Page 141 of Cold, Cold Bones

At seven-forty a.m., Ryan and I entered the Law Enforcement Center and rode to the second floor. This time the elevator was empty save for an elderly cop with a belly two sizes too large for his uniform shirt. Wordlessly, the three of us watched the digits light up, then darken.

The task force had taken over an entire floor at the LEC. As Slidell had reported, several outside agencies were helping the CMPD, including the FBI. Preoccupied with orchestrating a triple homicide investigation, Captain Mangiorotti was letting SAC Byrd call most of the shots.

Skinny’s nemesis assumed that the child was the victim of a sexual predator, and all effort was being expended in that direction. Though Skinny had pitched his alternative theory, Byrd didn’t believethat the kidnapping was part of a vengeance scheme directed at a nerd forensic anthropologist.

Neither Byrd nor Mangiorotti was thinking copycat or serial killer. Or at least no hint of that possibility was contained in the statements being grudgingly released to a frenzied press. The last thing the mayor and the police chief wanted were the eyes of the national press zeroing in on their town.

Slidell wasn’t buying into the sexual predator “horseshit.” He’d requested and been given a small team of his own. Why? Pain in the ass that he is, Skinny is a legend at the CMPD. Charlotte’s own Dirty Harry Callahan. And, oddly, the chief of detectives likes him. Or wants to avoid his tantrums. Whatever. Mangiorotti gave Slidell his own team and license to follow his instincts.

Slidell’s operation was housed at the far end of the hall. The room wasn’t huge, but big enough. A half dozen chairs sat haphazardly scattered at the back. Three corkboards stood at the front. Collapsible tables lined both side walls, one with laptops, the other with phones. At that hour, every line was silent.

Two uniforms occupied each table. O’Reilly. Papadopoulos. Roosevelt. Chan. Looked like a hometown United Nations.

Slidell and Henry were discussing items on the leftmost board. Henry’s outfit of the day featured shades of blue and an appropriately accessorized sapphire and diamond band on one finger. The alternating stones sent off a big-bucks vibe.

The missing task force members, more beat cops I assumed, were busting ass on the street.

Ryan and I crossed to Slidell and Henry. They turned at the sound of our footsteps.

“Yo,” Slidell said.

“Yo,” Ryan said.

Jesus, I thought.

“Dr. Brennan.” Henry sounded tired. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“There’s coffee in the CCU.”

“I’m good,” I said, eyes shifting to the display at Henry’s back.

Topping the first board was a school portrait of Olivia Lakin. The child sat smiling directly into the lens, hands crossed on a railing to her left. Her sweater was pink, her blouse a lacy mint green. The coppery hair was tied back with avocado bows.

Below the photo was a timeline of Olivia’s last-known movements. A map indicating her usual routes to school. Photocopies of interview notes.

“Any news?” I asked.

“No.” Slidell sounded like he might have slept a few hours. His appearance suggested the nap had taken place at the station. His hair was spiking on top, lying flat on one side. His face looked as wrinkled as his shirt, his five o’clock shadow dense enough to hide small mammals.

“Post what you got, recent cases in the middle, old on the right,” Slidell instructed me, cocking his chin at the two empty boards. Turning to the UN, he said, “You guys. Heads up. You’ll want to hear this.”

“Chronology’s tough,” I said, opening my briefcase and selecting a file. “Some of the copycat bodies weren’t discovered right away. With others, we didn’t see the link for a while.”

I thumbed several pics onto the center board. All were scene or autopsy shots.

Behind us, the four uniformed cops went quiet. I sensed them watching and listening.

“Miguel Sanchez, age nineteen, street name Scrappy. The day before Christmas 2019, Scrappy’s ear was discovered nailed to a tree outside his Beacon Hill apartment in South Charlotte. At the—”

“How ’bout we keep it short?” Slidell cut me off.

Okeydokey.

“Three days later, the rest of Sanchez turned up in a Wendy’s dumpster. He was missing his liver, kidneys, and heart.”

I opened a second, much older file, stepped to the last board, and posted another set of photos.