“Was stealing those remains also a judgment call?”
“What?”
“The case to which we refer is no longer at the morgue.”
“I know nothing about that.”
The insipid brown eyes narrowed.
“Really.”
Davenport picked up the cassette, crossed to a TV/VCR unit, and inserted it. When he hit “play,” a ghostly, gray scene filled the screen, and I knew instantly I was viewing a surveillance tape. I recognized the highway and the entrance to the morgue parking lot.
Within seconds my car entered the frame. A guard waved me away. Primrose appeared, spoke to the guard, tapped her way to the car, and handed me a bag. We exchanged a few words, then she patted my shoulder, and I drove off.
Davenport hit “stop” and rewound the tape. As he returned to his chair, I looked at the other two men. Both were studying me, their faces unreadable.
“Let me summarize,” said Davenport. “Following a highly irregular-sequence of events, the specimen in question, the specimen that you claim to have wrested from coyotes, is now missing.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
Davenport picked up another paper.
“Early Sunday morning, a data-entry technician named Primrose Hobbs removed fragmented human tissue bearing morgue number 387 from a refrigerated trailer containing cases in process. She then proceeded to the admitting section and withdrew the disaster victim packet associated with those remains. Later that morning, Miss Hobbs was seen transferring a package to you in the morgue parking lot. That transaction was recorded, and we have just observed it.”
Davenport drilled me with a look.
“Those remains and that packet are now gone, Dr. Brennan, and we believe you have them.”
“I would strongly suggest you speak with Miss Hobbs.” My voice dripped icicles.
“That was, of course, our first endeavor. Unfortunately, Miss Hobbs has not reported to work this week.”
“Where is she?”
“That is unclear.”
“Has she checked out of her motel?”
“Dr. Brennan, I realize that you are a board-certified forensic anthropologist of international stature. I am aware that you have consulted to Dr. Tyrell in the past, as well as to coroners worldwide. I am told that your credentials are unimpeachable. That makes your behavior in this matter all the more puzzling.”
Davenport turned to his companions, as if enlisting support.
“We don't know why you've developed an obsession with this case, but it is clear that your interest has gone far beyond what is professional or ethical.”
“I've done nothing wrong.”
For the first time, Earl spoke.
“Your intentions may be honorable, Tempe, but unauthorized removal of a victim shows very poor judgment.”
He dropped his eyes and flicked a nonexistent particle from his pants.
“And is a felony,” Davenport chimed in.
I spoke to the DMORT commander.
“Earl, you know me. You know I would never do that.”
Before Earl could reply, Davenport exchanged the paper in his hand for a brown envelope, and shook two photos from it. He glanced at the larger, laid it on the desk, then pushed it toward me with one finger.
For a moment I thought it was a joke.
“That is you, Dr. Brennan, is it not?”
Ryan and I were eating hot dogs across from the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad Depot.
“And Lieutenant-Detective Andrew Ryan from Quebec.” He pronounced it Qwee-bec.
“What is the relevance of this, Mr. Davenport?” Though my face was burning, I kept my voice frigid.
“Exactly what is your relationship with this man?”
“Detective Ryan and I have worked together for years.”
“But I am correct in assuming that your relationship extends beyond the professional, am I not?”
“I have no intention of answering questions about my private life.”
“I see.”
Davenport pushed the second photo across the desk.
