The Blessed Bones

by Kathryn Casey

  Perhaps he did know. Because the next thing he’d said to me was: “If you can’t be safe where you are, you have to leave.”

  Two days later, I fled Alber with only the clothes I wore and a few small pieces of jewelry to pawn. My friend Hannah had plotted my escape. Without her, I truly believed that I would have died.

  Returning to Alber after ten years on the outside hadn’t been my idea, but so far I’d stayed.

  What I’d learned in the past eight months working cases with Doc was that he had a temper. I got a glimpse of it on the day he told me to flee if I wasn’t safe. It was there again when I’d helped him take down the slain body of a young girl left to rot hanging in a barn, and when I’d told him who’d murdered the women and children at the Johansson bison farm.

  Yet I’d never seen him quite as riled up as he appeared staring down at the remains of the mother and her infant. The sad visage had touched him, and he was angry. We’d removed remains often enough since my return that I automatically went to the shoulders, and Doc to the feet, while Max and Mueller met at the center.

  Doc’s lips curled, and I heard pain in his voice when he explained: “There’s not much holding them together, but I want to keep them as they are if we can. So we’re going to scoop our arms underneath and move them in one smooth motion into the bag. Okay?”

  None of us answered verbally, just nodded as we pulled on gloves.

  The woman’s damaged cranium had already been placed in another bag along with its dislodged piece and miscellaneous other bones the construction workers had found. So I inserted my hands under her shoulders. Doc put an arm beneath each of her legs, and Max and Mueller took her hips and back, trying to get below her dress, although there was little to save. The earth, her bodily fluids as they’d drained, had dissolved most of it away.

  “One, two, three, go,” Doc said, and we lifted, as carefully as we could. She felt so light in my hands, a feather, little more, and I thought of the life cut short, the child that never took a first gulp of air, the loneliness of death and the loss of two lives.

  In seconds we had the body laid out inside of the black vinyl bag. A few bones had stayed in the hole, and Doc took out a brush, swept around them, worked the dirt off and released them, then put them beside the skeleton. I stared down at the headless figure, the tiny baby tucked inside of her.

  Max sidled up next to me. “Do you think it’s Christina Bradshaw?”

  “No one said anything about her being pregnant, but maybe they didn’t know,” I said.

  I felt Crawford over my shoulder. I’d forgotten he was there while we worked on the body. He’d stayed in the background, watching, observing.

  I took a deep breath as Doc zipped up the body bag. I did my best to look calm, not to let my emotions show, but I felt a deep rage taking over with the certainty that something had gone very wrong and another woman, and this time her infant, had paid the price.

  “Let’s get a couple of techs in here,” Lieutenant Mueller called out, and a few of his officers moved forward, ready to get to work. “We need to sift through this dirt, see if we’ve got any more bones, any evidence that was buried with the bodies.”

  Once the others had taken over inspecting the grave in which the remains were found, Doc said, “Make sure the techs take soil samples. It will help to know the acidity level when we try to figure out how long they’ve been out here. I’m going to take them to the morgue, do some preliminary work.”

  “You think you’ll be able to get DNA?” I asked.

  “Probably,” Doc said. “I’ll do an exam, and then we’ll send all of it to the bone lab at the state, have them try to pull DNA from both the mother and baby.”

  “The baby’s DNA will give us the father, assuming we can find a match,” Max pointed out.

  “If you can get DNA at all,” Crawford interrupted. We all gave him a look, and he grimaced. “A good friend of mine, a guy I’ve known for decades, runs the state lab. We’ve talked about this a lot, how hard it is to retrieve DNA from old bones.”

  I thought about that. DNA was our best shot at identifying the dead woman, but there were others. “How about getting the skull reconstructed so we can see a face? That woman in Salt Lake City does that using clay.”

  “No. Takes too long,” Crawford said. This time, the rest of us looked at each other, wondering about this man who’d insinuated himself into this case. “My friend at the lab has a computer program. He told me all about it. They do CAT scans of skulls and then use a computer program to build the face. It just takes a day or two.”

