Carved in Bone - Jefferson Bass [119]
Three hours later, I pulled up in front of KPD headquarters, and Art bounded down the steps and leapt into my truck. He seemed like a different person from the morose man who had called me earlier. He was wearing an expression unlike any I’d ever seen on his face before: excitement, horror, amusement, disgust, all rolled into one.
“You’ve practically got canary feathers hanging out of your mouth,” I said. “Spit it out—what’s up?”
“I just got a call from Bob Gonzales,” Art said. “He couldn’t reach you at home or UT, so he called me instead.” Bob Gonzales had earned his Ph.D. with me about ten years ago—no, more like fifteen now. These days he was the staff forensic anthropologist for the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology, which boasted one of the world’s biggest and best DNA labs. Art and I had overnighted the hair and follicle samples Art had “gathered” from Tom Kitchings’s scalp, along with femur cross-sections from both Leena Bonds and her baby, as well as cheek swabs from Jim O’Conner.
“He’s got results already? That’s fast. DNA tests usually take weeks.”
“I reckon he’s still shooting for extra credit. Once a Brockton student, always a Brockton student.”
I was glad to hear that. “Anything interesting?”
“Oh, maybe a couple minor points of interest.” He paused, clearly savoring the suspense. “For one, your pal O’Conner’s in the clear, at least in terms of paternity. Not a chance in a zillion that baby was his.”
“Not surprising, but glad to hear his story checks out. What’s the other thing?”
Art was thinking. Not always a good sign. “Did you ever see that Jack Nicholson movie Chinatown? The one with Faye Dunaway?”
“Long time ago. Main thing I remember is how good Faye Dunaway looked without her clothes. That, and how much it would hurt to have Roman Polanski slit open your nostril.”
“Those would be the two things you’d find memorable,” Art said. “See, I mainly remember the interrogation scene. Nicholson’s trying to get Dunaway to tell him the truth about who this mystery girl is, and he starts slapping her around.” He began jerking his head from side to side, reenacting the scene, affecting what I could only guess must be a Faye Dunaway voice. “‘She’s my sister. She’s my daughter. She’s my sister. She’s my daughter. She’s my sister and my daughter!’”
My brain was still preoccupied by Faye’s curvaceous torso. “So what you’re getting at is…?”
“The baby—a boy, by the way—he’s the sheriff’s first cousin, once removed. Leastwise, I think that’s what you call the child of your mother’s sister’s daughter. Whatever—that much of the DNA profile is exactly what you’d expect. The sheriff’s mother and his Aunt Sophie had the same parents, so the daughter, Leena, is going to have some DNA from the maternal side and pass it along to her baby. As I say, that part’s exactly what you’d expect.”
“But there’s something else you wouldn’t expect?”
“Well, maybe I should have, this being Cooke County, Tennessee. But no, I never saw this one coming.”
“Damn it, Art; what is it?”
“Besides being Sheriff Tom’s cousin, Leena’s baby was also gonna be his kid brother.”
Suddenly Faye was the last thing on my mind. I wanted to be sure I wasn’t misunderstanding. “In other words, according to the DNA profile…”
“…which Gonzales said was a rock-solid match…”
“…the baby’s father…?
“…was Tom Kitchings Senior. The Reverend—or not-so-Reverend—Thomas Kitchings.”
I floored the gas pedal, and the truck careened around the on-ramp and up onto I-40 East.
Even with the windows rolled up, I had trouble hearing Art’s question over the buffeting of the wind. The truck was doing ninety-five, and a gusty autumn wind was whipping out of the north, ripping red and gold leaves from branches, driving purplish clouds before it, their tops curling like ocean breakers. “You’re sure this is a good idea?” he shouted.
“Sure I’m sure,” I yelled, with more confidence than I felt.
“So tell me one more time why we’re charging back toward Cooke County like Batman and Robin? Talk slow—last time you explained it, you lost me on one