Girls Like Us

by Cristina Alger

  There is a tear at the bottom of the sack. Visible through it is a brown stump. The girl’s anklebone, I’d guess. The dog had torn the foot clean off. The mangled remains of it lay like trash at the edge of the gravesite.

  “Can I see her?”

  Lee nods. He stoops over and pulls back the burlap. The smell intensifies. Lee reels, as though knocked back by it. The scent of human decay is something you never really get used to. It’s a heavy, rancid odor that creeps into your pores and crawls beneath your skin. It feels unholy, as though it might infect you just by getting too close. The first time I saw a cadaver, I couldn’t shake the smell for days. I kept showering and washing my hands, but the scent of it had burned itself on the inside of my nostrils like gunpowder. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lee gulp air, his fingers pinching at his nose.

  The body has putrefied and shriveled. The maggots are gone, at least, but there’s still skin on her; she hasn’t fully skeletonized. I’d guess the corpse is a few weeks old. Skin, like leather, is shrink-wrapped around the bone. Her teeth are bared, like an animal’s. When I shift positions, the sunlight gleams off the metal plate in her jaw. Lucky girl, I think to myself. A plate like that is a pathologist’s golden ticket to identification.

  “The eyes,” Lee groans. “God, that freaks me out.”

  The eye sockets are hollow. Part of her skull is missing, too. It looks as though she was nailed clean in the middle of her forehead. I feel a shiver of respect for the shooter. As a hunter, my father trained me to go for a one-shot kill, preferably to the head, so as to minimize suffering. This is about as perfect a shot as one could ask for.

  After the shot to the head, the killer dissembled her limbs, and tied them to her torso with twine. It’s a surreal, macabre presentation; gory and precise at the same time. In my experience, you could tell almost as much about a person by the way they died as anything else.

  “Ria Sandoval was shot in the head, too, wasn’t she?”

  “Yep,” Lee says, his voice hoarse. “Point-blank range. And then . . .” He gestures to the body. He swallows hard as though the word dismembered is lodged inside his throat.

  “Strange way to kill a working girl.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s clean.”

  “You call this clean?” Lee stares at me incredulously.

  “Professional, I mean. Like an execution.”

  “So maybe gang related?”

  “Possibly. It’s meticulous. Almost ritualistic.”

  The light catches something in the sand. I gesture to Lee. “There’s something there. Metallic, I think.”

  Lee drops onto his knees. He pulls a pen out of his back pocket. With it, he scoops out a thin gold bracelet.

  He holds it up to the light. “Cartier.”

  “Bag it.”

  “It’s Grace Bishop’s. Look. It has her initials on the inside.” He takes an evidence bag and drops the bracelet inside. “We should get this back to her. Poor woman.”

  I bite my tongue and say nothing. It bothers me when the cops out here kowtow to the summer people. Especially Lee. I used to see him down here when we were both in high school. He threw beer cans at Meadow Lane with the rest of us. The bracelet should go into evidence. I’d hazard a guess that Grace Bishop has another one to wear while she waits to get it back. She probably doesn’t even know it’s gone. But it’s not my case. Not my problem.

  “I’ll take it,” I tell him. I hold out my hand for the bag. “I’d like to talk to her, anyway. You said she’s on the board of the Preservation Society, right?”

  “Yeah. And I think she knows Morales. Your dad talked to her about him last summer.”

  “Where’s the pathologist? I’d like to speak to him before I go.”

  “It’s a her. And she’s here somewhere.” Lee turns and points to a woman—a girl, really—trudging toward us. She’s wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a backpack. Her thick blond hair is pulled back into a braid that trails down her back. She’s unsettlingly attractive, with a long, lithe body and a perfect heart-shaped face. “That’s her.”

  I stare at her, then look back at Lee.

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. Jamie Milkowski. She’s young but good.”

  “How young?”

  “Just started this year.”

  “So it’s her first serial. Maybe even her first murder. How exciting for her.”

  Lee gives me a look. “Everyone says she’s brilliant. Stop being so judgmental, Flynn. You of all people should know that an attractive young woman can do her job just as well as a grizzled old man.”

  I ignore the compliment, but heat rises to my cheeks. “You can’t have someone green on a case like this,” I argue. “You know that. You have to send it into the city if you want this done right.”

  Lee sighs. Though he’d never admit it, I know he agrees with me. Our jobs are learned through a slow and steady accumulation of experience. There’s science to crime scene evaluation, but there’s also artistry. The best teacher is a dead body. If it were up to me, the body would be sent to Nicole Prentice. Nikki is a nationally recognized forensic anthropologist who leads a team at the New York City Medical Examiner’s Office. I’ve worked with her before. She’s the best. Of course, it isn’t up to me, nor is it up to Lee. It’s Dorsey’s decision and he will assuredly keep everything in-house for as long as possible. To do anything else would read as a lack of confidence in the Suffolk County team. It would also send a signal: this is not just a murder. It’s a serial. And it’s time to call in the Feds.

