Might the Dewees case turn out to be nothing more than improper disposal of a human corpse?

I ran through alternative explanations for the unilateral neck trauma I was seeing on the man in the trees. The same explanations I'd considered for the man from Dewees.

Fall? Strangulation? Whiplash? Blow to the head?

Nothing made sense, given the type of fracture and its location.

I was still pondering when Emma burst through the door.

"We've got him!"

I turned from the scope.

Emma waved a printout at the skeleton. "Gullet ran the prints through AFIS." The Automated Fingerprint Identification System. "Our boy popped right up."

The name she announced blew vertebral fractures right off my radar.

12

"NOBLE CRUIKSHANK."

"Sweet Jesus."

If my reaction surprised Emma, she let it go.

"Cruikshank's a retired Charlotte-Mecklenburg cop. But that's not why he was in the system. CMPD rookies are printed at their academy, of course, but the prints are kept in-house. Cruikshank was arrested in ninety-two for DWI. That's when he was entered."

"You're certain it's Cruikshank?" Stupid. I knew the answer to that.

"Twelve-point match."

I took the printout and read Cruikshank's descriptors. Male. White. Five foot six. DOB put his age at forty-seven.

My skeletal profile fit. Body condition was consistent with two months' exposure. Of course it was Cruikshank.

Noble Cruikshank. Buck Flynn's missing detective.

I studied the photo. Though grainy black-and-white, it gave a sense of the man.

Cruikshank's skin was pockmarked, his nose humped, his hair combed straight back and curled up on the ends. The flesh was starting to sag along his jawline and cheekbones, and he was probably carrying less poundage than he would have liked. Still, the expression was pure macho tough guy.

"Noble Cruikshank. I'll be damned."

"You know him?"

"Not personally. Cruikshank got booted from the force in ninety-four for getting in bed with Jimmy B. He was working private when he went missing last March."

"And we're privy to this because…?"

"You remember Pete?"

"Your husband."

"Estranged husband. Pete's been retained to investigate some financial dealings at GMC and also look into the whereabouts of the client's missing daughter, who was involved with the organization. Before he hired Pete, Buck Flynn, that's the client, hired Cruikshank. While conducting his inquiry, Cruikshank vanished."

"Pete's a lawyer."

"That was my reaction. Pete's Latvian. Flynn's mother was Latvian. Flynn trusts him because he's one of the clan."

"Flynn's kid disappeared here?"

"Presumably. Cruikshank's specialty was missing persons and his patch was Charleston and Charlotte. Helene Flynn, that's the daughter, was a member of GMC, where Buck was a major donor."

"Aubrey Herron. There's a piece of work. Flynn didn't get curious when his investigator stopped reporting?"

"Apparently Cruikshank had a history of binge drinking."

"Flynn hired a drunk?"

"He didn't know that until after he hired him. Found Cruikshank on the Internet. Thus his subsequent preference for a member of his own Baltic gene pool."

Emma voiced the question I'd been asking myself.

"What was Cruikshank doing with Pinckney's wallet?"

"Found it?" I threw out.

"Stole it?"

"Got it from someone who found or stole it?"

"Pinckney said the wallet disappeared in February or March, right around the time Cruikshank killed himself."

"Presumably," I said.

"Presumably. Maybe someone found the body hanging in the woods and planted the wallet on it."

"Why?" I asked.

"Practical joke?"

"That would take a pretty morbid sense of humor."

"To create confusion when it came time to ID the deceased?"

"The wallet was in the jacket pocket, right? Maybe Cruikshank borrowed, found, or swiped the jacket and never knew the wallet was there. Did Pinckney say anything about losing a jacket?"

Emma shook her head.

"And why wasn't Cruikshank carrying any of his own personal effects?"

"The truly suicidal often leave their belongings behind." Emma thought a moment. "But why the Francis Marion forest? And how did Cruikshank get out there?"

"Astute questions, Madam Coroner," I said.

Neither Emma nor I had any astute answers.

I held up the AFIS printout. "Can I keep this?"

"That's your copy." As I laid the paper on the counter, Emma said, "So your Mr. Cruikshank has hanged himself."

"Pete's Mr. Cruikshank," I corrected.

"Is Pete here in Charleston?"

"Oh, yeah."

Emma cocked a lascivious brow.

My response would have made the cut for the U.S. Open of eye rolls.

It was close to nine when I got back to "Sea for Miles." Two kitchen counters were covered with peaches and tomatoes. Tuesday. I assumed Pete had stumbled onto the Mount Pleasant farmer's market.

Pete and Boyd were in the den watching baseball. The Twins were whupping Pete's beloved White Sox 10-4. The Sox had been the team of Pete's Chicago boyhood, and when they placed their AAA farm team in Charlotte, Pete was resmitten.

"Cruikshank's dead," I said, without preamble.

Pete sat up and gave me his full attention. Boyd kept his eyes on a half-empty popcorn bowl.

"No shit?"

"Hanged himself."

"You're sure it's Cruikshank?"

"Twelve-point AFIS match."

Pete moved a pillow and I dropped to the couch. As I described my adventures with Pinckney and then with the man in the trees, Boyd oozed toward the snack food, one body hair at a time.

"How did Cruikshank get this other guy's billfold?"

"Who knows?"

"Emma intends to have another heart-to-heart with Pinckney?"

"I'm sure she does."

Eyes on Pete, Boyd tipped his head sideways and brushed his tongue across the popcorn. Pete relocated the bowl to a table behind our heads.

Ever the optimist, Boyd hopped onto the couch and pressed his weight against my side. Absently, I rubbed his ear.

"No question Cruikshank offed himself?" Pete asked.

I hesitated, remembering Emma's and my lack of astute answers. And the sixth cervical vertebrae.

"What?"

"It's probably nothing."

Pete chugged the remains of his Heineken, set down the bottle, and assumed a listening posture.

I described the hinge fracture on the vertebra's left transverse process.

"What's so odd about that?"

"The injury is inconsistent with hanging, especially given the fact that the noose was positioned behind, not to the side of the skull. But it's more than that. The Dewees skeleton has an identical fracture in the same location."

"Is that a big deal?"

"I've never seen this trauma pattern before. Then I find two instances in one week. Don't you find that suspicious?"

"Explanation?"

"I have several, none persuasive."

"Indecision is the key to flexibility."

Boyd placed his chin on my shoulder, positioning his nose inches from the popcorn. I eased him sideways. He lay down across my lap.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"Isn't this great?" Big Pete grin. "Just like real married people."

"We were real married people. It wasn't great."

"We're still real married people."

I nudged Boyd. The chow moved across our laps and pressed against Pete. I started to rise.

"OK. OK." Pete held up both hands. "I poked around up at GMC today."

I settled back. "Did you talk to Herron?"

Pete shook his head. "Dropped a lot of scary words. Litigation. Mismanagement of charitable funds. Pot to piss in."

"Chilling."

"Apparently. I have an appointment with Herron on Thursday morning."