Bare Bones

In addition to a North Carolina driver’s license, Hawkins had removed a long-distance calling card, a US Airways Frequent Flyer card, and Diners Club and Visa credit cards from the rectangular leather pouch.

Gloving my right hand, I ran a finger across the photo on the driver’s license. The steady, brown eyes and sandy hair were a long way from the grotesque distortion lying on Larabee’s table.

Leaning close, I studied the face, wondering what Aiker had been doing on a boat landing at Crowder’s Mountain. I picked up the license and flipped it.

Another card was adhering to the back. I peeled it off with my thumbnail. A Harris-Teeter supermarket VIC card. I laid the card on the counter and glanced back at the license.

And caught my breath.

“There’s something stuck to the back of this,” I said.

Both men turned to look at me. Digging forceps from a drawer, I peeled a limp, flat sheet from the back of the license.

“Looks like folded paper.”

Again using forceps, I teased free an edge and tugged back a layer. One more tug, and the paper lay unfolded on the counter. Though blotchy and diluted, lettering was visible.

“It’s some sort of handwritten note,” I said, easing the paper onto a tray to carry it to the fluorescent magnifier. “Maybe an address or phone number. Or road directions.”

“Or a last will and testament,” said Hawkins.

Larabee and I looked at him.

“More likely a shopping list,” Larabee said.

“Guy could’ve scribbled something then shoved it in between his plastic thinking maybe it’d survive.” Hawkins sounded defensive. “Hell, that’s probably exactly what did happen. Paper was protected from the water because it was sealed between the cards.”

Hawkins had a point about the mode of preservation.

As I clicked on the tube light surrounding the lens, Hawkins and Larabee joined me. Together we viewed the writing under illumination and magnification.

Even under ideal conditions, the scrawl would have been hard to decipher.

“The first part is probably ‘No question,’ ” Larabee said.

Hawkins and I agreed.

“Something to Columbia?” I suggested.

“Sending?”

“Lending?”

“Heading?”

“Landing?”

“Something’s dirty.” Hawkins.

“Clowns?”

“Collins?”

“Maybe that’s not a C. Maybe it’s an O or a Q.”

“Or a G.”

I positioned the magnifier closer to the paper. We leaned in and stared, each of us trying to make sense of the blotches and smears.

It was no good. Parts of the message were illegible.

“See you somewhere on some day,” I said.

“Good,” Hawkins and Larabee said.

“Charlotte?” I said.

“Possible,” Larabee said.

“How many places end in tte ?”

“I’ll check an atlas,” Larabee said, straightening. “In the meantime, the Questioned Documents guys might be able to do something with this. Joe, call over to QD and ask if we should keep this thing wet or let it dry.”

Hawkins removed gloves and apron, washed his hands, and headed for the door. I clicked off the lamp.

As Larabee proceeded with his autopsy, I told him about Cagle’s coma, and about my discussion with Terry Woolsey. When I’d finished, he looked up at me over his mask.

“Think maybe you’re working with a lot of what-ifs, Tempe?”

“Maybe,” I said.

At the door I turned for one last comment.