  “Good for them,” Doc said. “But when we’ve tried to get help like that from the lab, the door is slow to open. We have to get in line, and it takes months, if we’re lucky. If we’re not lucky, it can take a year.”

  At that, Crawford grinned. “Not if I’m the one who asks for you. Like I said, the guy in charge of the entire lab is my friend.”

  I looked at him and sighed. All this sounded good, very good, but I didn’t trust him. Something seemed off. While I liked the idea of cutting through the red tape, I wondered why Crawford was so invested in this particular case.

  Max, however, jumped at the offer. “You really think so, Ash? That would be great, to be able to turn this around that quick. What would we have to do?”

  “I’ll deliver her to the lab myself,” Crawford said. “And I’ll call in some favors. We’ll get it done.”

  “Why?” I asked. He didn’t answer, and I said it again, spelling it out: “Why are you showing so much interest in this case? Why are you calling in favors for us?”

  Crawford shook his head, as if confused. “I have friends in the right places. Why wouldn’t I help?”

  For a moment, no one talked, then Doc gave me a perplexed look. “Clara, what does it matter? We need the help, don’t we?”

  At that, I realized that Doc and Max didn’t understand. “Mr. Crawford can’t transport the remains for us. We can’t let him do that.”

  “Why not?” Doc asked.

  “A police officer or an evidence tech needs to do that. And Mr. Crawford’s not a cop,” I explained.

  Max started, “But Ash is a—”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “It’s no longer Marshal Crawford. It’s Mr. Crawford. He’s retired.”

  Max appeared stunned. “Retired? Then why are you here, Ash?”

  Crawford sighed, looked from one of us to the other as if exasperated that we’d questioned him. “Like I said, to do what I can to help. Like Doc Wiley said, why does it matter? I have connections. Why not let me use them to help you solve your case?”

  Then the silver-haired man in his tall hat bent down next to the black vinyl body bag. He slipped his arms under it and gathered it up. His expression was as it had been earlier, displaying reverence and deep pain.

  Something occurred to me, and I asked, “Do you know who she is?”

  Ash Crawford glanced at me as if stunned. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. How could I know that? In this condition, who could even guess?”

  Eight

  “I’ll see you at the morgue, Doc,” I said, as I turned to walk toward my Suburban. Mueller’s men were still working the scene, searching the woods for evidence. So far, no luck. All we had were the two bodies, the baby tucked into the mother. I was hoping that would change, that whoever buried them left something useful behind. Meanwhile, Max had Ash Crawford corralled near his pickup truck, I figured asking him questions.

  “No reason for you to go to the morgue. I’ll just do an initial examination. There won’t be an autopsy tonight, Clara,” Doc replied. “It’s getting late.”

  “You sure?” I asked. Max and I had planned our usual dinner out that evening with his daughter, Brooke. We did this a few times a month at a pizza joint in Pine City. Brooke routinely ordered a deep dish with pineapple and Canadian bacon. I suspected she did that because she enjoyed having it all to herself, taking home three-quarters of it for lunches for the following days. Max and
I easily finished off a thin crust with Italian sausage and mushrooms. None of that seemed to matter, however, with what we’d just found.

  “I’ll start in the morning,” Doc said. “I want to read up a bit tonight on how to examine the body, to remove the mummified tissue to get a better look at the bones. And there should be some information on fetal development and skull circumference which will help confirm how far along the infant was at the time of death.”

  Doc’s day job was as one of only a couple of internists in the area, who treated the flu every winter and poison ivy infections in the summers. His work as the county medical examiner was a sideline. When he hit a tough case, he researched first, which I appreciated. There would be no way to reconstruct the remains, get them back to their original condition, if he botched an autopsy by handling it the wrong way. So, as eager as I was to get results, I didn’t argue.

  “Okay. Morning, then. I’ll be at the morgue by seven?”

  “Should work,” Doc answered as he slammed the van’s back doors shut. He moseyed over to the driver’s side door. Doc’s not a big guy, and he used an inside handle to pull himself up into the driver’s seat, then peered down at me through the open door, unhappy. “Clara, that Crawford guy’s trying to help.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Let him,” Doc ordered.

