Where Bodies Lie

by D. K. Greene

  Standing tall, Peter looks across the cubicles to the other conference room. Charles isn’t sitting at the head of the table in that meeting. He’s pinched between two broad-shouldered men in dark suits. Charles and his companions each have pale faces and downcast eyes. A tall, bald man stands at the head of the table, red-faced and shouting.

  “Screw you, Charles,” Peter says aloud. He stops, holding his breath, looking out through the glass to see if anyone heard him. When no one pays him any mind, he opens the heavy door and returns to his cubicle to grab his things.

  The paperwork will be ready for his leave of absence soon. Once filed, no one will be able to stop him.

  Not even Charles.

  Eleven

  “I’ve been thinking...” Ollie tilts his head to the right side of the path. The entire search party notices the gesture and abandons their search of the bushes on his left.

  “You seem to do that a lot.” Peter keeps pace with his father as he wanders down what’s left of the narrow dirt trail. The torrent of rain during their last tour of the forest washed out much of the path.

  “I’m afraid there’s not much else to do these days,” Ollie says with a shrug. “But I digress. I think if you had experience killing someone... whether for love, or hate, or boredom... maybe you and I wouldn’t be at such odds all the time.”

  Ollie behaves as if he’s talking about Peter picking up shuffleboard. He’s aghast at his father’s casual demeanor. “I’m not going to murder someone just so we can connect, Dad.”

  His father stops and takes a long look at him. Ollie appears offended. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter says, frustrated. “Maybe because people are people? They have jobs, families, lives to live?”

  “Not everyone has a life worth living, Hen. There’s a woman in D block who killed seventeen patients in hospice. None of them had anyone visit them after they got sick. With people like that, it’s not really murder. It’s helping someone out of their misery.” Ollie shrugs off Peter’s judgmental frown. “Fine, then. Let nature take its course. The good Lord takes them in the end, anyway.”

  They stand in silence for a moment. Peter stares at the monster who he used to think of as a loving father. Ollie looks thoughtful, too.

  “Not every murderer chooses his victims, Hen. You can always let a victim choose you,” Ollie offers.

  Peter groans and casts his gaze toward the forest canopy. He wishes one of the ancient trees would fall over and knock both himself and his father down dead. “Come on, Dad.”

  “I’m serious! A man could hold some kind of competition. Let the survivors and victims sort themselves out. Hell, a guy could even put a prize in a Cracker Jack box that explodes when it comes into contact with moisture or something. Put it on display on the check-out line at the tool store and walk away. Let dumb luck influence who gets it.”

  “Kids get prizes out of Cracker Jack boxes, Dad. As much as I’m not a murderer, I’m absolutely not a pedo-murderer.”

  “I understand. Kids are hard. It’s easier when a victim has a little life experience before he dies. Or she.” Ollie shrugs, appearing to make a cursory effort at being an equal opportunity killer. “Although there are always orphans and kids from crack houses. They’ve got plenty of life experience.”

  They walk a little farther down the trail. Ollie’s train of thought is so absurd that Peter doesn’t know how to respond.

  “Hasn’t anyone ever pissed you off so much that you just want to...” Ollie holds his hands out in front of him and mimes choking an invisible person to death. Inspector Douglas is nearby and notices the gesture. He raises an eyebrow at Peter. He motions he’s okay.

  “Not really,” Peter answers. “I’ve never wanted to kill anyone.”

  “Not even me?” Peter’s father looks at him with interest. “I murdered your mother and got hauled off to prison. I left you in the hands of strangers. Not only did I trap you in foster care, I also made you grow up around the discovery and clean-up of dozens of murders.”

  Peter sits on a worn stump and gazes at his dad. Ollie looks smaller out here among the sky-high boughs of old-growth pine. Peter imagines a younger version of his father hiking around in the dark. Alone except for Carol, flung over his shoulder, as lifeless as a department store mannequin. “Not even you.”

  “Good Lord, Son. Maybe you ought to talk to someone about that. Seems to me, if anyone would have enough pent up rage to go on a killing spree, it should be you.”

