Shadows of the Dead--A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

  It only takes him a moment.

  “They’re mostly around the head of the chair.”

  “Exactly! I’m guessing this is where he made the molds.”

  It’s a solid statement, but leaves some room for doubt, meaning it’s still an open question. The seven distinct shines on the chair tell me everything I need to know, but I’ve found that it’s sometimes better to present an investigator with a possibility they can prove, rather than a fact they can only support.

  “There are three boxes there on the floor,” I say, pointing to the cardboard legal boxes. “Inside, you’ll find the original mold for each victim.” George takes this in, as do the others, who are hanging on every word of our exchange. “Do you have gloves?”

  George holds up a pair of blue latex gloves and then snaps them on. He knows exactly what I want. Opening the nearest box, he gingerly removes one of the molds and holds it up high, so everyone can get a look. The back side of the mold is rough and undefined, but as he turns it around, the concave impression of a woman’s face presents itself. The detail is breathtaking; a moment frozen in time with such precision that even her eyebrows show definition.

  “You asked how I know they’re dead,” I say to George in a sobering tone. Tipping my head toward the mold, I ask, “Do you see any holes for the mouth or nose?”

  This realization and its meaning sends a shudder through the room. There’s a long moment of quiet. At length, George kneels and places the mold back into the box, as if afraid to hold it any longer. He composes himself quickly and asks, “What type of material is that?”

  “We think it’s an alginate impression material used by dentists, something called Mirror Image. It’s the stuff they use to make a mold of your tooth when they’re preparing a crown or a replacement. It’s also popular with crafters because it captures every detail. There was an unopened container of it in Murphy’s backpack when we captured him yesterday. At the time, we had no idea what he was using it for.” I glance around the interior of the room. “Now we do.” Gesturing toward the kitchen, I add, “There’s an empty package in the sink that I flagged.”

  “If the masks are plaster, why not make the molds of the same material?” someone asks from the back of the group. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”

  “You’re looking for logical actions from an illogical mind,” Jimmy explains. “Murphy believes he found some way of saving broken women; he told us as much. Maybe the type of mold-making material is important to that process, we just don’t know. But I guarantee you this, these masks and the mannequins on which they’re displayed are all part of it. They all play a role, at least in Murphy’s distorted reality.”

  “How messed up is this guy?” another voice interjects.

  Jimmy gives a resigned nod. “He’s a barely functioning psychotic.”

  Glancing at the older woman who asked the question, then at the others, he adds, “We plan on having another talk with Murphy Cotton first thing tomorrow morning. It’ll be interesting to hear his explanation for all this.” He waves his hand around the room, as if to encompass it.

  When Jimmy steps back a single pace, I take it as my cue to continue.

  “Obviously, there are parallels between these death masks and those found on the rats Jimmy mentioned earlier, the ones in Murphy’s fifth-wheel,” I say. “In his mind, he probably perfected his system experimenting on the rats, and then applied it to the victims. How much of this was influenced or directed by the Onion King is speculation. He’s the wild card in all this.”

  Walking slowly through the living room, I pause near the front door. “Now we’re going to take a short walk through the woods,” I say, “to the … to the place.…”

  I don’t know how it happens or why, but the words escape me. It’s not like I haven’t seen my share of nastiness during my time with the Special Tracking Unit. I’ve been witness to every manner of horror the human mind can conjure, the images of which still come to me in nightmares.

  Yet this is different.

  It’s downright sterile in comparison. Perhaps that’s why it bothers me to my core. Murphy’s victims haven’t just been killed, they’ve been erased.

  “Let me show you something,” I finish in a quiet voice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The bail bond agency on South Lincoln Street in downtown Port Angeles is housed in a run-down storefront that was once a music shop, a barbershop, a video store, and a sandwich shop. There were more failed ventures before that, but who’s counting?

  The cleanest, or perhaps just the brightest part of the building is the neon BAIL BONDS sign over the front window, and the equally neon OPEN sign next to the door. The inside doesn’t look much better than the outside. The ancient wallpaper is peeling from a dozen locations, and the layers of mildew around the front window give the place a grimy look that seems perfectly in sync with many of its customers.

  If the dingy office were a worn-out left shoe, the fortysomething woman behind the desk would make it a pair. Her mottled complexion matches the wallpaper and her frayed hair complements the worn shag carpet. Like the room, she smells of cigarette smoke, is in desperate need of a makeover, and looks twenty years older than her true age.

  “Bail was set at two thousand dollars,” Jill Carver says into her cell phone. “Our fee is a straight ten percent, so two hundred.” She listens for a moment as the person on the other end grouses about the cost. “That’s industry standard,” she replies a moment later, not really caring what the guy thinks. “It’s either that or you can post the full two thousand in cash. Sure, you’ll get it all back—eventually, as long as your friend shows up for court.”

  She listens a moment. “If he doesn’t, the court keeps your money.” There’s another pause, and then she says, “That’s what I thought,” and picks up a pen. “Will that be Visa or Mastercard?”

