Page 5 of Evil Bones
“Do you have precise directions?” I asked, resigned.
“I do.”
“I prefer to drive myself.”
“As you wish.”
Before setting out, I hopped onto the net. Learned that Frog Pond was an unincorporated community of roughly five thousand souls located in the eastern part of Stanly County. That the town’s variety store sold everything from iPads to diapers. That area Airbnbs rented for as little as twenty bucks a night.
After entering the coordinates Nguyen had provided, I followed the nice WAZE lady’s navigational directions. Once out of Charlotte, she sent me east on Highway 24, also unhelpfully labeled Highway 27. Beyond the city and its suburban sprawl, the landscape yielded to rolling farmland dotted with convenience store–gas station combos, rural churches, and the homes of citizens wanting distance from their neighbors.
I passed through several small communities. As was my habit, I played mental games with the colorful town names so common in Dixie. Midland. Locust. Red Cross.
Frog Pond was one of those speck-on-the-map burgs one could blow through without taking notice. The Abato crash scene was just beyond the town limits, on a two-lane shooting off Molly Springs Road.
An hour after departing the MCME, I spotted the tree in question, a massive oak whose best days were far in the past. Pics forwarded to me courtesy of Spitz and Nguyen made the ID easy.
As did a pickup idling on the shoulder opposite the tree. A logo on the side of the cab declaredSheriffin bold black above,Stanly Countyin smaller font below. A five-point gold star topped the lettering.
A tired-looking deputy sat behind the wheel, ubiquitous cop Aviators shading his eyes. Sun winked bronze off the lenses as they followed my car’s progress from the pavement onto the shoulder in front of him.
In my rearview mirror I saw the deputy’s head tilt and his lips move, assumed he was reporting my arrival by radio. Then the truck’s door opened, and the man emerged.
The guy was small, maybe five six, and weighed less than he probably would have preferred. His hair was blond and buzzed close to a scalp the same bright pink as the Hello Kitty purse my daughter, Katy, had owned as a kid.
Buzz Cut wore black pants and a blindingly white shirt sporting one of the largest shoulder patches I’d ever seen. Pinned to his chest’s left side were a small brass plaque and a gold star identical to the one on his vehicle.
Heat enveloped me as I climbed from my car, the lack of any breeze cueing my sweat glands for serious action. I said a silent prayer that this outing would be brief.
While striding toward me, the deputy positioned a hat on his head and adjusted it twice. The hat’s brim was black and large enough to shade a schoolyard. Hand shielding my eyes, I read the inscription on the man’s plaque: “F. Torgeson.”
F. Torgeson stopped five feet out and nodded, offering one quick birdlike dip of his chin. His face was flushed, his nose and cheeks badly in need of sunscreen. I guessed his age at maybe twelve.
“Ma’am.” Neither smiling nor frowning.
“Deputy.” I dug out and proffered my MCME ID.
F. Torgeson studied the small plastic rectangle, then my face.
“Anthropologist,” he said, voice flat.
“I am.” Feeling no desire to elaborate. “Dr. Nguyen sent me to evaluate remains in a tree.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do I need PPE?” I was asking about personal protective equipment.
F. Torgeson’s brow creased, but he said nothing.
“Can I expect snakes, wasps, black widows, poison ivy?”
“I wouldn’t know that, ma’am.”
“Have you walked to the tree?” I asked, an edge to my voice.
“Just to set down a ladder, ma’am.” Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he added, “It’s there, yonder by that oak.”
Wordlessly, I unlocked the trunk of my car, removed my recovery kit, and turned back to F. Torgeson.
