by Peggy Dulle
“Not even remotely interested?”
“Okay, sure.” I shrugged. “I'm curious.”
“He works as hard as Matthew and is considered the top profiler in the world.”
“Good for him.”
“Neither one has a social life.” John gave me a questioning look.
“That's none of my business, John.” I shook my head.
“I just wanted to give you the full scoop.” He winked, then stood. “I guess I'll see you when we get the next note.”
“Once killers start to send them, they can't stop.”
John nodded and left.
I pushed myself upright and walked to the window. The sky was clear, the sun glistened off the sidewalks, and there wasn't a hint of clouds. The people of Arroyo bustled by doing the errands they had postponed because of the rain. Mrs. Garza visited Sheila's beauty salon. And Jay strolled down the street on his way to the diner for breakfast. Life went on, why couldn't I? John's remarks about Matthew and William caused me to tremble inside; my emotions threatened to strangle me. Oh God, how I longed to see them, but that was a closed chapter in my life. It needed to stay that way.
My office door opened and Bob came in.
“Did you do okay?”
I turned away from the beautiful day and returned to my desk. “Yes, John's an old friend.”
“You're not leaving, are you?” Bob asked, his right hand curled into a fist and then relaxed - a sure sign of stress.
“No.”
“Good, because we've got problems,” his voice cracked with panic.
“What's going on?” I leaned toward him, keeping my voice calm and reassuring.
“People are coming in with bags of bones!” he said, hysteria edging his voice.
I got up and followed Bob into the squad room. Five people held large black garbage bags and when they saw me, they raised them up and said in unison, “We found these.”
“Okay, I need each of you to give a statement to an officer as to the exact place these bones were recovered.” I pointed to Bob. “As you get the reports, hand them to me. I'll map out the locations.”
“Okay, Chief.”
I went back to my office and made a call to Cheryl Burton.
“KTML, the place for news,” the operator answered.
“This is Chief Davenport. Can I talk to Cheryl?”
“She's out on location, Chief.”
“Can you patch me into her unit?”
“Of course.” I heard several buttons pushed. “It will just take me a minute.”
A few seconds later I heard her voice. “This is Cheryl.”
“Cheryl, this is Chief Davenport. I need a favor.”
“I like to do you favors, Chief. I always get the best information from you later on. Tit for tat, you know. What's up?”
“I've got townspeople bringing me garbage bags full of bones.”
“That's fabulous! I'll bring a camera crew right over.”
“No. I just want you to get the word out that no one should touch these bones. We really don't know what we're dealing with yet. They could be old bones that might carry diseases. I need people to leave them where they see them and to call us.”
“Okay, Chief. I'm at the river right now. I can get the station to cut in and give me a live feed to get the word out.”
“Thanks, Cheryl.”
“You owe me, Chief.”
“I know.”
I hung up and dialed Doc Sloter's office. Getting by Ashley Harper wouldn't be easy. She was 200 pounds of pure spit and vinegar and was the Doc's watchdog and office manager. The patients always came first with her, a good quality, unless you want to talk to the Doc during office hours.
It was answered on the third ring. “Doc Sloter's office.”
“This is Chief Davenport. Can I talk to Doc?”
“He's with a patient right now. Do you want to leave a message?”
“No. I just have a quick question.”
“Sorry, Chief, but he's with the Peterson twins. They're a handful and if I open the door, they'll escape and I'll have to chase the boys around the office to corral them again.”
“Ashley.” I struggled to keep my voice calm. “I need the Doc, now.”
Silence. I knew it was all about power with Ashley. She had been orphaned at six; both of her parents were killed in a house fire. Then an abusive marriage and health problems. Sometimes you've got to give to get.
“Ashley, I know that the twins can be a handful, but you're the best corral expert I know. I just need the Doc for a quick minute. It's important.”
“Okay, Chief, but make it quick.”
A few seconds later, I heard. “What do you need, Chief?”
“I've got people bringing me bags of bones.”
“Me, too. Four people came into my office a few minutes ago and brought me their bags.”
“Could they get sick from these bones?”
“They shouldn't, most diseases aren't carried in bones. If there was flesh attached to them, I'd be more worried.”
“Okay, what about the water these bones traveled in? Could that carry a disease?”
“I don't think so. It rained for three days and that amount of water will dilute any chances of picking up any disease that might have killed these people. But just to be on the safe side, I've made a call to the Center for Disease Control.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
I went back into my squad room. Three more people had arrived with bags.
“People, can I have your attention?”
Everyone looked at me.
“Okay, we'll take the bones and your statements, but I need you to stop picking up these bones.”
“Why?” asked Sheila Culter, the local beautician and Bob’s girlfriend.
“We still don't know where they're coming from. It could be an old grave and the bones could carry a disease.”
Everyone looked at their bags and dropped them. The thud echoed throughout the station.
“Am I going to get sick?” Sheila shrieked, looking at Bob.
He shrugged, but quickly moved the bags away from his girlfriend.
