by Alex Kava
“Someone dug up his grave?” Henry asked, but from the look on his face, Maggie could tell he didn’t really want to think about it.
“When and how would they able to do that?” Stolz said. “A sealed vault isn’t the easiest thing to break into.”
“Not all caskets are put into vaults,” Bonzado offered. “Depends on whether or not the family wants to add that extra expense. If I remember correctly it’s about $700 to $1,000.”
“There’s another possibility,” Maggie said. “The body could have been taken before the casket was buried.”
“You mean someone may have snatched the body right from the funeral home?” Bonzado said as he stood, brushing his knees clean.
His sartorial get-up was an odd uniform for a forensic anthropologist, even for a professor. Maybe not for an eccentric professor with muscular, tanned legs. As Maggie caught herself admiring Bonzado’s legs, she also noticed his knees were covered with the rust-colored dust from the rocks and a green weed had latched onto the tops of his socks. It reminded Maggie to take a closer look at the dead man’s clothes for any similar debris.
“If someone had access they could have made a switch,” Maggie answered as she examined the suit, a lightweight wool, damp and sticky with what she guessed to be embalming fluid.
The skull cut had definitely been made after the body had been embalmed and prepared for its casket. There would be no way to hide leaking embalming fluid for an open-casket viewing without repairing the gaping hole, and the cutter hadn’t felt the urgency to make any such repairs. Now that she got a closer look at the blue suit, she could tell there were no signs of green weed, no brown rock dust on the wool. The cut hadn’t been made out here. In fact, other than the sticky embalming fluid, the suit looked clean.
“I helped carry his casket,” Watermeier said, sounding quiet and far away. “It was heavy. He had to be in there.”
Maggie glanced up at the sheriff. He rubbed his temple, not like a man puzzled in thought, but pressing hard—hard enough to wince—as if he wanted the image before him to disappear.
“I’m just saying we need to consider all the possibilities,” Maggie said. “In any case, we should find out who had access to the casket and the grave. Maybe his suit might tell us more.” She found Stolz watching and met his eyes, ignoring their skepticism and what she immediately recognized as a trace of suspicion. Not even an hour into the investigation and Stolz had already decided to label her an intruder. It didn’t matter. She was used to it. “Usually funeral clothes are clean when a mortician puts them on a corpse, right?” She continued, “So anything the clothes came in contact with would have to be from the mortuary or a destination that came later.”
Stolz simply nodded.
“We might find something on the suit, some debris from the killer like hair or fibers. He couldn’t have done this without making contact with the body.”
“He went to a lot of trouble just to take the brain. Maybe he sells parts to teaching colleges,” Bonzado’s female student suggested, as she helped Carl, who had been quietly collecting evidence that may have spilled from the barrel. The woman seemed overly anxious to help and held open a plastic bag while Carl dropped small particles in with forceps.
Maggie was impressed that Carl already had two bags in his other hand, one containing what looked to be a swatch of hair or fur and in the other, a small, crumpled piece of white paper.
“What is this?” She pointed to the crumpled piece of paper.
“Not sure,” Carl said as he handed her the bag. “It’s not a note, if that’s what you were hoping. It’s not even writing paper.”
Maggie held it up, examining it in the sunlight. “Looks like a waxy texture.”
“Getting back to more important matters,” Stolz grumbled. “Like missing brains. Serial killers often take things, clothing, jewelry, even body parts.” He looked from Bonzado and Carl to Watermeier and finally—lastly—to Maggie. “As trophies, right?”
“Yes, serial killers often do that. There’s only one small problem here,” Maggie said, stopping all of them, waiting for their attention. “Mr. Earlman wasn’t murdered.”
CHAPTER 21
Adam Bonzado helped Simon with the bags of sand wiches and sodas, keeping an eye on his student. Ramona and Joe had literally dug into this project, but Simon…Well, it was hard to tell. His pasty complexion and quiet demeanor were typical. So when he volunteered to get lunch for the group, Adam knew it was Simon just being Simon, always the first to offer when there were errands that needed to be run.
