“How?”
“A single bullet to the brain. An aide found him at his home.”
“A suicide?”
“Or a setup.”
“Is Tyrell doing the post?”
“Yeah.”
“Has it hit the media?”
“Oh, yeah. They're pissing their pants for information.”
Relief. The pressure would lift from me. Guilt. A man is dead and you think first of yourself.
“But the thing's wrapped tighter than the U.S. war plan.”
“Did Davenport leave a note?”
“None found. What's up here?” He gestured toward the autopsy tables.
“Got some time?”
“The crash was due to carelessness and mechanical failure.” He spread his arms. “I'm a free man.”
The wall clock said seven forty-five. I told Stan and Maggie to call it a day, then led Ryan to my cubicle and explained the Veckhoff diary.
“You're suggesting that random elderly persons were murdered following the deaths of prominent citizens?” He tried but failed to keep the skepticism from his voice.
“Yes.”
“And no one noticed.”
“The disappearances weren't frequent enough to suggest a pattern, and the selection of aged victims created less of a ripple.”
“And this granny-napping has been going on for half a century.”
“Longer.”
It did sound preposterous, and this made me edgy. When edgy, I get mouthy.
“And gramps was fair game, too.”
“And the perps used the Arthur house to dispose of the bodies.”
“Yes, but for more than just disposing.”
“And this was some sort of group in which everyone had a code name.”
“Has,” I snapped.
Silence.
“Are you talking cult?”
“No. Yes. I don't know. I don't think so. But I do think the victims were used in some sort of ritual.”
“Why is that?”
“Come with me.”
I walked him from table to table, making introductions and pointing out details. Finally, I took him to the dissecting scope and focused the lens on Edna Farrell's right femur. When he'd studied it, I inserted one of Tucker Adams's thighbones. Rafferty. Odell.
The pattern was unmistakable. Same nicks. Same distribution.
“What are they?”
“Cut marks.”
“As in knife?”
“Something with a sharp blade.”
“What do they mean?”
“I don't know.”
Each bone made a soft thunk as I replaced it on the stainless steel. Ryan watched me, his face unreadable.
My heels clicked loudly as I crossed to the sink, then walked to my cubicle to remove my lab coat and put on my jacket. When I returned, Ryan was standing over the skeleton I believed to be the apple farmer, Albert Odell.
“So you know who they are.”
“Except for that gentleman.”
I indicated the elderly black male. “And you think they were strangled.”
