Page 44 of Cold, Cold Bones
A new visual aid appeared. Taken in the late nineties, the tired old video was kept on file and trotted out as needed. It showed me at an exhumation, derrière up, head down in the pit. Not my best angle.
The reporter reappeared. Bundled and snow covered, she now spoke directly to the camera.
“This is Chelsea Willis at Lake Norman State Park for ABC News. Back to you, Dana.”
Willis handed off to the anchor, warm and toasty behind her desk.
“According to Ranger Edy, the unidentified man died wearing work boots, a plaid shirt, and jeans,” Dana Whoever said. “At this time, there is no indication of foul play. Anyone with information is encouraged to contact the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department or the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner’s Office.”
Both numbers appeared on a chyron at the bottom of the screen.
“Sonofafreakingbitch!”
That was over the line for the cat. Birdie jumped to the floor and departed the room.
Unable to stay still, I began to pace.
Why had Edy tipped ABC? Did the jackass hope to be a TV or internet star? Did he think he could score some coin? Who else had he phoned? What else had he leaked?
Edy took credit for discovering the body. Claimed he was trained in forensic anthropology.
“Jesus!”
He’d told ABC that the vic was in his forties. Six feet tall. Bullshit! I’d bet my life he was much shorter than that. Or had the journalist misread Edy’s comments?
Either way, what damage might these potential inaccuracies cause?
The ol’ Brennan temper had me crisscrossing the kitchen.
Enough!
I grabbed the phone and dialed Slidell.
He answered by saying he couldn’t talk. I launched in anyway. Was cut off after two sentences.
Now what? Call Henry? Nguyen?
And tell them what? I’d allowed a former student to overhear confidential information?
Deep breath.
Another.
Calmer, I decided that shoveling snow might dissipate some of my anger. Properly jacketed, booted, and mittened, I ventured outside.
I saw no neighbors. No confused dogs. Not a single car turned in at Sharon Hall or passed by on the street. A block over, across Selwyn, muted laughter and squealing broke the stillness. Snowball wars were being fought on the Queens University campus.
I bent to work with a broad-bladed shovel, images tumbling inside my pom-beanie-warmed head. An hour and a half later all I’d produced was a partially clear porch and a path down the center of the walk leading to the drive. And a gallon of sweat.
But the physical exercise did help some. Still, I felt tense and out of sorts. Frustrated. Not in control.
Another character flaw. I’m a control freak. I can’t rest until I’ve cracked a case, solved a puzzle, or fixed a problem. I told myself the privy head was no longer my concern. I’d done my job with Kwalwasser. I would finish analyzing the mummified remains as soon as the bones were cleaned.
Besides, neither case was urgent. Neither appeared to be a homicide.
On a cerebral level, I had to acknowledge that my arguments had logic.
So why that persistent whisper from down under? I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was overlooking an important clue. Some tiny element that my subconscious was noting but my conscious self was missing.
