Bones Never Lie

CHAPTER 32

LITTLE HAPPENED OVER the next forty-eight hours.

Turned out Ajax couldn’t reconstruct his movements on the day in 2007 when Nellie Gower disappeared. He was in New Hampshire by then, but the clinic’s pay records didn’t reflect exact dates worked, and it didn’t keep schedules going that far back. Neither did the doctor.

As in Charlotte, Ajax had lived alone, in a rental home on the edge of Manchester. He ventured out only to work, shop, and run errands, never socially. He did not attend church. He had no colleague with whom he was close, no friend or neighbor with whom he discussed gardening or sports. No one to contact to help jog his memory.

Ajax claimed to be at the hospital or at home on the dates Koseluk and Estrada went missing. Tinker worked on verifying his hours with Mercy. Talked to people there.

Ajax’s lawyer refused access to phone, credit card, and bank records. Tinker started the process to obtain warrants.

Leal was a different story. Ajax knew exactly where he was the Friday she was abducted.

November 21 was a rare day off. That afternoon he shopped at the Morrocroft Village Harris Teeter, then at a Walmart on Pineville-Matthews Road. Filled and washed his car at a service station one block up.

That evening he ate dinner at home, then went solo to see a film at the Manor Theatre. Unfortunately for him, he’d used no credit card, kept no receipt, no ticket stub.

Slidell showed Ajax’s photo to employees at the stores, gas station, and theater and requested surveillance video for the day in question. Began viewing it.

Barrow continued with video taken from locations Leal had frequented in the months before her death. Phoned out to Oklahoma. Learned Ajax’s wife and daughters had moved back to India.

Rodas floated Ajax’s picture in Hardwick and St. Johnsbury. No one recognized him. The man who serviced the furnace at the Corneau farm said he’d been too far away to see the guy’s face.

Tuesday morning the IT tech phoned Slidell. He’d found a visitor to the dysmenorrhea chat room he thought might be of interest. Ham-Lover. Ham. Hamet. Slidell told him to do what it took to identify the user.

Tuesday afternoon, under increasing pressure from the media, the CMPD press office agreed to a news conference. It took place in the courtyard outside the LEC. Under a sunny sky, Salter and Tinker fielded queries on the Leal homicide. Gave no real answers. Didn’t mention Lizzie Nance or the other girls. Didn’t mention Hamet Ajax.

Leighton Siler asked question after question, face knotty, clearly frustrated. Got nothing. Didn’t matter. Eventually, Siler or some hungrier or craftier rival would reveal details of the investigation in braying headlines.

I phoned Heatherhill several times, never reached Mama. Left messages knowing she wouldn’t call back. When the demons stir, my mother distrusts all forms of communication. Calls, texts, and emails stop.

Luna Finch said Mama was listless, sleeping more than usual. And that she’d contacted Cécile Gosselin.

I hung up, breath coming in wobbly heaves. Mama had summoned Goose to her side.

Wednesday morning Ajax made a mistake.

To my amazement, Slidell came by the annex to share the news. It was just past nine. He looked haggard and smelled of coffee and too much drugstore cologne.

“The dumb shit drove right up to a school.”

“When?”

“Seven-twenty this morning.”

“Where is he now?”

“In a cage at HQ.”

“What’s his story?”

“He was dropping off food for a Christmas campaign for the poor. Says he drives by the school every day, noticed their thermometer thingy wasn’t indicating a whole lot of donations. Wanted to give them canned peas and pasta.”

“Is that true?”

“Don’t matter. A pedo can’t go within a thousand feet of a school.”

“A thousand feet?”

“Whatever.”

“The restriction doesn’t apply if Ajax is no longer required to register.”

“We’re checking that out.”

“Why is it taking so long?”

“Must be a glitch out in cyberspace.”

“When did you—”

“Jesus Christ and the freakin’ Mousketeers. The guy raped a kid. He pulled into a school yard.”

“Would you like coffee?” A kick in the nuts?

“I got a warrant coming.”

“Allowing you to do what?”

“Toss Ajax’s house.”

“You’re going there now?”

Slidell nodded. “I want to be done and gone before Ajax’s lawyer finds out. Same goes for Siler and his bloodsucking cronies.”

“How long does that give you?”

“We got full radio silence on this. Still, not long.”

“Where does he live?”

