Flesh and Bone: A Body Farm Novel

suits and rolled-up jeans waded in these; alongside, parents and older siblings and babysitters lounged on the concrete terraces, a few brave souls sunbathing in bikinis amid scores of little sneakers and flipflops.

When I reached the bottom of the cascade, I crossed the street to Ross’s Landing on the river itself and found myself wandering upriver along a wooden boardwalk, the beginning of the long ribbon of park that stretched for miles up to Chickamauga Dam. A paddle-wheeled riverboat moored at the landing gave a blast on its whistle, and a handful of tourists responded by scurrying toward it. A runner passed, sheathed in sweat, and I remembered Jess saying that somewhere along here, a man and his dog had died a gruesome death. I began walking faster, with more purpose now, until suddenly I stopped. Perhaps a quarter mile upstream from the aquarium and Ross’s Landing, the riverwalk passed beneath a pair of bridges, then zigzagged up a steep hillside toward a striking contemporary building-the new wing of the art museum-cantilevered daringly off the edge of the river bluff. Here beneath the bridges, an odd little amphitheater had been terraced into the hillside, and on one of the lower terraces, yellow and black fragments of crime scene tape clung to bridge supports, and the tan pea gravel still bore traces of blood. I studied the low space beneath the bridges as I would any other death scene, trying to decipher patterns in the bloodstains, but the gravel had been rinsed and raked and scuffed too much to tell me anything. I pictured this place at dusk, rather than in the bright light of mid afternoon, imagining what it must have felt like to be set upon by malevolent young men for no other reason than that I was a handy target for years of anger and despair.

My gloomy reverie was interrupted by the hum of rubber tires on the riverwalk. A brightly clad cyclist pedaled past on a mountain bike. When he reached the sharp switchbacks angling up the bluff, I expected him to dismount; instead, in a display of balance and precision I would not have thought possible on two wheels, he made one hairpin turn after another-at least twenty in all-before topping out near the museum and speeding off. I laughed in amazement and delight and ascended the hill myself, huffing and sweating by the time I zigged and zagged clear to the top. Once there, I wandered the neighborhood-an assortment of galleries, cafes, and inns clustered near the art museum-and ate dinner in the courtyard of a restaurant. By the time I ambled back to the Marriott, my legs were tired, my feet were sore, and I had just enough time to shower and change before meeting Jess in the lobby for our research excursion.

As we pulled away from the hotel, Jess steered me right on Carter Street, then right again on Martin Luther King Boulevard. After maybe a mile, she directed me left onto Central, then right onto McCallie Avenue. I was vaguely familiar with McCallie, as I’d been invited several times to guest-lecture at McCallie School, a prestigious private academy whose graduates included media mogul Ted Turner, Senator Howard Baker, and televangelist Pat Robertson. The prep school, though, was farther to the east, nestled at the base of Missionary Ridge; our destination, a nightclub called Alan Gold’s, was in a flatter, more blue-collar section of town. As we crossed a viaduct over a railroad track and a city park began spooling darkly past on our left, she said, “Okay, slow down, slow down; there it is on the right. Turn onto that side street and park anywhere you can.”

The building was a drab old brick structure, two stories high; at first glance it looked more like an electrical supply company than a trendy nightspot. The only distinguishing feature of the facade fronting McCallie was a line of spherical white lights about fifteen or twenty feet off the ground. As we turned onto the side street, though, things picked up dramatically. A hundred or more cars and trucks were jammed into a patchwork of tiny lots. Dozens of people-singly and in couples of every possible combination of age, gender, ethnicity, and edginess-milled about. Music throbbed intermittently from the side entrance, a door that opened and closed every few seconds to admit or disgorge more patrons. We got lucky-a PT Cruiser backed out of a parking spot just as we approached at an idle. “Somebody must have paired up early,” Jess said. I raised my eyebrows, for what I suspected would not be the only time to night.

Jess paid the ten-dollar cover charge for us, and we entered through a long, narrow hallway, congested not only by the ceaseless ebb and flow of customers, but by the tunnel’s terminus, a small alcove just outside the club’s restrooms, where people hovered and chatted, blocking traffic. From here, a branching pair of hallways let into the club’s main areas, a small back bar and the main bar, fronting the dance floor, which a crowded mezzanine overlooked.

