Bones Never Lie

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I RECEIVED THE message first thing Monday morning. Honor Barrow needed me at an unscheduled meeting.

Not what I wanted, with cold germs rolling up their sleeves in my head.

Nevertheless, coming off a weekend of Sudafed, Afrin, and lemon-honey tea, instead of finishing a report on a putrefied biker, I joined a billion others slogging uptown in rush-hour traffic.

By seven-forty-five, I was parked at the back of the Law Enforcement Center. The air was cool and smelled of sun-dried leaves—I assumed. My nose was so clogged, I couldn’t sniff out the difference between a tulip and a trash can.

The Democrats had held their quadrennial soirée in Charlotte in 2012. Tens of thousands came to praise or protest and to nominate a candidate. The city had spent $50 million on security, and as a result, the ground floor of the Law Enforcement Center, once an open lobby, now looked like the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Circular wooden barrier. Bulletproof glass. Monitors displaying the building’s every scar and pimple, inside and out.

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