NOT A PATHOLOGIST OR RECEPTIONIST ON SITE. THE BOARD showed one death investigator present. Joe Hawkins.

My phone’s message light was blinking. After getting a Diet Coke from the kitchen, I put the thing on speaker and picked up a pen.

Special Agent Williams, sounding annoyed. It was urgent that I call him back. I jotted down the number.

Wayne Gamble, sounding anxious. He knew who was following him and intended to confront the guy.

Earl Byrne, the mushroom-shaped reporter from the Observer, sounding eager. He wanted to write a follow-up to his original article and wondered what was taking so long with an ID on the landfill John Doe. Delete.

Special Agent Williams. Delete.

Special Agent Williams. Delete.

Cotton Galimore, sounding, what? Flirtatious? The dinner offer was still on the table. Also, he intended to visit Craig Bogan in the morning. Did I want to come along?

I was scribbling Galimore’s number when a shadow fell across my desk. I looked up.

Hawkins was standing in my doorway, a half-dozen forceps in one hand.

“Hey, Joe.”

“That Cotton Galimore?” The scowl on Hawkins’s face would have frightened small children.

“Sorry?”

“Galimore.” He jabbed the forceps toward my phone. “You talking to him?”

“Mr. Galimore was involved in the search for Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble back in ’ninety-eight.”

“You need to stay away from him.”

“Excuse me?”

“The man’s not to be trusted. You’ve got no business being anywhere near him.”

“How I choose to conduct an investigation is of no concern—”

“The man’s corrupt.”

“People change.”

“Not him.”

“That’s a bit rigid.”

“Galimore worked that case, all right. Wouldn’t surprise me if he took part in the cover-up folks are talking about. He’s probably jumping in now to protect his sorry ass.”

“Or he has a genuine interest in finding out what happened to his investigation?”

Hawkins was in full rant mode and in no mood to listen.

“Why the interest now after all these years? Could it be you’re getting to the truth and he wants to keep you close? Whatever Galimore’s motive, he’s acting solely in the interest of one person. Cotton Galimore.”

At that moment my phone rang.

Snorting his disgust, Hawkins turned and strode down the hall.

Without thinking, I picked up the receiver.

“Dr. Brennan. I’m glad I caught you.”

“I was just about to leave.” Not true. But I didn’t want another sermon. Especially from the likes of Special Agent Williams.

“I’ll keep it brief.”

“Why did you confiscate the landfill John Doe?” I decided to take the offensive.

“I explained the bureau’s reasoning to Dr. Larabee.”

“Ricin contamination.”

“Yes.”

“The ricin toxin isn’t contagious.”

“It was not my decision.”

“Was it your decision to cremate the body?”

“That was an unfortunate error.”

“What about my bone plugs?”

“What about them?”

“Were those samples also destroyed?”

“It is my understanding they’d been placed in the same body bag.”

“Could it be the bureau doesn’t want this man ID’ed?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Ted Raines turn up yet?”

Williams knew what I was asking. Did the bureau suspect that the landfill John Doe was the missing man from Atlanta?

“Not that I know of.”

“Odd coincidence. Raines working for the CDC. The John Doe showing evidence of ricin poisoning.”

“Indeed.” I heard what sounded like a ballpoint pen being clicked repeatedly. “I understand you talked to J. D. Danner.”

“Nice hair.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I could handle the groceries myself.”

A beat. Then, “I have been authorized to reveal certain sensitive information. Dr. Larabee already has it. He asked me to share it with you.”

I waited.

“In 1996 the Patriot Posse came to the attention of the FBI. The group was small and strictly local, but intel was that certain members were becoming radicalized, perhaps plotting acts of violence.”

“Which members?”

“That’s not relevant.”

“Danner?”

The pen. Click. Click. Click.

“Lovette?”

“No.”

“What was their alleged target?”

“This information is strictly confidential.”

“Oh. Wait. I’ll cancel my tweet.”

“According to our source, the posse was planning to contaminate the water supply of a nearby town.”

“Why?”

“Two gripes. The presence of a women’s clinic that provided abortions. The election of a black woman as mayor.”

A mélange of anger and disgust soured my stomach. I reached for the Diet Coke.

“At the time Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette vanished, the posse was under surveillance,” Williams went on.

“You had someone inside?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Was it Lovette? Gamble?”

Williams ignored my questions. “Our intel also suggested that members of the group may have had ties to Eric Rudolph.”

“Did they?”

“We were unable to establish that fact with certainty.”

Click. Click. Click.

“The posse disbanded in 2002, but the bureau has continued to track some of its members.”

“J. D. Danner?”

“Danner now heads a much bigger organization called the Loyalist Movement. The group has several thousand followers throughout the Southeast.”

“Who are they?”