“You shouldn't,” I told them. “But make sure you wash up really well after you leave the station.”
“I found these in a puddle by my house. Is that water contaminated now?” Tad Peterson, a local grocery clerk, asked as he wrung his hands.
“I don't know. I called Doc Sloter and he's called the CDC. We'll have an answer for you as soon as we can.”
People rushed out, probably to go home and scrub themselves. We piled the bones in a corner of the squad room and I went back to my office to call Simon.
He picked up on the first ring. “I saw the news.”
“Yeah, I asked Cheryl to tell people to stop bagging up the bones and bringing them in.”
“What are you doing with them all?”
I smiled. “Sending them to you.”
He laughed. “Okay, but I'm forwarding them to the forensic pathologist.”
“Thanks, Simon. Can your crime scene techs come out again?”
“Sure, where do you want them to look?”
“That's a great question. On second thought, you better wait until we get the bones mapped out. Then we may have a better idea about a place to start.”
“Well, let me know. My guys are ready to go.”
“Thanks. Talk to you soon.”
A few minutes later, I heard a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
Bob stuck his head in. “I talked to the property owners and found ten family burial plots in our area. The bones may have come from them.”
“Okay. Get the names of those that were interred and when we get the info back from the forensic pathologist, we'll start matching them up.”
“Okay, Boss.”
Bob left and my phone rang. “Chief Davenport.”
“We got another note,” Matthew said.
“I thought you might. Are you having it se
nt here?”
“Yes, it should be there first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Is John bringing it?”
“Yes. I told John to stay in a hotel in Parsonville. He’ll pick it up at the airport and bring it to you.”
These short answers were aggravating. “What do you think of the first note?”
“I don't know.”
“The Jackal's trying to drag me back into the investigation.”
“Probably.”
“I've got business of my own here, Matthew. I can't drop everything and get involved with the Jackal case again.”
“Hopefully you won't have to.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Let me know what the note says.”
“Fine.”
He hung up. I paced around the room. A few days ago, my life was all about peace and quiet. Now I had to deal with floating bones and notes from a serial killer. What next?
Chapter 8
Around eleven, I drove toward the local pizza joint. It was on Leah Street close to the high school, great for business during the school year, lousy in the summer time. Kids have hung out there for the last fifty years. I spent quite a bit of time there, myself. In fact, in high school I practically lived in the place.
Pizza Haven is a single story brick building with white shutters. The owner, Jack Serrano, took over the place from his dad about fifteen years ago. His wife, Shirley, added Italian touches to the place when she hung red and white checkered curtains on the windows and put dripping candles in Chianti bottles on the tables. It's a cliché, but fun.
I found several of our town delinquents in a back booth enjoying a pizza. All four were white, middle-class kids, their pants low down on their butts enough to show their boxer shorts. They all thought they looked tough.
As soon as I came through the front door, they got up to leave.
“Sit down!” I shouted.
They grumbled, muttered a few obscenities, but wandered back to their table and sat down.
I stood at the end of their table. “Does anyone know anything about my house being broken into?”
Blank faces stared at me. I waited. Jonathan Stoddard was the leader of this little group. They wouldn't speak unless he did. He was seventeen and a junior this year. He was over six feet tall with an athletic body. A good looking kid with black hair, dense, dark and worn long, he was the heartthrob of most of the high school cheer leading squad. Deep down he was a good kid, but his dad was a long haul trucker who died in an accident a year ago. A few months later, Jonathan and his mom had to move out of their comfortable suburban home and into a single-wide at Ivy Village - the one and only trailer park in Arroyo. Ever since, he had been getting into more and more trouble. It's hard to lose a parent at any age, I knew that, but couple that with normal adolescent rebellion and it could spell disaster. The other three, Craig, Will, and Graham, would follow Jonathan off the edge of a cliff. For some reason, the three Stooges always came to mind when I saw them - short, stocky, and not too bright.
Finally Jonathan spoke up. “Chief, we wouldn't think of going into your house.” He grinned.
“Why not?”
“You know where we live.”
“That's true.”
“Besides, you don't have anything worth stealing anyway,” Jonathan smirked. The rest of the group laughed.
“That's true. So I've got a job for you and your little troop.”
Jonathan eyed me suspiciously. “What job?”
“Find out who did trash my house.” I reached in my pocket and took out my business card. “And I'll give you a 'get out of jail' card free.”
“What's that good for?”
“Next time you're in trouble, I'll be on your side.”
“Really?” His eyes widened.
“Well, as long as you don't do anything too serious.”
He snatched the card from my hand. “We're like your deputies now?”
“Yes.”
“That could be cool.” He glanced at the others and they all nodded. He held up the card. “Does this go for my friends, too?”
Considering that the worst thing these kids did was graffiti the local high school, it wasn't much of a risk. “Sure, it goes for your friends, too.”
“Okay.” Jonathan rose and the rest followed. “We'll let you know.”
“Thanks.” I watched as they sauntered out of the pizza parlor.
