flicks. Hell, I’d watched my favorite, Annie Hall, four times.

    I didn’t tell Mama about the nighttime visitations. Twisting montages filled with dark figures and vague dangers. Or frustrating tasks I couldn’t complete. Anxiety? Hormones? The headache meds I was forced to ingest? Irrelevant the root of my irritability. I was sleeping little, constantly restless, and exhausted.

    It didn’t take Freud to recognize I was in a bad place.

    So there I was, wide awake in the wee hours, talking myself down from a dream about a storm and snakes and Larabee sealed in a body bag. Ole Sigmund might have offered a comment on that.

    I tried deep breathing. A relaxation exercise starting with my toes.

    No sale.

    Nerves on edge, I got up and crossed to the window. Two floors below, the grounds spread out around my townhouse, dark and still save for the lank twisting of a leaf in the occasional half-hearted breeze. I was turning away when my eyes caught a flicker of movement beside the pine on my neighbor’s front lawn.

    Peering hard, I made out a silhouette. Bulky. Male?

    On the grounds of Sharon Hall at midnight?

    Heart pumping a bit faster, I blinked to refocus.

    The silhouette had blended into the shadows.

    Had someone actually been there?

    Curious, I pulled on a pair of discarded shorts and my Nikes and went downstairs. I wasn’t planning to confront the guy, if there was a guy; I just wanted to determine his reason for being outside my home at that hour.

    In the kitchen, I switched off the alarm and slipped out the back door onto my terrace. The weather was beyond Dixie summer-night warm, the air hot and muggy, the leaves as droopy and discouraged as they’d appeared from upstairs. Spotting no prowler, I circled the building. Still no one. I set off on one of the paths crisscrossing the estate.

    It had rained as I’d eaten my microwave-pizza dinner at ten, and moisture still hung thick in the air. Puddles glistened black on the gravel, went yellow as my fuzzy shadow and I passed under quaint-as-hell carriage lights blurred by mist.

    The tiny pond was a dark void, woolly where the water met the bank. Murky shapes glided its surface, silent, aware of their tenuous state. The homeowners’ association fights an endless, often creative battle. No matter the deterrent, the geese always return.

    I was passing a black Lego form I knew to be a small gazebo when I sensed more than heard another presence. I stopped. Stared.

    A man was standing in the smear of shadow within the gazebo. His face was down, his features obscured. Medium height and build. I could tell little else about him. Except two things.

    First, I didn’t know him. He wasn’t a resident, and I’d never seen him visit.

    Second, despite the stifling heat, the man was wearing a trench coat. When he raised an arm, perhaps to check a watch, the fabric flashed pale in the gloom enveloping him.

    I glanced nervously over my shoulder.

    Crap. Why hadn’t I brought my phone? Easy one there. Because the damn thing was dead. Again.

    Fine. Why hadn’t I at least lit the porch light? Go home and call 311 to report a prowler? 911?

    I turned back. The gazebo was empty. I checked in both directions along the path. To the right, the left. The man wasn’t on it.

    The mist began to morph back into rain. Listless drops tested for foothold on my face and hair. Time to head in.

    Suddenly, beyond the circle drive, I caught a wink of gray. There, then gone.

    Shot of adrenaline. Was Trench Coat targeting me? Casing the layout of Sharon Hall? If not, what was he doing here in the rain in the middle of the night? And why so elusive?

    Or was my wariness a product of paranoia, another gift from my overburdened stress-strain curve. Either way, I was glad I’d left pepper spray in my shorts pocket after my previous run.

    Perhaps roused by the unsettling dream, images of Larabee’s last moments unspooled in my head. The gray-green pallor of his skin. The eerie glow of the surgical-trauma ICU. The impartial pinging of the monitors recording their bloodless peaks and valleys. The screaming silence when the pinging stopped. Later, in an interview room smelling of sweat and fear, the slouchy indifference of the brain-fried tweaker who’d sent the bullets into my longtime boss’s belly.

    Stop!

    Aloud? Or just in my mind?

    I lengthened my stride, footfalls crunching softly in the stillness.

    A full minute, then a trench-coated form, far up where the path emptied into a residents’ parking area. The man was walking with an odd swinging gait, his back to me.

    Suddenly, noise seemed to ricochet from all around. Rustling leaves. Shifting branches. Snapping twigs. Night creatures? Trench Coat’s geeked-out pals looking to fund more meth?

