Emma shot videos and stills, then she and I troweled, teasing away earth from around the stain. Topher worked the screen. The kid might be goofy, but he was a world-class sifter. Throughout the afternoon, students dropped by for progress checks, their CSI CSI zeal wilting in inverse relation to the blossoming fly population. zeal wilting in inverse relation to the blossoming fly population.
By four, we'd uncovered a barely articulated torso, limb bones, a skull, and a jaw. The remains were encased in rotted fabric and topped by wisps of pale, blond hair.
Emma repeatedly radioed Junius Gullet, sheriff of Charleston County. Each time she was told that Gullett was unavailable, handling a domestic disturbance.
Winborne stayed on us like a hound on a cottontail. With the ratcheting heat and odor, his face morphed into something resembling splatter on a sidewalk.
At five, my students piled into carts and split for the ferry. Topher alone seemed open to working for as long as it took. He, Emma, and I kept moving dirt, sweating, and shooing Calliphoridae. Calliphoridae.
Winborne disappeared as we were transferring the last bones into a body bag. I didn't see his departure. One time I glanced over, and he was gone.
I assumed Winborne was scurrying to his editor and then his keyboard. Emma wasn't concerned. A body wasn't big news in Charleston County, which chalked up twenty-six homicides a year with a mere three hundred thousand citizens working at it.
We'd kept our voices low, our actions discreet, Emma argued. Winborne had gotten nothing that could compromise an investigation. Coverage might be a plus, draw reports of missing persons, ultimately help with an ID. I remained skeptical, but said nothing. It was her patch.
Emma and I had our first real exchange on the way to the dock. The sun was low, slashing crimson through the trees and across the road. Even though we were moving, the salty pine smell of woods and marsh was tainted by the bouquet drifting from our backseat passenger.
Or maybe it was us. I couldn't wait to shower, shampoo, and burn my clothes.
"First impressions?" Emma asked.
"Bone's well preserved, but there's less soft tissue than I'd anticipated based on eyeballing those first vertebrae. Ligament, some muscle fiber deep in the joints, that's about it. Most of the smell is coming from the clothes."
"Body was wrapped in them, not wearing them, right?"
"Right."
"PMI?" Emma was asking how much time had elapsed since the victim's death.
"For postmortem interval you'll need to study the insect inclusions."
"I'll get an entomologist. Rough estimate?"
I shrugged. "In this climate, shallow burial, I'd say minimum of two years, maximum of five."
"We got a lot of teeth." Emma's thoughts were slip-streaming ahead to the ID.
"Damn right we did. Eighteen in the sockets, eight in the ground, three in the screen."
"And hair," Emma added.
"Yes."
"Long."
"Meaningless, if you're thinking gender. Look at Tom Wolfe. Willie Nelson."
"Fabio."
I definitely liked this woman.
"Where are you taking the remains?" I asked.
"Everything under my jurisdiction goes to the morgue at MUSC." The Medical University of South Carolina. "The pathologists there perform all our autopsies. My forensic anthropologist and dentist work there, too. Guess I won't be requesting a pathologist in this case."
"Brain and organs are long gone. The autopsy will be skeletal only. You'll need Jaffer."
"He's in Iraq."
"He'll be back next month," I said.
"Can't wait that long."
"I'm committed to this field school."
"It's finished tomorrow."
"I have to haul equipment back to UNCC. Write a report. Turn in grades."
Emma didn't reply.
"I may have cases at my lab in Charlotte."
Emma continued to not reply.
"Or in Montreal."
We rode in silence awhile, listening to the peeping of tree frogs and the hum of the cart. When Emma spoke again her voice was different, softer, yet quietly insistent.
"Someone's probably missing this guy."
I thought of the solitary grave we'd just unearthed.
I thought of my long-ago lecture and the guy in the tub.
I stopped trying to beg off.
We talked again as we loaded the boat and cast off, fell silent when we left the no-wake zone. Once Emma opened throttle, our words were lost to the wind, the motor, and the slap of water on the bow.
My car was at the marina on Isle of Palms, a narrow tongue of real estate lying between Sullivan's and Dewees. So was a coroner's van. It took only minutes to transfer our sad cargo.
Before cutting out into the intracoastal waterway, Emma left me with two words.
