Page 27 of The Bone Code

“Some of the higher-ups thought the container murders might be gang-related,” Ryan said.

“A woman and a child?”

“You’re right. Not a biker MO.”

“But the biker war was just so much sexier than old bones in a barrel.”

“Not as sexy as you.” Definitely not cop-speak. “When do you return to Montreal?”

“Two weeks. Listen, will you do me a huge favor?”

“There might be a quid pro quo involved. You know that thing you do with your—”

“Could you pull the case file? Send me anything you find?”

“I’ll do what I can.” Sounding far from confident. “It’s been fifteen years.”

“Thanks.”

“What are you thinking?”

I told him about Anne’s suggestion.

“That’s a long shot,” he said.

“From here to Pictor and back.”

“Pictor?”

“The constellation where that kid discovered the new exoplanet.”

The power returned sometime during the night. I awoke to the piercing whine of a chain saw. Merely the opening volley.

By nine, the house and grounds were crawling with workers. A solo carpenter was reconstructing the front porch. Another pair was hammering shingles onto the roof. A team was pumping sludge from the pool on the back deck. A guy was trimming palms and bundling fronds in front.

I’d just finished brewing coffee when Herrin called. I went through my notes. The coroner thanked me, then asked that I brief Vislosky. I agreed.

Instead of phoning, I decided to update her in person. Any excuse to escape the chaos.

Charleston’s blue-blood and lace-curtain side of the tracks is a petal-shaped hunk of land carved from the Atlantic by two rivers, the Cooper on the east and the Ashley on the west. Particularly coveted is a hive of narrow, tree-lined streets at the petal’s southern tip. Though far from a majority these days, many residents of this area, known as South of Broad, or SOB, claim ancestry back to the plantation culture before the Civil War.

I wound my way from IOP to Sullivan’s Island, through Mount Pleasant, over the Cooper River Bridge and across the petal to 180 Lockwood Boulevard. Though close geographically, the address is centuries removed from the quaint shops, horse-drawn carriages, and narrow street-facing Georgians of SOB. Parking is adequate, though. A nice contrast.

The Chief Reuben M. Greenberg Municipal Complex houses the courthouse, the municipal court operations offices, the department of traffic and transportation, and a DMV office. Behind the Greenberg is the much larger Chief John Conroy Law Enforcement Center, home to the Charleston Police Department.

Looking at CPD main, I suspected a similar architectural hand had been at work to that at the MUSC hospital complex. Same functional but uninspiring square lines and miles of red brick and glass. Same palms growing in orderly rows never present in nature.

Across Lockwood stretched Brittlebank Park, a swath of green space fronting the Ashley River. To the northwest was the River Dogs stadium, home to the Yankees’ A-level minor league team. To the southeast, the College of Charleston and a Marriot hotel. Only a few blocks distant was the building in which I’d toiled the previous day. And the scraggy stretch of shoreline where the container had beached itself.

Before leaving my car, I pulled Vislosky’s card from my purse. She was assigned to the violent-crimes division. No shocker there.

I dialed. Vislosky answered and told me to come in.

I crossed the lot, climbed the steps, and entered CPD headquarters. The lobby was standard-issue. Scuffed tile. Wooden doors. Floor-bolted seating. Glass-fronted cases displaying trophies and photos of the department’s outstanding performers.

And an item that caused me to halt for a moment.

Beside one pillar stood a bright red container provided by the CVS pharmacy chain. Lettering on its front explained the container’s purpose:Medical Disposal. After snapping a photo with my phone, I crossed to reception and spoke to the duty officer. Heasked for ID. I held my driver’s license to the glass. He eyed it, then called upstairs.