Bare Bones by Kathy Reichs

Ford?”

    “Yes.”

    “Animal?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “Good. I need your help on something else.”

    Oh, no.

    “I got a cal from the Davidson PD about an hour ago. A smal plane went down just past one.”

    “Where?”

    “East of Davidson, that spot whereMecklenburgCounty corners out to meet Cabarrus and Iredel .”

    “Tim, I’m pretty—”

    “Plane slammed into a rock face, then firebal ed.”

    “How many on board?”

    “That’s unclear.”

    “Can’t Joe help you out?”

    “If the victims are both burned and segmented, it’l take a trained eye to spot the pieces.” This couldn’t be happening.

    I checked my watch. Two-forty. Ninety minutes to touchdown.

    Larabee was gazing at me with soulful eyes.

    “I have to clean up and make a few phone cal s.”

    Larabee reached out and squeezed my upper arm.

    “I knew I could count on you.”

    Tel that to Detective Studpuppy, who’l be hailing a cab in an hour and a half. Alone.

    I hoped I’d make it home before he was sound asleep.

6
    AT4P.M.THE TEMPERATURE WAS NINETY-SEVEN,THE HUMIDITYroughly the same. Slam dunk for the record keepers.

    The crash site was almost an hour north of town, in the far northeastern corner of the county. Unlike theLakeNorman sector to the west, with its Sea-Doos and Hobie Cats, and J-32s, this part ofMecklenburg was corn and soybeans.

    Joe Hawkins was already there when Larabee and I pul ed up in his Land Rover. The DI was smoking a cigaril o, leaning against a quarter panel of the transport van.

    “Where’d she go down?” I asked, slinging my backpack over a shoulder.

    Hawkins pointed with a sideways gesture of his cigaril o.

    “How far?” I was already perspiring.

    “’Bout two hundred yards.”

    By the time our little trio traversed three cornfields, Larabee and Hawkins with the equipment locker, I with my pack, we were wheezy, itchy, and thoroughly soaked.

    Though smal er than usual, the normal cast of players was present. Cops. Firemen. A journalist. Locals, viewing the proceedings like tourists on a double-decker.

    Someone had run crime scene tape around the perimeter of the wreckage. Looking at it across the field, I was struck by how little there seemed to be.

    Two fire trucks sat outside the yel ow tape, scars of flattened cornstalks running up to their tires. They were at ease now, but I could see that a lot of water had been pumped onto the wreckage.

    Not good news for locating and recovering charred bone.

    A man in a Davidson PD uniform appeared to be in charge. A brass tag on his shirt saidWade Gul et.

    Larabee and I introduced ourselves.

    Officer Gul et was square-jawed, with black eyes, a sculpted nose, and salt-and-pepper hair. The leading-man type. Except that he stood about five-foot-two.

    We took turns shaking.

    “Glad you’re here, Doc.” Gul et nodded at me. “Docs.”

    The ME and I listened as Gul et summarized the known facts. His information went little beyond that which Larabee had provided outside the autopsy room.

    “Landowner cal ed in a report at one-nineteen. Said he looked out his living room window, saw a plane acting funny.”

    “Acting funny?” I asked.

    “Flying low, dipping from side to side.”

    Looking over Gul et’s head, I estimated the height of the rock outcrop at the far end of the field. It couldn’t have exceeded two hundred feet. I could see red and blue smears maybe five yards below the peak. A trail of scorched and burned vegetation led from the impact point to the wreckage below.

    “Guy heard an explosion, ran outside, saw smoke rising from his north forty. When he got here the plane was down and burning. Farmer—” Gul et consulted a smal spiral notepad.

    “—Michalowski saw no signs of life, so he hotfooted it home to cal 911.”

    “Any idea how many were on board?” Larabee asked.

    “Looks like a four-seater, so I’m thinking less than a six-pack.”

    Gul et apparently wanted to compete withSlidel for movie cop