He went on, “I saw LaManche while riding up to the squad room Friday morning. He mentioned some joy waiting in your lab.”
“We talked on Thursday. The case isn’t urgent, probably old cemetery remains.”
“How’s Daisy?”
“Chemo-peachy.”
“Let me guess. She’s considering nuptials in Uganda. Maybe hiring mountain gorillas as waiters.”
“Ushers.” Though currently she’s too busy banging Sinitch to dream up harebrained travel possibilities. I kept that to myself.
“Got big plans for July Fourth?” Ryan asked.
“My stockpile of sparklers is quite impressive.”
“Did you lay in Valium for the birdcat?”
“It’s not Birdie’s favorite holiday. Assuming he doesn’t need therapy, I may bring him along when I fly north.”
“My toes go all—”
“My relationship with Heavner has become a real train wreck.”
Ryan knew our history. “And?”
“I’m considering something that may send it right off the rails.”
I heard faint moaning up the line between Charlotte and Quebec. The hypothetical preacher’s granny?
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“I’m listening.”
I laid down the full version, holding nothing back. As I spoke, I could feel my voice tighten, thread by thread. Ryan didn’t interrupt.
I started with the mysteriously texted images, concluded with the leaked dossier and Lizzie Griesser.
“You don’t know the source of the pics?”
“No clue. I suspect someone was giving me a heads-up.”
“Why?”
“If I knew that, I’d probably know who sent them. Anyway, I spent hours with those and with my photos. None is first-rate. I had to snap mine quickly with just my phone. But it’s obvious Heavner’s wrong on some points.”
“Such as?”
“In one shot, I can see the left upper posterior dentition.”
“The molars.”
“Yes. Every occlusal surface is worn. In another shot, I can see the superior portion of the right pubic symphyseal face. The hogs yanked the two pelvic halves apart, gnawed one, bypassed the other in favor of the viscera.”
“Very accommodating.”
“The angle’s not perfect, but magnified, I can read the age indicators.”
“It’s Johnny Appleseed.”
“Do you want to hear this?”
Chastened silence.
“The man was older than Heavner implied, I’d say in the thirty-five-to-fifty range, probably the upper end of that. And other than black hair, I can’t imagine how she concluded he might be Asian. His features were toast, but the hogs had yanked his scalp back far enough to expose most of his frontal bone—his forehead, orbital ridges, and the area above his nose. The upper nasal aperture, interorbital distance, and orbital shape all suggest the man was Caucasoid. White.”
Ryan blew out a long breath. Disinterested? Disapproving? I didn’t care. I pressed on.
“Also, one shoulder, one hip, and both upper arms have dark blotches I’d bet the farm are hematomas.”
“Bruises.”
“In varying stages of healing.”
“Meaning the guy had either fallen or been struck on more than one occasion. How could Heavner have missed something like that?”
“Who knows? In her defense, the body was pretty mangled, and the lividity was spectacular.” I was referring to the purple discoloration caused by blood pooling in a corpse’s downside.
Ryan started to speak. I cut him off before his question was out.
“But that’s not all. Along with the money and the chewing tobacco—”
“Snus.” Pronounced with Ryan’s version of a Scandinavian lilt.
“What?”
“You said he had an empty tin of Göteborgs Rapé, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a brand of snus.” Lilty.
“I know you’ll explain that.”
“It’s a spicy, smokeless tobacco. Sometimes comes in little paper packets.”
“To stick in your gums.”
“Yes. You don’t chew it or spit it. I think snus is illegal in some parts of Europe. But the Swedes are apeshit over the stuff.”
“Right.” I didn’t ask how Ryan knew that. Or why anyone would want to suck on tobacco. “Along with the snus”—appropriately lilting—“and the cash, there was a scrap of paper in one of the man’s pockets. Looked like part of a blank page torn from a book. One Russian word was scribbled on it. I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll forward the pic.”
I put Ryan on hold, clicked over, and fired off the image. Seconds later, I heard the text ping in.
Законченный.
Ryan didn’t try voicing it, either.
“Meaning?” he asked.
“ ‘Finished.’ According to three separate internet translation sites. One suggested the word could also mean ‘ended.’ ”
“Note d’adieu?” He used the French phrase for suicide note. No lilt.
I shrugged. Wasted effort. Ryan couldn’t see me. “Or it could refer to the book from which the page was taken. An affair. A trip. A job. A—”
“I get it.” Pause. “Is that writing running sideways down the right edge?”
My reaction, too. “I’m not sure. It’s too smudgy and faint to make out. Think it could be some sort of code?”
“Or blood. Spaghetti sauce. Hog poop. A—”
“Touché.”
“What’s on the flip side?”
“I was hurrying and didn’t turn the scrap over. I’ll ask Hawkins to snap a shot.”
“If Heavner learns about the photocopies, Hawkins’s ass will be on the line.”
“Only Lizzie and you know.”
“And what happens when you start poking around?”
“You’re a detective, right?”
“For years, it said so right on my badge.”
“I’m hoping you can provide pointers on detecting discreetly.”
“This case is that important to you?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
A long, empty silence hummed down from Canada. Then, “First off, I wouldn’t go diming Detective Spevack out in Cleveland County.”
“What would you do?”
* * *
Having come from the pocket damp, the scrap had been spread on a drying tray while the autopsy proceeded. The reverse side had not been examined. Hawkins was going into the MCME early Monday morning and agreed to inspect and photograph the back.
I started with my single close-up of the front. Felt the same spark of excitement. The staining definitely looked like lettering.
Barely breathing, I returned to Photoshop and enlarged the image again and again. Thought I could make out an E, maybe an 8 or a 3. Couldn’t be sure. Magnification caused the shapes to blur and go grainy.
I used tools to sharpen the edges and reduce background noise. Then, by creating a brightness/contrast layer, I worked to whiten the paper while darkening the writing. Maybe writing.