  “Dorsey wants the Suffolk County ME to give it a try. If they’re overwhelmed, or the body is really badly decomposed, they’ll send it into the city for DNA analysis.” Lee speaks with finality, as though this has already been discussed and decided.

  “The body is decomposed. Jesus Christ, Lee. Sending it to Suffolk County is just a waste of time.”

  Lee nods his chin. I turn around. Milkowski is standing behind me. She extends her hand. “Jamie Milkowski. Suffolk County ME,” she says, without a trace of animus.

  “Nell Flynn. FBI.”

  “Glad you guys are here.”

  “No guys. Just me,” I say.

  “Nell is Marty Flynn’s daughter,” Lee explains. “I asked her to consult on the case. She’s with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

  “I’m sorry about your dad. He was a good man.”

  I nod, unable to muster up a response. I’m starting to regret being a part of this investigation.

  “It’s good you’re here,” Milkowski says diplomatically. “We could use the help. And I agree with you about sending the body into the city. If we could get Nikki Prentice to look at it, all the better.”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful.”

  “You were being honest.” She gives me a short nod. “It’s going to rain soon. We’ve got to clear the body out.”

  “Of course.” I look up. The color of the sky has retracted as if in expectation of rain. Dark clouds gather in the distance. There’s cool wetness in the air, cutting at my wrists and ankles. I wonder how many storms this body has weathered outside. How degraded she’s been by the elements. As if she hadn’t been degraded enough.

  I shove off, allowing Milkowski some breathing room. I gesture for Lee to do the same. He lingers for a second, giving Milkowski a healthy once-over. Once he’s in range, I flick him hard in the bicep.

  “What the fuck?” He cradles his arm in his hand. “Ow.”

  “Do you really think a crime scene is the best place to stare at some girl’s ass?”

  “I wasn’t staring.”

  “Lee.” I give him a look.

  “It was like a second’s worth of staring,” he argues. “Maybe two. Tops.”

  I turn my back to him and focus on the landscape. Down
on the beach, I see two people poking around the barricades. They don’t look like reporters, more like curious locals on a midmorning walk down the beach. Even though this park feels remote, I’m reminded that we’re in a public place. The fallen fence isn’t much of a deterrent. I’m not sure it’s clear where the beach ends and the park begins. People have, no doubt, walked across these dunes. They may have smoked here, picnicked here, hiked here. That means anything we find—footprints, cigarette butts, hair—is likely useless.

  The particular spot where the body is buried is tough to get to, at least. We’re standing in very dense brush, the kind that only the most ambitious of dogs would bother to burrow through. It’s the thickest patch of foliage in the surrounding area. Good for hiding bodies, but a hell of an effort to bury them.

  I shield my eyes from the sun and stare down at the coroner’s van. We’re a quarter mile from the parking lot. I try to imagine a man carrying a body up here, and then pulling back the dune grass, which has deep, stubborn roots. After all that, he’d have to dig a hole deep enough to bury a body, so at least four or five feet deep and three or so feet wide. More if he wanted to be sure it would stay buried.

  For a single man, it would be an extraordinary, almost herculean effort. It would take several hours. Even at night, he’d be in plain view of the parking area below. Why would anyone risk being seen by a passerby? There were plenty of secluded places in the area, more conducive to burying bodies. There’s also the bay right there across the street. A couple of yards of twine and a cinder block would dispose of a body just as well, and with a lot less effort.

  “The park’s been closed for months. Because of the sand erosion,” Lee says, as though in answer to my thoughts. “So there’s no traffic in and out of here at night.”

  “But the beach is still public.”

  “True.”

  “A lot of parks around here are completely desolate.”

  “Right.”

  “So why here?”

  “Maybe because the killer worked here and knew it well?”

  “Well, then we need to find out if the Preservation Society had workers in here over the past few weeks. From the looks of that fence, they did.”

  “Yep. Will do.”

  “Did someone call in a botanist?”

  “Not sure,” Lee says. “We need a botanist?”

  I bend at the knee, pull up a clump of dune grass. “It looks like someone did a reasonably careful job of unearthing these. The roots are still intact. If they were replanted over the gravesite, no one would see the difference. If it had been a rushed job or done by someone who didn’t know what they were doing, he probably would have hacked through the roots instead of taking the time to dig them out.”

  “Interesting. This wasn’t the kill site, either. No blood spatter. No signs of struggle. So this burial was deliberate. Whoever did this took his time and planned in advance.”

  I shake my head, frustrated. “It’s just such a strange place to bury a body. Much safer to dump it in the water. Or out in the elements where it will decay faster, like Ria Sandoval.”

  “Sandoval got found. Maybe he learned his lesson.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe this place has significance for him. Somewhere he could come back and visit. Maybe that’s why the dune grass was so carefully replanted. It’s a public place, but he’s also trying to ensure that no one can find her. Except for him. That would explain the cairn, too.”

