Page 89 of The Bone Code
“The younger victim could be your cousin.”
“That thought breaks my heart.”
“She was shot and then dumped like garbage.”
“I will pray for her soul.”
“You do that. In the meantime, please leave me your current contact information.”
“I am an open book, detective.”
Vislosky slid the pen and the tablet to Huger. He scribbled, returned them.
“May I go now?”
Vislosky handed Huger a card. “If you think of anything, call.”
“Of course.”
Both rose.
Huger headed for the door.
“And, doc?”
Huger turned.
“You can sign for that sticker at reception.”
An hour after cutting Huger loose, Vislosky and I were at our laptops twelve hundred miles apart, discussing Uncle Digby via FaceTime. Though France’s cyber footprint was smaller and less current than that of his nephew, like everyone alive today, he had one.
“The Digger France Band.” To the phone propped beside my Mac.
“Never heard of them,” Vislosky said.
“Are you into country and western?”
“Yeah.” Derisive snort. “Like I’m into hippo sweat sunscreen.”
“That’s a real thing?”
“It is.”
“I like some C-and-W.” Actually, I like a lot of it, but given Vislosky’s negative attitude, I didn’t share that.
“Looks like the group was big from the late ’sixties until the early ’nineties,” Vislosky said.
“Mostly in the Southeast.”
“Mostly in a five-mile radius of Nashville.” Vislosky snorted again. She really had it down.
“They made one album.”
“Christ in a cornfield. Do you believe these song titles? ‘Hungover with Love for Jesus.’ ‘Hand Me a Beer and Tie Up the Dog.’ ‘All I Need Is the Lord and My Refried Jeans.’?”
“Poetry of the people,” I said.
“What the hell are refried jeans?”