  “Well, Doc, maybe you didn’t hear me. He’s retired, not officially a cop anymore, and—”

  “I don’t give a you-know-what,” Doc said, cutting me off. “It’s frustrating as hell working out here in the sticks, no resources, no money, budgets so tight they strangle an investigation.”

  I glanced over, saw Max and Crawford had stopped talking and the former marshal was heading toward his car. Considering what Doc had just said, I opened my mouth, flipped through possible responses, and closed it. Doc was right, of course. I’d been scraping for money to replace a squad car that had a couple hundred thousand miles on the odometer and to buy equipment to open the forensic unit I planned to have Stef head up when she became certified. I’d asked the mayor and city council three times for funding. Each request was denied.

  “Let the man do what he can for us,” Doc insisted. “Don’t look for problems when maybe we’ve finally gotten a break.”

  Again, I paused, considered, then nodded.

  “Okay then,” he said. “We’re agreed.”

  After Doc pulled out with his precious cargo in the back of the van, Ash Crawford followed him toward the road in his pickup. Mueller was off working the scene with his techs, and Max and I were alone for the first time.

  “So what did Crawford tell you?” I asked.

  “Pretty much the same he’d said earlier, that he lives in the area and wanted to help.” Max had a frown that twisted his left cheek. “I guess that could be it. But I have the impression that you think he was acting a little odd.”

  “Yes, I do,” I confirmed. Max shook his head, perplexed, and I thought about what I’d promised Doc. Despite that, I needed answers, so I suggested, “How about we call the Salt Lake marshal’s office, see what they can tell us?”

  Max gave his head a bob, agreeing, then said, “I know someone else who works there. Let’s sit in my car, and we’ll put him on speaker.”

  In his Smith County Sheriff’s squad car, Max scrolled through his list of contacts. “I can’t remember the guy’s name or how I filed it,” he said, but then, “Oh, here it is.”

  The receptionist answered, and before long we had one of the deputy US Marshals who worked in the office on the line. Max filled him in on the rough background, then finished by asking, “So, my question to you is, what’s up with Crawford? Why did he leave?”

  At first, dead air. Then the guy’s voice took on a noncommittal tone, as if we’d asked him what brand of canned chicken soup he preferred. “Marshal Crawford reached retirement age. Nothing else that I know of.”

  “That’s it?” Max asked.

  “Yup. He was eligible, and he simply took retirement.”

  “Nothing at all unusual?” Max asked.

  For a moment silence hung around us, then the guy said, “Nothing.”

  “But he’s—” I started.

  “A great investigator,” the man said. “One of the best I’ve ever worked with.”

  “I don’t know. It seems odd. This isn’t the type of case the marshal’s office usually takes on,” Max pointed out. “Crawford is inserting himself into the investigation, and Chief Jefferies and I need to understand why.”

  A long sigh came over the car’s speaker.

  “Max, my guess is that Ash is simply at his wit’s end in retirement. He’s an active guy who’s lived an eventful life. It’s gotta be boring as hell up on some tiny horse ranch in a Podunk county. No offense intended.”

  “None taken,” Max answered. “But there must be more, don’t you think? I mean, he’s acting like this is personal. Like the girl, the body we found, has some kind of special meaning to him.”

  Another pause, then the guy said, “Ash has always been pretty hands-on, and he’s always had a soft spot for the victims. I wouldn’t assume anything beyond that he’s a cop who wasn’t completely ready to hang up his badge and wants to help.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, but he seems overly invested in the case,” I said, spelling it out.

  Again, the guy was silent, then he dropped his voice low, maybe trying to keep others from hearing. “Okay. But you didn’t hear this from me. Ash has a lot of friends in the office, and I don’t need them upset with me.”

  “Sure,” Max agreed.

  “The only odd thing was that the final year he was here, Ash changed. He got morose, depressed, and he started acting differently.”

  “Different in what way?” I pushed.

