Speaking in Bones

Early in the twentieth century a French investigator named Edmond Locard observed that when two objects come into contact there is always some exchange of material. Ditto two people. I touch you. You touch me. We share bits of ourselves. The notion became known as Locard’s exchange principle.

Seems obvious in the age of CSI and Bones, but back then the idea was madly cutting-edge. Today the concept keeps thousands employed in forensics labs around the globe. Hair, fur, fibers, fabric, rope, feathers, soil, glass, biological or chemical substances, whatever. Trace evidence experts identify and compare materials hoping to tie a suspect to a victim or to a crime scene. And the process can be quite high-tech.

Which is why the analyst, a newbie named Bebe Denver, was droning on.

Across from me, Slidell took out a Swiss Army knife and began mining a surprisingly unclogged thumbnail. It was like rubbernecking a traffic wreck—I had no desire to watch but couldn’t help myself.

“…elemental analysis using atomic absorption, or with a scanning electron microscope equipped with an energy-dispersive spectroscope. Using the gas chromatograph or the mass spec one can separate out chemical components. Are you with me, Dr. Brennan?”

I didn’t want to be rude, or to dampen her enthusiasm, but it wasn’t my first trace rodeo. I just wanted the bottom line before Slidell left blood spatter all over my office.

“Sounds like you were very thorough,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Could we stick to the results for now? Later, if I have questions, discuss the process?”

“Of course. I’ll put everything in my report. Every single detail.”

Hot damn. A dissertation on elemental analysis. Life doesn’t get better than that.

“Perfect,” I said.

“The concrete itself is a mixture of portland and a number of other cements. I identified hydrated lime, shale—”

“The basics?”

“Right. It appears to be a blend of cements, sand, and gravel—a concrete designed to set quickly.”

“Like Quikrete.”

“Exactly.”

“Available at any Home Depot.”

“Yes.” A little dispirited.

Slidell stayed focused on his nails. But I knew he was listening.

“And the material I swabbed from the interior surface?”

“That’s interesting.” Keys clicked. “The substance contained triacylglycerols, triglycerides or fats, and small quantities of free fatty acids, glycerol, phosphatides, pigments, sterols—”

“So what is it?”

“Olive oil.”

Denver took my nonresponse as confusion.

“Triacylglycerols are normally composed of a mixture of three fatty acids. The oleic-oleic-oleic triacylglycerol is most prevalent in olive oil, followed by palmitic-oleic-oleic, then oleic-oleic-linoleic, then palmitic-oleic-linoleic, then stearic-oleic-oleic, and so on.”

“Olive oil.” Thinking aloud.

“Olive oil contains more oleic acid and less linoleic and linolenic acids than other vegetable oils.” Again, mistaking my comment as a request for elaboration.

“You’re sure?”

“I also found microscopic bits of olive.”

I was chewing on that as Denver surged forward.

“The other substance was more challenging. I found a small concentration on just one swab, barely enough to analyze.” More keys. “Acid resin, gum, boswellic acids, 4-0 methyl glucuronic acid, incensole acetate, phellandrene—”

“Translation?”

“I’m not certain. The boswellic acid is interesting.”

Something unimaginable winged from under Slidell’s nail onto my blotter. I plucked a tissue, gathered the gunk, and dropped it into the waste. Slidell trolled on.

“Boswellic acid comes from plant resin. In African and Indian traditional medicine it’s used to alleviate inflammation. Studies are looking into its usefulness in the treatment of autoimmune diseases like rheumatoid arthritis and Crohn’s. Also certain cancers—leukemia, brain, breast.”

“Where does one get boswellic acid?”

“Online, a pharmacy, a health food store. It’s readily available.”

Like Quikrete.

“Thanks, Bebe.” Hiding my disappointment poorly. “I appreciate your diligence.”

After disconnecting, I shared Denver’s report with Slidell.

“So why’s the stuff in a bucket of concrete with Mason Gulley’s head?”

I pictured Edward Gulley, with his unfortunate hair, nails, skin, and teeth.

“Maybe Mason mixed boswellic acid with olive oil and put it on his hair or scalp.” I knew the suggestion was lame as I made it. “Or applied it to his skin or cuticles.”

“Stylin’.” Refocusing on the manicure.

“Could you give that a rest?”

“What?” Slidell’s eyes rolled up.

I gestured toward the grooming routine. “It’s distracting.”

Sighing theatrically, Slidell folded and repocketed the knife.

