After reclaiming her room at the motel, still uncleaned from her earlier departure, Michelle drove to the Daisy Diner for her own breakfast now that she was staying a while longer. Hunkered down in a booth with her device, coffee, and waffles, she devoured Jonah’s file and began her research.

She retrieved all the public records on Cyrus Link, tracked down all the court records for his various scrapes, scanned the names, started building a database, cross-linking names, dates, addresses, phone numbers.

This is going to be fun.

“What are you smiling about?” Jeanette stood in front of her with her coffee pot.

Michelle looked up, startled. “Just a work thing,” she covered.

“How’s your brother doing?”

“Really well. Looks like I’m staying a few more days. I love the school.”

“They are some special, wonderful people. Top you off?”

“Sure.” Michelle held up her mug and Jeanette filled it then moved on. Michelle stretched her fingers, cracking her knuckles, then returned to her work, fingers flying.

Using different aliases with varying credential levels, she touched several more databases, zipping in to retrieve employment history, credit reports, and one of her favorites, consumer profiles. Each time, she used an identity with sufficient clearance to get what she needed and no more, using all her skills to move like a ghost through the databases so as not to leave an audit trail that might tip off her competition. She constructed a matrix of datapoints, oriented her hounds, and turned them loose to hunt around the web for other leads.

This was what she learned from Jonah, the thrill of the chase, applying good old intuition, creativity, and time-tested human pattern recognition to the assembly of a story file. Though many journalists lauded the power of their AI programs to monitor the datastream to find stories and make connections, there was nothing better than the actual hunt, sometimes literally running down leads, chasing sources, and cornering a target, physically and with unassailable facts of malfeasance.

Back in the office, Jonah still maintained fat folders of actual paper clippings, organized under his own peculiar cross-referencing system. Using Tink and her hounds, Michelle did the same thing, cruising through databases across the web, assembling information, then applying her own analytics to it, combining, sifting, reorganizing, creating her own visualizations, webs of interconnected data, until patterns emerged, which then indicated new paths of inquiry. It suddenly occurred to her that they looked very similar to the puzzle pieces at Adam’s school.

A portrait of Cyrus Link emerged that was remarkably ordinary: a divorced man living a hard and lonely life, barely scraping by, effectively abandoned by his family, some legal entanglements, but nothing criminal, and no relationships that might lead to unpleasant violence. This left two possibilities: random violence, which was certainly common enough, or something to do with this fossil he claimed to have found.

She read the local coverage of the fossil, made note of a quote from a local academic at Idaho State University in one of the articles expressing skepticism, as well as Cyrus’ open solicitation of interest from fossil collectors, looking for financial reward.

Time to go see Cyrus’s house.

***

Michelle parked the car in the rutted, uneven gravel patch in front of Cyrus Link’s house and studied the scene. The yellow police tape still barred the way onto the porch, but otherwise the house appeared unremarkable, neglected and forlorn. The wood siding warped in spots, mangy with patches of gray wood showing through peeling paint, the roof snaggle toothed with missing shingles, the porch sagging subtly on the far corner. The gravel drive led further around the side of the house to a large barn, more recently painted and in better repair.

She looked around, getting a feel for the isolation, the distance from the road, the light. The sight lines were broken up, reassuring her that it was safe to explore without interruption.

She ducked under the yellow tape and walked across the porch, peering in the windows. She moved to the side of the house, stepping carefully around loose and broken boards, then the back, assessing the doors and windows, looking for easy access. She surveyed the backyard, out into the surrounding farm fields.

Nothing but fields and in the far distance, brown and gray plains out to the mountains on the horizon. She turned back to the house and approached the back door. She pulled a tissue from her purse and gingerly grasped the doorknob. It opened easily, another fact filed away. Emboldened by success, she entered.

In the bright early morning sunlight, there was no need to turn on lights. From long practice, she was careful not to touch anything, treading lightly, soaking up details. The living room was unremarkable, the large television, the recliner, the disheveled desk. She turned to the dining room off the kitchen. A lone chair sat turned away from the table. Using the ball of tissues in her hand, she pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and stopped at the sight of the smeared blood on the floor, taking in the details. Three holes were clearly visible in the faded linoleum. Ah, the scene of the crime.

