“Any permanent tie-ups at the marina?”
“It's strictly a rental business.”
“That means a lot of people coming and going every day. Pretty busy spot for a body dump.”
“Rentals are due back by eight P.M. Apparently things quiet down after that.”
I indicated the couple with the putty faces. They were alone on the dock now, hands in their pockets, unsure what they were supposed to do next.
“Are those the owners?”
“Glenn and Irene Boynton. They say they're here every night until eleven, return around six in the morning. They live up the road.”
Crowe indicated the dirt track.
“They claim to notice cars at night. Worry about kids messing with their boats. Neither one heard or saw a thing over the past three days. For what that's worth. A perp wouldn't exactly advertise that he was using your dock to off-load a corpse.”
The celery eyes appraised the scene, came back to me.
“But you're right. This would be an odd choice. There's a small road kisses the shore about a half mile up from here. We're thinking that was the toss-in point.”
“Two, three days seems a little long for the currents to carry her here,” added Albright. “Body may have deadheaded awhile.”
“Deadheaded?” I snapped, furious at his callousness.
“Sorry. Old logging term. Refers to snagged timber.”
I was almost afraid to ask the next question.
“Was she sexually assaulted?”
“Clothing's on, underwear's in place. I'll test for semen, but I doubt it.”
We stood silent in the gathering dusk. Behind us, the docks creaked and settled against the waves. A cold breeze blew off the water, carrying the scent of fish and gasoline.
“Why would someone garrote an old lady?” Though I spoke aloud, the question was really for me, not my companions.
“Why do these sick bastards do any of the things they do?” Albright replied.
I left them and walked toward Ryan's car. The ambulance and wrecker were gone, but the cruisers remained, pulsing blue light across the muddy lot. I sat a moment, staring at the hundreds of prints left by the feet of ambulance attendants, wrecker operators, police, the pathologist, and myself. Primrose's last disaster scene.
I turned the key and headed back toward Bryson City, tears coursing down my cheeks.
When I checked my messages later that evening, I found one from Lucy Crowe. I returned her call and told her everything I knew about Primrose Hobbs, ending with our Sunday-morning rendezvous at the morgue.
“And that foot and all its paperwork are now missing?”
“So I was told. Primrose was probably the last person to see the stuff.”
“Parker Davenport told you she signed it out. Did she sign it back in?”
“Good question.”
“Tell me about security.”
“All DMORT and ME personnel have IDs, as do the people from your department and the Bryson City PD who work security. A guard checks IDs at the perimeter fence, and there's a sign in/sign out sheet inside the morgue. A color-coded dot goes on your badge each day.”
“Why?”
“In case someone manages to duplicate the ID, they'd have no way of knowing that day's color.”
“What about after hours?”
“By now there's probably a smaller crew left at the morgue, mostly records and computer staff, some medical personnel. There'd be no one there at night except your deputy or a Bryson City cop.”
I pictured the lieutenant governor with his videocasette.
“There is a surveillance camera on the gate.”
“What about the computers?”
“Every VIP user has a password, and only a limited number of people can enter or delete data.”
“Assuming Hobbs returned it, where would that foot have been?”
“At the end of the day everything goes into reefer trucks marked ‘unprocessed,’ ‘in process,’ or ‘identified.’ Cases are located with a computer tracking system.”
“How hard would it be to break in?”
“High school kids have hacked the Pentagon.”
I heard distant conversation, like voices drifting through a wormhole in space.
