“Dr. Larabee said it was urgent that he speak with Dr. Brennan.”
My first impulse was to do an arm-pump
Gathering my papers, I left the room and practically danced across the reception area and down a corridor lined with faculty offices. Every door was closed. Of course they were. The occupants were cloistered in a windowless conference room arguing administrative trivia.
I felt exhilarated. Free!
Entering my office, I punched Larabee’s number. My eyes drifted to the window. Four floors down, rivers of students flowed to and from late-afternoon classes. Low, angled rays bronzed the trees and ferns in Van Landingham Glen. When I’d entered the meeting the sun had been straight overhead.
“Larabee.” The voice was a little on the high side, with a soft Southern accent.
“It’s Tempe.”
“Did I drag you from something important?”
“Pretentious pomposity.”
“Sorry?”
“Never mind. Is this regarding the Catawba River floater?”
“Twelve-year-old from Mount Holly name of Anson Tyler. Parents were on a gambling junket in Vegas. Returned day before yesterday, discovered the kid hadn’t been home for a week.”
“How did they calculate that?”
“Counted the remaining Pop-Tarts.”
“You obtained medical records?”
“I want your take, of course, but I’d bet the farm the broken toes on Tyler’s X-rays match those on our vic.”
I thought of little Anson alone in his house. Watching TV. Making peanut butter sandwiches and toasting Pop- Tarts. Sleeping with the lights on.
The feeling of exhilaration began to fade.
“What morons go off and leave a twelve-year-old child?”
“The Tylers won’t be getting nominations for parents of the year.”
“They’ll be charged with child neglect?”
“Minimally.”
“Is Anson Tyler the reason you called?” According to Naomi, Larabee had said urgent. Positive ID’s didn’t usually fall into that category.
“Earlier. But not now. Just got off the horn with the homicide boys. They may have a nasty situation.”
I listened.
Trepidation quashed the last lingering traces of exhilaration.
2
“NO DOUBT IT’S HUMAN?” I ASKED.
“At least one skull.”
“There’s more than one?”
“The reporting unit suggested the possibility, but didn’t want to touch anything until you arrived.”
“Good thinking.”
Scenario: Citizen stumbles onto bones, calls 911. Cops arrive, figure the stuff’s old, start bagging and tagging. Bottom line: Context is lost, scene is screwed. I end up working in a vacuum.
Scenario: Dogs unearth a clandestine grave. Local coroner goes at it with shovels and a body bag. Bottom line: Bits are missed. I get remains with a lot of gaps.
When faced with these situations, I’m not always kind in my remarks. Over the years, my message has gotten across.
That, plus the fact that I teach body recovery workshops for the ME in Chapel Hill, and for the Charlotte- Mecklenburg PD.
“Cop said the place stinks,” Larabee added.
That didn’t sound good.
I grabbed a pen. “Where?”
“Greenleaf Avenue, over in First Ward. House is being renovated. Plumber knocked through a wall, found some sort of underground chamber. Hang on.”
Paper rustled, then Larabee read the address. I wrote it down.
“Apparently this plumber was totally freaked.”
“I can head over there now.”
“That would be good.”
“See you in thirty.”
I heard a hitch in Larabee’s breathing.
“Problem?” I asked.
“I’ve got a kid open on the table.”
“What happened?”
“Five-year-old came home from kindergarten, ate a doughnut, complained of a bellyache, hit the floor. She was pronounced dead two hours later at CMC. Story to tear your heart out. An only child, no prior medicals, completely asymptomatic until the incident.”
“Jesus. What killed her?”
“Cardiac rhabdomyoma.”
“Which is?”
“Big honking tumor in the interventricular septum. Pretty rare at her age. These kids usually die in infancy.”
Poor Larabee was facing more than one heartbreaking conversation.
“Finish your autopsy,” I said. “I’ll handle the chamber of horrors.”
Charlotte began with a river and a road.
The river came first. Not the Mississippi or Orinoco, but a sturdy enough stream, its shores rich with deer, bear, bison, and turkey. Great flocks of pigeons flew overhead.
Those living among the wild pea vines on the river’s eastern bank called their waterway Eswa Taroa, “the great river.” They, in turn, were called the Catawba, “people of the river.”
The principal Catawba village, Nawvasa, was situated at the headwater of Sugar Creek, Soogaw, or Sugau, meaning “group of huts,” a development not based solely on proximity to the water. Nawvasa also snugged up to a busy route of aboriginal commerce, the Great Trading Path. Goods and foodstuffs flowed along this path from the Great Lakes to the Carolinas, then on down to the Savannah River.
Nawvasa drew its lifeblood from both the river and the road.
The arrival of strange men on great ships ended all that.
For helping in his restoration to power, England’s King Charles II awarded eight men the land south of Virginia and westward to the “South Seas.” Charlie’s new “lord proprietors” promptly sent people to map and explore their holdings.
Over the next century, settlers came in wagons, on horseback, and wearing out shoe leather. Germans, French Huguenots, Swiss, Irish, and Scots. Slowly, inexorably, the river and the road passed from Catawban to European hands.
Log homes and farms replaced native bark houses. Taverns, inns, and shops sprang up. Churches. A courthouse. At an intersection with a lesser trail, a new village straddled the Great Trading Path.
In 1761, George III married Duchess Sophia Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Germany. His seventeen-year- old bride must have caught the imagination of those living between the river and the road. Or perhaps the