    I had no valuables—carried no money, wore no watch. Would that anger them?

    Or were the sounds the invention of overwrought nerves?

    I patted the pepper spray at my right hip. Felt the canister. Pink and nasty. A molecule of the price I’d paid had been donated toward breast-cancer research.

    Momentary indecision.

    Head home? Continue on the path and observe the man? Confront him in the parking lot? There were streetlamps there, overwhelmed but trying their best.

    I slowed. Trench Coat was now just ten yards ahead.

    My brain chose that moment to unreel a blockbuster tableau.

    When I approached, the man would pull a knife and try to slit my throat.

    Jesus!

    Why was I letting this guy fluster me? In my line of work, I encounter far worse than a dude dressed like Bogie in Casablanca. Outlaw bikers who chainsaw the heads and hands from their murdered rivals. Macho pricks who stalk and strangle their terrified exes. Drunken bullies who wall-slam fussy infants. Those lowlifes don’t dissuade me from focusing on my job. Quite the reverse. They inspire me to work harder.

    So why the drama over a man in a belted coat? Why the sense of threat? It was doubtful the guy was a psycho. More likely a harmless geezer overly sensitive to damp.

    Either way, I owed it to my neighbors to find out. I’d use the hedge as cover and follow him for a while. If he acted suspicious, I’d go inside and dial the cops. Let them decide.

    I wriggled through a gap in the bushes, moved along their far side a few yards, then paused to scan the parking lot.

    The man was there, standing under one of the struggling lamps. His chin was raised, his features vaguely discernible as dark blotches on a smudgy white rectangle.

    My breath froze.

    The guy was staring straight at me.

    Or was he?

    Unnerved, I pivoted to search for the opening in the shrubbery at my back. Couldn’t find it. Dived in where the darkness seemed less dense. The tunnel was narrow, barely there, or not there at all. Twigs and leaves snagged my arms and hair, skeletal fingers clawing me back.

    My breathing sounded louder, more desperate, as though fighting entrapment by the thick vegetation. The air was heavy with the scent of wet bark, damp earth, and my own perspiration.

    A few feet, then I was free and hurrying back toward the pond. Not the way I’d come, a new route. More shadowed. Less open.

    Imperceptibly, a new odor entered the olfactory mix. A familiar odor. An odor that triggered a fresh wave of adrenaline.

    I was catching whiffs of decomposing flesh.

    Impossible.

    Yet there it was. Stark and cold as the images haunting my dreams.

    A minute of scrambling around a stand of azaleas and philodendron, then I detected a thawing in one slice of the darkness ahead. Within the slice, angles and planes of shadow shifting and tilting out on the lawn.

    Trench Coat’s minions lying in wait?

    I was almost to the edge of the garden when a rip-your-face-off snarl brought me up short. As my mind struggled to form a rational explanation, a high-pitched scream sent every hair on my arms and neck upright.

    Hand shaking, I pulled the pepper spray from my pocket and inched forward.

    Beyond the shrubs, out where the lawn met the eastern wall of the property, two dogs were locked in winner-take-all combat. The larger, the scraggy consequence of some Lab–pit bull affair, was all hackles, bared teeth, and gleaming white sclera. The smaller, probably a terrier, cowered, tense and timorous, blood and spit matting the fur on one haunch. Neither animal was familiar to me.

    Unaware of my presence, or not caring, the Lab-pit braced, then lunged for another attack. The terrier yelped and tried to flatten itself even more to the ground, desperate to reduce the amount of mass it presented to the world.

    The Lab-pit held a moment, then, confident that rank had been established, pivoted and trotted toward a dark mound lying at the base of the wall. As the terrier slunk off, tail curled to its belly, the Lab-pit sniffed the air, scanned its surroundings, then lowered its head.

    I watched, spellbound, curious about the cause of the fight.

    A flurry of thrashing and tugging, then the victor’s snout rose.

    Clamped in the dog’s jaw was the severed head of a goose, ravaged neck glistening black, cheek swath winking white like the smile of an evil clown.

    I watched rain fall on the bird’s sightless eye.

    2

    FRIDAY, JUNE 29

    A week passed. Almost to the minute. Nothing much happened. Freaked by the dueling dogs and murdered goose, I hadn’t reported the intruder. Or peeper. Or whatever he was. Never saw him again.