She stepped into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the blood smears and continued her survey. The kitchen had a lonely feel, an impression of former warmth and vitality, now faded and neglected by bachelor sloth. Children’s drawings on curled, yellowed paper drooped from the refrigerator door; a box of canning jars on the floor next to the broom closet, open and overflowing with empty grocery bags; containers bristling with kitchen tools all pushed to one side on the counter; cross stitch patterns in frames on the wall; a dusty dream catcher hanging in the window over the sink; a bin overflowing with Bud Light bottles.

She maneuvered around the perimeter and surveyed the room from different angles, then worked her way around to the sink. She looked out the window over the sink to the small barn in back, putting that next on the list of explorations. Her eye scrutinized the empty area around the sink on the otherwise crowded countertop, an oasis of order in the otherwise unkempt room. She stepped back and confirmed that the clean sink and adjacent countertop were discordant with the rest of the picture, a lacunae in a scene of dusty clutter. What’s missing here?

She noted faint streaks on the surface of the counter from an attempt to clean up, centering around the side of the sink with the grinder. She squatted down to put her eyes at counter level and looked across. Wipe marks surrounded the sink, clearly highlighted by a faint residue of white powder, easy to discern in the slanted light streaming through the window. She resisted the urge to sample the powder with her finger and filed it away. She stood and looked around the room one more time. She stepped around and looked again at the surface from a variety of angles. She picked up a dishrag and used it to open the cabinet doors and drawers, finding nothing of note beyond kitchen utensils, tools, and dishes.

Turning her back to the sink, she sank to a squat, inspecting the floor. She put one hand down and leaned over, looking sideways across the room, throwing every defect and imperfection of the flooring into relief. Along the perimeter of the room the linoleum curled up at the edges due to failing adhesive beneath. She stood up and stepped carefully, using the rag to open the remaining cupboards and drawers, then peered inside the broom closet. What am I missing?

She turned back to the window and stared off, thinking. Then she went out to the barn.

The door was also unlocked, and inside she found a small work area, and further back, equipment storage. A tractor was parked near large double doors in the back, surrounded by tools, irrigation pipes, parts for pumps, buckets of broken equipment, rusted tools, tires, old implements. The work bench was piled high with repairs, half-completed projects, and the ample evidence of a capable mechanic long used to making do with repairs, patches, and workarounds. Directly in front on the work bench sat an opened bag of DAP plaster patch, a plastic measuring cup still in the bag, the same white powder scattered around the bag. She turned and looked around and saw a five-gallon plastic bucket caked with dried plaster sitting by the door, swirling lava flows of ivory chalk congealed inside. Newspapers covered the floor, speckled with plaster drops and smears. She looked around for other evidence of plaster used inside the barn and saw nothing.

A craft project? It didn’t seem likely, given the evidence of the occupant’s other interests. It looked recent, something just undertaken. Completed? Sensing a connection to the powder in the kitchen, she walked around the room, searching high to low, opening containers, moving objects, trying not to disturb too much, but looking carefully for any sign of other recent activity, finding nothing amongst the dusty tools and containers. She took one more look around and went back to the house. She made a quick pass through all the rooms without touching anything.

Standing in the doorway, she assessed the assembled facts so far. Blood and bullet holes in the kitchen, the murder scene, the locus of activity; evidence of some effort to clean, focused on the sink; the police wouldn’t have disturbed the scene like that, would they? She would need to assess their skills and professionalism; some white powder by the sink, incompletely cleaned up, similar to the plaster mix in the barn, connecting the two locations; the rest of the house, a picture of disheveled loneliness, undisturbed by deviations from routine or attempts at basic housekeeping; except here, in the kitchen. She turned to survey the room again.

An asymmetry on the floor underneath the cupboards caught her eye. She stepped around the perimeter and knelt down, then leaned on one hand to peer beneath the small overhang of the lower cabinets. Wedged between the curled linoleum and the molding along the base of the wall was a yellowed sliver. She carefully picked it out and examined it. Hard, one side curved, the other jagged and irregular, clearly a fragment of a larger object. What do we have here?

She stood up and went back to the drawers and opened the one she saw held the wraps and baggies. She took out a small plastic bag and put the object inside, then into her pocket. She looked around the kitchen again, eyes settling on the sink and the clean up around the grinder. She put her hand in her pocket, feeling the rough edge of the fragment through the plastic of the baggie, the uneven surface tickling her intuition.