  Peter glances around for the nearest marshal and raises his hand. Special Agent Jones starts the brief climb up the hill with a blue-clad officer. Inspector Douglas stays where he is, but pulls back his jacket and touches his fingertips to the hilt of his handgun.

  “All done here?” Special Agent Jones eyeballs Ollie as she directs her question to Peter.

  “I sure am,” Peter says loudly. Everyone nearby looks over at them.

  Ollie’s face drops. “We haven’t gotten to Carol yet. Don’t you want to know where she’s at?”

  “Nope.” Peter stands and brushes a smudge of mud on his thigh. He stomps down the hill toward Dougy’s car, feeling like a pissed off teenager refusing to take out the garbage. It’s a sensation that’s never consumed him before. Even as a kid, he was even keeled. Now, he feels sullen and defiant.

  “Well, if he won’t listen to me, I guess I’ll tell you, Mac.” Ollie shouts the name over Special Agent Jones’s shoulder.

  Peter covers his ears and keeps marching, willing himself to not look back. He won’t let his father use this woman’s decomposed corpse against him. Yes, Peter wants to be the hero. Wants to have a hand in recovering her body. For her family. For her daughter. Peter spits on the ground beside the black sedan when he reaches it.

  “Have a goddamned contest?” Peter mutters to himself as he thinks about his father’s disturbing suggestion. “Fuck.”

  He doesn’t look back up the trail until he’s in the back seat of the car with the door closed. Once he moves his gaze through the tree line, he sees Ollie watching him. His father stands apart from the swarm of Search and Rescue volunteers that dig the ground about ten yards from the hillock they’d been standing on. Ollie stares a moment longer. An expression of disappointment cemented on his face.

  It shouldn’t break Peter’s heart when his father turns his back. But it does.

  Inspector Douglas and Special Agent Jones work their way down the trail. Jones slides into the driver’s seat and Inspector Douglas taps Peter’s window with a knuckle until his partner punches the button to roll the glass down.

  Dougy leans into the opening. “They found her. Well, her foot, anyway. Outstanding job, Peter. Special Agent Jones will take you home. I’ve got to stay until they close up the scene.” The inspector pauses, his face curious. “Unless you want to take a look?”

  Peter rocks his head. “Not interested in the slightest, thanks.”

  Inspector Douglas nods and pats the car’s roof twice before wandering back up the trail. Jones rolls up the rear window and starts up the engine.

  “Special Agent Jones, would you mind dropping me off somewhere other than my apartment?”

  “Sure. Where to?”

  “Fourteenth and Burnside.” Peter pulls his buckle into place as the car flounders over the root of a nearby tree, rocking the car hard. Once the belt clicks into place, he looks at Jones’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Mac, huh? That’s not usually a name you hear someone call a woman.”

  Mac glances at the mirror, catching Peter’s gaze, then refocuses on the dirt road. “It’s short for Mackenzie. But I don’t go by that anymore.”

  “Why not? Mackenzie’s a pretty name,” he offers, hoping the compliment will appease her.

  She locks eyes with Peter in the mirror. “I shot the last person who called me that.”

  “Okay...” Peter breaks his gaze away, uncomfortable. “Mac it is, then.”

  After another lengthy pause, Mac clears her throat. H
er tone is friendly when she asks, “What did you and your dad talk about out there?”

  “Murder, mostly.” The woods pass by Peter’s window in drab shades of brown, green and orange.

  Mac laughs, taking his statement as a drop of black humor. Peter rests his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes. The needling pressure at his temples and weighty tension in his shoulders release. The agent isn’t driving him home. Soon, he’ll be in Jeanne’s office. She’ll ask him all the right questions and listen patiently to his answers.

  Jeanne will stop his mind from cycling through Ollie’s twisted words. Even if it’s only temporary, seeing her is bound to make him feel better.

  Twelve

  “I talked to my dad again.”

  Jeanne seemed distracted when Peter came into her office. She snaps to attention after his statement. “How’s that going?”