    I’d hit a rough patch of late. Healthwise. Personally. Professionally. The last self-inflicted. I could have been more diplomatic. Or kept my mouth shut. Who knew my comments would come back to bite me in the ass? Right. Don’t they always? Mostly, I focused on those problems.

    And seriously? A prowler in a trench coat? Was that not the oldest cliché in the book? Had the man been there at all? Or was the whole incident an aftershock of my migraine-induced nightmare?

    A pair of fuzzy orbs congealed into headlights that drilled my car’s rear window. The interior brightened, nudging my thoughts back from wherever they’d been.

    11:10 p.m. I’d just dropped Mama at her new digs and was stopped on Sharon Amity at the intersection with Providence Road. While waiting for a green, I peeked at myself in the rearview mirror.

    Hair knotted at the nape of my neck, not great but OK. Remnants of mascara, blush, and gloss gamely trying to mask the exhaustion.

    Mama hadn’t commented. Or had she? I’d paid little attention.

    Silk tunic, a little bohemian but not over the top. Couldn’t see the black skinny jeans, baggier these days. Tory Burch sandals. I Stop for Red toes.

    The outfit, the L’Oréal, the OPI polish. I was making an effort. Reengaging with the world, as Mama would say. Did say. Repeatedly. Between checking to see if my pupils were equal.

    Mahler’s Symphony no. 2 in C Minor tonight. Resurrection.

    Ironic.

    I couldn’t wait to get home.

    Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the concerts. But I rank the postperformance cocktail klatches with Mama’s friends on par with a colonoscopy. Though, in fairness, the old up-yours confers a health benefit.

    My mother, Katherine Daessee Daisy Lee Brennan, is a widow with cancer and a boyfriend who spends his weekdays running a dry-cleaning empire out of its Arkansas headquarters. My sister, Harry, lives a thousand miles away in Texas. And is crazy.

    You get the picture. I’m usually Mama’s default date.

    Which is fine. But why agree to the après-theater gatherings? Simple. My mother elevates the art of passive-aggressive to previously unimagined heights. And I always cave.

    The traffic signal changed. I accelerated. The headlights behind me shrank, winged left. Sharon Amity became Sharon Lane. No reason. Ahead, Sharon Lane would T-bone into Sharon Road. Confusing street names are Charlotte’s way of messing with out-of-town drivers.

    Shadows skipped across the windshield as I passed under a lattice of willow oaks arching high overhead. Snatches of the evening’s conversation replayed in my head. The same tired conversations as always.

    Your mother looks great! Meaning not dead.

    The chemo is going well.

    How’s Pete? I heard your ex is dating a hot yoga instructor, a brain surgeon, the heiress to an international shipping line.

    He’s good, thanks.

    Our prayers are with Katy. Thank God it’s your kid in a war zone, not ours.

    She’s good, thanks.

    My nephew just finalized his divorce and is moving to Charlotte. You two must meet. Let me rescue you from your pathetic life.

    I’m good, thanks.

    Tonight new topics had entered in, queries inspired by my current fiasco.

    Are you still teaching at UNCC? Are you being forced to fall back on your day job?

    A few graduate courses.

    Dr. Larabee’s death was a terrible tragedy.

    It was.

    How do you like the current ME? Rumor has it you’re embroiled in a shitstorm with your new boss.

    Excuse me, I think Daisy is signaling that she’d like to leave.

    These sessions made me wish I still drank. A lot.

    I crossed Wendover. The road narrowed to two lanes. I hit a speed bump, the car bucked, dropped.

    My iPhone lit up. No chime. I’d had it on silent during the concert, forgotten to flick the little lever.

    I glanced down to where the mobile lay on the passenger seat. A gray box indicated a received text. I figured it was Mama, concerned my embolization had blown. Or that I’d been kidnapped by Somali pirates.

    Minutes later, parked in my drive, I tapped the screen and flicked to the Messages app. The text had arrived at 8:34.

    I opened the app, the message.

    Four images.

    A frisson of current sparked under my sternum.

    My townhouse was blessedly cool and smelled faintly of plaster and fresh paint.

    Birdie? Tossing my keys onto the counter.

    No response.

    I’m home, Bird.

    Nothing. The cat was still pissed about the renovations. Fine. I had my own issues.

    I locked the door, set the alarm, and crossed the kitchen without turning on a light. Passing through the dining room and then the parlor, I climbed the stairs.

