The Bone Thief: A Body Farm Novel-5

“Dr. Brockton, this is difficult. I need you to tell me what’s going on here.”

 

 

I was just flipping a mental coin—did the circumstances justify breaking my pledge of secrecy to the FBI?—when the hand of fate snatched the coin from midair: Another government-issue Ford pulled up alongside Morgan’s, and out clambered Special Agent Ben Rankin. He showed Steve his badge, then asked for a word in private. They walked fifty yards down the gravel road, then turned around and walked back up to the vehicles.

 

Whatever Rankin said to Steve during that hundred-yard walk, it was enough to get me out of the TBI agent’s car but not enough to remove the frown from his face. He opened the car door and informed me I could go, adding, “Take care. Good luck.”

 

As Morgan’s Ford fishtailed down the gravel road, Rankin motioned toward his own car.Out of the frying pan, into the fire, I thought. The FBI-issue vehicle at least didn’t smell of spilled coffee. Rankin studied me. “You all right, Doc?”

 

I shrugged, then nodded.

 

“Sounds like you had a rough night of it. All things considered, you look pretty good.”

 

I regarded him with a gimlet eye.

 

“Okay, that was a lie. Actually, you look like hell, but I’m glad you’re alive.”

 

“Thanks. Me, too. Twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t realize what an iffy proposition that was.”

 

“I’ve got an evidence team coming to search the area where you saw the shooter.” He paused. “Sinclair was in Knoxville yesterday.”

 

“No kidding. Even I was able to figure that one out. Where is he today?”

 

“Don’t know. We’re looking. He dropped off a rental car at the Knoxville airport last night and caught a flight back to Newark.”

 

“Christ, Rooster. You guys arrested him three days ago. How is it he manages to fly to Knoxville, fire five shots at me, and then fly back to Newark without anybody at the FBI noticing?”

 

Now Rankin looked as unhappy as Morgan had—and as unhappy as I felt. “He’s out on bail. That means he can go anywhere he wants to. Hell, he could flee the country if he took a mind to.” He saw the expression of dismay and disbelief on my face. “Jesus, Doc, we don’t have the resources to tail all the bad guys all the time,” he said. “We hadn’t picked up anything on the phone or computer taps that made us think he was heading to Knoxville to shoot at you. Sorry, Doc.”

 

I stared out the window, then turned my weary gaze toward Rankin. “What’d you tell Morgan?”

 

“I told him we needed to have a meeting next week—my boss and his boss. I told him you were working with us on a sensitive investigation and we’d appreciate it if the TBI could give us a little room around you. Oh, I also told him we needed that file of photos your assistant gave him. We’ll get them up to the lab in Quantico next week and see if we can still find Sinclair’s prints underneath everybody else’s.”

 

The thought of the photos—and of their being seen by Miranda and Morgan and other people at the TBI—made me heart-sick. “Did you tell him I hadn’t done anything wrong?”

 

“I told him I expected we’d be able to answer all his questions very soon.”

 

“So he still thinks I’m a sleazebag?”

 

“I don’t know what he thinks.”

 

“He thinks I’m a sleazebag. You saw the look on his face when he let me out of his car.”

 

Rankin shrugged. “Maybe he just thinks I’m a jerk.”

 

“And you’re still not willing to tell the TBI or my assistant what’s really going on?”

 

“We need to sit on this until after the grand jury hears it.”

 

“And when is that?”

 

“Tuesday. Just three more days. Once he’s been indicted, we’ll take the lid off. It might not seem like much consolation at the moment, but if the evidence team recovers anything here that ties him to the shooting—prints on the brass, bullets we can match to a gun, tire impressions that match the tread on the rental car—we can add attempted murder to the list of charges.”

 

“You’re right,” I said. “At the moment that doesn’t seem like much consolation.”

 

He made no move to offer anything more.

 

“So do you need me for something else here, or can I go home and sleep for a week or two while my life crumbles around me?”

 

“Go get some rest. But first show me where to send the evidence techs.”

 

Jefferson Bass's books