Owens held up one finger, and scarecrow nodded and pointed to the back of the house. He wore a bulky ring that looked out of place on his long, bony finger.
“I’m sorry, but there are things I must do,” said Owens. “Talk with whomever you like, but please, respect our desire for harmony.”
He ushered us to the door and extended a hand. If nothing else, Dom was a great shaker. He said he was glad we had stopped by and wished us luck. Then he was gone.
Ryan and I spent the rest of the morning talking to the faithful. They were pleasant, and cooperative, and totally harmonious. And they knew zilch. Not even the whereabouts of Kathryn’s appointment.
By eleven-thirty we knew nothing more than when we’d arrived.
“Let’s go thank the reverend,” said Ryan, taking a set of keys from his pocket. They hung from a large plastic disk, and were not the ones for the rental car.
“What the hell for?” I asked. I was hungry and hot and ready to move on.
“It’s good manners.”
I rolled my eyes, but Ryan was already halfway across the yard. I watched him knock on the screen door, then speak to the man with the pale eyebrow. In a moment Owens appeared. Ryan said something and extended his hand and, like marionettes, the three men squatted then rose quickly. Ryan spoke again, turned, and walked toward the car.
* * *
After lunch we tried a few more pharmacies, then drove back to the government center. I showed Ryan the records offices, then we crossed the grounds to the law enforcement building. A black man in a tank top and fedora was crisscrossing the lawn on a small tractor, his bony knees projecting like legs on a grasshopper.
“How y’all doin’? he said, putting one finger to his brim.
“Good.” I breathed in the smell of fresh-cut grass and wished it were true.
Baker was on the phone when we entered his office. He gestured us to chairs, spoke a few more words, and hung up.
“So, how’s it going?” he asked.
“It isn’t,” said Ryan. “Nobody knows squat.”
“How can we help?”
Ryan lifted his jacket, pulled a Ziploc bag from the pocket, and laid it on Baker’s desk. Inside was the red plastic disk.
“You can run this for prints.”
Baker looked at him.
“I accidentally dropped it. Owens was kind enough to pick it up for me.”
Baker hesitated a moment, then smiled and shook his head. “You know it may not be usable.”
“I know. But it may tell us who this puke is.”
Baker laid the bag aside. “What else?”
“How about a wiretap?”
“No way. You haven’t got enough.”
“Search warrant?”
“What’s your probable cause?”
“Phone calls?”
“Not enough.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Ryan let out a breath and stretched his legs.
“Then I’ll do it the hard way. I’ll start with deeds and tax records, see who owns the country club on Adler Lyons. I’ll check the utilities, find out who pays the bills. I’ll talk to the postal boys, see if anyone gets
“You are welcome in Beaufort for as long as it takes, Mr. Ryan. I’ll assign a detective to help you. And, Dr. Brennan, what are your plans?”
“I’m heading out shortly. I have classes to prepare for and Mr. Colker’s cases from Murtry to look at.”
“Baxter will be glad to hear that. He called to say that Dr. Hardaway would like to speak with you as soon as possible. In fact, he’s rung us three times today. Would you like to use my phone to call up there?”
No one can say I can’t take a hint.
“Please.”
Baker asked Ivy Lee to get Hardaway on the line. In a moment the phone rang and I picked it up.
The pathologist had finished with what he felt he could do. He was able to determine the gender of the corpse in the bottom of the grave, and that the race was probably white. The victim had died of what he thought were
