by Mark Lukens
CHAPTER NINE
The Cave
Palmer couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Agent Klein shined the spotlight on the collection of body parts piled up together in front of what looked like some kind of city of adobe stone walls that ran far back into the cave, disappearing into the darkness. In front of the grotesque display of body parts was a line of stone tablets laid out with what looked like some kind of ancient writing carved into them. Klein’s hand was shaking more noticeably now, the light shimmering from his tremors, giving a slight strobe-light effect on the carnage in front of Palmer.
“What …?” Klein whispered. “How …?”
“That’s what I was trying to explain,” Captain Begay said.
Palmer stared in disbelief. His legs felt suddenly shaky, his muscles rubbery, the strength draining a little from his body. He felt like a rookie on his first assignment.
“It doesn’t seem like one person could’ve done all of this,” Begay said, but his grumbling voice sounded so far away to Palmer’s ears now, like maybe the large man was slowly backing away into the darkness, backing up from the light that exposed this pile of horrors. “It doesn’t even seem like people did this,” he added.
But it had to be people, Palmer thought. What else could do something like this? Arrange things this way?
Palmer got his breathing back under control. He was certain Begay and Klein had noticed his sudden shock, his quick attack of panic, but he didn’t care. It would be a normal reaction from anyone after seeing something like this.
You’ve got a job to do, he told himself. Calm down and do your job!
Begay was silent, looming behind Klein and Palmer. And even Klein was at a loss for words as he let the beam from his spotlight slowly pan over the horrifying structure built out of human body parts.
Ten people, Agent Palmer thought. Eight archaeologists and grad students led by Jake Phillips; a Navajo guide named Jim Whitefeather; and the expert on the Anasazi that Jake had called in to help him with this dig site—Stella Weaver. All of those people were here in this cave now, tangled together in a mass of limbs, torsos, chunks of flesh, severed heads. Were all ten of them here in this pile or were more of their parts somewhere inside those city walls that disappeared into the darkness? It was hard to tell.
The people in the pile had been torn apart, like some giant beast had pulled them apart as easily as a boiled chicken. A man’s head sat cradled in the crook of an arm that had been pulled off near the shoulder, the rest of the arm gone from halfway down his forearm. Shredded pieces of the sleeve of the man’s shirt still stuck to the pale flesh from the dark, matted blood. Two severed fingers had been stuck into the man’s eyes, the torn ends of the fingers protruding out like stubby little cigars. The man’s mouth was wrenched wide open and his jaw was twisted slightly to the side, jagged pieces of broken teeth that looked like shattered remnants of white tile shined from inside of his mouth.
That was only one grisly sight among the heap of rotting human flesh. A foot stuck up from behind a man’s head, the skin purplish and swollen, the toes almost black with rot. Many of the armless, headless, and legless torsos formed the bottom layer of the human sculpture, huge holes in some of the torsos where organs had been removed. One torso had two fractured pieces of ribs poking out like springs from an old mattress.
The spotlight’s beam suddenly jerked away from the pile of horrors and Klein bent over in the darkness and began retching.
Palmer shined the weak light from his cell phone at Klein. “Are you going to be sick? Go over there if you are … this is a crime scene.”
Klein remained bent over, his spotlight shining down at the cave floor. A string of spittle hung down from his mouth but it didn’t look like he had vomited yet. He nodded his head and grunted. “I’ll be okay. It’s just … just the smell … and the …” He let his words trail off.
Palmer felt the same nauseous feelings in his stomach but he steeled himself and pointed the light from his cell phone at the pile of human parts. Begay aimed his flashlight in the same direction as Palmer, adding their beams of light together.
You’ve got a job to do, Palmer said to himself.
He still had his blue nitrite gloves on, but he didn’t want to touch the bodies … there were so many parts precariously balanced on top of each other, some pieces held together by gummed up layers of dried blood like mortar between bricks.
