“The task force is made up of agents from the National Park Service, U.S. Forestry Service, North Carolina Department of Agriculture, North Carolina Wildlife Service, and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. It’s headed by the U.S. Attorney’s Office.” The group went mute as each of us tried to integrate Jansen’s report with my findings. Slidel broke the silence.
“Some mope was dealing snort out of the Foote farm. We know that ’cause we found product in the basement. You’re saying the place was also used for trafficking dead animals?”
“I’m suggesting it’s a possibility,” I said.
“As a sideline to the coke?”
“Yes,” I said cool y. “And the bird was probably alive.”
“And this Agent Aiker might have been closing in,” said Rinaldi.
“Maybe,” I said.
“So the perp gets spooked, kil s Aiker, dumps his head and hands in the privy, and hauls his body to Lancaster County?” Slidel sounded unconvinced.
“We’l know when we get the dental records,” I said.
Slidel turned to Jansen.
“Your Cessna was also flying a cargo of snort. Snort’s heavy time. You get nailed, you do a long stretch inside. Why bother with herbs?”
“Entrepreneurial sideline.”
“Like Brennan’s birds.”
I didn’t bother to comment.
“Yes,” Jansen said.
“Why goldenseal? Why not ginseng, or something grows you hair or perks up your pecker?” Jansen looked at Slidel like she might have eyed a dead spider in her cat’s litter.
“Goldenseal makes more sense.”
“Why’s that?”
“Some people think it masks certain drugs in your urine.”
“Does it?”
“Does a line of coke turn you into a rock star?”
Jansen and Slidel locked eyes. For a few seconds neither spoke. Then Slidel rethumbed his waistband.
“We’ve been gril ing Pounder.”
“And?”
“Maroon’s got the brains of a carp. We’re stil liking Tyree or Dorton.”
“Might have to rethink that.”
The five of us turned as one. Joe Hawkins was standing in the doorway.
“You’d better come see this.”
23
WE FOLLOWEDHAWKINS DOWN THE CORRIDOR AND AROUNDthe corner to the intake bay, where a gurney had been rol ed onto the weigh-in scale. The pouch it held showed a very large bulge.
Wordlessly, Hawkins unzipped the body bag and laid back the flap. Like a class on a field trip, we leaned in.
Gran cal ed it fay, claimed prescience as a family trait. I cal it deductive reasoning.
Perhaps it was Hawkins’s demeanor. Perhaps it was the image I’d conjured in my mind. Though we’d never met, I knew I was staring at Ricky Don Dorton.
The man’s skin was the color of old leather, creased by vertical lines beside his eyes and ears and at the corners of his mouth. The cheeks were high and broad, the nose wide, the hair dead black and combed straight back. Irregular, yel owed teeth peeked from purple, death-slacked lips.