"I'll call."
I didn't argue. I was tired and hungry. And cranky. I wanted to go home, shower, and eat the cold shrimp and she-crab soup I'd left in the fridge.
Walking up the dock, I noticed Topher Burgess stepping from the ferry. He was listening to his iPod, and didn't seem to see or hear me.
I watched my student cross to his Jeep. Funny kid, I thought. Smart, though far from a brilliant performer. Accepted by his peers, but always apart.
Like me at that age.
I clicked on the roof light in my Mazda, dug my mobile from my pack, and checked for a signal. Four bars.
Three messages. I recognized none of the numbers.
It was now 8:45.
Disappointed, I replaced the phone, pulled from the lot, cut across the island, and turned right onto Palm Boulevard. Traffic was light, though that wouldn't last. Two weeks and cars would be clogging these roads like silt in a storm drain.
I was staying at a friend's beach house. When Anne had upgraded from Sullivan's two years earlier, she hadn't messed around. Her new getaway had five bedrooms, six baths, and enough square footage to host the World Cup.
Taking a couple of feeder streets, I maneuvered toward the beach, pulled into Anne's drive, and parked under the house. Ocean Boulevard. No second row for oceanfront Annie.
Every window was dark since I had planned on a predusk return. Without turning on lights, I went straight to the outdoor shower, stripped, and cranked up the hot water. Twenty minutes with rosemary, mint, and a lot of lather, and I felt reasonably restored.
Leaving the stall, I bundled my clothing into a plastic sack and trashed it. No way I'd subject Annie's Maytag to that.
Wearing only a towel, I entered the house through the back veranda and climbed to my room. Panties and a T. Brush through my hair. Gorgeous.
While zapping my soup, I again checked my messages. Nothing. Where was Ryan? Taking my mobile and my dinner to the porch, I settled in a rocker.
Anne called her place "Sea for Miles." No kidding. The horizon spread from Havana to Halifax.
There's something about the ocean. One minute I was eating. The next I was jolted awake by the sound of my cell. My plate and bowl sat empty. I had no recollection of closing my eyes.
The voice wasn't the one I was hoping to hear.
"Yo."
Only frat boys and my estranged husband still said "yo."
"Dude." I was too tired to be clever.
"How goes the dig?"
I pictured the bones now lying in the MUSC morgue. I pictured Emma's face as she had pulled away from the dock. I didn't want to go into it.
"Fine."
"Wrapping up tomorrow?"
"Some loose ends may take longer than I'd expected. How's Birdie?"
"Doing twenty-four/seven surveillance on Boyd. Your cat thinks my dog's been conjured up from the dark side to pollute his life. Chow thinks the cat's some kind of fluffy wind-up toy."
"Who's in control?"
"Bird's definitely alpha. So, when are you back to Charlotte?" Too casual. Something was up.
"I'm not sure. Why?" Wary.
"Gentleman came to my office yesterday. He has financial issues with Aubrey Herron, and it seems his daughter's hooked up with Herron as well."
The Reverend Aubrey Herron was a televangelist with a small but ardent following throughout the Southeast, known as God's Mercy Church. In addition to its headquarters and TV studio, GMC operated a number of Third World orphanages and several free medical clinics in the Carolinas and Georgia.
"God Means Charity." Herron closed every broadcast with the slogan.
"Give Mucho Cash." Pete quoted a popular variation.
"What's the problem?" I asked.
"Financial reports have not been forthcoming, the kid's gone incommunicado, and the Reverend Herron is being less than cooperative on either issue."
"Shouldn't Daddy hire a private investigator?"
"Daddy did. The guy went missing."
"You're thinking Bermuda Triangle?"
"Aliens."
"You're a lawyer, Pete. Not a gumshoe."
"There's money involved."
"No!"
Pete ignored that.
"Daddy's really worried?" I asked.
"Daddy's beyond worried and out the other side."
"About the money or the daughter?"
"Perceptive question. Flynn's really hiring me to look into the books. Wants me to bring pressure on GMC. If I can scare up something on the daughter, that's a bonus. I offered to drop in on the reverend."
"And scare the wingtips off him."
"With my legal acumen."
Comprehension sprang into focus.
"GMC is headquartered in Charleston," I said.