Jack came through the swinging doors from the kitchen as soon as the boys left, a thick-set, short man in his mid 40's. His dense black hair was stuffed under a hairnet, his huge hands were covered in flour, and his white apron was speckled with tomato sauce. But his face was lit up with a huge smile.
“Thanks for running them out, Chief. They've been sitting in here since I opened at ten. It wouldn't be so bad, but they never order more than a single small pizza. Then they just sit around, talk, and bother my other patrons.”
“No problem, Jack.” I glanced over at the menu on the wall. “I'm hungry. How about a vegetarian pizza and a Diet Coke?”
“You got it, Chief.”
“Make sure you give me the bill, okay?”
“But it's on the house.”
“Thanks anyway, but no. I can pay for my own lunch.”
“But . . .,”
I held up my hand and Jack shrugged.
“Okay, Chief. Have it your own way.”
I took a booth on the wall opposite the door. Back to the wall, eye to the door. It's the same table I sat in when I was in high school. Even back then, I thought like a cop, but if someone had tried to tell me that then, I would have screamed, “No way!” During those years, I was one of the juvenile delinquents that bothered Jack’s father.
He came over with my Diet Coke. I glanced around the room. “It's quiet in here today now that the boys are gone.”
“I know. Everyone is out collecting bones.”
I laughed. “A new pastime for the locals, huh?”
He nodded. “Personally, I don't touch anything floating in the water. I just let it go by.”
“Good idea.” I sipped my soda.
“Where do you think the bones are coming from?”
“I really don't know. But several families have burial plots on their land, and with all this rain, you never know what's being churned up.”
“That's true.” He nodded, and glanced toward the kitchen. “I'll go and check on your pizza.”
“Thanks.”
Jack left and I thought about the bones of the teenage girls. Hopefully they were from family plots because the alternative scenario wasn't good. A person either dies naturally or is helped along by others. Dr. Cain, the forensic pathologist, put the bones to be at least twenty to thirty years old. I would have been five or ten at the time and I didn't remember anything about murders in the quiet, peaceful, boring town of Arroyo. My dad might know, but he was gone. That only left Grandpa James. He was chief before my dad took over thirty years ago. He was a crotchety old man and not my favorite person to visit, but if anything had happened back then, he would know. His mind was better than mine and he was eighty-six years old.
I punched numbers on my cell phone.
He answered on the first ring. “I don't want to buy no shitty magazines, so stop calling me.” His voice was angry, loud, and foul. A typical conversation with the man.
“Hello, Grandpa.”
“Oh, hello, Connie. I thought you were another of those damn magazine people who keep calling me and trying to get me to subscribe.”
“Can I stop by and talk to you later?”
“I might be busy later. How about now?”
“I guess I can come now.”
“Good, bring me an all meat combination pizza.”
“How'd you know I was at Jack's joint?”
“I have spies everywhere, Connie.”
I laughed, hung up the phone, and ordered his pizza.
Thirty minutes later I drove up to his house. It was several miles out of town,
on a dirt road he refuses to fix. He was born in the house and said he intended to die there, too.
It was a weathered old farmhouse, situated in the middle of ten acres of broken-down trucks, cars, and tractors. Grandpa collected old vehicles under the proviso that he was going to fix them, but I haven't seen any moved out of his acreage during my entire life. He just added more.
As I drove up to the house, he came out and waved. Grandpa was a tall, muscular man, with a bald head and a tan from working outside on his vehicles. He still looked like he could seriously kick ass and not break a sweat.
I parked, grabbed the two pizza boxes, and walked toward the porch.
“Howdy, Connie.”
“Hi, Grandpa.” I set the pizza boxes down on a small, wobbly table on the porch and gave him a quick kiss on his cheek.
Grandpa stepped back and glanced toward the pizzas. “Thanks for bringing lunch.”
“No problem.
“You didn't pay for these, did you?”
“Of course.”
“Jack's dad always gave me my pizzas for nothing.”
“We don't do that anymore, Grandpa. It's called a bribe.”
“No, it's not. It's called taking care of the local police department.”
“Let's agree to disagree.”
“We do that a lot.”
“Yes, we do.” I pointed toward the two chairs next to the table. “Let's eat. I'm hungry.”
“I agree with that.” Grandpa sat down and opened the top box. He wrinkled his nose. “Oh hell - what's this crap? How can you eat this thing? It's covered in tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, and . . . ” he physically shuddered. “and artichokes. Where's the damn meat?”
“It's all on your pizza. Jack ran out after he made yours.”
Grandpa laughed, handed me my box and opened his own. He inhaled deeply and smiled. “Now, that's a pizza.”
We sat and enjoyed our lunch. He asked about my mom and I asked him about the progress of his vehicle collection.
“I've been working on that old VW Bug for the last few days. I think I'm whipping the bastard into shape.”
I just smiled. After we finished our pizzas, he set the boxes down on the porch.
“So what brings you to my doorstep, Connie?”
“Lunch?”
“Before I conned you into bringing me lunch, you were coming to see me. What's up?”
