“Sometimes you get bad press.”
Her head did a j-stroke. “What have you got?”
“That foot was walking the earth at least sixty-five years. No one on the plane had that privilege. I need to establish that this was not crash evidence.”
The sheriff opened a folder and spread its contents on her blotter.
“I've got three missing persons. Had four, but one turned up.”
“Shoot.”
“Jeremiah Mitchell, black male, age seventy-two. Disappeared from Waynesville eight months ago. According to patrons at the Mighty High Tap, Mitchell left the bar around midnight to buy hooch. That was February fifteenth. Mitchell's neighbor reported him missing ten days later. He hasn't been seen since.”
“No family?”
“None listed. Mitchell was a loner.”
“Why the neighbor's concern?”
“Mitchell had his ax and the guy wanted it back. Visited the house several times, finally got tired of waiting, went to see if Mitchell was in the drunk tank. He wasn't, so the neighbor filed an MP report, thinking a police search might flush him.”
“And his ax.”
“A man's nothing without his tools.”
“Height?”
She ran a finger down one of the papers.
“Five foot six.”
“That fits. Was he driving?”
“Mitchell was a heavy drinker, traveled by foot. Folks figure he got himself lost and died of exposure.”
“Who else?”
“George Adair.” She read from another form. “White male, age sixty-seven. Lived over to Unahala, disappeared two weeks ago. Wife said he went fishing with a buddy and never came back.”
“What was the buddy's story?”
“Woke one morning and Adair wasn't in the tent. Waited a day, then packed up and went home.”
“Where was this fatal fishing trip?”
“The Little Tennessee.” She swiveled and stabbed at a spot on a wall map behind her. “Up the Nantahala Mountains.”
“Where's Unahala?”
Her finger moved a fraction toward the northeast.
“And where's the crash site?”
Her finger barely moved.
“Who's contestant number three?”
When she turned back, the chair sang another verse.
“Daniel Wahnetah, age sixty-nine, Cherokee from the reservation. Failed to show up for his grandson's birthday on July twenty-seventh. Family reported him missing on August twenty-sixth when he pulled a no-show for his own party.” Her eyes moved down the paper. “No height reported.”
“The family waited a month?”
“Except in winter, Daniel spends most of his time out in the woods. He has a string of camps, works a circuit hunting and fishing.”
She leaned back, and the chair squeaked a tune I didn't know.
“Looks like Jesse Jackson's Rainbow Coalition. If it's one of these guys, nail the race and you've got your man.”
“That's it?”
“Folks pretty much stay put up here. Like the idea of dying in their beds.”
“See if any of these guys had foot problems. Or if they left shoes at home. Sole imprints could be useful. And start thinking about DNA. Head hair. Extracted teeth. Even a toothbrush might be a source if it hasn't been cleaned or reused. If there's nothing left from the victim we could work with a comparison sample from a blood relative.”
She jotted a note.
“And be discreet. If the rest of the body is out there and someone's responsible, we don't want to tip them into finishing what the coyotes began.”
“I hadn't thought of that,” she said, her voice chalky.
“Sorry.”
