Speaking in Bones

Ramsey’s cell buzzed as we were descending the steps. He checked the screen, then tossed me the keys.

I unlocked the SUV and got in. While he stood outside and talked, I scrolled through email on my iPhone. Trying not to appear curious, but covertly watching.

Ramsey’s body language was, for him, animated. Shifted weight. A hip-planted hand. A cocked chin. I wondered if the call was business or personal. Either way, it was not going well.

For the first time I considered the deputy’s private life. Aunt Ruby had said her nephew needed a girlfriend. That he’d come from Georgia and that his marriage had ended badly. He had a dog. Beyond those few details, I knew nothing.

One email was from Larabee. As I opened and read it, Ramsey clipped the cell to his belt and strode toward the car. He wasn’t smiling.

“Sorry.” He started the engine but didn’t shift into drive.

“Just got word from my chief,” I said. “The Avery County coroner who would have handled both the Eli Teague and River Brice deaths was a guy named Fenton Ogilvie. He died in 2012.”

“Right. He’d just passed when I joined the department. A retired ambulance driver.” Ramsey gave a small shake of his head. “They found him at the bottom of an elevator shaft. Apparently Ogilvie was quite a character.”

“Meaning?”

“No point in speaking ill of the dead. But the guy seems to be remembered for two accomplishments. Keeping himself perpetually drunk, and cultivating one colossally cirrhotic liver.”

“And the elevator thing.”

“And that.” A few thumb-taps to the wheel. “Your comment about Cora Teague’s absenteeism got me thinking. I pulled the date from Eli’s death certificate, then called Avery High. Cora was out for six weeks after the kid died.”

“The death of a sibling would be traumatic.”

“Six weeks?”

“That is a lot.”

“I also got the name of Cora’s doctor.”

“The school kept it on file?”

“Terrence O’Tool. His office is in Newland. If you’re up for it, we can swing by there now.”

“Damn right I’m up for it.” Inwardly groaning. Newland meant back to Avery, a good hour and a quarter longer return to Charlotte.

I followed Ramsey. Whose driving shaved at least fifteen minutes off the trip. And my life.

We were almost to Newland when he surprised me by pulling to the shoulder. I followed suit and he walked back to my car. I lowered the window and he leaned down, one arm on the roof. To anyone passing it looked like I was getting a ticket. From a very careless cop.

“Check it out.” Ramsey tipped his head toward a large log cabin on the opposite side of the road. The front porch featured a pair of picnic tables, a life-size carved wooden bear, a plastic trash can, a rectangular tank that probably held bait during fishing season.

The cabin’s single window was covered with flyers curling from the inside of the glass. Above the door was a neon sign saying J.T.’S FILL UP AND FIX UP.

In front were two gas pumps. In back was a low, windowless structure made of corrugated tin. Running along its foundation was a paved area divided into rectangles by chain-link fencing.

I looked a question at Ramsey.

“John Teague’s entrepreneurial genius. Guidebooks, gum, and gas for passing motorists. Plaster, paint, and plywood for do-it-yourself locals.”

“What’s in back?”

“John’s kid trains dogs.”

“Owen Lee.”

“Yeah.”

“People send their pets to live in that dump?”

“I doubt these pooches are pets.”

“Still.”

“As I understand it, Owen Lee operated out of his home until the missus took issue with the barking and poop. Four summers back he built the eyesore you’re looking at and moved the operation here. He must have customers, because he’s still training dogs.”

I was about to ask a follow-up when the man in question rounded the building leading a German shepherd the size of a panzer. He paused on seeing us, face blank.

Ramsey flicked a wave. Ignoring the greeting, Owen Lee unlocked a gate and walked the dog inside an enclosure.

Ramsey slapped the roof of my car, then returned to his SUV. On the road again.

Newland, until its incorporation, was known as the Old Fields of Toe, named not for a digit but for the town’s location at the headwaters of the Toe River.

Today Newland’s main claim to fame is that it’s the highest county seat east of the Mississippi. There’s not much there—the courthouse and library, a few shops, the Shady Lawn Lodge, the Mason Jar Cafe. Out in the boonies, mile upon mile of Christmas tree farms.

Ramsey drove past the Avery County Courthouse and his departmental headquarters. After passing a feed store, a True Value hardware, and a pharmacy, he made a jigsaw pattern of turns, then pulled onto a patch of gravel fronting a two-story duplex that was brick on one side, frame on the other. Below the brick were broad picture windows stenciled with the name of a realtor.

