“Madam Anthropologist. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, Ted. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“Your section did a case for the Lancaster County coroner about three years ago, headless, handless skeleton.” Again, I read the name from the card, explained that the man wasn’t in. “Walter Cagle did the anthro.”
“Do you have a file number?”
“No.”
“Makes it tougher, but God bless computers, I can track it down. What do you need?”
“I wonder if you could take a look at the amelogenin profile in the case, see if anything looks odd.”
“How soon do you need this?”
I hesitated.
“I know,” Springer said. “Yesterday.”
“I’ll owe you,” I said.
“I’ll collect,” he said.
“Margie and the kids might not approve.”
“Point taken. Give me a few hours.”
I gave him my cell phone number.
Next I called Hershey Zamzow at his FWS office in Raleigh.
“I’m curious. Do you know the whereabouts of any of Charlotte Grant Cobb’s family?”
“Cobb grew up in Clover, South Carolina. Parents were still living there when Charlotte went missing. As I recall, they weren’t too cooperative.”
“Why?”
“Insisted Cobb would turn up.”
“Denial?”
“Who knows. Hold on.”
I twisted the phone cord as I waited.
“I think they were real active in some church group down there, so I suppose it’s possible they’re still at this address. I only heard Charlotte mention her folks once. Got the impression they didn’t have much to do with each other.”
As I jotted the number, a question occurred to me.
“How tall was Cobb?”
“She wasn’t one of those petite, little things. But she wasn’t what you’d call an Amazon, either. Guess you heard about Brian Aiker?”
“Tim Larabee did the autopsy here today,” I said.
“Poor bastard.”
“Was Aiker working on something at Crowder’s Mountain?”
“Not that I knew of.”
“Any idea why he might have gone there?”
“Not a clue.”
I looked at my watch. Six-forty. I’d eaten nothing since breakfast at the Coffee Cup with Woolsey.
And Boyd hadn’t been out in thirteen hours.
Oh, boy.
Boyd charged the lawn like the Allies hitting Normandy. After devouring the cheeseburger I’d bought him at Burger King, he spent ten minutes trying to stare me out of my Whopper, and another five licking both wrappers.
Showing somewhat more restraint and considerably more dignity, Birdie nibbled the corner of a French fry, then sat, extended one hind leg, and diligently cleaned between his toes.
Cat and dog were sleeping when Ted Springer called from Columbia at eight.
“Microbiologists put in a long day,” I said.
“I was running some samples. Listen, I found the file on your Lancaster skeleton and there may be something.”
“That was quick,” I said.
“I got lucky. How much do you know about the amelogenin locus?”
“Girls show one band, boys show two, one the same size as the ladies, one slightly larger.”
“B-plus answer.”
