Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  “An inside job?” speculated Captain Weatherby, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.

  I had no evidence against it, but said, “not necessarily,” anyway. “Could just be a coincidence.”

  The Captain raised a suspicious eyebrow at me and returned his attention to the video tour.

  Nitro examined the X-rays closely. There were a couple angles of the head so they could see the skull properly. “Adult male. I count five missing teeth, two molars, a bicuspid and two wisdom teeth. Some unfilled cavities on a few others. So the man had some dental coverage for a while, but either lost it or couldn’t afford to use it anymore.” A change in deductibles and copays can often cause someone to appear to have lost insurance coverage. Any number of things could prevent someone from getting dental work done. “And that large hole in the back of the skull is probably COD. Can’t see enough details in the X-ray to make out probable weapon, though.”

  “Very good, Dr. Thackery,” said Dr. Zumperfeld. “Our calculations also show the victim was five feet seven inches tall and weighed approximately 163 pounds. He suffered from osteoporosis, making his bones less dense than normal. His body mass index was nearly exactly the same as the density of the cheese overall.” His thin arm reached up to switch off the light box before he led Nitro over to the desk in the room. He swiveled the monitor around so it would be seen by the visual pickup. “We removed the remains from the cheese and photographed the body. Warning: this is quite graphic.” He paused, letting anyone viewing the video to decide to close their eyes. Captain Weatherby did, but I was sure he’d seen it before. He didn’t need to see it again. That fact gave me some pause, but I felt I needed to see it anyway. After a moment, Dr. Zumperfeld pushed a button and the forty inch monitor lit up with the image of the victim’s head. Between the close-up and the unhealthy coloring it was quite jarring in the white room. It probably could not be used for identification. The skin was blotchy, the skull bloated and deformed. The hair was sparse. There was a two-day growth of beard on his cheeks and chin, the eyes closed. Dr. Zumperfeld continued to narrate. “The victim was wearing denim overalls, a shirt of homespun linen, and black socks. All the items were threadbare and in need of mending.”

  “No shoes?” asked Nitro.

  The doctor shook his head. “If the suspect was trying to approximate the mass of the cheese to avoid detection at the weigh in, the type of footwear he likely wore, high workboots, would have been quite heavy. Personally, I doubt it would have set off alarm bells, but the suspect apparently thought it might. In any case, we were also able to establish that the victim was placed in the cheese press post-mortem. No solids were found in the lungs.” He pushed a button which changed the view to the back of the head, where an alarmingly large hole allowed a view of the decaying brain matter inside. “Later, a .45 caliber bullet was extracted from deep within the occipital lobe, near the junction with the temporal lobe, although both lobes sustained considerable damage.”

  “Execution style,” Nitro supplied, his brow furrowed. “Do we have an identification?” While Nitro was fascinated by the medical findings, he was also impatient to get to the conclusion.

  “Our reconstructionist does excellent work,” Doctor Zumperfeld replied, “but positive ID could not be established at this point. We took DNA samples. However, the victim’s DNA was not in our database.”

  Nitro bounced, excited about being able to contribute. “It won’t be an American citizen. The cheese was formed in Ireland. Did you expand the search through Interpol?”

  Dr. Zumperfeld turned off the monitor and I was glad to be relieved of the image of the horribly decayed body. “The victim is Patrick O’Shea.” I heard a drumroll play in my head. “He operated Begorah Farms, the dairy farm that produced the wheel of Durrus for the White House.” I was glad I was sitting down. Even though it was not entirely unexpected, it was still shocking to hear it. How he ended up in his own wheel of cheese was going to be our mission, I suspected.

  “The poor man,” I muttered. A simple farmer, trying hard to make a living in a remote area of Ireland, who couldn’t afford the dental work he needed, but he invested the time and energy to produce a wheel of cheese for America’s Big Block of Cheese Day. Perhaps his income from the commission on the cheese wheel was meant to pay for the dental work, or maybe he even needed the money for simple necessities like food for his family or his cows. Did he live long enough to feel any pride for this accomplishment? He had to have built a special cheese press just for this, must have sacrificed gallons and gallons of precious milk from his dairy cows, must have slaved long hours cooking and stirring. The image of the cheese making was making me feel nauseous, so I forced myself to shut it down.

  I was expecting Dr. Zumperfeld and Nitro to proceed to the next room, dimly lit on the video feed, where a large glass tank was draped with a black cloth, but the M.E. spun the monitor around and turned it off, indicating with a wave that they were to return the way they had come.

  “There are a few other findings, which I will explain in the LEL’s office,” I heard Dr. Zumperfeld say. “This way.”

  A few minutes later the office door opened and the two walked in, closing the door behind them. There were only the two chairs. Badger stood, offering his chair to Nitro, and joined Roger. Their fingers played with each other a bit before they clasped hands. I offered my chair to Dr. Zumperfeld but he waved me back down. “No, no, please sit.” He reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out a sealed Ziploc bag. Inside it was a small piece of metal. He handed me the bag to examine. “This is the bullet that was extracted from Mr. O’Shea’s brainpan. It entered at a downward angle, indicating the suspect is likely three to four inches taller than the victim.”