The frame half was painted white and had an angled roof sloping down from left to right. Upstairs were two windows, both hung with closed blinds. Downstairs was another window, also covered on the inside, and two concrete steps leading to an aluminum door. A very small plaque identified the structure as the O’Tool Professional Building.

“Lofty,” I said.

“There are two of them in there. O’Tool, Cora Teague’s doctor, and a dentist.”

Ramsey and I got out and entered. It was like stepping into a time warp.

The waiting area contained several cracked vinyl chairs and laminate tables laden with ancient magazines. A coatrack. A toy box. A dusty plastic plant. The art consisted of posters warning about unwanted medical and dental conditions. Shingles and gingivitis seemed to be big.

A woman occupied one chair. Her sleeping baby looked patient. She did not. An elderly man occupied another, eyes glued to a dated copy of Field &Stream.

A staircase rose steeply on the left. A single door opened off the back wall. Between them was a reception counter staffed by a woman who had to be in her eighties. She had blue-white hair permed into tight little curls, bifocals, and a pink scrub top dotted with little blue bunnies.

The woman looked up at the sound of our entrance. Tracked our approach with an expression equal parts welcome and confusion. A white rectangle above her left pocket said MAE FOSTER, R.N.

“Deputy.” Foster’s smile revealed badly yellowed teeth.

“Ma’am.” Ramsey grinned and nodded. “We’d like to speak with Dr. O’Tool.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.” The tone made it clear that we did not need one.

“One moment, please.”

Foster left her post to disappear through the door, closing it carefully and quietly behind her. As we waited, I sensed interested eyes on our backs.

The door opened shortly, and Foster gestured us into the inner sanctum. I heard the woman with the baby cluck in annoyance.

“Please.” Foster herded us into an office. “Dr. O’Tool is seeing a patient but will be with you soon.”

Most of the office was taken up by a large wooden desk. Behind it was a Herman Miller Aeron chair that looked like it had taken a wrong turn from NASA. Behind that, a credenza pressed up to the wall.

Opposite the desk were two upholstered chairs. Ramsey and I each took one. Wordlessly, we looked around.

Bookcases were filled with journals and texts. The desktop was stacked with medical files, some thin, some thick as telephone books. On the credenza were a few framed photos, a glass trophy, and a small gold cross. I looked to see if Ramsey had noticed the latter. He had.

Above the credenza, a single framed diploma declared Terrence Patrick O’Tool a graduate of the Quillen College of Medicine, East Tennessee State University, class of 1963. I was doing the math on his age when the good doctor came hurrying in.

Before Ramsey and I could get to our feet, O’Tool circled the desk, dropped into the whiz-bang chair, and swiveled to face us. His hair was white and so sparse I could see right through to his scalp. His skin was saggy below his eyes, shiny on his forehead, chin, and cheeks, as though stretched too tightly over the bones.

Though a starchy lab coat hid his frame, I could tell O’Tool was small and lean. And obviously spry.

“I don’t know you, Deputy.” Implying this was an uncommon occurrence.

“Zeb Ramsey. I’m relatively new, sir. Dr. Brennan is from Charlotte.”

“Welcome.” A long way from warm. Or curious. A fellow professional, yet not a single question about my background or area of expertise. “My nurse tells me this is urgent.”

“We won’t take up much of your time.”

“Saying that just did.”

Scratch the opening act. Ramsey got right to the point. John and Fatima Teague, Jesus Lord Holiness church, Cora’s disappearance, the theory that she left with Mason Gulley. As Ramsey talked, O’Tool kept nodding his head.

“Until she disappeared, Cora was your patient. Is that correct, sir?”

“Have Mr. or Mrs. Teague given you written permission allowing me to discuss their daughter’s medical history?”

“No.”

“If I did treat Cora, and I’m not confirming that I did, you know I’m bound by patient-doctor privilege.”

“Did?”

“Excuse me?”

“You used the past tense.”

“Did I?”

“I can get a warrant.”

“Perhaps you can.”

A beat, then Ramsey tried again. “Suppose I tell you that Cora and Mason may have come to harm.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“It’s a strong possibility.”

When O’Tool said nothing, Ramsey hit him with a zinger.

“Is it possible Cora Teague could be hurting others?”

The doctor’s eyes, unblinking, revealed nothing. I couldn’t tell if he was being cagey, or was simply obtuse.

“Cora’s brother Eli died at age twelve,” Ramsey continued.

“I knew Eli.”

“Any thoughts on the incident?”

“The death of a child is always tragic.” O’Tool’s face remained passive and utterly composed.