Slidell held up a small page with ripped and twisted tabs running along one edge. An address was scrawled sideways across the blue lines.

“You got us to this turd,” he said. “Figure I owe you.”

Larabee called as I was brushing my teeth. A kid had found a trash bag full of bones in the northern part of the county. Nothing urgent, but he wanted me to examine them.

Then it was Harry. That was a long one.

I was pulling on jeans when Rodas took a turn. The toxicology report had come back on Pomerleau. She had neither drugs nor alcohol in her system at the time of death. I told Rodas about Ajax’s trip to the school. About the search warrant.

Ninety minutes after Slidell’s departure, I finally broke free.

Ajax lived in the southeastern slice of the Queen City pie, close to Charlotte Country Day School, Carmel Country Club, Olde Providence Racquet Club. Big homes, big yards. Golf and pinot on the links. Lacrosse and Milton at school. Land of the nouveaux and not so nouveaux riches.

Slidell’s scrawled note led me to Sharon View Road, a narrow twolaner with old-growth trees lining both shoulders. Sunrise Court was a small spur shooting from the south side.

The block held ten residences, all the creation of a single developer enthralled with timber and stone. Entrance was through a faux wrought-iron gate decorated with a plastic wreath. I keyed in the code Slidell had provided, and drove through. No big pines or live oaks here. The scraggly saplings suggested fairly recent planting. Or a paltry landscaping budget at the time of construction.

Ajax’s house was at the far end, above the others on a slight rise. Like its neighbors, upmarket but not over-the-top. Unlike its neighbors, devoid of Santas, reindeer, icicles, or elves.

Ajax’s lawn was neat, the shrubbery basic. Hollies. Boxwoods. Nothing requiring attention.

Slidell’s Taurus headed a line of vehicles circling the cul-de-sac curb. Two cruisers. A CSS truck. An unmarked SUV. Skinny wasn’t messing around.

I added my Mazda to the assemblage and got out. Walking up the drive, I noticed movement in the front window of the house to my left. A silhouette stood with arms crossed, eyes pointed in my direction. Though a reflection off the glass obscured the face, body form suggested the curious neighbor was male.

I hurried up stone steps to a darkly stained door. Tried the handle and found it unlocked.

The foyer had a slate floor, oil-rubbed bronze sconces, and a matching bronze fixture overhead. To the left, a powder room. Straight ahead were living and dining rooms. In each was a CSS tech in white Tyvek coveralls. One was taking pictures. The other was dusting dark powder onto a door frame.

Voices came from somewhere in back and to the left. Loud. Unhappy.

A mound of disposable Tyvek shoe covers lay on the slate. I slipped on a pair and moved forward.

The house’s interior looked like an attempt to re-create an old black-and-white photo. The upholstery, rugs, and walls were all variations on gray. Fog. Ash. Sweatshirt. Steel. Chartreuse accessories added splashes of color. Throw pillows. A mirror frame. A chair. DVDs crammed built-ins beside a fieldstone fireplace. A small flat-screen TV hung above.

In the dining room, a dove-gray drum chandelier dangled over a table set with chartreuse place mats. In the middle, candles that had never been burned. A chartreuse ceramic bowl sat perfectly centered on a sideboard. A painting of bright green poppies decorated a wall.

I wondered if Ajax or the builder had chosen the decor. Suspected the latter. The place had a cold, impersonal feel. As though the furnishings had been purchased at Rooms To Go and Pottery Barn, then placed exactly as displayed in a magazine spread.

I nodded to the techs as I wound my way toward the kitchen. They nodded back.

Slidell was on one side of a brown-granite-topped island. Tinker was on the other. Both wore shoe covers and latex gloves.

“—couldn’t like him or not like him. They don’t know him. The woman next door thought he worked at an Apple store.” Tinker looked red-faced and cross.

“Track down the ones you missed.” Slidell looked crosser.

“I’ll get the same story.”

“You’re the one pushed for this.”

“You don’t think Ajax is dirty?”

“I’m not saying that,” Slidell snapped.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying if Salter learns about the stall on Oklahoma, it’s my balls on a rusty hook, not yours. Not to mention blocking Ajax from his lawyer right now.”

“Or is it that those balls are already gone? Once burned, twi—”

“Get the fuck out there and bring me something!”

