“Do you know when he’ll be in?”
“No, sir, I do not. All I know is that he’s unavailable. Do you wish to leave a message or not?”
“Uh, yes. Please. Tell him-ask him-to call Dr. Brockton when he gets a chance, if you would.”
“Dr. Brockton? Hey there, Doc.” Suddenly the guy was all warmth and cheer. “This is Sergeant Gunderson. I was the one found that guy under the Magnolia Avenue viaduct about ten years ago. You ’member that case?”
“I sure do,” I said, smiling at both the memory and my deductive powers. Gunderson was indeed a fat sergeant coasting toward retirement. One reason the case had been memorable was that it featured Gunderson in the unlikely act of running. “You were chasing a burglar that night, if I remember right?”
He chuckled. “Was, till I tripped over that damn body and went ass-over-teakettle. Scared the hell out of me. I ’bout messed my britches. Fellow I was chasing let out a yell just before I went sprawling, so he musta seed it, too.”
“Pretty scary thing to stumble across in the moonlight,” I agreed. The body turned out to be one of the local winos. Judging by the advanced state of decomp-his skull was nearly bare, though a fair amount of soft tissue remained on his torso and limbs-he’d been ripening beneath the viaduct for about a week of midsummer nights and days. His outline was traced with greasy precision on the concrete by the dark fatty acids that had leached from his corpse, marking the splay of his arms and legs, even the spread of his fingers. There was heated speculation among the officers on the scene about who might have wanted him dead, and what sort of bludgeon had shattered his skull with such devastating force. Then I pointed to an uncapped empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 perched on the rail of the viaduct above us-a bottle Art later found to be covered with prints from the dead man’s hands and lips. I often used my slides from that case in police trainings, to underscore the importance of looking all around, and up and down, at death scenes.
“Art’s on special assignment right now, Doc,” Gunderson said, “but I’ll page him and have him call you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Good to talk to you, Sergeant. Watch your step. You never know where the bodies are.”
He chuckled again. “I’ve got a pretty good fix on where most of ’em are buried here at KPD, though. See you, Doc. Don’t be a stranger.”
Two minutes later my phone rang. “Bill? It’s Art.”
“Art Bohanan, Man of Mystery?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Who wants to know?”
“Nobody, now that I think about it,” I said. “You available for a quick fingerprint consult?”
“I’ve gotten sorta sidetracked, but I could spare a few minutes. You got something really gross, as usual?”
“I wouldn’t dream of bringing you anything less.”
“Got a pen?” I surveyed my cluttered desktop, finally found a nub of a pencil. “Close enough. Why?”
“2035 Broadway. Come inside.”
“Why? Where
“Can’t talk right now. Oh, you got a boom box there in your office?”
I wouldn’t have called it a boom box-I kept it tuned to the UT public radio station, which played classical music, and the volume was cranked down so low it was almost subliminal-but I said yes.
“Bring it.”
“What for?”
Art didn’t explain; he’d already hung up.
For the second time in two phone calls, I found myself staring stupidly at the receiver in my hand. Then I hung up, too. My boom box was sitting atop a file cabinet just inside the door of my office. The cord, shrouded in cobwebs and dust, disappeared behind the cabinet, which was snugged tight against the wall, or tight against the plug, at any rate. Curling both hands behind the back of the filing cabinet, I gave a tug. It did not budge; many years and many pounds’ worth of papers had accumulated in it since I had plugged in the radio and shoved the cabinet back in place.
I shifted my grip, crossing my wrists, which somehow seemed to equalize the force I could apply with each arm. Then I hoisted my left foot up onto the doorframe, nearly waist-high, where my hands clutched the cabinet, and strained to straighten my leg. With a rasping sound that set my teeth on edge, the cabinet scraped forward by six inches. Triumphantly I reached into the gap I had created, wiggled the plug free, and extricated the cord and my arm, both covered with cobwebs and grime. “This had better be good, Art,” I muttered.
CHAPTER 3
A CENTURY AGO, BROADWAY had been one of Knoxville’s grand avenues, lined with elegant Victorian mansions on big, shady lots. The street had long since gone to seed, though, especially in the vicinity of the address Art had given me. Heading north from downtown, I passed two of the city’s homeless missions. The missions didn’t open their doors for the night until five o’clock, so for most of the day their clientele roamed Broadway; some hung out, or passed out, in nearby cemeteries. A few neighboring streets, buffered from Broadway’s blight by a block or so of rental houses, had made a comeback over the past couple of de cades. Those pockets of gentrification, sporting pastel houses with gleaming gingerbread, were poignant reminders of how lovely Old North Knoxville had once been, before I-40 had cut a swath through its heart and Broadway itself had become a commuter artery lined with liquor stores and pawnshops.
I was having trouble pinning down the location Art had summoned me to. “Dammit,” I groused to myself, “why don’t people put numbers on their buildings anymore?” I passed the turnoff to St. Mary’s Hospital-where my son Jeff had been born during a blizzard, back in the de cades before the planet’s thermostat had ratcheted upward-and finally spotted a number on one of Broadway’s few remaining mansions. It was now a funeral home, one that had sent a fair number of the Dearly Departed to the Body Farm.
Judging by the funeral home’s address, which I should have remembered from all the thank-you notes I’d sent them, I’d overshot Art’s location by several blocks. I whipped into the parking lot, circled the gleaming black hearse, and doubled back toward downtown on Broadway. Traffic backed up behind me as I crept along, scanning for numbers. Finally, running out of options, I turned into a small, run-down shopping center whose anchor tenant was known throughout Knoxville as “the Fellini Kroger” because of the surreal cast of characters who shopped there. A fair number of graduate students lived in Old North Knoxville, since it was fairly close to campus and offered housing that tended toward interesting but cheap. One of my forensic students who’d never lost his interest in cultural anthropology liked to time his shopping at the Fellini Kroger to coincide with the delivery of Social Security disability checks. On those days, he swore, the line at the check-cashing counter could rival any circus sideshow on earth.
Just down from the Kroger, I idled past a Dollar General Store numbered 2043-at last, a number! — and parked the truck. Feeling conspicuous and more than a little silly, I hauled the boom box off the passenger seat, as well as the small cooler Jess had brought from Chattanooga, and headed along the row of shops. At the far end of the shopping center, beside a kudzu-choked drainage ditch, I found myself facing a door marked 2035. The door and windows were coated with reflective film; a hand-painted sign on the window glass announced the store as BROADWAY JEWELRY amp; LOAN. Puzzled, I tried to enter, but the door was locked. I set the boom box and cooler down, pressed my face to the door, and cupped my hands around my eyes to screen out the sunlight; inside, I discerned a hulking man behind a counter. I rapped on the glass and he looked up, then pointed emphatically to my right. A doorbell-type button was mounted to the doorframe. “Good grief,” I muttered, but I pushed it. Inside, I heard a metallic buzz-I was mildly surprised that it worked-then a loud click in the doorframe. I picked up my belongings and pushed through the door. Within the narrow storefront, one wall was lined with shelves laden with stereos, televisions, and power tools; set out from the opposite wall was a long glass counter on which the guy who’d buzzed me in was leaning. His beefy forearms rested on a sign that read DO NOT LEEN ON COUNTER.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “I think I must have been given the wrong address.”
He looked me over, then his eyes settled on the boom box. “Depends,” he said. “Who gave it to you?”
“My friend Art. Art Bohanan. He’s with the police department.”
The big man vaulted the counter like a dog going after a UPS guy. Before I knew what had happened, my
