Gray Matter

designated as black circles. Kemmer shook his head. He hadn’t seen the drawing. Somebody in Gloucester had screwed up badly. This was not going to be easy. “Our medical examiner suspects that these are the results of some kind of neurological procedure. A brain operation.”

“Brain operation? Good heavens, no,” Winnie said. Suddenly the expression on her face turned dark with concern.

Maybe operation was the wrong term. “Did Grady ever have a biopsy for a lesion or tumor?”

Vern shook his head.

“Seizures? Blackouts … ?”

“Nothing like that. Hell, he never even had headaches.”

“And we got all his medical records,” Mrs. Dixon added.

“Is it possible to see them?”

Vernon looked hesitant, but Mrs. Dixon got up to get them. Vernon glowered at Greg. “Are you saying it might be some other child you found?”

“No, it’s Grady, I’m afraid. We’ve got a positive ID on the DNA and dentals.”

Was Joe Steiner wrong about the holes? That they were made by some marine organism?

Mrs. Dixon returned from the other room. “He was a very healthy boy.” She was carrying a thin folder. “You can see for yourself.” She handed it to Greg.

Inside were doctors’ reports of vaccinations, checkups, paid bills, insurance statements, and receipts for medication. It all looked unremarkable. Twice, a few years back, the boy had been to the emergency room for a split knee and removal of a fishhook in his thumb. No paperwork from any neurologist or neurosurgeon’s office.

Vernon looked at the schematic. “You’re saying these holes were in Grady’s skull?”

“Yes.”

“So how in hell did they get there?”

“That’s what I hoped you would tell me.”

Vernon gave Greg a harsh look. “I just said he never had a brain operation.”

“It’s possible we’re mistaken.”

“Now there’s a big surprise.”

Deserved! Greg thought. “It could be some aquatic organism.” And in the back of his mind he could hear Joe Steiner: “The polychaete worms leave smooth cavities.”

Greg had worked with Joe Steiner for a dozen years and never found him wrong about anything. When he didn’t know something, he’d say so. When he was uncertain, he’d go to people who weren’t. He also said he had double-checked with his people at the Crime Lab.

Or these people were holding back—but why lie about your kid’s biopsy?

Or the kid had the procedure after he was kidnapped. Christ! Nothing made sense.

“These holes were done with very high-speed cranio-blade drills with precision guidance.”

Greg felt like a horse’s ass.

“Guess that’s not gonna help in your other case now, is it?” Vernon downed his lemonade.

“Maybe not,” Greg said.

Kemmer checked his watch. Their stay was growing cold.

“Well, I feel for the parents,” Mrs. Dixon said. “I know what they’re going through. Grady could be a handful at times. There were days when I wondered if I’d given birth to the devil himself. He could be mighty stubborn.” Her mouth quivered. “It’s just that I’d give anything to see him walk through that door again.”

She got up and went into Grady’s room and returned with a small wooden box, fashioned after a pirate’s chest. “These were some of his special things.”

While Vernon looked anxious for Greg and Kemmer to leave, Mrs. Dixon suddenly seemed compelled to tell them about Grady. “Some of it’s just his baby stuff,” she said. Inside were a baby brush and comb set, a silver rattle, a crucifix, and a little envelope. From it Mrs. Dixon removed a reddish curl of hair. “It’s from his first haircut. He had a head of ringlets, like a cherub.” Her voice broke up.

“It’s where they got the DNA stuff from,” Vernon said.

“He was such a clever little boy,” Mrs. Dixon continued, tears running down her cheeks. “He picked things up real fast. The teachers had him earmarked for the TAG program.”

“TAG program?”

“Talented and gifted. They were going to start him in the second grade.”

She put the box down and removed a sheet from a file folder included with the medical report. “In fact, he was so bored in kindergarten that his teacher said we should have him special-tested. He got a ninety-ninth percentile straight across.”

Greg looked at the score sheet. Listed in different boxes—Verbal, Analytical, Spatial, Logic, Sequencing, and so on—were numerical percentages. Each category was printed with a 99. At the bottom of the page was small print saying that the test was copyrighted by Nova Children’s Center, Inc.

Greg handed Vernon back the folder. “I know it’s in the file,” Greg said, “but if you don’t mind, I’m wondering when the last time was you saw Grady.”

“On that swing outside,” Mrs. Dixon answered. “Every day Tillie Haskell dropped him off from the school van in front. As usual, he came in and got his snack, then went outside to wait for Junie Janks to come by and play. Junie’s the boy who lives down the road. You passed their place coming in. Junie is short for junior—his real name’s Bernard, after his dad. About twenty minutes later, Junie shows up wondering where Grady is.” Mrs. Dixon took a deep breath.

Vernon continued for her. “The county police said not to worry, he probably just wandered into the woods. But that was pure bulltiki, because the first thing you teach your kids down here is to respect these woods. The next house on the other side is seventeen miles. I’ve lived in these parts for fortysix years, and I could still get lost a thousand yards in. It all looks the same, and we got that through his head from the day he could walk. You don’t go into the woods.

“Musta had two hundred people search for him—police, volunteer firemen, neighbors, and just about everybody at Mount Ida’s. We looked for a week. But when he didn’t show up by nightfall that first day, I knew we lost him. I knew somebody had taken him. I felt it in my bones. God only knows why.”

12

Brendan was checking out the odd head scars in his bathroom mirror when it crossed his mind to kill his grandfather.

The notion just popped into his head without the slightest shock—like deciding to clip his toenails.

And it would be one-two-three easy. No fuss, no muss. No telltale fingerprints or DNA evidence to sweat. No decision about weapons or modus operandi. No having to bury bloody meat cleavers. No burning or cutting up the remains. No witnesses.

And no motive, unlike going back to the diner and putting a knife in Angie for publicly humiliating him. He had no motive—just curiosity. (Besides, what kid would kill his own grandfather—his last remaining relative?) And it would be the perfect murder: Just hold back on his pills and sit back and watch him gasp to death on his La-Z-Boy. That would be something. Might melt some snow.

“Hey, Brendan! Where the hell are you, boy?”

“Coming,” he shouted. Richard wanted his refill. Grandpa Richard, although he never called him grandpa. Just Richard. Grandpa was a technicality of blood.

And no blood. No red hand.

His face would scrunch up in wincing pain as the realization swelled in his chest that he was going to die from arterial occlusion. Inarticulate sounds would rise from his throat, saliva stringing from his chin onto his shirt,