They made their way through what seemed to be a growing crowd of reporters and cameras. Officer Trotter with the state patrol had the media trained to stay back behind the crime-scene tape, but that didn’t stop the barrage of questions.
“Professor, Jennifer Carpenter with WVXB Channel 12. When will we have an official update?”
Adam recognized the attractive blonde behind the glasses.
“I’m not in charge, Ms. Carpenter. You’d have to ask Sheriff Watermeier.”
“I’ve been asking Sheriff Watermeier. What exactly are you finding? And why are you hiding it?”
“We’re not hiding anything,” Adam said, and when she whipped off her glasses, he realized the cameraman behind her was now running film. Jesus! Just what he needed. Why hadn’t he kept his big mouth shut? “We’re simply trying to assess the situation. I’m sure we’ll let all of you know what’s going on as soon as we can.”
He turned his back to them and headed for the quarry. Simon waited for him on the other side of the tree line.
“Vultures,” he told his student, hoping for a smile.
“I think she likes you.”
Adam glanced at him, expecting some smart aleck comment to follow. His students were always razzing him about being single. But Simon looked serious. Adam knew Simon was older than most of the other graduate students, having come into the program late. “Yeah? You think so? I’m not sure she’s my type.”
Now, Special Agent Maggie O’Dell was another story. From their first introduction Adam couldn’t help thinking that if he did actually have a type, she would be in the running. Forget that the woman had amazing brown eyes and could make an FBI-approved navy-blue suit look official as well as make it come alive, the woman was smart. She actually knew what blade chattering was. Definitely a woman who could steal his heart. It had been a long time since any woman had gotten his attention enough for him to check out her ring finger.
According to his mother, it had been an abnormally long time. “It’s not good for such a young man to be so alone,” she would tell him at every opportunity. But after Kate he had chosen to be alone. Besides, how could he begin to fill the void that Kate had left? When she drowned it was as if she had taken him down under with her. Even now he couldn’t think about her without remembering, without feeling her cold, lifeless body, without remembering all those hands trying to pull him away as he continued over and over to pump her chest and try to breathe life into her blue-lipped mouth.
Suddenly Adam realized Simon was staring at him, waiting for him.
“You okay, Professor Bonzado?”
“I’m fine.” He turned back to the road, pretending to be distracted, then realized he had actually forgotten something. “What time do you need to get to your job?”
Simon checked his wristwatch. “Not until later this afternoon.”
“You still have my keys?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Simon shifted the sandwich bags to one hand while he dug in his jeans pockets for the keys.
“You mind going back to the El Camino?”
Simon looked eager to please.
“There’s a pry bar that might help us open up some of the barrels. You mind getting that?”
“No, not at all.” He started handing the bags to Adam, making sure he had a grasp of everything. “Is it still under the seat?”
“I tossed it into the bed, but I bet it got shoved clear to the back when
we loaded everything else.”
As Simon headed back, Adam took a deep breath, hoping to wipe out the images of Kate he thought he had buried long ago. Henry waved at him, then met him halfway, rescuing several of the bags before Adam dropped them.
“Hey, everybody. Lunch,” Henry yelled.
Adam watched the group stop, setting tools down and placing evidence bags in containers. They gathered around as if there was nothing unusual about sitting down to eat sandwiches and drink Cokes in the middle of a rock quarry surrounded by barrels stuffed with dead and rotting bodies.
“Where did you get these?” Agent O’Dell asked, unwrapping a sandwich.
“Vinny’s Deli.”
“Vinny’s has the best sandwiches in Connecticut, O’Dell,” Henry told her, but Adam could tell she hadn’t asked because it looked absolutely mouthwatering. If she had, she wouldn’t be so interested in the white paper it had been wrapped in.
“This looks like the same stuff you found with Mr. Earlman,” she said, looking at Carl.
“I think you’re right.”
