18
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK ON MONDAY MORNING TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY on the Woods Memorial Bridge. The sky was overcast, the river choppy and slate green. The news on the car radio predicted light rain and a high of seventy- two for the day. Ryan looked out of place in his wool trousers and tweed jacket, like an arctic creature blown to the tropics. He was already perspiring.
As we crossed into Beaufort, I explained jurisdiction in the county. I told Ryan that the Beaufort Police Department functions strictly within the city limits, and described the other three municipalities, Port Royal, Bluffton, and Hilton Head, each with its own force.
“The rest of Beaufort County is unincorporated, so it’s Sheriff Baker’s bailiwick,” I summed up. “His department also provides services to Hilton Head Island. Detectives, for example.”
“Sounds like Quebec,” said Ryan.
“It is. You just have to know whose turf you’re on.”
“Simonnet phoned her calls to Saint Helena. So that’s Baker.”
“Yes.”
“You say he’s solid.”
“I’ll let you form your own opinion.”
“Tell me about the bodies you dug up.”
I did.
“Jesus, Brennan, how do you get yourself into these things?”
“It is my job, Ryan.” The question irked me. Everything about Ryan irked me lately.
“But you were on holiday.”
Yes. On Murtry. With my daughter.
“It must be my rich fantasy life,” I snapped. “I dream up corpses, then poof, there they are. It’s what I live for.”
I clamped my teeth and watched tiny drops gather on the windshield. If Ryan needed conversation he could talk to himself.
“I may need a little guidance here,” he said as we passed the campus of USC-Beaufort.
“Carteret will take a hard left and turn into Boundary. Go with it.”
We curved west past the condominiums at Pigeon Point, and eventually drove between the redbrick walls that enclose the National Cemetery on both sides of the road. At Ribaut I indicated a left turn.
Ryan signaled, then headed south. On our left we passed a Maryland Fried Chicken, the fire station, and the Second Pilgrim Baptist Church. On our right sprawled the county government center. The vanilla stucco buildings house the county administrative offices, the courthouse, the solicitors’ offices, various law enforcement agencies, and the jail. The faux columns and archways were intended to create a low-country flavor, but instead the complex looks like an enormous Art Deco medical mall.
At Ribaut and Duke I pointed to a sand lot shaded by live oaks and Spanish moss. Ryan pulled in and parked between a Beaufort City Police cruiser and the county Haz Mat trailer. Sheriff Baker had just arrived and was reaching for something in the back of his cruiser. Recognizing me, he waved, slammed the trunk, and waited for us to join him.
I made introductions and the men shook hands. The rain had dwindled to a fine mist. “Sorry to have to put one through your basket,” said Ryan. “I’m sure you’re busy enough without foreigners dropping in.”
“No problem at all,” Baker replied. “I hope we can do something for you.”
“Nice digs,” said Ryan, nodding toward the building housing the Sheriff’s Department.
As we crossed Duke, the sheriff gave a brief explanation of the complex.
“In the early nineties the county decided it wanted all its agencies under one roof, so it built this place at a cost of about thirty million dollars. We’ve got our own space, so does the city of Beaufort, but we share services such as communications, dispatch, records.”
A pair of deputies passed us on their way to the lot. They waved and Baker nodded in return, then he opened the glass door and held it for us.
The offices of the Beaufort County Sheriff’s Department lay to the right, past a glass case filled with uniforms and plaques. The city police were to the left, through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Next to that door another case displayed pictures of the FBI’s ten most wanted, photos of local missing persons, and a poster from the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Straight ahead a hallway led past an elevator to the building’s interior.
We entered the sheriff’s corridor to see a woman hanging an umbrella on a hall tree. Though well past fifty, she looked like an escapee from a Madonna video. Her hair was long and jet-black, and she wore a lace slip over a peacock mini-dress with a violet bolero jacket over that. Platform clogs added three inches to her height. She spoke to the sheriff.
“Mr. Colker just phoned. And some detective called ’bout half a dozen times yesterday with his balls on fire ‘bout something. It’s on your desk.”
“Thank you, Ivy Lee. This is Detective Ryan.” Baker indicated the two of us. “And Dr. Brennan. The department will be assisting them in a matter.”
Ivy Lee looked us over.
“You want coffee, sir?”