    Nineteenth-century deeds refer to the tiny two-story structure as the annex. Annex to what? No living soul has a clue. To the mansion, now condos, presiding over the grounds of Sharon Hall? To the converted carriage house beside it?

    I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’ve lived in the annex’s Lilliputian rooms for more than a decade, since my separation from the would-be swain of the shipping-line heiress. Throughout my tenancy, I’d changed nothing but light bulbs.

    Until recently. And the process—building codes, permits, homeowners’ association hysteria—had been horrendous. And still there were issues. Jammed windows. A lunatic electrician. A no-show painter.

    Reaching the top tread, I glanced right toward the door leading into the new square footage. As usual, my chest tightened, just a hiccup, enough to get my attention. The same flinch experienced by victims of home invasion?

    I’d made the decision to live with Ryan. We’d agreed to shift between cities, commute as work demanded and freedom allowed. We’d bought a condo in Montreal. I’d agreed to construction of the addition here. Enough space for a roomie.

    So why the mental cringe? Why the refusal to actually move into the space? Nothing more fearsome than bad wiring and the wrong shade of gray lay beyond the door. Two desks, two bookshelves, two filing cabinets.

    Two toothbrushes in the bathroom. Two kinds of bread in the freezer.

    Everything in pairs.

    My life subdivided. I’d been there. It hadn’t worked out.

    Get a grip, Brennan. Ryan’s not Pete. He’ll never betray you. He’s handsome, smart, generous, kind. And sexy as hell. Why the reluctance to commit?

    As usual, I had no answer.

    In the bedroom, I threw my purse onto the bureau, myself into the rocker, and kicked off the sandals. Then I plugged in my phone so the damn thing wouldn’t die within seconds.

    I view crime-scene and autopsy pics all the time. They’re never pretty. The ashen flesh, the unseeing eyes, the blood-spattered walls or car interiors. Though I’m accustomed, the sad tableaus always affect me. The stark reminders that a human life has ended violently.

    These hit me harder than most.

    I swallowed.

    The first image showed a man lying supine in a body bag, arms straight and tight to his sides. The bag had been unzipped to his waist. I could see nothing beyond his rolled sleeves and belt.

    The man had died in a blood-soaked ecru shirt. A pair of shoes was tucked by his head, made of the same rich brown leather that had held up his pants.

    Above the bloody collar, the man’s face was a horror show of macerated flesh and bone. The nose and ears were gone, the orbits dark and empty.

    Sightless as the dead goose by the garden wall.

    The grim flashback elicited another visceral shudder.

    The next two images were close-ups of the man’s hands. Or would have been had either survived. His forearms were mangled from the elbows down, the radii and ulnae ending in jagged projections below the point to which the creamy sleeves had been rolled. Severed tendons glistened white in the hamburger mash.

    The last image zeroed in on the man’s midsection. The shirtfront had been displaced to one side. His abdomen gaped wide below ribs resembling the bleached wreckage of a boat’s shattered bow. What remained of his viscera was almost unrecognizable. I spotted a few organ remnants, some threads of liver and spleen, nothing positioned where it should have been.

    The message was tagged with no name or number, filtered through a spamlike phone exchange. I knew there were apps and websites that would accommodate a texter’s desire for anonymity. Tricks to hide one’s identity using throwaway email accounts. But who would do that? And why? And who would have access to such a mangled corpse? To my mobile number?

    Joe Hawkins? Such a breach of protocol seemed way out of character. Joe was the oldest death investigator at the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner’s Office. Oldest in every sense. Hawkins was stitching Ys when the MCME had a single pathologist and one assistant. Probably when Custer went down at the Little Big Horn.

    If the sender was Hawkins, what was his motive? Yeah, the vic was a mess. But we’d both seen worse. Much worse. Was Hawkins an ally in my current conflict? A neutral leaking intel to a comrade in peril?

    Was Hawkins giving me a heads-up? Since the faceless man would be difficult to ID, was he suggesting the case might require an anthropology consult? For years, I’d been the sole practitioner serving the region. In the past, the task would unquestionably have fallen to me.

    Until Larabee was killed and Margot Heavner stepped into his scrubs.