  * * *

  In the United States, the legal practice of releasing someone on bail dates back to the colonies and was based on English law. Simply stated, it allows a person to surrender money or other property to the court to secure their release from custody while they await their trial. This money or property guarantees that they’ll show up, because if they abscond—also known as bail jumping—the court keeps every dime.

  Not such a big deal if the bail is five hundred dollars for shoplifting, but if it’s twenty thousand for burglary you’re talking some real money. Only the most serious of crimes creep into six- and seven-figure territory. These are reserved for serial rapists, bank robbers, major drug dealers, murderers, and other hard-core criminals.

  In forty-six of the fifty United States, a commercial bail bondsman can post bail on behalf of an individual—for a nonrefundable fee, of course. By doing so, the bondsman is on the hook for the full amount of the bond if the subject doesn’t show up on the appointed date.

  Interestingly, the business of posting bail on behalf of another is illegal in the rest of the world.

  As Jill Carver punches in Arthur Bedlington’s Visa number, she’s not worried about his friend showing up for court. Almost all do, mostly because they might need her services again in the future. That’s one bridge you don’t want to burn.

  For those who skip bail, well, Jill has a few special friends who are adept at tracking down those who don’t want to be found. The modern term for them is bail enforcement agent, or just bail agent, but most people still call them bounty hunters.

  “Okay, Mr. Bedlington. I’ve processed your payment and verified your friend’s bail amount with the jail. These things take up to an hour, but I’ll try to expedite this for you.” She listens a moment. “No, if you’re picking him up you can head over to the jail now.… That’s correct.… As I said, I’ll try to expedite things on my end.”

  She has no intention of expediting anything, but Mr. Bedlington doesn’t know that, nor does his incarcerated friend. As far as Jill is concerned, the process takes however long the process takes, and if you don’t like it, don’t bre
ak the law.

  * * *

  The path to site two is illuminated by three light stands that are spaced about forty feet apart. Each has four adjustable lights that can be pointed up or down and rotate 360 degrees. Power is provided by the second generator, the hum of which grows louder as we make our way along the lit path.

  Earlier in the afternoon, while the winter sun was still with us, we cleared the path of branches, broken limbs, and other debris as we anticipated the coming darkness and the long night ahead. One of the deputies showed up with a small chain saw and spent the better part of an hour clearing away the larger obstructions. The result is a walkway free of hazards, even in the dark.

  Other hazards are not so easily mitigated.

  For this reason, the Evidence Response Team routinely travels with a large assortment of containers that store the various items they may need while in the field. One of these containers is devoted to nothing but safety clothing and biohazard gear, everything from disposable coveralls and shoe covers to high-end encapsulated suits made of PVC.

  * * *

  An opaque plastic fifty-five-gallon barrel stands alone at site two.

  Here is the final element of Murphy’s so-called “fix,” and as the truth of this place becomes shockingly apparent to all those gathered around, you can see the expressions on their faces begin to change.

  “We’ve all seen body dumps before,” I say. “This is … no different.”

  Even as I say the words I know it’s a lie. The bodies of those who die violently are subject to the atrocious imaginations of their killers, but this usually means a shallow grave or a dumpster or a secluded spot under a pile of brush in the forest.

  This is different.

  Murphy is nothing if not efficient, and there’s nothing quite as efficient when it comes to body disposal as dumping the remains in a barrel and then dissolving them with lye, provided you know how to safely handle corrosive chemicals and have a good place to dispose of the resulting sludge.

  “Careful where you step,” I say quietly, pointing to the ground.

  The team members are so intensely fixated on the plastic fifty-five-gallon barrel that they haven’t bothered to look where they’re stepping—a cardinal sin for crime scene investigators. Still, you can hardly blame them. Only now, with the quiet prompting of my cautionary words, do they look down for the first time, staring with little comprehension at first, but then you see recognition in their eyes; finally, they understand.

  Before them is a place of death.

  As I watch them, I know exactly what they’re feeling, for the same overwhelming sense of horror swept over me when I first cast eyes upon the scene. It’s here that our seven victims ceased being human, their forms corrupted and washed away. The manner of their disposal seems to have affected everything around us, so that even the earth has a withered and spent look. The ferns that once flourished have long since vanished, and the place carries with it an odd smell—not necessarily of death, but neither is it life. It’s a pungent in-between, the smell of purgatory.

  Murphy’s Misery, it seems, touches all things.

  * * *

  In the light from the LED lamps, the members of the Evidence Recovery Team take in the small patch of choked earth before them. The ground is littered generously with small bits of white here and there—a wash of scattered stones, or so it seems. Most are not much bigger than a kernel of corn … only these are no kernels, nor are they stones.

  “He dumped the sludge here on the ground,” I say. “By then, all that was left was calcium from the teeth and small bits of bone.” Turning, I walk over to the fifty-five-gallon drum and stand to its side. Even now, in the artificial light, one can see through the opaque drum and tell that it’s filled nearly to the top with a brownish liquid, as if a barrel of weak coffee has been brewed up and now awaits approval.