“Where’s your buddy Ramsey on the Gulley thing?”

“Deputy Ramsey is pursuing a number of leads.”

Slidell snorted, then de-de-de’ed the opening riff from “Dueling Banjos.”

“You of all people should understand he hasn’t the luxury of concentrating on just one case.”

“Well oh my God in a tutu. Ex-cyooz-ay moi.”

A dozen neurons fired at once. Images exploded.

Hazel Strike in the chair now overflowing with Skinny. Conversation threads in a websleuthing chat room. A page in an outdated medical text. Susan Grace Gulley in the dark in my car.

Awareness exploded in my forebrain.

I snatched up the phone and dialed Ramsey. Launched in without preamble.

“Oscar Gulley was named for the photographer Oscar Mason, right?”

“You’re talking about Grandpa.” Ramsey, confused but trying to loop in.

“Yes. Susan Grace said her grandfather was named for Oscar Mason. Suppose she meant both her grandfather and her brother were named Oscar Mason Gulley. Gramps went by Oscar, Mason went by—well you get it, right?”

“Yes.” Drawn out. Indicating he didn’t.

“OMG. The person who posted on CLUES about Cora Teague’s disappearance. The websleuthing site.” I knew I was talking way too fast. “I took the username to mean Oh My God. But what if it’s initials, not cyberjargon?”

Slidell was watching me, left eyebrow cocked.

“Oscar Mason Gulley,” Ramsey said.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be darned. What made you think of that?”

“I’m with Detective Slidell. He made a ballet reference.” Putting it kindly. “That made me think of Susan Grace, because she lied to her grandmother in order to follow me, and the photos of Oscar’s brother, Edward, and Hazel Strike’s account of CLUES, and my own research. Bang. Suddenly it all came together.”

“The brain as supercollider.”

“Yes.” Uncertain the accuracy of the analogy.

“Want me to call Grandma?”

“Better to go to the courthouse and pull the birth certificate.”

“I’m on it.”

When we’d disconnected, I started to explain to Slidell.

“I got ears.”

“Should I ask Susan Grace about the olive oil concoction?”

“And say what? Hey, Sis, did Big Bro put goop on his hair? Larabee’s not confirming ID, so, far as the family knows, the kid’s still kicking.”

Slidell was right. Such an odd question would arouse suspicion.

Before Slidell left, I got online, logged in to CLUES, and double-checked the dates of OMG’s postings. The first occurred in August 2011, roughly a month after Cora Teague dropped from sight. The last was in September, approximately one month later.

Slidell was halfway through the door when Ramsey phoned back. I put him on speaker.

“You’re dead-on. Mason’s birth certificate lists his full name as Oscar Mason Gulley. Grandma filed it. Neither parent had bothered.”

“Slidell and I checked dates,” I said. “OMG’s posts tally with Susan Grace’s story about Mason going to Johnson City. The posts end around the time he stopped contacting her.”

“Okay,” Ramsey said. “Say it’s true. OMG is Mason Gulley. What does it mean?”

Not one of us could put forth a reasonable guess.

When Slidell left I sat a moment arguing with myself, weighing obligation to a nameless victim against personal commitment. Then, moving at sloth speed, I dialed and canceled my flight to Montreal.

Dreading the upcoming discussion, I called Ryan. Got voice mail. Guilt-ridden at feeling I’d escaped a bullet, I sent a lengthy email explaining my decision. Ryan would understand. Or he would not.

But did I? Was I relieved over dodging an unpleasant phone conversation? Or over avoiding the trip?

I found Larabee in his office, briefed him, as I’d promised Slidell I would. No anthropology case had come in, so I told him I’d be heading home to work on my taxes.

Larabee’s look expressed what he thought of my procrastination. He’d probably filed in January.

I really did plan to stick with it. And did. Until four-fifteen, when Father Morris phoned.

“I have information for you.” In a somber newscaster voice that sent a frisson of a tingle up my spine.

“Great.” I reached for a pen.

“I think it best if we speak face-to-face.”

“Sure.” Looking at the paper piled around me in not-so-neat stacks. At the half-full carton. Half-empty? “Shall I come to the rectory?”

“Yes. Perhaps in an hour?”

“I’ll see you then.”

I disconnected and looked at Birdie, who was looking at me. I could swear the cat shrugged.