  “Okay, I guess. I sort of volunteered to help him on a job.” Peter shifts in his seat as Jeanne looks at him, confused.

  “That’s interesting.” Jeanne taps her pen against her chin. “What kind of job is your dad doing?”

  Peter thinks about the last two trips into the woods. Before Special Agent Jones had dropped him off, Dougy called to tell her Ollie had offered to give up another body. Provided he gets to go on the hunt and Peter tags along. “You know those work crews that clean up garbage on the side of the highway?”

  Jeanne nods. Peter sighs, frustrated at the comparison he’s making. “Well, it’s like that. Except it isn’t just inmates. They take regular volunteers, too.”

  Smiling, Jeanne makes a note on her pad. “Community service is a step forward, isn’t it?”

  Nodding as happily as he can, Peter tries to match her enthusiasm. She shifts in her seat as she reads through notes from their past sessions. “What about work? How does this new volunteer job fit in with your career?”

  “I took a leave of absence,” Peter answers. Her eyebrow rises, and he wonders if he should have sounded so casual about it.

  “You must be dedicated to getting those highways cleaned up, if you’re taking a break from work,” she comments.

  “It seemed like making things with my dad work deserved my full attention.”

  Peter can feel Jeanne’s pride as she beams at him. She must be impressed that he reached this conclusion on his own. She mumbles softly as she writes, “Progress.” There’s a momentary pause as the therapist collects her thoughts. “How is Elsie handling this transition?”

  Peter wishes she’d stop bringing Elsie up in their conversations. Talking about her behind her back makes him feel like a sleazeball. “I haven’t told her.”

  He watches Jeanne’s delight dissolve. “Peter, honesty is the keystone to having a healthy relationship. I’m concerned about how many important life choices you’re tackling without giving her a chance to offer support.”

  “It would be too much for her,” Peter stammers. “She’s got a full course load and the holidays are coming up... I can’t burden her with this stuff.”

  “You want to protect her from this tumultuous situation. While that’s sweet, won’t she eventually figure out you aren’t working? It might be better if she hears it from you, rather than from someone else.”

  “She doesn’t have to find out, Jeanne.” Peter grips the arms of the faux leather chair, bracing himself against the idea that he has to share his secrets with his girlfriend.

  “If your relationship with your father grows, and especially if it becomes something ongoing, what will you do? Won’t you want the two of them to meet one day?” Jeanne dangles the possibility of a normal family in front of Peter. A carrot suspended in front of a lonely mule. “Not just as a boyfriend sharing his family with his partner, but perhaps even as a way of introducing her to a bit of her own father’s past. She might be glad to meet one of her father’s old friends.”

  Peter swims in the depths of Jeanne’s dark pupils. “Absolutely not.”

  Thirteen

  Hanging out on the side of the interstate is boring. Peter’s been waiting for something to happen for three days while a search crew crawls through a miniature forest alongside the median. His calf cramps from sitting too long, so he gets out to take a walk behind the orange cones. The pointy triangles are all that separates him from the traffic piled up just outside Kalama, Washington.

  As he walks, his eyes track the red jacket of one of the Search and Rescue crew as its owner weaves through a thick patch of blackberries. Oliver insists he left David here. Either his memory is faulty for the first time in nearly seventy years, or the body was moved. Thick trees fill the space between the north and southbound lanes of the interstate, making it look as if there hasn’t been any construction since the killer’s last visit.

  Despite the mature wood reaching toward the clouds, in the underbrush it’s obvious the wildlife and homeless populations migrate through the protective cover frequently.

  Glancing at the line of parked cars, Peter sees Ollie locked up in the back of a black van with Inspector Douglas. When Peter got fed up with his dad’s mind games, Dougy tagged himself in. Peter knows his attempt to force more memory out of his father is futile. Oliver told them right where to look.

  Leaving the cars behind, Peter climbs a narrow hill to watch the people with search dogs pass over the quarter mile stretch. Although the way the dogs work is fascinating, he hopes one of them alerts their handler to the scent of an ancient cadaver soon. He’s over trying to be the hero delivering the dead guy’s body to his family. He just wants to go home.