  I gesture toward the plastic drum, careful not to touch it. “We’re assuming victim number seven is still inside. As you know, sodium hydroxide, better known as lye, dissolves a body fairly efficiently. Unfortunately, it also means we won’t get any DNA from the teeth or bone, so we’ll have to rely on swabs from the face molds and the clothes.”

  What I don’t tell them is that I can see the shine of all seven victims around the upper lip of the barrel. No doubt Murphy struggled to get them into the container. A dead body is an awkward thing, and moving one around takes patience and strength. After carrying them from the cabin, he would have been tired, and most likely he laid them on the edge of the barrel before repositioning and pushing them the rest of the way in.

  The barrel would have been empty as he did this.

  It’s simply too dangerous to drop a hundred-and-thirty-pound corpse directly into a ready-made mix of lye and water; the splash it would create could be disastrous. Murphy would have known this, since he obviously did his homework; he would have known that one misjudged splash could burn or even blind him.

  Every recipe has its order, and for human tea, that order calls for a body first, followed by a few gallons of sodium hydroxide, which is readily available in any hardware store in the form of ordinary household drain cleaner. After that, all Murphy had to do was top off the barrel with water and let simmer.

  * * *

  With both crime scenes examined and explained, we divide the group into two teams based on the special skills required at each site. Shepherd takes lead on the division of labor. He knows the capabilities of each member of his crew in shocking and comprehensive detail and has already assessed the requirements of each crime scene and the best person for each task. With little fanfare, he calls out names and team assignments with such prompt efficiency that in less than two minutes everyone knows exactly where they need to be and what they’ll be doing.

  And that’s it.

  The serious business of evidence collection commences, and a new mood settles over the forest. As I walk back to the cabin, it occurs to me that I’m now the fifth wheel. The gathering has suddenly evolved into a double date: two forensics teams, and two crime scenes. It’s unlikely that anyone will need a tracker at this point.

  I’ll make myself available, of course. If I can help, I’ll help, but it’s unlikely that I’ll be much good to either team. Besides, anything I could have learned or discovered has already been identified. I had four hours to explore the area while we waited for the Evidence Response Team to arrive. There’s nothing left for me to find.

  Just as this discouraging thought begins to beat me over the head, a sudden revelation dances across my brainpan, something that will help us identify the victims, even if we don’t manage to extract any usable DNA. Hurrying up the path, I spot the back of the young lab tech’s head.

  “George!” I call out. And when he pauses and turns, I hurry to close the distance. Grabbing him firmly by the elbow, I guide him forward, saying in a quiet voice, “You’re in charge of crime scene photography at the cabin, right?”

  He gives me a puzzled look. “Yeah; why?”

  “Just grab your camera and meet me inside.”

  “Dude, I can’t just grab my camera. I’ve got diffusers, light meters, measurement scales, a variety of lenses and filters, an electronic flash, tripods, and an angle-finder. On top of that, I’ve got to log every image—”

  “Yeah-yeah-yeah,” I say impatiently. “Just get it and meet me inside.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tuesday, December 16

  Jimmy is in a mood when we start the drive to Port Angeles the next morning.

  I could blame it on exhaustion, but we’ve had worse—and we did manage to grab a few hours of sleep in Halsted’s fifth-wheel. Still, the quality of one’s sleep is just as important as the quantity, and if Jimmy’s dreams were anything like mine, they included the recurring image of a melting woman crawling out of a fifty-five-gallon drum.

  Not exactly the lullaby to a restful night.

  “Hope this is worth it,” Jimmy says from the driver’s seat.

&nb
sp; It’s just the two of us. Jason was gracious enough to loan us his Ford for the interview with Murphy Cotton. The overnight search at the cabin turned up nothing new—if that were the case, a forty-five-minute drive to Port Angeles to see a mentally unstable suspect would be the last thing on our to-do list.

  Jimmy is optimistic about a second interview with Murphy, but Jason doesn’t share his enthusiasm. With the activity at the cabin still in full swing, he and Nate decided that they needed to stay at the crime scene and see things through.

  “It’s just gas and time,” Jimmy mutters to the steering wheel.

  The words aren’t really meant for me, and seem to have no meaning or origin, since we weren’t talking about gas or time. In fact, we weren’t talking about much of anything. Perhaps he’s running scenarios through his head, playing them out, trying to figure out the best way to crack open the nut that is Murphy Cotton.

  “It’s just gas and time,” I echo.

  The words stir something in Jimmy, and he glances over at me, as if emerging from a trance. “Murphy’s just half our problem,” he says with hard resolve. “If we don’t figure out who the Onion King is—if we don’t stop him—we’ll have more of what we saw yesterday. He’ll find someone else to do his bidding and we’ll be right back where we started. That’s why it’s important that we get through to Murphy, get him talking.” He throws his hands in the air. “I just don’t know if we can.”