A few of the body parts had sticks and tree branches rammed through them, holding the parts together like a matrix. He pressed the camera app button on his cell phone and took some photos. The flash went off and the phone made its cute little click-click noise as he captured the horror in front of him on his phone, storing it away safely.
Flash! Click-click. A photo of two heads back-to-back, their heads smashed together so forcefully and suddenly that they looked like conjoined twins connected together.
Flash! Click-click. A female head—her dark hair thick with matted blood, shiny with it, like it had been coated in polyurethane. Her jaw had been removed and her tongue flopped out onto the section of human leg that her head was balanced on top of. Another man’s face had been partially skinned, the cuts so fine and intricate compared to the seemingly frenzied tears and rips of the other pieces, like the killer took his time with this one.
Flash! Click-click. Another photo of a torso stuck on a thick and sharp tree branch.
Flash! Click-click. Another photo of a piece of an arm, the flesh disappearing away into the darkness in a spray of gore across the hard-packed dirt; it looked like a piece of roadkill.
Flash! Click-click. Another photo of a mutilated head sitting delicately on two hands (that seemed to be from two different people) that were splayed out to cradle the head like a dish holding a candle.
Flash! Click-click. A photo of the line of tablets.
Flash! Click-click. A close up photo of the ancient writing carved into the tablets.
Ten people in all.
Were all of them here in this tangled mess? It was hard to tell. Palmer tried to count heads, arms, legs, and torsos, but he lost count. He had counted seven heads so far, but he was fairly certain that pieces of maybe two other heads and faces were buried down in the middle of the tangled body parts with the torsos; one piece of a head might even be stuffed inside the cavity of one of the torsos.
Forensics was going to have to sort all of this out.
“What are those tablets?” Palmer asked Begay. “Is that Navajo writing?”
Begay walked closer to the tablets, his white handkerchief up to his nose and mouth. He studied the tablets for a moment, aiming his flashlight beam down at them. He shook his head no and turned back to Palmer. “That’s not Navajo. Nothing I’ve ever seen before. I would guess that it might be Anasazi writing.”
“The people who built this city in here?” Palmer looked at the adobe walls of the buildings that stood like ghosts in the darkness a few dozen yards beyond the pile of body parts.
Begay nodded. “But the strange thing is that no Anasazi writing has ever been found before.”
Maybe that made these discoveries valuable, Palmer thought. But if the killers were after valuable objects, maybe even objects priceless enough to kill for, why leave them behind? Why leave them displayed in front of the dead bodies like they were? Was it some kind of message?
Palmer felt a sudden overwhelming urge to run … he needed to get out of here. He had his photos. He’d seen enough … but he sure as hell didn’t have any answers. Now he needed some fresh air, he needed to get away from the overpowering stink of rotting flesh. As cold as the weather was outside this cave, Palmer couldn’t wait to breathe in that icy air.
“You see what I was trying to tell you guys?” Begay said.
Palmer nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak right now, afraid his breakfast sandwich and coffee (and let’s not forget the few nips of vodka) might come rolling up out of him whether he wanted them to or not.
“There’s no wa
y a man did all of this,” Begay continued. “Those limbs, they look torn apart, not cut.”
Palmer nodded. “Let’s get some air.”
“Amen,” Klein said.
Begay nodded in agreement and he turned to head back towards the narrow passageway through the rock. Klein hurried in front of the two men so he could light their way back with the spotlight.
They hurried back through the tunnel of rock, the same way they had entered, Klein in the lead with his handheld spotlight shining the way for them. Palmer walked behind Klein with the pathetic light from his phone helping a little, and Begay brought up the rear with his own flashlight. The scurrying sounds of their footsteps, their breathing, and the rustling of their clothing all blended together into haunting echoes that bounced back at them from the darkness.
For a moment Palmer swore he heard another rustling sound from farther behind them. He swore it was the shifting sound of the body parts, like something buried inside of them was pulling itself out. He squeezed his mind shut against that thought. It wasn’t real. He was just spooked, that’s all.