  “A trophy garden.”

  “It’s not uncommon with serial killings.”

  “Morales is a landscaper,” Lee says. “He would know about the roots.”

  “Right. He would have had time, too, to case out the site, especially if he’d been working on the dune restoration project here. He might’ve even prepped it. Dug the grave in advance.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of movement. I look up. The house next door has a small balcony overlooking the park. The window is dark. Maybe I’m seeing things, but I could swear the movement came from there.

  “Who lives there?” I ask, pointing to the balcony.

  “James Meachem. Finance guy. Grace Bishop’s house is on the other side.”

  “Has anyone talked to him yet?”

  “He’s not there. He’s almost never there.”

  “Where is he?”

  Lee shrugs. “He’s got houses in Manhattan and Palm Beach. And an island down in the BVI.”

  “An island?”

  “Yeah. A private island. Named after himself, someone said. Little Saint James. How do you like that?”

  “Find him. A girl was found dead a hundred yards from his property line. We’ll need a complete list of everyone who works in his household. If anyone was there, they might have seen or heard something.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “I’m going to go talk to Grace Bishop.”

  “You want company?”

  “Let me talk to her alone first. Get a botanist. Track down James Meachem. Get a list of his household staff and start contacting them. I’ll meet you back here. I gotta head home in an hour or so.”

  I stride past the barricades, scanning for Ann-Marie Marshall. I spot her up ahead, stepping into her Jeep. I hurry toward her, but I’m too late. She closes the door and drives off down Meadow Lane, her tires kicking up sand in my direction.

  5.

  I take some time prowling around the perimeter of James Meachem’s house. The hedges surrounding the property are thick and high. The gate is made of industrial metal. Through the slats, I see a rolling lawn. In the distance, a house made of glass and steel sits high on the dunes. While the views from inside are, I’m sure, spectacular, there’s a coldness to the place that unsettles me.

  A mechanical buzz causes me to look up. A security camera, affixed to the gatepost, focuses on me. I take a step to the left. The camera moves. I give it a little wave. It vibrates, mimicking my movement. I’m tempted to give it the finger, but I restrain myself. Instead, I back down the driveway, aware that the camera is following me, capturing my image on someone’s computer. When I reach the street and turn toward the Bishop property next door, the camera falls still. I wonder who, if anyone, is watching.

  The Bishop house, too, is guarded by a gate. Most houses on Meadow Lane are. I walk over to the keypad and press a button to call the house.

  “Nell Flynn to see Grace Bishop,” I say into the speaker, after I hear someone pick up on the other end. “I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  The gate swings open. I see that the property is as grand as Meachem’s but less antiseptic. The lawn is well landscaped. Hydrangea bushes and Rose of Sharon line the edges of the drive. There’s a vegetable garden and an orchard. From between the trees, a woman emerges, removing gardening gloves from her hands. She wears a wide-brimmed hat, a rumpled linen shirt, and jeans. Her face is pink from exertion.

  “Hello, there,” she calls out. Her voice has a soft southern lilt to it. “I’m Grace.”

  We walk toward each other, meeting halfway between the orchard and the drive. Grace Bishop is a beautiful woman. Tall, slim, and elegant. When she extends her hand, I notice that she’s wearing a simple gold band on her finger, and her nails are short and unvarnished. Not what I was expecting. I let my guard down just a little.

  “I hope I’m not intruding, Mrs. Bishop.”

  “Call me Grace, please. You’re not. I’ve just been working in the gardens to keep myself distracted. It’s been such a horrible day.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Not at all. Why don’t you come sit? I could use a break, anyway.” Delicate beads of sweat gather at her hairline. She blots them away with the back of her wrist and then gestures for me to follow her.

  The house is a gambrel-style home with white wooden shutters and porc
hes that wrap all the way around it. Morning glories climb up the banisters. I can hear the distant murmur of the ocean in the background. It’s the kind of house that you see in movies and magazines. It has the grandness of an old home, but one that has been watched over with a meticulous eye. Grace bends over a white wicker couch on the front porch, upholstered in a cheerful sunshine-yellow stripe, and begins to straighten the pillows. Overhead, a coordinating awning flaps in the breeze.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Lemonade? Iced tea? Or maybe a sweet tea? I make a fierce sweet tea. You can take the girl out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the girl.” She gives me a sad smile. I can see how nervous she is. She flutters around the porch like a hummingbird as she talks, fluffing upholstery and pulling brown leaves off the plants. I see this a lot with crime witnesses. Finding a dead body is jarring, like a car accident or a mugging. It affects people physically. Some people fall apart and need to rest. Others, like Grace, fly off the adrenaline, unable to calm their shattered nerves.

  “I’m fine. Thank you, though.” I pull out the bag containing her bracelet. “Detective Davis found this on the beach. He asked me to return it to you.”

  “Oh!” she says. She stops moving. I hold it out for her. She retrieves it gingerly, as though she’s not quite sure she’s allowed to touch it.