“Like River Brice.”

“Yes. I heard about the baby.”

“Did you know the coroner Fenton Ogilvie?”

“I did. Safe using the past tense there.”

“Ogilvie signed both the children’s deaths as accidental. Was he competent?”

“Fenton was poorly toward the end of his life.”

“Meaning he was an alcoholic.”

“Is that a question?”

“The Brices fired Cora because of health issues. What were they?”

“Really, Detective.”

“Let me lay down some facts, Doctor.” Ramsey’s voice had gone steely. “River Brice died on Cora Teague’s watch. Saffron Brice broke her arm while in Cora Teague’s care. Saffron is distressed on hearing her former nanny’s name.”

“I’m sure the child—”

“The ER physician who treated Eli Teague had reservations concerning the explanation of events surrounding his death.”

“Did he share those reservations with Ogilvie?”

“He noted them in the chart.”

Blank stare.

“Cora missed six weeks of school following Eli’s death. Where was she during that time?”

Nothing.

“Cora may be dead or she may be out there. And she may be dangerous. Dr. Brennan and I need to know what’s wrong with her.”

There was a long flatline of silence. When I was certain O’Tool would dismiss us, he spoke in a very low voice.

“Cora’s issues were primarily behavioral.”

“What does that mean?”

“I was treating her for epilepsy.”

O’Tool’s comment was moronic. “Epilepsy isn’t a behavioral issue,” I blurted. “Epilepsy results from abnormal electrical activity in the brain.”

“Yes.” Frosty. “It does.”

“Are you trained in neurology?”

“I am a GP.”

“Did you refer Cora to a specialist?” I was growing more outraged with every word that came out of his mouth.

“Cora was having seizures. An EEG showed an epileptic focus in her right temporal lobe. It did not require a specialist to diagnose TLE, temporal lobe epilepsy.”

“Did you prescribe an AED?” I referred to antiepilepsy drugs. Of which there are dozens.

“For a while the child took Depakote. It did not help. If anything, the medication made her episodes worse. Ultimately, her parents chose to discontinue use of all pharmaceuticals. To treat the condition in their own way.”

“Treat it how?” Ramsey asked.

“Cora was on a regime to ensure that she ate regularly and got enough sleep every night. John and Fatima were working hard to keep her stress levels low, and to ensure that she used no drugs or alcohol.”

“Are you for real?” This was sounding straight out of the dark ages.

“Cora had”—O’Tool stopped to correct himself—“has good periods and bad periods. During the bad periods, when she has fits, her parents keep her at home.”

Fits?

“When did you last see her?” Sensing my growing indignation, Ramsey retook the reins.

“The summer of 2011. Her puppy had died. She was very upset and blamed herself.”

“What happened to the dog?” I demanded, feeling the now familiar cold tickle.

O’Tool’s eyes leveled on mine, filled with thought, perhaps with no thought at all. “It fell from Cora’s upstairs bedroom window. I’ve often wondered how the animal managed to climb onto the sill.”

I was about to ask another question when someone knocked on the door. “Dr. O’Tool?”

“Yes, Mae.”

“Mrs. Ockelstein is growing impatient.”

“Show her into room two and take her weight and blood pressure.” Turning to us. “I have patients.”

We were dismissed.

Back in the SUV, I shared my apprehension concerning Cora Teague.

“Eli, the baby, the puppy.” I realized I was speaking too loudly, tried to tone it down. “Maybe Mason Gulley.”

“You think Cora killed them?”

“She’s the common link.”

“Could epilepsy make her violent?”

“Unlikely. But an epileptic should be taking antiseizure medication.”

“You question O’Tool’s handling of Cora’s condition?”

“That knucklehead couldn’t handle a hangnail without a manual. And I’m sure he wasn’t being fully honest with us.”

“You think he was lying?”

“Maybe. Or at least holding back.”

“Why?”

I raised my hands in a frustrated “who knows?” gesture.

“So what are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know. But every path leads back to Cora.”

While I was driving, names and faces whirled in my brain like flakes in a snow globe. Terrence O’Tool. Fenton Ogilvie. Grandma, Susan Grace, and Mason Gulley. John, Fatima, Eli, and Cora Teague. Joel, Katalin, Saffron, and River Brice. Father G and Jesus Lord Holiness church.

Again and again one name swirled to the surface.

Twenty miles down the road the thought scissored in. A wild jolt of realization.

I pulled to the shoulder and dialed my cell. And floated the name Granger Hoke.