He’d never seen anything like that before, not in his twenty years as an agent specializing in serial and mass killings. He’d seen ritualistic murders before, mass executions by madmen with assault rifles. He’d seen what could be done to the human body. But this was a mixture of both … the raw power of rage tearing limbs away from torsos, and then the delicate precision, almost artistic placement of the pieces, like some kind of horrible sculpture.
No, whoever had done this hadn’t been trying to hide the bodies … they had displayed them.
They finally reached the mouth of the cave, the bright sunlight pouring into the sliver of the entrance, the colder air hitting them like an invisible punch. But at least it was fresh air.
“One person didn’t do all of that,” Begay said as soon as they were outside the cave and walking towards his Ford Bronco. Klein shut off his spotlight and handed it back to the officer who still stood in front of Begay’s Bronco.
“That’s not any kind of animal attack,” Klein said. “That’s for sure.”
“But those people were torn apart,” Palmer said. “Like Captain Begay said.”
Klein looked down at his cell phone. “Can’t ever get a signal out here,” he mumbled like he was purposely ignoring Palmer’s statement.
Palmer shoved his own cell phone down into his coat pocket. He felt his leather gloves in the pocket and pulled them out. He pulled the gloves on over the thin blue nitrite gloves and his hands felt a little warmer.
“Not an animal exactly,” Begay said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Klein snapped at him.
Begay didn’t say anything, but Palmer had an idea of what the big man was getting at—some kind of Native American legend or something, some mythical monster that attacked humans and tore them apart. But Palmer wasn’t going to say anything and let Klein ridicule the captain in front of his own men.
Begay still didn’t seem ready to expound on his statement and Klein dismissed it.
“Look,” Palmer said to Begay, “I know this seems impossible, but I assure you a person did this. More likely a group of people.” Palmer thought back to his theory of a group of Navajo radicals who wanted to send a message to other scientists who might want to come and dig up their land. It seemed like an extreme theory, but it was all Palmer had to go on right now.
“I know this seems … seems impossible,” Agent Palmer continued. “But when the forensics team gets here, they’ll figure it all out. It might take a while, but they will figure all of this out.”
Begay didn’t say anything, he seemed to be choosing his statements carefully, but Palmer could see the doubt in the man’s dark eyes.
Palmer couldn’t blame Begay. What they’d just seen inside that cave was hard for any person to wrap their mind around. He had heard of cases that were nearly as gruesome as the display in the cave: cult killings, sadistic tortures. He remembered reading about World War II soldiers who had invaded Hitler’s death camps at the end of the war and saw horrors beyond belief, atrocities beyond understanding, things that haunted their dreams. Palmer knew that humans had the will and the power to do unspeakably terrible things to each other.
“There’s no blood in the cave,” Begay finally spoke, staring right at Klein, and then at Palmer.
“What do you mean no blood?” Klein asked and looked at Palmer.
Palmer nodded; he’d noticed the same thing when they had walked through the cave. “I didn’t see any blood on the dirt floor, none smeared on the rock walls, no drag marks from the bodies to speak of.”
Klein looked a little embarrassed that he hadn’t noticed that.
“Not much blood out here either,” Begay said. “Nothing except for that one spot over there by the second trailer. But there’s blood all over the place inside that first trailer. How did this person, or these people, take blood-soaked bodies, all of those pieces of their bodies, from the trailer to the cave without spilling a drop of it?
“I don’t know. It’s strange, but we’re going to get it all figured out.”
Palmer looked over at the line of trucks in the distance near the stand of cottonwoods. He thought about going over there and looking them over.
But before Palmer started walking towards the trucks, the radios from inside both of the Dodge Durangos squawked—an incoherent voice called out through a burst of static from the dashboard radios. The officer with the longer dark hair bolted to his vehicle and snatched the mike up out of his truck. He talked into it for a moment, but Palmer couldn’t make out all of what he was saying—some of the words sounded like they might have been Navajo. After the officer finished the conversation on the radio, he threw the mike back into his vehicle onto the driver’s seat and hurried over to Begay.
