Page 57 of The Bone Code
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Bring me up to speed.”
“I spent last week poking around down here, learned that the guy’s coworkers never heard of the wife. Her name is Agnes, by theway. His is Rupert. Also, I found out that the accident happened more than a hundred kilometers from the plant where Rupert worked.”
“A bit odd.”
“I also tracked down some of Rupert’s former colleagues. Most barely remembered him.”
“That’s sad.”
“When you’re dead, you’re dead.”
“Now what?”
“During the workweek, Rupert stayed at a trailer park called Idle Acres.”
“Sounds idyllic.”
“They allow pets under twenty-five pounds. I’m heading there now.”
“To continue detecting.”
“It’s what I do. How about you?”
“I’m looking at something for LaManche.” Sort of.
“I should be home by five,” Ryan said.
“Take care,” I said.
“Beware the shih tzus and Yorkies?”
“A pissed-off bichon mangled my grandfather’s toe.”
When we’d disconnected, I thumbed in another number. Eight-four-three area code.
A robotic voice apologized with all the warmth of a DMV clerk. Asked for a message. Annoyed, I left one.
One glance at LaManche’s “suspicious parts” was all I needed. A carpenter or roofer had enjoyed a pork shank in the empty house, then tossed the bones.
I was finishing a one-line report, thinking about whether I could summon the energy to make osso buco later, when my mobile rang.
“Thanks for getting back to me so promptly,” I said.
“This’ll have to be quick. It’s bonkers here.”
“Oh?”
“Remember Klopp’srarecapno autopsy?” Herrin’s adjective was bloated with sarcasm.
“He told you about that?”
“He did.”
“Go on.” Recalling the disfigured corpse on the pathologist’s screen. And my failure to follow through on my intent to research the pathogen.
“South Carolina is exploding with cases.”
“I heard something about that on a local news broadcast.”