    Word of explanation. Since North Carolina has a statewide medical examiner system, the hiring decision was made by the chief ME in Chapel Hill. The Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner’s Office, the facility for which I consult, is one of several subsidiary offices and serves the five counties surrounding Charlotte. Thanks to trigger-friendly gun laws, my fellow state citizens shoot one another with glorious enthusiasm. Therefore, following Larabee’s murder, the chief needed a replacement fast.

    The salary isn’t stratospheric, so Heavner had been one of only a handful of applicants. From her perspective, Charlotte’s climate dazzled in comparison to that of North Dakota. From the state’s perspective, she was willing to work cheap and start right away.

    Bingo! Dr. Margot Heavner, forensic pathologist, author, and showboat extraordinaire.

    Heavner began freezing me out the minute she landed. No pretense at subtlety. From day one, she made it clear that hiring Charlie Manson would be preferable to working with me.

    You guessed it. There’s history between us.

    Six years back, Heavner published a book titled Death’s Avenger: My Life as a Morgue Doctor. The opus, intended for a general audience, was a collection of case studies, most fairly mundane, intended to paint its creator as the greatest pathologist since the invention of the scalpel. Fair enough. Shine a light on the profession, inspire the next generation.

    And shine she did. For a few weeks, Heavner was everywhere. Talk shows, print, sidebar ads, social media. I was good with it. Until Dr. Morgue did a series of interviews with a right-wing sleazeball named Nick Body.

    Blogging and podcasting on the internet, and from there onto scores of AM radio stations, Body spews whatever trash he thinks will boost ratings and readership. Antivaccination, government mind control, U.S. military involvement in the Twin Towers and Beirut barracks attacks—everything is fair game, no matter how hurtful or absurd. Ditto any sensationalized tale of violence and personal devastation.

    Heavner didn’t restrict her conversations with Body to the topic of her book. In more than one, she discussed the case of a murdered child. A brutal killing for which no perp had been convicted.

    I definitely wasn’t good with that.

    When asked by a journalist for my opinion of Heavner’s behavior, I was sharp in my criticism. Maybe he was goading me with loaded questions. Maybe it was the fact that I was working three child homicides and feeling overly protective of victims. Maybe I was tired. Whatever the cause, I didn’t hold back.

    Heavner was furious. Threatened a lawsuit for slander or libel, or whatever, but didn’t follow through. The feud never went public. No one cares about the bickering of science nerds. But in our little nerd circles, the gossip was rife.

    That year, at the annual meeting of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, a colleague in entomology, Paulette Youngman, advised me to let the quarrel go. Was it Dallas? Baltimore? The venues all blur in my mind. Paulette and I were on break from a multidisciplinary workshop on child abuse when Heavner passed in one of her signature Diane von Fürstenberg wraps.

    You’re right, Youngman had said. The woman has no scruples.

    She discussed an open homicide to hawk her damn book.

    It doesn’t matter.

    It does matter if she’s compromised the case and there’s no justice for the child. And he wasn’t the only one. She talked about other missing kids. I could hear Body salivating through the speakers.

    Youngman swirled the ice in her soda, then set down her Styrofoam tumbler. "Ever hear of Ophiocordyceps camponoti-balzani?"

    I think I have a colony under my sink.

    It’s a fungus that grows out of the heads of ants in the Brazilian rain forest. They’re called zombie ants.

    Sounds like another crackpot Body conspiracy theory.

    But this is true. The fungus mind-controls the ants.

    Mind-controls them into doing what?

    Whatever the fungus wants. It takes over the ant’s brain, then kills the host once it’s moved to a location suitable for fungal success.

    Fiendish.

    It’s fungus.

    I was lost. Your point?

    Heavner’s morality has been hijacked by a need for fame and public adulation.

    She’s become a zombie pathologist.

    Youngman shrugged.

    So I should just let it drop?

    In the end, the ant always loses. Youngman tipped her head, reflecting fluorescent light off the unfashionable black glasses riding low on her nose.

    For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Youngman broke the silence.

    "Did Heavner’s book make the New York Times bestseller list?"

    Not even close. I’d checked.

    Youngman grinned.

    I grinned back.

    In the intervening years, I’ve often thought of that conversation. Assumed the whole ant-fungus metaphor was a by-product of viewing too many projected images of battered children.

    But here it was, six years later, and Heavner had found a location where she could flourish. Dr. Morgue was running the MCME. And I was persona non grata, my life in disarray.

    I looked at the clock. Almost midnight. Call Hawkins?

    Not a chance he’d be awake.