“What the hell are you two talking about?” Henry seemed a little pissed off that they weren’t paying attention to their sandwiches.
“This white, waxy paper,” she explained, and now Adam remembered it. “We found something like this in the barrel with Mr. Earlman.”
“Lots of people use this stuff, O’Dell.”
“Actually, I don’t think so, Sheriff. I’ve never seen this stuff on the shelves of your regular grocery store. I bet it’s a specialty item.”
“So what the hell are you two saying? That the killer has himself a sandwich while he’s slicing and dicing his victims?”
Adam wondered if it was simply the exhaustion that had Henry’s face flushed and his voice raised. Maybe the fall sunshine that heated up the rocks and caused the beads of sweat on his upper lip had taken a toll on the aging sheriff. Or was Henry’s panic slipping out? So far he had almost appeared too calm.
Whatever it was, Henry was waiting for an answer, standing in front of O’Dell, towering over her. She didn’t look the least bit intimidated by the big man, and instead ripped off a piece of the paper to stick in her pocket. Everyone else stood watching, waiting, as if for permission to return to their lunches. Adam couldn’t figure out why Henry was suddenly being so tough on Agent O’Dell. After all, he had invited her into the investigation, hadn’t he?
“You think this could be important?” Henry finally asked, his tone almost back to normal. He must have realized he couldn’t rattle O’Dell so easily.
“When a killer uses something out of the ordinary like this it’s often because he has it handy. It may be a way for you to track him down.”
“A piece of paper?”
“Sometimes it’s the simplest things that lead us to a killer. What we might otherwise think is an insignificant piece of evidence. A serial killer named John Joubert used a strange piece of rope. It had unusual fibers. I think it was made in Korea, not something just anyone would have around the house. He tied up his young victims with it. When they arrested Joubert they found more of the rope in the trunk of his car. The rope was something he had access to as a scoutmaster. He had plenty of it handy and he never considered that it might be something that would be used to finger him. Whatever this white paper is, I’m guessing this killer has plenty of it available to him.”
“Okay.” Henry still didn’t sound convinced. “But what the hell is he using it for?”
“I need to see more of the victims, but my guess right now…” O’Dell hesitated, looking around the group as if deciding whether or not to share her opinion. “My early guess is that he’s using it to temporarily wrap things.”
“Things,” Henry chided as if impatient.
“Yes, things like Mr. Earlman’s brain.”
CHAPTER 22
Maggie accepted the Diet Coke Sheriff Watermeier offered. She preferred Diet Pepsi, but knew this was a sort of peace offering. As the others finished their lunches, Watermeier sat down next to her on the boulder.
“When we finish later this afternoon, I need to take a minute and throw a bone to those media piranhas.” He smiled, pleased with his own pun. “Then Stolz says he’ll do the autopsy of the woman we found yesterday. That suit your time schedule?”
“Yes, of course.”
He continued to sit quietly at her side, and she wondered if there was something more he needed to tell her, something more he wanted to share.
“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”
She glanced at him, surprised. That wasn’t exactly what she expected from the rough-and-tough, ex-NYPD-turned-small-town sheriff.
She followed his eyes, taking it in for the first time since she had arrived. Maggie couldn’t help thinking how quiet it was. The trees were still thick with splashes of orange and yellow with flaming red vines licking up the trunks. And the sky seemed so blue it looked artificial. Even the ankle-high grass was dotted with tiny yellow flowers.
“Yes,” she finally agreed. “It is beautiful.”
“Everybody ready?” Watermeier broke the momentary peace, standing suddenly as though he needed to snap back to attention.
They joined the others where Adam Bonzado and his students had brought down another cracked barrel. This time Maggie pulled her jacket up over her nose. Already the stench was overbearing and the pry bar had only broken the seal. Despite Bonzado’s effort the drum’s lid came undone bit by squeaky bit, reminding Maggie of opening a lid off a vacuum-sealed can of coffee.
