Page 141 of The Bone Code
Suddenly, I missed my daughter terribly. Opening the Photosapp, I brought up Katy’s most recent pic. How long ago had she sent it? Two weeks? Three? An eon?
Wearing head-to-toe camo, Katy sat on a rock, endless blue sky brilliant overhead, arid desert stretching forever at her back. Her M4 carbine lay dark and deadly across her knees. Her helmet rested upside down by her boots.
“Stay safe, baby girl,” I said to the empty room.
Birdie rolled over.
I wrote a long reply describing Hurricane Inara, Anne’s quest to crack the mystery of Polly Beecroft’s death mask, my ping-pong travels between Charleston, Charlotte, Nashville, and Montreal. I kept it light, mentioned nothing about the hit-and-run or Ryan’s injuries. Nothing about three women—two still teenagers—and a child slaughtered and stuffed into bins.
After hitting send, I checked my in-box.
There were ads from every business at which I’d ever made an online purchase. From charities soliciting donations. From people seeking my friendship on Facebook. From my neurosurgeon. From the MCME.
After deleting the junk mail, I opened the message from my boss in Charlotte. Bones had turned up in a suitcase behind a Chinese restaurant in Gastonia. Nguyen wanted my take. Said the case wasn’t urgent. I composed a brief response, explaining that I was in Montreal and that I’d be back in town soon.
I turned to Dr. Bernard’s message, certain of its contents. Yep. He wanted to schedule an MRI. Since my surgery for an unruptured cerebral aneurysm, I’d had to submit to the scans at regular intervals. Not my idea of a rollicking good time but a minor inconvenience given the alternative.
When I’d finished with email, lacking a more creative idea, I returned to the web and began visiting sites devoted to influenzas, vaccines, and baculoviruses. Panning for gold?
I googled InovoVax, Mélanie Chalamet, Melanie Chalmers, Arlo Murray. Learned nothing I didn’t already know.
I was about to type in CRISPR when Birdie stretched, hopped from the table, and padded to the kitchen.
The screen digits said six thirty, and the condo was dark.
“You’re right, Bird. It’s my turn to cook.”
After checking the larder, I decided on linguine with clam sauce, a green salad, and a warmed baguette. One of my old reliables. Plus, we had the ingredients. Things went reasonably well.
Over dinner, Ryan described what he’d unearthed on Melanie Chalmers, in some cases using sources available only to law enforcement. I didn’t query his means of finagling access.
“Did you find anything surprising?” I asked.
“I did.”
Ryan took a bite of salad. Chewed. Downed a long slug of Moosehead. Twirled a generous helping of pasta.
I watched him.
“This is delicious,” he said.
I refused to be baited.
Two more forkfuls, then, “The Massachusetts Department of Vital Statistics has a birth certificate on file for a Melanie Judith Chalmers. Born in Boston on March 22, 1969, the baby is described as a white female. The parents are entered as Verner and Patrice Chalmers.”
My butter knife froze in midair.
“A 1986 piece in theBoston Globelists a Melanie Chalmers as one of that year’s honor graduates of the Boston Technical High School. In an online version of the yearbook, Melanie’s bio states her career goal as biochemist.”
I was too stunned to respond.
“Your mouth is open.”
I closed it. Opened it to ask, “Is there a student pic?”
“Apparently, Melanie skipped the bothersome senior photo bit.”
“Does the bio say where she planned to attend university?”