  “Ash started talking about how the violence in our society had to stop. You’re right that we don’t handle murder cases and such in our office. He sounded regretful about that, like he’d chosen the wrong path and wished he’d done more work on violent crimes.”

  “Any insight into what changed him?” Max wanted to know.

  The guy kind of stuttered. “Well, no, no, not really. The consensus in the office was that Ash was getting older, and some things seemed more important to him as he aged.”

  In the squad, Max shot me a glance. I gave him a noncommittal half-shrug. If pressed, I’d admit I still had suspicions. It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear. I’d hoped for something clearer, some justification for Crawford’s actions. But I thought about what Doc had said, that Crawford wanted to help and we’d be fools not to welcome it, and I shrugged yet again.

  “That’s it?” Max asked the guy.

  “That’s all I know.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Max said. “If you think of anything else, you’ll fill us in, right?”

  “You’ve got it,” the guy agreed.

  After we hung up, Max and I sat in his squad car, silent. Thinking. “Maybe we are reading too much into this,” he suggested. “Why wouldn’t Crawford want to keep involved a little? He probably just does want to help.”

  Although unsure, I nodded. “Maybe so, but something about this doesn’t seem right to me.” Quiet surrounded us as we mentally parsed through the afternoon’s events. I thought about Crawford with his hand suspended over the bones while still in the grave. “Max, I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to Crawford’s interest in this case. That somehow it’s personal to him.”

  “How is that possible? We don’t even know who the victim is. That body is so badly decomposed, Crawford would have to be psychic to figure it out.” Max tied his lips into a nub and gave me a sideways glance. “On the other side, we could sure use his connections. Without them, those remains will sit at the lab for a long time while we try to get DNA and a facial reconstruction.”

  Like Doc’s advice, Max’s words rang true. In rural Smith County, we had no right to turn away assistance that could help solve a case, answer questions, identify a victim, and pe
rhaps bring a family peace. Despite my misgivings, I had to agree. “I know you’re right. Without someone to push it, this case could take years. But I’m going to keep my eye on him.”

  “Sure. Absolutely. But let’s not just assume the worst, okay?”

  I thought about objecting, but again, he had a point.

  “Autopsy tomorrow then,” Max said. “Should Brooke and I meet you at the pizza place?” Max looked disappointed before I spoke a word. I guessed he could see on my face that I was going to back out. “Oh, Clara, really, can’t it wait until tomorrow? There’s no autopsy tonight. Nothing to do. The woman and baby have been dead for a long time, and we have no evidence to follow up on.”

  “All true, but I’m going to head back to the office and comb through the reports of missing persons, see if any mention a pregnant woman. There are a few things I can do tonight to get a jump on tomorrow.”

  “Clara, no, let’s—”

  “Max, I don’t want to wait on this. I need to see what we have, find out if there’s a case that’s a good fit before I head over to talk to Christina Bradshaw’s family. They’re going to hear about this and wonder if it’s her. I want to have some answers to give them.”

  Max wasn’t happy. I understood. Brooke would be disappointed. I was, too. The two of us had become pals, and I enjoyed pizza night as much as she and Max did. But we had a woman, a baby. We didn’t know how she’d died, but by the way she’d been buried, I was pretty sure it wouldn’t turn out to be natural causes. My bet was that we were looking at a murder case. “Now I’m regretting calling you in on this,” Max said, but at the same time his lips curled into a slow smile, and he looked a bit proud, certainly not truly upset.

  “Admit it, Max.” When he shot me a questioning glance, I explained, “If I wasn’t offering to do this, you’d be up half the night doing it yourself.”

  I didn’t need any confirmation, and he didn’t give any. Instead, as I prepared to get out of his squad car, he gave me a look I’d come to recognize, one that wasn’t focused on the case or Brooke, only the two of us. I hesitated, and he reached for me, pulled me to him. Our lips met. I couldn’t breathe, my heart thudding inside my chest. I reminded myself again to be calm, to keep a distance. I’d lost control years earlier, and it had turned out very wrong. As much as I trusted Max, I couldn’t risk having anything like that ever happen to me again. So I pulled away.