  Traffic is awful because of the flashing lights and trio of dogs wandering alongside the freeway. It’s been hours of stop and go under the featureless grey sky, a stream of cars blending together as they stretch to the horizon.

  Peter’s become so disinterested in the passing lookie-loos that he almost doesn’t notice the silver car parked on the far shoulder of the northbound lanes. When he swivels his head for a double take, he wonders how long it’s been sitting there. Peter stares in disbelief at the tiny blonde woman perched on the hood. She holds an umbrella handle in the crook of her neck, a laptop balanced on her knees.

  “Is everything okay?” Mac pops into Peter’s peripheral.

  Peter points at Elsie as she looks up from her typing. She shies her face away when she notices them looking at her. “I think that’s my girlfriend.”

  “We told you not to tell anyone about this. These searches have to be kept confidential. For the family’s privacy, and your own.” The agent pulls her phone out.

  Peter grabs her arm. “I didn’t tell her anything. After all these years hiding out, I know how to keep a secret. Ask Dougy if you don’t believe me.”

  Special Agent Jones tenses her arm beneath his grip. “What’s she doing here, then?”

  “I don’t know.” Despite the mist clinging to his face, Peter feels warm. He hears his breathing quicken and there’s a buzzing in his ears. Their relationship isn’t perfect, as Jeanne continues to point out. But if Elsie finds out who his father is, she’ll know Peter’s been lying to her since the day they met.

  Mac trots to the car where her partner is arguing with the convict. She pounds on the window and says something to the inspector. Soon, she’s tucked herself in, replacing him. Dougy is quickly at Peter’s side. “Special Agent Jones says your girlfriend’s here.”

  Peter grumbles, “I don’t know why.”

  “Let’s find out.” Dougy leads the way across the median, holding his hands up to stop cars as they walk out into traffic. Elsie scrambles off her hood. She fumbles as she tries to slide her laptop into its bag. Her umbrella threatens to crash down on her as she pinches it between her shoulder and chin. Her poor coordination buys them enough time to reach the side of the highway before she can bolt.

  In a moment of clear force, Inspector Douglas pulls out his badge. Elsie freezes in place as his voice booms, “Ma’am, my name is Senior Inspector Douglas. This is an open investigation. I have to
ask you to remove yourself from the area.”

  “Shut up, Dougy.” Peter fumes as he takes in Elsie’s startled face. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Oh. Hi.” Elsie pushes a frizzy lock of hair off her forehead. The sound of air sucking through her teeth amplifies her nervous vibe.

  “Why are you here?” Peter demands.

  Elsie looks across the interstate. “I stopped by your office and they said you didn’t show up at work this morning. I thought you might be sick, so I went to your apartment. I saw you leave in a cop car and I just...”

  “David thirteen to Charlie thirty-seven. We have a possible break-in at seven-seven-two-three West Twenty-Fifth. Please respond.”

  Peter yanks Elsie’s door open. She scrambles around him and dives into the driver’s seat, trying to block his path. Peter leans over her, pushing her aside as he forces his head and shoulders into the vehicle. “Is that a police scanner?”

  Elsie smiles as she shrinks beneath him. Her tone melts into the sickly-sweet whine of a cheerleader. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. The scanner said something about cadaver dogs and I...”

  “You have got to be shitting me!” Peter punches the dials on the box perched on her dashboard until it shuts off. Dougy grabs his shirt and yanks him out of the car.

  The inspector snatches Elsie’s keys away from her. “I’ll take these for now, if you don’t mind.” Elsie sputters at him and he shakes his head. “Just until we get this all sorted out.”

  Peter paces back and forth a few times before he calms down enough to look at his girlfriend again. “Are you following me?”

  Eyes narrow, Elsie’s voice turns cold. “Yeah. I am. Somebody has to. You’re out here digging up bodies with a serial killer. If I weren’t tracking you, nobody would know where the hell you are. He could murder you like that.” She snaps her fingers.