  “Unless the suspect forced the victim to kneel, which is common in an execution of this type,” said Nitro.

  Roger corrected him. “That would make the height difference more than a foot. The angle is too acute to be more than four inches.”

  “That’s, of course, assuming everything else is normal,” added Badger. “O’Shea might have been standing downhill, or the shooter might have been standing on a footstool, or he may have held the gun at a weird angle because of an arm injury, or—.”

  I cut him off. “Let’s not speculate, Badger.” I played with the bullet in the bag. It was deformed by the impact, but still a sizeable projectile. Finally, I put the bag on the Captain’s desk. “Is there anything else?”

  “I’ve sent our findings to your head office at the CDC. There may be more once the bones are cleaned, but it takes the dermestid beetles several days to consume that much flesh.” That must have been what was going on in the covered tank. I was thankful for the black cloth. “Dr. Thackery, do you have any questions?”

  “You’ve been very thorough,” said Nitro. “Thank you. Your team must have worked around the clock to gather this much information so quickly.”

  I turned to Roger. “You don’t even look tired.”

  “I was on another case, actually, but Dr. Zumperfeld kept me in the loop. For the last several days, I’ve been consulting by satellite on multiple autopsies in Springfield, Illinois.”

  “That’s my home town,” I admitted, feeling surprised, delighted, and a bit frightened all at the same time. I could feel both Badger and Nitro looking at me. Nitro had heard about the exhumations, but Badger had not. “I got word a few days ago that there had been what my mother called ‘unauthorized bodies’ found in one of the cemeteries there,” I explained quickly. “My father is one of the people exhumed during the excavation to search for more evidence.” I turned in my chair to face Roger. “I haven’t been able to get much information. My ex-husband is there with my mother, but I guess they aren’t releasing details to the public. I don’t suppose…?”

  Roger absorbed all this information quickly. “I’m not sure I can, actually.”

  I bit my bottom lip. So close and yet so far.

  Captain Weatherby rubbed his bald head. “We could
argue that Ms. Montana’s worry about her home town situation was distracting her from her current investigation.”

  I twisted back toward the Captain’s desk. “That makes me sound less than professional, sir.”

  “Then you probably don’t want to go with the begging and pleading on your knees idea, either,” suggested Badger.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Care to hold us at gunpoint?” Roger offered.

  I shook my head, indicating my lack of weaponry.

  “I have an idea, but it’s kind of out there,” said Nitro.

  “What is it?”

  “Ask.”

  “But –“

  Nitro continued. “Butte and your mother are waiting for information to be released. They are family members. If they asked, they’d have all the information they wanted.”

  “That doesn’t sound right. Does it count as family when it’s just the roommate? I mean, the focus is the extra bodies, not the occupants they were sharing with. Maybe we should consult with Roxy,” I said, starting to pull out my phone. I dreaded having to explain the situation again, but I didn’t want to break confidentiality rules, either.

  “Oh, to hell with it,” said Roger. “I’ll take responsibility.” I tucked the phone away again and gave Roger my undivided attention. He continued, “A total of seven bodies were found, but excavation has been halted. The bodies range from mid-twenties to mid-forties and have been in the ground from six months to nine years. Only four autopsies have been completed.” He paused, knowing, I’m sure, that the information that most interested me was cause of death. “Of those four, all of them died of Obstruction. The remaining three are totally skeletonized. No soft tissue remains, but we can’t rule out Obstruction. One of them, a male of about 25 years old, has a hole in the back of his skull consistent with a 9mm caliber bullet. Keep in mind, the bullet hole is not going to be released to the public.”

  The details made me think of the joke about the woman whose four husbands all died of eating poisoned mushrooms. Her fifth died of blunt force trauma to the head because he wouldn’t eat the poisoned mushrooms. Could someone be forcing people at gunpoint to consume Uber? They would have to keep it up for weeks or months before death occurred. It didn’t really make sense.

  Nine years ago, Uber was barely known. An accidental death might have made someone feel guilty enough to hide a body. But since then, what would make someone not report an Obstruction case, or go to the trouble of disposing of the body in secret? While millions have died from Obstruction caused by Uber, it was unheard of as an MO for murder. And the newest victim had only been dead six months, but the oldest nine years? Whatever it was, it had been going on for a long time. On the other hand, it was an exceedingly slow pace for most serial killers. Seven in ten years was less than one annually, not indicative of an anniversary motivated kill, but too sparse for crimes of passion or compulsion.

  I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but Roger second guessed me. “None of them show signs of a struggle, not so much as a broken fingernail other than the bullet wound. They were found wrapped in pieces of white linen, unembalmed, they decayed fairly rapidly.”

  “Why would someone kill with Uber? I mean, selling or distributing Uber is one thing, but as a murder weapon it doesn’t make sense. It takes too long.” Badger commented.

  “Has the behavioral unit gotten involved yet?” asked Nitro.

  “Not officially. Why?”

