“No longer can unqualified individuals hang out their shingles, call themselves experts, and practice without oversight. Without adherence to rigorously verified standards.”
The other speakers sat behind her in well-behaved silence. To either side of them, screens displayed projected images of the logos of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and the Marriott Wardman Park Hotel. Flanking the screens were stairs to ground level.
“This year’s conference is titled ‘Reliable Relevant and Real Forensic Science.’ Anthropology. Pathology. Toxicology. It doesn’t matter the section. That trifecta is the goal of everyone here.”
At the base of each set of steps, an electrified sign indicated an exit. In her peripheral vision, she noticed two men shape up in the red radiance shed by the one to her right.
“As each presenter in this plenary session has so aptly demonstrated, we are working hard to achieve that goal. For law enforcement. For the courts. For justice. I thank you for your attention. And I wish you an informative and enjoyable conference.”
There was a swell of applause as the houselights came up. More than the usual courteous clap. Long and heartfelt. Those behind her rose and gathered their notes, faces saying they were pleased with themselves. And relieved. The presentation had been well received by a very tough crowd. Their colleagues. The audience began to disperse. The aisles filled and the murmur of voices picked up volume.
As she closed her laptop, the two men climbed the treads and crossed toward her. Each wore a navy suit, white shirt, and tastefully understated tie. Black socks, shiny shoes.
Approaching the podium, the pair fanned out slightly. The guy who stepped left was tall and burly and had a nose that looked like it might have been broken. More than once. His shaved scalp gleamed like polished mahogany under the stage lights.
The guy who stepped right was close to her height. He had heavy dark brows over very small eyes, thick black hair, olive skin.
“Dr. Temperance Brennan?” Dark Brows’s voice was surprisingly deep for a man of his size.
“Yes.” Guarded. She suspected their purpose, accepted consults only through formal channels. “And you are?”
“Special Agent Pierre Dupreau.” Displaying a badge to prove it.
“Bonjour,” she said.
No hint of a grin.
“I speak English,” she said.
Nope.
She looked at Broken Nose. He badged her with the same wrist motion employed by his partner. Special Agent Byron Szewczk. She wondered if Szewczk envied Dupreau his abundance of vowels.
“Are you armed, Dr. Brennan?” Dupreau, little eyes scanning her body for telltale bulges.
“Excuse me?”
“Are you carrying a—”
“The question was clear. I want to know why you posed it.”
Sensing tension, a few stragglers eyed them while pretending not to.
“We’d like you to come with us,” Dupreau said, voice lowered a hair.
“No.”
“I’m afraid we must insist.” Dupreau, steely.
“I’m afraid I must decline.” Brennan, steelier.
Dupreau withdrew a photo from one navy pocket and handed it to her. A beat to indicate annoyance, then she glanced down at the image.
The subject was male, white, probably midforties. His hair was center parted and held back with a binder. Black plastic-framed glasses sat low on his nose. A camera hung from his neck. He looked like a middle-aged uncle who enjoyed shooting wildflowers in his spare time.
Brennan’s eyes rolled up, one brow cocked in question.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know him,” Dupreau said.
“I don’t know him,” Brennan said.
Dupreau’s gaze cut to his partner. Szewczk wagged his head slowly, clearly disappointed.
“Lose the theatrics,” Brennan said. “Who is he?”
“Jonathan Yeow,” Dupreau said. “Until yesterday, an investigative reporter with the Washington Post.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Yesterday, Yeow’s house cleaner found him in his kitchen, asphyxiated with a plastic bag over his head.” Delivered with an impressive level of disgust. “Murdered.”
“I’m sorry for the man’s misfortune.” Handing back the photo. “But his death has nothing to do with me.”
“Au contraire.” Flick of a smile, no humor. “Your prints were on the plastic bag.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Let’s go.” Dupreau’s tone now carried an aggressive edge.
“May I phone my attorney?”
“I definitely would.”
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1320 EST
THE D.C. METRO PD STATION to which she was transported was on Indiana Avenue in northwest Washington. It was a solid concrete bunker in a neighborhood of solid concrete bunkers, some more so than others. Small red plaza out front, swatches of lawn that would look better come summer, ditto the few optimistic trees. Old-timey lampposts. Droopy flags.
They parked her in an interview room containing the usual table, chairs, wall phone, two-way mirror, and audio-video recording equipment. An hour of fuming, then the door opened and a woman entered. She wore her hair drawn back in a very tight bun, a black pantsuit, size elf, and sensible pumps. Her briefcase said lawyer. Her visitor tag said V. Luong.
Brennan had explained the situation by phone. They got straight to it. As Brennan talked, Luong listened, ears sharp. Attorney ears. Now and then she asked a question.
“You’re certain you’ve never met Mr. Yeow?”
“Absolutely. But I know the connection these yaks have jumped on. Yeow was investigating a suicide that occurred back in the eighties. A man named Calder Massee.”
Luong’s eyes rounded in surprise. “The air force bird colonel who shot himself in Germany?”
“Yes. Massee was discovered dead in his car behind the Hotel Bremerhof in the town of Kaiserslautern in March of 1987. The coroner’s ruling was death by self-inflicted gunshot wound.”
“Who performed the autopsy?”
“A German pathologist.”
“Were you even out of grad school in ’87?”
“Just. But I wasn’t involved in the original analysis.”
Brennan worked the keys on her laptop. Which she’d managed to retain thanks to Luong’s intervention.
“The Massee family went ballistic. They insisted the suicide finding was a cover-up because Calder had been wrongly accused in an espionage case. They claimed he’d been shot in the back of the head, execution style. Said they had an eyewitness to prove it.”
“I remember this.” Luong was jotting notes on a yellow legal pad. “Some relatives were very adept at working the media.”
“That’s an understatement. They called press conferences, volunteered for interviews, appeared on every talk and news show airing at the time.”
“So where do you come in?”
“Massee had three brothers. The youngest was obsessed. After the media lost interest, he took out ads, wrote op-ed pieces, set up blogs and Internet pages, put pressure on his senator and congressman, you know the drill. Over the years, every conspiracy theorist on the planet joined in the fight to have the case reopened. Long story short, in 2012, a government commission was formed. I was recruited to direct an exhumation and examine the remains.”