Bones in Her Pocket: A Tempe Brennan E-Short Read Free Page B

hand, indicating he should skip the comments on Kahn.
    “Blount posted a bunch of boom-boom DIYs on YouTube. Going for an Oscar in dumbfuckery.”
    “Does he have a record?” I made a mental note to check out Herman Blount’s stylings on sabotage.
    “String of minors. Criminal trespassing. Vandalism. Destruction of property. Got busted for spiking trees about eight years back, did a bump with the feds. Caused $400,000 in damage to logging equipment. Dumb moob left prints all over the spikes.”
    “Any crimes against persons?”
    “Iredell County cops like him for two nonlethal pipe bombs. One at a chinchilla ranch, another at a joint that offs dogs so surgeons can learn how to cut. The guy’s slippery as goat snot. Nothing’s sticking so far.”
    “This is only a prelim, but the bones in the bag look good for Edith Blankenship.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Black female, early to mid-twenties. I’ll need dentals for a positive.”
    “Any signs of trauma?”
    “No. But I’m guessing she didn’t zip herself in to go for a dip.”
    “You’re thinking body drop?”
    I nodded.
    “Still don’t mean murder. She could have OD’ed, or had some other kinda accident, her pals panicked and off-loaded the body.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Why’d she surface?”
    “As a corpse decomposes the body cavity fills with methane gas produced by bacteria in the gut. The bloating, helped by flooding, likely floated the bag.”
    “You’re always so full of sunshine, doc.”
    “An experienced killer would puncture the gut and intestines, then weight the container so it stays down. Blankenship was amateur hour.”
    Skinny opened his mouth to comment. I didn’t let him.
    “Find anything linking Blount to Blankenship?”
    “They’re into the same save-the-Earth shit.” Slidell pulled a small spiral from his jacket, spit-thumbed a few pages, and read. “Blankenship’s enrolled in the environmental sciences master’s program at UNCC. Before that she worked for Impact Watch, a nonprofit that studies the effects of development on wildlife in western North Carolina. Their HQ is in Mount Holly.”
    “Right up the road from Mountain Island Lake.”
    I raised my brows. Skinny raised his.
    “Who reported her missing?”
    “Grandmother.” Slidell’s eyes dropped to his notes. “Ada Wilkins. Blankenship lived with her. Went to school one day, never came home.”
    “Who caught the case?”
    “Hoogie Smith. He says Blankenship was a loner. Didn’t work, no boyfriend, no besties. Father was never in the picture, mother was dead. He followed up what leads he had. Interviewed a few profs, Ada Wilkins, some of her neighbors. Wilkins admitted her granddaughter had taken off once before, after the mom died. The kid had no credit cards, nothing like that. Everyone figured she got fed up and legged it out of town.”
    “Cell phone?”
    “Traced to a tower near UNCC the morning she went missing. Then the thing stopped working.”
    I knew what happened when the leads fizzled out. Blankenship’s folder went into a stack with other MP files. Was buried deeper and deeper as the pile grew higher.
    Slidell jerked the spitty thumb at interview room three.
    “I don’t want to spook this toad. You watch from two.”
    I did as directed. Sat at the table with my arms crossed.
    In seconds a small monitor kicked to life and tinny sound began sputtering through a wall-mounted speaker.
    Blount looked up as Slidell crossed the room. He wasn’t what I expected. Surfer-dude blond hair, chiseled features, electric blue eyes. Save for the ratty beard, he looked more Christian quarterback then eco-saboteur.
    And Blount had obviously seen some gym time. Broad shoulders. Upper arms the size of utility poles. Washboard abs beneath a long-sleeved T.
    Slidell took a seat. Placed a folder on the table. One by one withdrew pages. Positioned them neatly. Slowly read. Or pretended to. I knew the routine. Put the interviewee off balance by making him wait.
    “I’ve done