I went to my purse, pul ed out the card I’d taken from under Cagle’s blotter, and dialed.

“South Carolina Law Enforcement Division,” a female voice answered.

I made my request.

“Hold, please.”

“DNA.” Another female voice.

I read the name from the card.

“He’s out this week.”

I thought for a moment.

“Ted Springer, please.”

“Who’s cal ing?”

I identified myself.

“Hold on.”

Seconds passed. A minute.

“Madam Anthropologist. What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Ted. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“Your section did a case for the Lancaster County coroner about three years ago, headless, handless skeleton.” Again, I read the name from the card, explained that the man wasn’t in. “Walter Cagle did the anthro.”

“Do you have a file number?”

“No.”

“Makes it tougher, but God bless computers, I can track it down. What do you need?”

“I wonder if you could take a look at the amelogenin profile in the case, see if anything looks odd.”

“How soon do you need this?”

I hesitated.

“I know,” Springer said. “Yesterday.”

“I’l owe you,” I said.

“I’l col ect,” he said.

“Margie and the kids might not approve.”

“Point taken. Give me a few hours.”

I gave him my cel phone number.

Next I cal ed Hershey Zamzow at his FWS office in Raleigh.

“I’m curious. Do you know the whereabouts of any of Charlotte Grant Cobb’s family?”

“Cobb grew up in Clover, South Carolina. Parents were stil living there when Charlotte went missing. As I recal , they weren’t too cooperative.”

“Why?”

“Insisted Cobb would turn up.”

“Denial?”

“Who knows. Hold on.”

I twisted the phone cord as I waited.

“I think they were real active in some church group down there, so I suppose it’s possible they’re stil at this address. I only heard Charlotte mention her folks once. Got the impression they didn’t have much to do with each other.”

As I jotted the number, a question occurred to me.

“How tal was Cobb?”

“She wasn’t one of those petite, little things. But she wasn’t what you’d cal an Amazon, either. Guess you heard about Brian Aiker?”

“Tim Larabee did the autopsy here today,” I said.

“Poor bastard.”

“Was Aiker working on something at Crowder’s Mountain?”

“Not that I knew of.”

“Any idea why he might have gone there?”

“Not a clue.”

I looked at my watch. Six-forty. I’d eaten nothing since breakfast at the Coffee Cup with Woolsey.

And Boyd hadn’t been out in thirteen hours.

Oh, boy.

Boyd charged the lawn like the Al ies hitting Normandy. After devouring the cheeseburger I’d bought him at Burger King, he spent ten minutes trying to stare me out of my Whopper, and another five licking both wrappers.