Jess and I had decided to split up and work the room separately; we each had several copies of pictures of the Chattanooga murder victim, as envisioned by a police sketch artist. One version showed him as a normal male, in regular street clothes. The other version showed him in the kinky outfit in which his body had been found.

Jess made for a cluster of young men in biker gear-black leather trimmed with an abundance of zippers, rivets, chains, and skulls. Some of the skulls sported wings, which I found particularly intriguing.

I felt a need to acclimate before interrogating anyone in this crowd, so I eased toward the bar and found an opening. The bartender looked up from the drink he was shaking. “What’ll you have?”

“Coke, please,” I said.

He smiled slightly. “A Coca-Cola, or some coke?”

It took a moment for the distinction to sink in. “Ah,” I said. “Just the legal soft drink, if you would.”

“Certainly, sir.” He smiled again, indulgently, when he handed it to me, waving aside the five-dollar bill I had fished out of my wallet. “Soft drinks are free,” he said. “All you pay for here is the hard stuff.” He winked as he said it. Perhaps, I thought, I should have stuck close to Jess.

I turned around and leaned back against the bar. As I scanned the room and its occupants uneasily, I heard a soft female voice to my left side. “You look like you’re looking for somebody,” she said. “And like you haven’t found him yet.”

I turned and found myself facing a beautiful young black woman. Her skin was the color of strong coffee cut with lots of cream. Her shoulder-length hair had been straightened; it had a bit of wave to it, and where it swept across her forehead, the blue-black was streaked with golden highlights. Her brown eyes were warm and liquid, and her gold evening gown showed an impressive amount of cleavage. It took some willpower not to stare. “Well, I’m not sure who I’m looking for,” I said.

She gave a dramatic sigh. “Oh, honey, ain’t that always the way. I been looking half my life, and I ain’t found my loverboy yet. But we gots to keep lookin’. Don’t you give up, now. You gon’ find him real soon. Maybe even to night, right here.”

I felt my face redden. “I’m not looking for a man…like that,” I said. “I’m looking for somebody who might be able to tell us whether a specific young man was hanging out here a while back. Do you come here a lot?”

“Why yes, I do come here every now and then,” she said, “but most times, I come when I’m in my big brass bed with some big, strong man.” She reached out and gave my left shoulder a squeeze. “Oh my, yay-es,” she said, batting her long lashes at me.

This conversation had clearly spun out of my control. I knew she was making fun of me, but I had to laugh. Actually, she seemed to be making fun of both of us, which is why I was able to laugh. Was she flirting? Probably so. Was I flirting back? Not yet, I decided, but I was strongly considering it. “What specific young man you looking for, sweetheart? Lossa young mens hang out here.”

“This one,” I said, fishing the two portraits from my pocket. “He might have been dressed in men’s clothing, or he might have been wearing women’s clothing and a wig. In drag.”

She looked at me archly. “Darlin’, I know what drag means.”

“Right,” I said. “Anyhow, we’re wondering if anybody here might have seen him.”

She glanced at the pictures, then looked at me and across the room at Jess. “Y’all the police?”

“No,” I said. “She’s a medical examiner; I’m a forensic anthropologist. I teach up at UT-Knoxville.”

“A pro-fessor? Oh my, I do love a man with a great big…brain,” she said. She laughed, a musical sound that started high and cascaded down, like a series of handbells pealing in quick succession. As she did, she laid a hand on my chest momentarily; her nails were long and cobalt blue, with flecks of gold that matched her dress and the highlights in her hair. I caught a whiff of perfume, something floral and citrusy. Not too heavy or sweet; fresh, but also exotic. It suited her, I decided. “Mr. Professor, I am Miss Georgia Youngblood, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m Dr. Bill Brockton. Sorry; that sounds stuffy. I’m Bill.” I wanted to be sure I’d understood her enunciation correctly. “Did you say Miss Youngblood? Not Ms.? I’ve spent years learning to put that z on the end for my female students and colleagues.”

“Oh no no no,” she said, “I am most definitely an old-fashioned ‘miss.’ In fact, most of my friends call me Miss Georgia, which I like, because I grew up just over the line, in the Peach State.” She