“And Tawny McGee?”
“Tawny has complete androgen insensitivity syndrome.”
“Meaning she has one X and one Y chromosome in every cell in her body.”
“Yes.”
My fingers froze. “Who ran the genetic tests on Tawny?”
“A colleague who specializes in such disorders.”
“He sequenced her DNA? Has biological samples?”
“To access anything in his possession would require a warrant.”
“Of course. May I have the doctor’s name?”
She gave it to me. I wrote it down.
“One last question. How did Tawny feel about Anique Pomerleau?”
“Do you really need to ask?” I heard something hard and sad in her voice.
“Thank you, Dr. Lindahl. You’ve been enormously helpful.”
“I can send literature on CAIS if you’d like.”
“Thank you.”
A hitch in breathing. Then, “Will she be all right?”
I took a moment before responding.
“I don’t know,” I said softly.
After breaking the connection, I hit another button.
“Yo.” Slidell was somewhere with a lot going on around him.
“The killer could be McGee.”
“The spit says she’s out.”
“McGee has a condition that makes her body female, though her genes are male.” As complex as Slidell could handle.
Or more so. There was a very long moment of silence.
“Whoa, Doc. You talk bones, what you say always tracks. But this, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” Had Slidell paid me a compliment?
“Bones never lie. But this. This is fucked up.”
“Look, it all fits. McGee would know the dates of the Montreal abductions. She loathes Pomerleau, yet was with her at the Corneau farm. She’s tall and matches the description of the mechanic.”
“Why target kids?”
“Sweet mother of God! Forget the psychoanalysis and find her!”
“You dealt with McGee. Got any thoughts what name she might be using?”
I started to say no. Stopped. “Pomerleau called herself Q. Called McGee D.”
“Why?”
“Because she was crazy!” Way too sharp. “Q stood for queen. As in Queen of Hearts. D, I can’t remember.” I heard a robotic voice page a doctor. “Are you at Mercy?”
“I’m going back at Yoder.”
“Forget Yoder. Look for McGee.”
Slidell did that noncommittal thing he does in his throat.
“I’m serious. Find her.”
“Probable alias. No known addresses. No credit card purchases to check. No bank account. No mobile phone or landline. No highway pass. No social security or tax payments. No paper or cyber trail at all. She might as well be Alice down the fucking rabbit hole.”
“You’re a detective. Do some detecting.”
I disconnected and hit another speed-dial key.
“Ryan.”
I told him what I’d learned from Slidell. From Lindahl. My theory about McGee.
“CAIS squares with the Y-STR finding?”
“Yes. And the physician who tested Tawny has her DNA on file.” I gave him the name.
“I’ll push for a warrant.”
“Any progress on the license plate?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me know if anything pops.”
Hours passed. I paid bills. Took down the tree and decorations. Finished another goddamn report. Repeatedly checked both phones. Of course they were working.
I called Larabee. Mama. Harry.
No one called me.
Birdie spent the day napping or with his red plaid mouse.
I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t concentrate. When I got up to move, I didn’t know what to do with my arms and legs. Where to look. I glanced at my watch every few minutes.
And the itch was back. The sensation that I was missing something. That my id knew a fact I wasn’t receiving yet.
I returned to the files. The bloody, unyielding files. Surely somewhere in that forest of paper, an answer lurked. Proof I was right. Proof I was wrong.
At four, I went to the kitchen for Oreos and milk. Comfort food. When my eye fell on the phone, a tentacle of guilt slipped free about the call I’d had earlier from Mary Louise.