    A quick toilette, and I crawled into bed.

    Of course, I didn’t sleep.

    In the dark, images looped and swirled, denizens of my subconscious begging for attention. Heavner. Hawkins. The faceless man. A defect in my left posterior communicating artery now packed with tiny platinum coils.

    At some point, Birdie came and curled at my side.

    Didn’t help. My mind was a hazardous-waste dump of doubt, distress, and unanswered questions.

    Chief among them: Who was the doomed ant, who the fungus facing a prosperous future?

    3

    SATURDAY, JUNE 30

    I was awakened by a mockingbird doing animated a cappella outside my window. Birdie was gone, presumably off resuming his snit.

    The clock said 6:27. The sky was easing from pewter to pearl. The room was a collision of shadows sharpening at the edges.

    I tried rolling over.

    A conversation sluiced into my drowsy brain. An old woman, voice quavery, as though uncertain of wanting her message delivered. Or terrified.

    I still hear the old woman’s words in my head. Bloodsucking trash. Using my sweet baby’s death to glorify her own self. Lord Jesus knows it’s wrong.

    Hardin Symes. That was the dead kid’s name.

    I later learned that the caller was Bethyl Symes, Hardin’s grandmother. I’d heard of Nick Body, of course, the fiery provocateur. I’d never listened to a Body broadcast or read one of his blogs. I’m not his demographic.

    But Bethyl was a regular. And she was incensed that Heavner had made a piss storm, her words, of her grandson’s murder. Exposed her family’s aching heart to the world.

    Because of Bethyl, I tuned into the Heavner interview and subsequently launched the missiles that kicked off the feud.

    I never heard from Bethyl Symes again.

    Agitated, I got out of bed, did some questionable grooming, mostly teeth, then descended to the kitchen. After brewing coffee, I filled the bowl of my judgmental cat. Then I snagged the Observer from the back stoop and settled at the table to scan stories I’d already seen on the internet.

    Why the dinosaur approach to news? Loyalty to the kid who’s been tossing papers onto my stoop for the past three years, winging them from his bike with NASA precision. Derek. Derek claims he’s saving up to attend Harvard. Maybe I’m a sucker. The story also gets him a ridiculous holiday tip.

    A pileup on I-77 had taken the lives of an Ohio family en route to Charleston for their annual beach week. New condos were going up in South End. The DOJ was opening an inquiry into the finances of a local member of Congress.

    Nothing on the faceless man. My real reason for looking.

    Another coffee, then I pulled my MacBook Air from my carryall and ran a quick online search. Found no mention of the discovery of human remains near Charlotte.

    I puttered until eight. Dishes. Email. A load of laundry. Then, knowing he was a dawn riser, I dialed Hawkins’s mobile. He answered after one ring.

    Shoot. Hawkins’s normal greeting.

    Is a thank-you in order?

    For what?

    Did you text me last night?

    Nope.

    Surprised, I explained the photos. Any idea who sent them?

    Nope.

    Is the body at the MCME?

    Yep. To say Hawkins is taciturn would be the understatement of the millennium.

    What’s the scoop?

    Guy was pig feed.

    I was guessing dogs. One glance at the texted images had told me the mutilation was due to animal scavenging.

    Wild hogs.

    Where? When talking to Hawkins, I often adopt his brusque manner. Not a conscious choice, the clipped rhythm just sucks you in.

    Cleveland County.

    I left an encouraging pause. As usual, the ploy didn’t work.

    Body dump?

    Unclear.

    When did he roll in?

    Yesterday.

    The autopsy will take place on Monday?

    This morning. I caught it.

    It’s Saturday. Why the urgency?

    No idea.

    Who’s doing the cutting?

    Heavner.

    What do you know so far?

    Stiff’s got no face, no belly, no hands.

    I could hear a television in the background. Hawkins was at home, wherever home was. In all our years together, I’d never asked where he lived. He’d never volunteered.

    So no visual ID and no IAFIS. I was referring to the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, the FBI’s national database of prints and criminal histories. Sometimes you’re lucky and get a cold hit.

    Nope.

    Unless the guy’s carrying a license in his pocket, Heavner will need a bio-profile to give to the cops.

    Social Security card would do. Clattering overrode the rise and fall of the TV dialogue. Hawkins was either cooking or building something.

    I’ll let you know if I hear from Heavner. Saying the words

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1