“Man, oh man, this one is ripe,” the professor said, and stopped, his hands still clenching the pry bar while he wiped at his face with the bottom of his shirt, revealing for a second or two rock-hard abs. Maggie looked away, realizing that this was the second time in only hours that she had taken notice of his physique.
The rest of them waited. No one offered to take over for the poor professor. Not any of his three students. The one named Joe kept a safe distance, while the woman, Ramona, seemed interested but cautious. The older student Simon, stood quietly, almost rigid with a trowel in one hand and a camera in the other, making no effort to use either. He seemed stunned or perhaps overwhelmed by the sight. Maybe it was the stench.
“Should we be cutting these barrels open?” Watermeier suggested.
“With what?” Stolz swabbed at his forehead, which had been constantly shiny with sweat. “Anything we use could contaminate what’s inside more than it already is. Let’s at least see what’s in these barrels before we go hauling all of them away. I don’t want a dozen barrels of garbage in my lab, Henry. Is that okay? Can we at least see what the hell’s in them before we do that? I know it’s time consuming and I know it’s a pain in the ass.”
“Whatever you want. That’s your call.”
“I never said—” But Stolz stopped as a mass of black flies swarmed out the small opening of the barrel. “What the hell?”
“Son of a bitch.” Watermeier took a step back.
Bonzado hesitated for a second, then slammed the lid back down. “We should probably collect a few of these, right?” He looked to Maggie and then to Carl, who was already searching for a container.
“Ramona and Simon, could you give Carl a hand?”
The woman practically jumped to Carl’s side, but Simon stood there as if he hadn’t heard Bonzado.
“Simon?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Maggie watched him set the trowel and camera down so slowly it seemed as if in slow motion. Perhaps Bonzado was expecting a bit much from his students, who had imagined their careers examining clean, fleshless bones in sterile, warm and dry laboratories.
Bonzado pried at the lid again and this time Carl and Ramona held the opposite corners of a makeshift net and caught several flies. Simon held the wide-mouth container for them to shake the flies into, slapping the lid on quickly. He handed the container back to Carl and returned to his previous stance, trowel back in one hand, camera in the othe
r.
Now Bonzado proceeded, ignoring the rest of the flies. Finally, the lid came loose, thumping to the ground. More flies were freed and so was the smell, a sour pungent odor like rotten-egg gas. Maggie watched Joe and one of Henry’s deputies hurry away. Joe didn’t make it to the trees before he began retching. Even Watermeier and Carl backed away, the sheriff’s hat now over his nose.
“Holy fucking crap,” Watermeier said, his words muffled through his hat.
Maggie climbed onto the rocks, putting some space between herself and the smell, while attempting a look down into the barrel. “Anyone have a flashlight?”
Pry bar now tossed aside, Bonzado shuffled through his toolbox, setting metal clanking. Maggie couldn’t help wondering if it was to distract attention from his nervousness. But when he reached up to hand her the penlight, she realized his sudden clumsiness was no disguise. His hand was perfectly still and he had no trouble meeting her eyes.
“How the hell would flies get inside?” Watermeier asked. “That barrel was sealed good and tight. Did they squeeze through the crack?”
“Possibly,” Maggie said. “It’s also possible the body was exposed to the elements for a while before it was stuffed inside the barrel.” Maggie shot the penlight into the black hole and wished she could see more than the spots of lights. The afternoon sun cast shadows that didn’t help matters. Swaying branches overhead created dancing shadows that almost made it look like there was movement down inside the barrel.
“But they couldn’t have lasted that long,” Watermeier insisted.
“They would have laid their larvae,” Maggie said while concentrating on the spots of light showing pieces of torn fabric, a tangle of hair, maybe a shoe.
“Blowflies are pretty quick and efficient,” Bonzado joined in. “They can sense blood from up to three miles away and be on a body before it’s even cooled, sometimes before it’s dead.”
Maggie checked faces, but the pallor from moments ago was gone, no one wincing at the gruesome details the professor described. In fact, now everyone seemed ready.