Agent Palmer watched the young officer, but the man’s eyes were on his captain.
“There’s been another murder,” the officer told Begay. “Two more bodies discovered.”
CHAPTER TEN
Navajo Reservation—the dig site
“We’re going with you,” Agent Klein told Captain Begay as the man walked towards his Ford Bronco. “It could be connected to what happened here.”
Begay stopped walking and looked at both of the agents like he was thinking something over. He let out a slow sigh. “It’s not too far from here. I’ll leave my men here to wait for your forensics team.”
“Sounds good,” Agent Palmer said. He looked at Klein. “I’ll follow you.”
As Palmer walked quickly to his rental sedan, Begay gave his orders to his two officers. Palmer got in his car and closed the door on the freezing air. He watched the reactions from the two men as Begay told them to wait behind … they didn’t look very happy about staying here at the dig site.
Palmer tore off his gloves and thrust his hands in front of the heating vents, waiting for the air to warm up. Klein was already in his black sedan, the motor running, smoke pluming up from the tailpipe.
Begay got into his Bronco and started it up. He drove away from the other two Durangos and idled down the trail through the brush that led up to the dirt road that cut through the rock canyon. Klein followed Begay, and Palmer followed Klein. Palmer hoped Captain Begay would drive a little slower over this rough terrain until they got back on paved roads.
• • •
Once they were out of the canyons and onto paved roads, Palmer checked his cell phone. He had one bar of signal strength so he dialed the Albuquerque office.
“This is Special Agent Palmer,” he said into the phone. “I’m in the field at a dig site on the Navajo Reservation and I was wondering how far away the forensics team is.”
He waited for a moment, following Klein’s sedan along the desert road. In the distance jagged mountains and mesas lined the horizon with a sea of brush leading up to them.
“They should be there in the next few hours,” the dispatch told him.
“Can you l
et them know that they need to bring a generator with them? And some extra gas.”
“A generator?” the woman said and she seemed to be writing it down. “A generator and some gas,” she repeated.
“I’m going with Agent Klein to another crime scene. We might not be back to the dig site when the forensics team gets there, but two Navajo Tribal officers will be there waiting for them.”
Again it seemed like she was writing instructions down. “I’ll let them know.”
“Okay, thanks,” Palmer said into the phone and hung up.
• • •
Thirty minutes later Palmer followed Klein and Begay into the small town of Iron Springs. The town was spread out among the dusty hills. They passed a convenience store, a small church, two lines of commercial buildings lining each side of the main street, a fire station/police department, a Mexican restaurant. Beyond the buildings was a water tower rising up into the clear blue sky. Some of the roads branched off from the main road and led to areas of houses or plots of land with trailers on them. They took one of these side roads, heading back out into the barren desert again.
Dotting the tops of the hills in the distance were several trailers, some sitting inside acres of land that had been fenced off where groups of sheep, cows, or goats grazed. Once they were past these homesteads, they rounded a curve where the hills rose up sharply on one side, then flattened out again as they descended down into a valley. On the left side of the road were some small, squat houses set far back from the road and each home sat on at least an acre of land. They drove to the last house and Palmer followed Klein and Captain Begay, pulling over onto the side of the road in the front yard. This house looked neat, the front yard dotted with carefully planted desert fauna in a gravel bed. The house looked recently painted and the metal roof looked newer.
A Tribal Police vehicle, another Dodge Durango, was already parked in the driveway. A police officer with the now-familiar green coat on stood beside his vehicle waiting for them. A compact car was parked in front of the cop’s car, tucked away and protected underneath a metal awning that was connected to the side of the home. A mid-nineties Chevy pickup truck with a king cab was parked in the patchy grass beside the carport.
