I was too stunned to speak.
“I surmise from your reaction that you know the gentleman pictured with Detective Ryan?”
“Jean Bertrand was Ryan's partner.” Shock waves were passing through every cell in my body.
“Are you aware that this Bertrand is being investigated in conjunction with the Air TransSouth crash?”
“Where is this going?”
“Dr. Brennan, I shouldn't have to spell it out. Your”—he feigned indecision over word selection—“colleague has ties to a principal suspect. You yourself have acted”—again the careful search— “erratically.”
“I have done nothing wrong,” I repeated.
Davenport tilted his head and twisted his mouth, neither smiling nor grimacing. Then he sighed, indicating what a burden this was for all.
“Perhaps, as Mr. Bliss has suggested, your only offense has been one of misjudgment. But in tragedies of this nature, with so much media attention, and so many grieving families, it is of utmost importance that those involved avoid even the appearance of impropriety.”
I waited. Davenport began gathering papers.
“Reports of suspected misconduct are being lodged with the National Disaster Medical System, the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, and the Ethics Committee of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences. The chancellor of your university will also be informed.”
Cold fear shot through me.
“Am I suspected of committing a crime?”
“We must consider every possibility, painstakingly and impartially.”
Something snapped. I shot to my feet, fingers tightening into fists.
“There's nothing impartial about this meeting, Mr. Davenport, and you have no intention of treating me fairly. Or Detective Ryan. Something's wrong, very wrong, and I've been set up as some sort of scapegoat.”
Tears burned the backs of my lids. It's the glare, I told myself. Don't you dare cry!
“Who turned this meeting into a publicity circus?”
Red splotches appeared in Davenport's cheeks, looking oddly out of place in the bland complexion.
“I have no idea how the press found out about this meeting. The leak did not come from my office.”
“And the surveillance photo? Where did that order originate?”
Davenport did not answer. The room was deathly quiet.
I uncurled my fingers and drew a deep breath. Then I impaled Davenport with a look.
“I perform my duties scrupulously, ethically, and out of concern for both the living and the dead, Lieutenant Governor Davenport.” I kept my voice level. “I do not deviate from protocol. Dr. Tyrell knows that and Mr. Bliss knows that.”
My eyes moved to Larke, but he looked away. Earl's attention remained focused on his pants. I turned back to Davenport.
“I don't know what's going on, or why it's going on, but I will find out.”
I pointed a finger to emphasize every word.
“I . Will. Find. Out.”
With that, I turned and walked from the room, quietly closing the door behind me. The trooper trailed me down the corridor, into the elevator, and across the motel lobby.
The parking lot was an encore of my arrival. Though my escort defended one flank, I was accosted on all others. Cameras rolled, microphones jabbed, and strobes flashed. Questions were shouted in the round. Pushing forward, head down, arms clasped to my chest, I felt more trapped than I had by the coyote pack.
At Ryan's car, the trooper restrained the onslaught with both arms while I unlocked and opened the door. Then he bullied the crowd back, and I broke free and shot onto the highway.
As I drove, my face cooled and my pulse normalized, but a million questions swirled in my brain. How long had I been under surveillance? Could this explain the ransacking of my room? How far would they go? Why?
Would they be back?
Who were “they”?
My eyes flew to the rearview mirror.
Where in God's name was that foot? Had someone actually taken it? If so, for what purpose?
How did they know it was gone? Who had wanted that foot on Monday? Why?
Where was Primrose Hobbs?
The lieutenant governor's office was not typically included in the disaster inquiry loop. Why was Davenport taking such an interest?
Could I actually be facing criminal charges? Should I obtain counsel?
I was completely absorbed in these questions, driving robotically, seeing and responding to my surroundings, but registering nothing on a conscious level. I don't know how far I'd driven when a loud whoop sent my eyes back to the rearview mirror.
