Larabee snapped off the set.
“Who votes for freaking lunatics like Lingo?”
We both knew the answer.
“You did the autopsy?” I asked, steeling my voice, avoiding eye contact.
“Monday.”
“Any surprises?”
“One through-and-through gunshot wound at the T-12 level. Two XTP’s lodged in the thorax. I removed one from the right lung, the other from the heart.”
Larabee didn’t have to explain. I knew the bullet. Extreme Terminal Performance. A nasty little slug designed to expand for maximal organ damage.
Grabbing a Diet Coke, I returned to my office. The phone was blinking.
Both messages had been left by UNCC colleagues. Marion Ireland was returning my call concerning use of the scanning electron microscope. Jennifer Roberts simply asked again that I phone her.
I gulped more Coke. It was definitely helping to settle my stomach. But the headache was still off the Richter, and my enthusiasm for human interaction was low.
My booze-battered cortex offered a list of excuses. The conscience guys countered each one.
The cortical guys had no hypothesis.
Score a win in the conscience column.
After another Coke hit, I dialed. Ireland answered on the first ring. I asked about her weekend, sat out the answer, then explained my puzzlement concerning the irregularities in the thin sections I’d made from Jimmy Klapec’s femur.
“At a magnification of one hundred, everything looks dandy. When I crank it to four hundred, I pick up odd discolorations in some of the Haversian canals. I don’t know what they are.”
“Fungal? Pathological? Taphonomic?”
“That’s what I’d like to clarify.”
“It will take a while to prepare your specimens. I’ll have to etch them with nitric acid, place them in a vacuum dessicator, then dust them with gold palladium.”
“I can drop them off anytime.”
“If all goes well, they should be ready by late afternoon tomorrow.”
That would work. Rinaldi’s funeral was at eleven.
“I’ll be there within the hour.”
Allowing no time for a second cerebral spat, I dialed Roberts. She, too, was right by her phone.
“Dr. Roberts.”
“It’s Tempe.”
“Thanks so much for calling me back. I’m sorry I bothered you on a holiday weekend. I should have known you’d be out.”
“It’s no bother.” I was out, no question. Just not in the sense she meant.
“I understand you’re not feeling well today?”
“Just a flu. I’m much better now.”
“Hang on.”
I heard the receiver tap a desktop, footsteps, then a closing door. I pictured Jennifer crossing the office two down from mine. Identical desk, credenza, filing cabinets, and shelves, hers filled with volumes on animism, henotheism, totemism, and dozens of
“Sorry.” She spoke softly. “There are students in the hallway.”
“I think they camp out there to avoid paying rent.”
She laughed nervously. “You may be right.” I heard slow inhalation, release. “OK. This is difficult.”
Please, God. Not a personal problem. Not today.
“I read in the
“Yes.” That surprised me.
“Human bones were among the objects recovered.”
“Yes.” I had no idea where this was going.
“Last Thursday, a headless body was found at Lake Wylie-”
“Jennifer, I can’t discuss-”
“Please. Bear with me.”
I let her go on.
“The victim was identified as a teenaged boy named Jimmy Klapec. His body was marked with satanic symbology. Earlier, I haven’t the date, another headless boy was pulled from the Catawba River. I don’t know if that corpse was similarly mutilated.”
Obviously she’d heard, or been told of, Boyce Lingo’s tirade. I didn’t confirm or deny the information.
“The police have arrested a young man named Asa Finney. He’s been charged with possession of human remains and is a suspect in the Klapec homicide.”
“Yes.” All that had been reported in news coverage. I didn’t mention that Slidell also suspected Finney of involvement in Rinaldi’s murder.
“They’ve arrested the wrong man,” Roberts said.
“The police are conducting a full investigation.”
“Asa Finney is a Wiccan, not a Satanist. Can you appreciate the enormous difference?”
“I have a rudimentary understanding,” I said.
“The public does not. Asa is a self-proclaimed witch, it’s true. Have you seen his Web site?”
I admitted that I had not.
“Go there. Read his postings. You will find the musings of a kind and gentle soul.”
“I will.”
“There is a Wiccan camp at Lake Wylie. Though I don’t know the exact location, I know that Jimmy Klapec’s body was found at Lake Wylie. That will not put Asa Finney in a good light.”
I didn’t mention the books by Anton LaVey, the resemblance to Rick Nelson, or the Ford Focus seen in the area the night of Klapec’s murder.
“In today’s climate of religious extremism, there are those who condemn beliefs they don’t understand. Responsible, intelligent Christians who would rather see people dead than following what they consider pagan practices. Their numbers are few, but these fanatics exist.”
I heard a voice in the background. Jennifer asked me to hold on. There was muffled conversation, but I could make out no words.
“Sorry. Where was I? Yes. County Commissioner Lingo has twice mentioned Asa Finney by name, fingering him as a disciple of the devil, an example of all that is wrong in today’s world. Given the atmosphere of anger created by Saturday’s police shooting, I fear for Asa’s ability to get a fair hearing.”
“He has excellent counsel.” I didn’t mention names.
“Charles Hunt is a public defender.”
“Charles Hunt is very good.” In more ways than one. I didn’t mention that, either.
Jennifer lowered her voice further, as though fearing her words might carry through the door.
“Asa Finney stole bones from a crypt when he was seventeen. It was a juvenile prank, stupid and thoughtless. That’s a far cry from murder.”
How did she know that? I didn’t ask.
“The police are doing a thorough investigation,” I said.