—

St. Patrick parish is in Dilworth, a neighborhood one circle outside of uptown. Though modest as such structures go, the church is actually a cathedral, the mother ship for the Diocese of Charlotte. Neo-Gothic in style, it has the usual limestone and stucco exterior, domed nave, bell tower, and stained glass. High above the front doors stands a statue of the good saint holding his staff.

St. Pat’s was forty years old when renovations began in 1979, a face-lift that continued on and off for three decades. New marble altar, pipe organ, and bell. Spiffy copper roof, shiny hardwood floors, Celtic cross on the lawn. Perched on her hill, the old gal is now nipped and tucked and looking damn fine.

While visiting me a few years back, an out-of-town friend queried the high number of colleges in Charlotte. Not understanding the Queen City’s love affair with religion, she’d misinterpreted the town’s abundant and expansive religious complexes for institutions of higher learning.

St. Pat’s is no exception. With its main church, parish family life center, gardens, lawns, parking lots, convent, and rectory, the grounds resemble a small university campus.

Ten minutes after leaving the annex, I parked where Morris had directed and climbed the steps to the rectory. A thumb to the bell produced a soft lyrical bonging. I was about to give it another go when the door opened.

“Tempe. Please excuse my casual appearance.” Morris was wearing a most unpriestly combo of jeans, plaid shirt, and green wool vest. “I’ve completed my pastoral duties for the day.”

“You look very stylish.” Jesus, was that appropriate? Crap. Jesus as an expletive? Double crap. Decades since I’d last donned my little uniform, priests and nuns still made me nervous.

Morris smiled. “Shall we go into the study?”

The foyer had a tapestry on one wall, a woman chastely cloaked from head to toe, bathed in heavenly light. A red Persian on the floor, a carved wooden chair in one corner, an elaborately banistered staircase on the right. The study was a short way down a very wide hall. Portraits of somber clerics hung on both sides at perfectly spaced intervals.

The study was wood-paneled and lined floor to ceiling with shelves on three walls. Another Persian underfoot, this one in tones of green.

A cement-manteled fireplace was centered on the fourth wall. Before it were two Queen Anne chairs and a small table. Above it was a jarringly colorful painting. To one side was a small glass-fronted secretary.

Morris led me to the fireplace grouping. I sat. He didn’t.

“Can I offer you something? Perhaps tea?”

“Tea would be great,” I said.

I half expected him to ring a tiny bell to summon a shuffling nun with a dowager’s hump and mummy-wrinkled face. Instead, he hurried from the room.

I ran my usual mental inventory.

The painting was a landscape. Maybe. Lots of oranges and blues and what I thought could be a horizon.

A desk took up the far end of the room, mahogany with clean, sleek lines. Facing it were two uninviting wooden chairs. A ploy to keep whiny or cantankerous supplicants moving along with their tales?

The shelves were filled with books, journals, and the occasional decorative piece. Through the glass secretary doors I could see framed snapshots, a silver tray holding a small flask of yellow liquid and remnants of what appeared to be dried palm frond. Mother-of-pearl opera glasses. A brass candlestick.

Morris returned with a tin of tea bags, two napkins, two spoons, and two mugs of steaming water.

“Hope you don’t mind instant.”

“My usual poison.” Jesus!

I chose peppermint. He went for chamomile. As we removed the wrappers and began dipping, he started in.

“No one wants to talk about Granger Hoke.”

Though my pulse kicked up a notch, I never broke stride with my bag.

“I hope you can keep what I tell you confidential.” Setting his mug on the table, his dripping bag on the napkin.

“I will try my best. But—”

Morris held up a hand. “I understand that may not be possible if Hoke is involved in something criminal. It’s just that the church has received a great deal of bad press in recent years.”

“Father,” I said, but stopped there, unsure of what to say. His reference needed no explanation.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Tempe. What was done to these children is vile and disgusting. And sinful. Any priest who engaged in such behavior must be punished to the full extent of the law.”

“But you feel the situation has been misrepresented by the media?” I didn’t like where this was going.

“Much of the coverage has been fair and justified. Some has not. All I am saying is that another scandal would be devastating to the church.”

Morris dropped the hand and lifted his mug. Didn’t drink.

“A few rogue priests do not define who we are. Deep in my soul I believe the clergy is made up of moral and honorable men. Men who love God and their fellow human beings and want to make a difference in this world.”

Morris looked past me for a moment. But I saw his face reflected in the secretary glass. In his eyes I saw pain, perhaps fear.

My mouth went dry. I braced myself, certain Morris was about to tell me Granger Hoke had sexually molested children.

I could not have been more wrong.