ventosa. Osteochondromatosis.
“Don’t phone Father Damien yet,” I said, clicking off the light boxes. “I’m going to do some digging.”
“In the meantime, I’ll take another look at what’s left of this guy’s skin and lymph nodes.” Larabee wagged his head. “Sure would help if he had a face.”
I’d barely settled at my desk when the phone rang. It was Sheila Jansen.
“I was right. It wasn’t coke burned onto the underbelly of that Cessna.”
“What was it?”
“That has yet to be determined. But the stuff wasn’t blow. Any progress on the passenger?”
“We’re working on it.”
I didn’t mention our suspicion about the man’s health. Better to wait until we were sure.
“Discovered a bit more about Ricky Don Dorton,” Jansen said.
I waited.
“Seems Ricky Don got into a slight misunderstanding with the United States Marine Corps back in the early seventies, did some brig time, got the boot.”
“Drugs?”
“Corporal Dorton decided to send a little hash home as a memento of his time in Southeast Asia.”
“There’s an original thought.”
“Actually, his scheme was pretty ingenious. Dorton was assigned to casualty affairs in Vietnam. He’d slip drugs into coffins in the mortuary in Da Nang, then an associate would remove them on arrival Stateside, before the serviceman’s body was processed on to the family. Dorton was probably working with someone he’d met during his tour, someone who knew the morgue routine.”
“Clever.” Jesus. “Cold, but clever.”
“Except Corporal Einstein got nailed the last week of his tour.”
“Bad timing.”
“Dorton disappeared for a while after his release. Next we see him, he’s back in Sneedville running field trips for the Grizzly Woodsman Fishing Camp.”
“Grizzly Woodsman? Is that one of those outfits that helps accountants from Akron reel in the bass of their dreams?”
“Yeah. Guess the GED education and dishonorable discharge limited Ricky Don’s options with the big Wall Street firms. But not his aspirations. Two years as an angling coach, and Dorton opens his own operation. Wilderness Quest.”
“You don’t suppose Ricky Don got some product across before the Corps discovered his little export scheme?”
“Nah. Fine citizen probably set aside a little from every paycheck, worked a civilian job on weekends, that sort of thing. Anyway, by the mid-eighties, Dorton switched from hip waders to pinstripes. In addition to the fishing camp he owns a sporting goods store in Morristown, Tennessee, and the two entertainment palaces in Kannapolis.”
“A respected businessman,” I said.
“And Ricky Don’s military experience taught him well. If Dorton’s into something illegal, he operates from a distance now. Stays so cool the cops can’t make him flinch.”
Something moved in the sludge at the back of my brain.
“Did you say Dorton’s from Sneedville?”
“Yeah.”
“Tennessee?”
“Yeah. Mama Dorton and about a trillion kin still live there.”
The sludge thought rolled over, sluggish and lazy.
“Any chance Dorton’s a Melungeon?”
“How did you guess that?”
“Is he?”
“Sure is. I’m impressed. Until yesterday I’d never heard of Melungeons.” Jansen may have picked up on something in my voice. “That trigger a line of thought?”
“Just a hunch. Could be nothing.”
“You know how to reach me.”
I sat a moment when we’d disconnected.
Dig.
Upper layers. Recent deposits.
American Academy of Forensic Sciences. Scientific session.