Tinker started to reply, heard my plastic-bottomed footies slapping the tile. Mouth tightening into an inverted U, he spun and stomped off.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“We’ve been through the whole friggin’ place. So far, nothing. No porn. No girls’ clothing. No key, no ring, no ballet slippers. No boarded windows, no padlocked doors. Nothing to suggest a kid was ever in here.”

“Prints?”

“One set, which, you can bet your ass, will come back to Ajax. Same for hairs, fibers. Either he’s the tidiest fucker on the planet or the most careful.”

“Have the techs checked the vacuum cleaner?”

“Bagged the contents.”

“The trash?”

Slidell just looked at me.

“Did they get anything that might yield DNA?”

“Toothbrush. But Ajax ain’t on file.”

“We can compare it to DNA from the lip print on Leal’s jacket.”

“Right.”

“Did you find a computer?”

A moment of hesitation. Then, “No.”

“A charger for a laptop?”

“No.”

“A modem? A router?”

Tight shake of the head.

“He could have gone online elsewhere. Maybe at the hospital.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there a basement?” I was almost afraid to ask.

“Just a crawl space. Empty except for crap the builder shoved under there. And a whole generation of spiders.”

“Garage?”

“Clean.”

“Where’s his car?”

“Uptown.”

“Is it included in the warrant?”

“No.” Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged, relaxed. We both knew. If this search came up empty, there would not be another.

“May I look around?”

“Don’t touch nothing.”

Slidell looked so glum, I let the grating command pass without comment.

After retracing my steps, I turned left at the foyer. The hall led to a pair of bedrooms, each with an en suite bath.

I entered the one at the front of the house. Here the theme was green. The furnishings included a bed, a side table with lamp, a desk. Their boho styling screamed Restoration Hardware. Two bookshelves by the desk looked more Staples or Costco.

I believe bathrooms reveal a lot about a person. I started there.

The medicine cabinet was open, its mirror coated with fingerprint powder. Ditto the glass shower stall. Both were empty. No soap, no shampoo, no washcloth or loofah. The sink was pedestal, zero place to stash anything. The room was sterile. Not a hint of personality.

I returned to the bedroom.

The shelves held sets of professional journals. I crossed to observe them up close. Emergency Medicine Journal. The Journal of the American Medical Association. The New England Journal of Medicine. Annals of Emergency Medicine.

I shifted to the desk. Centered on it was the most recent issue of JAMA, closed, with a small plastic ruler marking a page. I wondered what Ajax had been reading. Remembered Slidell’s warning and didn’t look.

Stapler. Tape holder. Letter opener. Leather cup with pens and pencils. A small stack of envelopes that looked like bills.

Nothing in the wastebasket. Probably the work of the CSS techs.

The room was clearly Ajax’s office. Yet he went elsewhere to use the bathroom. At least for more than toilet needs. Habit? Eliminating the need to clean more than one?

I crossed the hall to the bedroom opposite. It was marginally larger and done in shades of blue. Same RH vibe but different finish and detail work on the wood. A more urban-chic style. As before, I started in the bathroom.

Unlike its counterpart, this one was used. Black flannel pajamas hung from a hook on the door. The shower stall held one bottle each of shampoo and conditioner, a bar of Ivory soap, and a long-handled brush.

The medicine cabinet contained Advil, Afrin, ChapStick, CVS-brand plastic bandages, Degree antiperspirant, a Gillette disposable razor, a can of Edge shaving gel, Oral B dental floss, and a tube of Crest.

The sink was set into a black wooden vanity. Open drawers revealed a brush and comb set, tweezers, scissors, a home barber kit, and a battery-operated nose- and ear-hair trimmer. Linens, toilet paper, and backups for all toiletries were stored in a tall slatted cupboard that matched the sink. When Ajax shopped, he bought to last months.

I thought of the array of products in my bathroom. Of the state of hygiene in my cabinets and drawers. Slidell was right. The place was extraordinarily clean. An obsession? A covering of tracks?

Back to the bedroom.

A book of crossword puzzles was propped against the lamp on the bedside table, a pen clipped to its cover. A reprint from the European Journal of Emergency Medicine. I twisted sideways to read the title. “Reducing the Potential for Tourniquet-Associated Reperfusion Injury.” Yep. That’ll get you to sleep.

Three framed photos sat equidistant from one another on the dresser. I crossed to study them.

And felt my skin goose up into tiny bumps.