She headed back to the barn, convinced now of a connection between the kitchen and the barn. She searched again, this time slower and more methodical.

About a third of the way around the room, she found it.

Standing on her tip toes, she felt along a high shelf, her fingers brushing against multiple hard objects, one wrapped in paper. She dragged over a folding step stool and climbed up. Large fragments of plaster lay concealed from direct view at the back of the shelf.

His project? Smaller pieces showed impressions of rows of teeth, others shallow indentations. Wrapped inside the wad of newspapers was a larger lump of plaster. She picked it up and stepped down off the stepstool. She unfolded the newspaper and turned the piece of plaster over. On the underside was a perfect impression of a row of curved sharp teeth, atop most of one side of a jawbone. The smaller fragments appeared to be the remnants of earlier unsuccessful attempts at the molding process. Although the impression was only of one side, it was enough to illustrate the unusual characteristics of the original.

This must be a cast of the fossil from the news reports. But where is the original?

Michelle’s heart thumped as she gingerly turned it over in her hands. Thinking of the anthropology professor in the local article, she re-wrapped it in the newspaper and tucked the wad under her arm. She hurried out, carefully closing the door and covering up any signs of her presence. She re-checked the kitchen door was closed as she found it, then returned to her car and drove away.

In the car, she set the autopilot, then worked her tablet, fingers flying. She found the anthropology professor at ISU, called his office, and made an appointment for the next day.

Michelle reached into her purse and pulled out the piece of plaster wrapped in the newspapers. It was clearly a part of a jaw, some kind of large animal with very sharp teeth. She fished the fragment out of her pocket, took it out of the baggie and held it with the cast. She maneuvered it into the depressions, trying to find a spot where it might fit, looking for a possible connection between the two objects. She pushed it around, nesting it into this curve or that indent, but it never seemed to quite match.

She looked up and saw she was approaching Rexburg, so she wrapped the cast back up and put the fragment back in her pocket.

On impulse, she stopped by the McJames School to check on Adam, but was reminded of the proper visitation procedures. The receptionist was able to reach Ashley, who gave her a positive report. Reassured, she headed back to the motel.

If only her parents were around to see Adam’s new school. Her mother had been obsessed with finding a way for him, but so suspicious of everyone’s intentions and hidden agendas, especially after the first few times of being burned by “alternative” therapies. Her frustration with the lack of progress always was at war with her distrust of the charlatans and snake oil peddlers constantly preying on the desperation of parents trying to help their children. Her father had been so patient supporting his wife while concealing, not always successfully, his disdain for many in the community and their passions. Her father’s analytical, dispassionate approach, very much like Adam in some ways, was the counterbalance.

And now, though she really didn’t seek it out, it was Michelle who found something that might work. She pushed away the burst of sad regret that her parents would not know and be proud of her.

Back in her room, she took out her tablet and messaged Connie.

“I wish I’d done this years ago,” Michelle said with a laugh.

“Stop beating yourself up. It’s a new school. It wasn’t there years ago, even if you wanted to do it. He’s there now. Be happy!”

“Believe me, I am. It’s just…I’m beginning to wonder what it will be like to have my life back. I can start hanging with you guys more. I really missed that.”

“You haven’t missed much. Everyone’s getting married or working too hard. But it will be good to see you out more.”

“Seriously, you guys were my lifeline. I owe you so much. I don’t think I told you that enough.”

“Yes, you did, but please, more! More! Now, just get your ass back here.”

“Soon, soon… but it looks like I’ll be out here a bit longer.”

“What’s up?”

“Work. Can’t tell.”

“Oooh, aren’t you sneaky. C’mon, just a hint.”

“Nah, nah, nah. Listen, got to run. I’m starving. Oh, and I met a boy. Sounds like we may have crossed paths back in Chicago.”

“And?”

“Might get together again. He’s in grad school at Loyola.”

“What? What’s he doing out there?”

“Family, temporary job. I think we’ll have dinner.”

“Can’t wait to hear the details. Love you. Check in.”

“Will do. Love you, too.”

Michelle closed the connection, considered texting Arlo, then immediately thought about the dark man in the car at Adam’s school who looked just like the Moor from the bar, the one they teased her so much about. She started to call Connie back to tell her about him, but stopped.

Later.

Her new case kept demanding her attention, and she spent the next several hours working on leads, watching the clock to return to the school to be with Adam again.

Chapters 30 and 31