“Extremists who believe that the federal government deliberately murdered people at Ruby Ridge and Waco, and that door-to-door gun confiscation could begin any day. Their ideology is less white-supremacist than in the nineties, though many have now turned their venom toward followers of Islam. What holds the group together is anger at the government.”

I pictured the Tommy Bahamas, the sapphire ring, the RX-8. “Danner looked pretty flush.”

“The Loyalist Movement is well funded, and Danner skims a big chunk off the top. But make no mistake. Though he lives well, Danner is committed. The guy’s cunning as a fox and dangerous as typhoid.”

“Why are you sharing all of this now?”

“To keep you in the loop.”

“You want nothing in return.”

“Normal professional consideration.”

“Uh. Huh.”

With that, we disconnected.

Right, I thought. Who’s the fox?

After chugging the dregs of my Diet Coke, I got MCME 239-11 from the cooler.

The I-485 creek-bed skull was covered with moss and missing its entire face and most of the base. Copper staining, remnants of adipocere, tissue turned crumbly and waxy due to the hydrolysis of fats, and the presence of a shriveled mass of petrified brain told me I was probably looking at an old coffin burial. Without more contextual information, there was little I could say.

I was jotting a request to Hawkins for information about cemeteries in the vicinity of the creek bed, when my iPhone rang.

Katy.

I clicked on.

“Hey, babe. What are you up to?”

“Working late.” Her tone suggested a need to vent. “As usual.”

“Same here. Anything interesting?”

“Mind-blowing. I can hardly stay in my chair.”

“Oh?” I ignored the heavy sarcasm.

“Some guy’s in the running for most flagrant tax-fraud artist of the year. I get to plow through boxes and boxes of his papers.”

“Getting any good ideas?”

“With my salary? What would be the point of tax evasion?”

“Will you finish tonight?”

“I won’t finish until I’m ready for Medicare—one of the few systems this creep didn’t scam. Here’s a good one. He’d buy first-class airline tickets, then turn them in for a full refund and buy coach. But he’d submit the first-class receipts for tax purposes.”

“Not all that original.”

“OK. How about this one? He set up some sort of tax-free bank accounts for his kids’ education. But before they went to college, he drew out all the money. And never told Uncle Sam.”

“Isn’t the IRS able to track that sort of thing?”

“I’m probably missing something. It was complicated. And just one of the many cons el creepo got away with for years.”

I heard an intake of breath. Assuming Katy had more to say, I waited.

“Um. Have you talked to Ryan lately?”

“He’s pretty tied up with Lily.”

“How is she?”

“Eh.”

“How about Charlie Hunt?”

“He’s busy composing the world’s most brilliant closing argument.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Then she blurted, “I think he’s seeing this other lawyer in the office. They work late a lot. Together. And they just left. Together. All chatty and smiley.”

I felt a cool fizz in my chest.

“That’s fine. Charlie and I have no commitment to each other.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“No.”

A little beep told me another caller was trying to get through.

“Gotta go, sweetie.”

“Come by my cubicle sometime. Reach in and take my pulse.”

I was still chuckling when I clicked over to call waiting.

The sobs put a choke hold on my mirth.

“Tempe, I do hope it’s OK to call you.” Tremulous. “I didn’t know where else to turn.”

“I’m at the ME office, Summer.”

“I am super, super sorry. You have such a kind nature, and I fear I am abusing it.”

Thinking decidedly unkind thoughts, I began gathering my things.

“The wedding is now a complete disaster.”

When I tossed my purse onto the desk, my wallet popped out. The page with Rinaldi’s code stuck out like a bookmark.

“Pete’s ideas are completely worthless. He chose green napkins. Green? Can you imagine?”

“Mm.”

Desperate for distraction, I teased the paper free and spread it flat with one palm.

ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU

Wi-Fr 6–8

“One of my bridesmaids is pregnant and can’t wear the dress. That’s Mary Gray. How could she do that to me?”

Galimore’s interpretation of the second line made sense. Rinaldi was interested in the contradiction in time line presented by Grady Winge and Eugene Fries. I focused on the first line.

“Sarah Elizabeth can’t get to Charlotte in time for the rehearsal. How can you have a wedding without a rehearsal?” Warbly.

Summer blew her nose loudly. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Sarah Elizabeth has always been horribly thoughtless.”

My lower centers sat up.

What? Napkins? Pregnant? Rehearsal?

I stared at the alphanumeric string, only half-listening to Summer’s whining.

Mary Gray.

Sarah Elizabeth.

My mind strained, on the verge of a breakthrough.

“I swear.” More wet sniffling. “I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.”

I ran through my conversation with Katy.

IRS? Airline tickets? Bank account?

I dug deep.

Dots connected.

I knew what was needed to decipher Rinaldi’s note.