Page 111 of The Bone Code

“What’s his game?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think he’s in it to score some bucks? Or to provide a valid medical service?”

“How should I know the fucknozzle’s motive?”

Though tempted to retort, I held my tongue.

The silence continued as Vislosky and I entered PD headquarters, rode the elevator, and walked to the violent-crimes unit. After placing the box on her desk, Vislosky punched digits on her phone and spoke to someone in the forensic-sciences division.

A staff photographer showed up a half hour later. He was small and dark and may have weighed less than his equipment. His name badge saidDenton.

We all moved to a counter running along the back wall of the squad room. Vislosky and I pulled on latex gloves. My pulse hummed as I watched her disengage and lay back the flaps loosely sealing the box.

Denton shot video and stills as each object came out. Vislosky entered everything on an evidence sheet.

The contents included the following: a hinged plastic case holding an assortment of cheap costume jewelry; a frayed pet collar with a tag that saidMissy; a snow globe housing a village that would have blended well in Zermatt; a stuffed lamb missing most of the fur on its belly; and a faux-leather diary with a tiny brass lock, broken.

The final article caused a frisson of pain to sweep through me. At the very bottom of the box was a framed print of a Ralph Waldo Emerson poem: “This Is My Wish for You.” I knew the words, had given a copy to Katy when she was a very little girl.

Had Bonnie Bird chosen the same gift for her daughter? If she loved Harmony, how could she have abandoned her? Had Harmony left willingly or under duress? Had Bonnie Bird also come to harm?

“Am I done here?”

Denton’s voice snapped me back to the present.

“You got everything?” Vislosky chin-cocked the objects spread out on the counter.

Denton nodded. “I’ll shoot the e-file to you right away. Get you hard copy by tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

As Denton collected his cameras, Vislosky picked up the diary. It looked very small in her oversize hands.

She moved to her desk. I followed. Watched as she randomly flipped pages.

I was reaching for my purse when Vislosky muttered, “Hot fucking damn.”

I looked a question at her.

She slid the diary across the desktop, opened to the page that had triggered the expletive.

I read the entry.

25

Friday, November 12

The handwriting was cramped, the ink faded in spots. I had to struggle to make out some lines.

It was the diary’s final page that had caught Vislosky’s attention.

February 5, 2018

Dear Di,

Off to Charleston this aft. Wish me luck. Thumbing it. Hope I don’t get picked up by cannibal cultists. Ha!