The Bone Thief: A Body Farm Novel-5 by Jefferson Bass

school who was selling off bodies and body parts was about to be indicted.”
    Price nodded reluctantly; she opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.
    “Hang on, let me finish. The med-school guy was committing fraud, is that it? Altering donor charts or falsifying financial records to hide the fact that he was making a fortune off a postmortem chop shop?”
    “That’s exactly what he was doing,” she said. “He would indicate that a body was unsuitable for use by the school, report it as cremated, and then sell it to Tissue Sciences. He took cash under the table—seven thousand per body, and he admitted to selling thirty-one bodies over the past three years. He paid cash for a big boat and a Mercedes convertible. For a guy with no college degree and no formal medical training, he was living large.”
    “And you’re hoping Tissue Sciences will offer me that same sort of deal? Big bucks for bodies? Payola for parts?”
    She nodded. “Technically, this is still Newark’s case, but if we can bring you in, a lot of the focus would shift to Knoxville, and Special Agent Rankin would serve as our lead agent. We’d begin gathering evidence here, starting with recordings of every conversation you have with Sinclair or anybody else at Tissue Sciences.”
    “You’d tap his phone lines?”
    “Actually, what we do is ask you to record all your conversations with him,” Rankin said. “We’d need a court order to do a wiretap, but in Tennessee, if one party to a conversation consents to recording the call—that would be you, we hope—it’s legal to record it. So if you’re willing, we’ll attach a recorder to your office and home phone lines. All you have to do is hit a button when you get a call from the guy.”
    “What if he calls my cell phone?”
    Rankin looked at Price, and she nodded, so he went on. “Actually, with your permission we can record your cell-phone conversations with him, too, by routing them through our engineering lab up in Quantico.”
    “So it gets you the same evidence as a wiretap, but you don’t have to jump through the legal hoops to get it?”
    “Pretty much,” he conceded.
    “And was your med-school diener recording his calls with this guy Sinclair?”
    Rankin nodded.
    “Any chance he made a deathbed warning call to Sinclair from some other phone?”
    “Unlikely,” he said. “We recorded a conversation they had only a few minutes before our source had the heart attack. Only other call he made before he died was to 911. He didn’t have an opportunity to spill the beans. He was too busy dying.”
    “Any chance his heart attack was triggered by something other than fat and laziness? Maybe something somebody slipped into his coffee?” I thought of Leonard Novak, unsuspectingly swallowing the capsule that killed him. “Or into his vitamin pills?”
    Rankin looked pained. “Also unlikely, but remotely possible.”
    “What doesthat mean?”
    “No poisons showed up in the toxicology screen at his autopsy,” he explained, “but his potassium level was abnormally high. And a massive dose of potassium can trigger a heart attack. But as I say, he was on the phone with Sinclair at Tissue Sciences shortly before he keeled over, and Sinclair talked like they’d be doing business for a long time.”
    “Maybe so,” I pointed out, “but your snitch talked like that, too. Maybe they were both acting.”
    Rankin shrugged; there was no way to disprove that possibility. “Either way, Sinclair’s a bad guy. Besides his med-school source, we think he’s buying bodies from funeral homes and crematories. And we’ve got some indications he’s buying kidneys from poor people overseas—living donors—then selling the organs to rich Americans and Europeans, patients who’ll pay top dollar to jump to the front of the line for a transplant.”
    I felt my resistance weakening. “I can’t help you bust him for that,” I said, “since none of my donors have transplantable kidneys. But