  “It’s clean,” he said. “It’s the cleanest weapon known. The Uber effect even blocks post-mortem evacuation.” And thanks so much for the reminder about the biology of death, I thought.

  Roger straightened. “You’re right about that. I’ll be sure and mention it in my next consultation.

  Identifications have been completed, but not all the families have been notified yet. That’s probably why nothing’s been released locally. All seven matched someone on the missing person’s list.”

  “All local residents?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Roger confirmed. “If you put me in your contact list, I can notify you of anything else, but it’s got to be confidential, you understand? If your mother or your ex call and want to know what you know, you can’t tell them. I’d get in big trouble.”

  “It might be moot soon enough. Springfield will probably be our next mission and then we’ll be authorized for full information. The Body in the Big Block sounds like a simple murder.” We traded phones and put our information in. “Thank you, Roger. I’m mostly worried about it because it’s making my mother so upset.”

  “Crocheting?”

  I stared at him. Was crochet a common outlet for anxiety and I didn’t know it?

  “Badger told me,” he said, returning my phone.

  I gave him back his, still mystified, and turned my stare to Badger.

  “Hey, we might need cozies someday. And I’m all thumbs.” He held up his thumbs, which were abnormally muscular, though they didn’t look it. With a phone in his hands, it was like his thumbs merged with the machine.

  “Thank you, Roger.”

  Simultaneously, I got a sharp pain in my arm and my phone vibrated in my pocket. Badger got the same, so it must have been very amusing to the rest of the people in the room to hear the two of us go “Ow!” and turn to our phones. Mine had still been in my hand. The home screen vanished and lit up with the face of Miss Chiff. I knew that back home, at HQ, the large television in the living room was lighting up as well and the members of the team that were there were gathering and rubbing their upper arms.

  “Good day, team A,” said Miss Chiff. “I’ve received the results from the ME’s office and forwarded the reports to each of you. The victim in the Durrus is Patrick O’Shea. He owned and operated the dairy farm which provided the Durrus to the White House. You’ll see full details in the report. You are all to proceed to the CURDS1 for immediate departure to Ireland.”

  The usual response is, “Yes, Ma’am. Right away, Ma’am.” I said, “But there’s no Uber. Isn’t there some other case?”

  “There is always another case, Helena,” she admitted. I heard papers shuffling and her tone was frazzled. “I sometimes wish that instead of the tech upgrades I should have asked for more teams. We have a poppy grower in Colombia who suddenly bought two dozen dairy cows, a neo-Aztec drug cartel in Mexico investing large amounts in milk futures on the NYSE, and North Korea is threatening Japan with an Uber ballistic missile. The Durrus is high profile and I want my best team on it. Don’t tell the other teams I said that.”

  I couldn’t ask, but Roger could. “Miss Chiff, Ma’am? What about Springfield?”

  “Which Springfield?”

  “Illinois. There is confirmed Uber involvement there.”

  Silence came from the phone for about a minute. “Mr. Sandoval, is it?” How the hell did she know that? There’s no Caller ID for other people who happen to be in the room.

  “Yes, Ma’am. I was here briefing Ms. Montana on the O’Shea forensics when you called.”

  “I see.” I winced. Roger didn’t work for Miss Chiff, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t get him in trouble for revealing what was probably classified information. “As it happens, that is Ms. Montana’s home town and that recuses her from the case there as per CURDS protocol, as she is no doubt aware.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” I said quickly.

  “I will be sending Team B to Springfield. The CURDS2 has received its upgrade and we can install the new equipment at the Virginia HQ while they are in Springfield. I hope that is the last time I need to explain myself.”

  “Thank you, Miss Chiff. We’re on the way.” I disconnected quickly, feeling a little better about the situation at home now that a team had been dispatched.

  Roger and Badger huddled for a private farewell as I thanked our hosts, shaking hands in turn with Captain Weatherby and Dr. Zumperfeld. Grabbing my jacket, I put it on and zipped up. We came out of the building at mid-morning, with the wind gusting. The sky was gray and it
looked like more snow was on the way.

  Once we got seats on the Metro train, I texted Billings that we were on the way. We’ll be ready, he texted back. I needed to grab my go bag, Nitro needed his field kit which contained extensive first aid as well as Uber testing supplies, and Badger needed to trade in his eyeglasses for contact lenses and get his go bag. HQ was on the way to the airport, so it represented only a small diversion. We could have met them at the airport, but I preferred to stay together. I’m kind of possessive that way. I hated being separated once we were in team mode. Seems silly, I suppose. We’re all adults. But I felt responsible and I wanted to make sure they looked both ways when they crossed the street and didn’t take rides from strangers. It wasn’t just Billings, but it may have been because of Billings that I felt that way. Maybe if my son weren’t on the team, I’d be less protective. Maybe Miss Chiff would have been right to deny his placement on Team A. But it was what it was. But you are, Blanche, you are in that chair, I thought. Or more likely, it seemed to me suddenly, that’s just the kind of leader I am. Aren’t feelings like this a good thing? Why was I doubting it now, of all times?