Flash and Bones - Kathy Reichs [27]
“But it doesn’t explain how ricin got into our John Doe,” Larabee said.
“That’s the stuff that killed Georgi Markov.” I referred to a Bulgarian journalist murdered in London in 1978.
“I doubt our John Doe was ass-stabbed with an umbrella.” “Markov was jabbed in the leg,” I said.
Larabee gave me a look.
I thought a moment. If ingested, inhaled, or injected, ricin causes nausea, muscle spasm, severe diarrhea, convulsion, coma, and ultimately, death.
“Ricin poisoning would fit your autopsy finding,” I said.
“And would explain the interest of the feds.” The phone rang. Larabee ignored it. “The military has been studying ricin for years. They’ve tried coating bullets and artillery rounds with it. They’ve tested it in cluster bombs. I did a quick check after this thing came in.”
He flapped a hand at the fax. “Ricin is listed as a schedule-one controlled substance under both the 1972 Biological Weapons Convention and the 1997 Chemical Weapons Convention.”
“But other toxins are much more effective bioweapons. Anthrax, for example. You’d need tons of ricin compared to a kilo of anthrax.” I’d read that somewhere. “And ricin breaks down relatively quickly. Anthrax spores can remain lethal for decades.”
“The average person can’t lay his hands on anthrax. Or botulin. Or tetanus. The castor bean plant is a friggin’ ornamental. Any loon can grow it in his garden.”
I started to comment. Larabee wasn’t finished.
“Close to a million tons of castor beans are processed every year. About five percent of that ends up as waste containing high concentrations of ricin.”
“So how’d our John Doe die of ricin poisoning?” I asked.
“And end up in a barrel of asphalt in a landfill in Concord?”
“And where the hell is he?”
Without a word, Larabee put his desk phone on speaker and jabbed the buttons. Ten beeps, a buzzy ring, then Hawkins’s voice answered.
“Can’t survive without me, eh, Doc?”
“Sorry to bother you on your day off.” Taut.
“No bother.”
“This may sound odd. But we can’t find the body from the landfill.”
There was no response. In the background I could hear the cadence of a televised baseball game.
“You there?”
“I’m here. Just trying to figure the question.”
“MCME 227-11. The man in the asphalt.”
“I know who you mean.”
“Dr. Brennan and I can’t locate him.”
“’Course you can’t. He’s gone.”
“Gone?” Larabee was twisting and untwisting the receiver cord with his free hand.
“A funeral home came and got him.”
“I didn’t sign for release of the body,” Larabee snapped.
Joe answered with silence.
“Sorry. I just want to understand.”
“The FBI agent. I forget his name—”
“Williams.”
“Yeah. Williams. You said give him what he needs. That’s what I did.”
“Meaning?”
“He took your tox samples on Saturday. Called Sunday, said a van was coming, that I should prepare the John Doe for transport. Took all the X-rays, too.”
“The body left the morgue yesterday?”
“The paperwork’s there, Doc.”
Larabee’s eyes met mine. “Thanks, Joe.”
Larabee cradled the receiver.
Together we hurried to Mrs. Flowers’s station.
“Did Joe leave a transfer form yesterday?”
Mrs. Flowers flipped through her in-box, pulled a paper, and handed it to Larabee.
“What the hell’s SD Conveyance?” Larabee spoke as he read.
“Never heard of it,” I said.
“Special Agent Williams signed for the body.”
“Not a funeral home?”
“No.” Larabee thrust the paper my way.
Behind us, Mrs. Flowers had gone very quiet. I knew she was listening.
“This is outrageous. The medical examiner must operate independently. I can’t have government agents waltzing into my morgue and confiscating remains.”
Sudden synapse.
“You said the government is interested in ricin as a potential bioweapon.”
“So?”
“Ted Raines works for the CDC.”
“The guy who went missing last week?”
I nodded.
Catching my implication, Larabee began pacing.
Mrs. Flowers watched, eyes shifting like a spectator’s at a tennis match.
“Sonofabitch.” Larabee’s face had gone crimson.
“Don’t have a heart attack,