by Kathy Reichs
LaManche gestured to Lisa to measure the ankle rope.
“The left foot is booted and attached to a rock by a twenty-centimeter length of polypropylene rope. It appears the victim secured the rope to the rock then to his ankle, which was left exterior to the plastic.”
As Lisa ran her measuring tape, LaManche dictated dimensions. “The outer plastic envelope is one meter in width by two and a half meters in length and conforms closely to the body.”
LaManche moved to the end of the table. Flies rose with a buzz of annoyance. Behind me, tiny bodies bounced off the light box.
“The head is wrapped separately. A breathing tube extends to the exterior, duct-taped to the bag.”
Breathing tube?
I looked at the slime-covered cylinder. Was the plastic arrangement some sort of jerry-rigged diving gear?
“The bag’s lower border is taped tightly around the neck.”
On and on. Lisa measured. LaManche recorded lengths, positions, opening dimensions. Finally, he palpated the cranial setup.
“The breathing tube is displaced laterally and posteriorly from the region of the mouth.”
I’m not sure why, maybe a vision of the tube popping from Lowery’s mouth. A tube through which he intended to draw air.
Suddenly it clicked. The body wrapping. The ankle rock. The knife, meant for escape, but fallen far out of reach.
I felt like a dunce. The chief had it figured way before I did.
But underwater? I vowed to check the literature.
At that moment my mobile sounded.
Ryan.
Stripping off my gloves, I moved to the anteroom and clicked on.
“What’s happening?”
“We’re unwrapping Lowery.”
“You sound pretty confident that’s who it is.”
I described my session with Boniface.
“Too early for cause of death?”
“I’m pretty sure LaManche is thinking autoerotic. The guy rigged himself up to get his rocks off.”
“In a pond?” Ryan sounded skeptical.
“Anything’s possible if you follow your dream.”
“Worth sliding down for a peek?”
“Autoerotics usually are.”
“In the meantime, I thought you’d want to know. The plate on the moped traced to one Morgan Shelby of Plattsburgh, New York. He and I just finished chatting.
“Shelby says he sold the scooter to a Hemmingford man named Jean Laurier. The transaction was, shall we say, informal.”
“Cash, no paperwork, the bike goes north costing Laurier no cross-border tax.”
“Bingo. According to Shelby, the purchaser promised to deal with registration and licensing in Quebec.”
“But didn’t.”
“The sale took place only ten days ago.”
“Jean Laurier. John Lowery.”
“Oui, madame.”
“What’s his story?”
“Bandau did some canvassing, found a few locals who knew the guy. One says Laurier’s lived around Hemmingford for as long as he can remember.”
“Since nineteen sixty-eight?”
“The gentleman wasn’t that specific.”
“What did Laurier do?”
“Worked as a handyman, strictly freelance.”
“Cash again?”
“Oui, madame. Laurier stayed pretty much off the grid. No voter registration or tax record. No social insurance number. Bandau’s informants say the guy was a loner, weird but not threatening.”
“Did you get an LSA?” Last known address.
“Oui, madame. Thought I’d toss the place tomorrow. You game?”
“I’m free.”
“It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date, Ryan.”
“Then perhaps a little après-toss toss at my place?”
“I promised Birdie I’d make him deviled eggs.”
“I also phoned the Lumberton PD.” Ryan’s vowels went longer than Dixie. “Nice friendly boys down thataway.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Some Lowerys still live there. Guy I talked with actually remembered John, promised to go to the library and copy the kid’s yearbook photo.”
“Why were Lowery’s prints in the system?”
“Because of some part-time job he held during high school. Nurse’s aide? Orderly in a mental facility? Something like that.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I’m a detective. I detect. I’ll be down when Lowery’s face faxes in.”
By noon, the plastic head bag and body wrap hung on drying racks in the hall. The breathing tube turned out to be a common snorkel. It had been photographed, swabbed, and sent upstairs for analysis.
So had a small piece of plastic found bow-tied around Lowery’s penis. That would also be tested for bodily fluids.
Lowery lay supine on stainless steel, face distorted, scrotum bloated, gut swollen, and going green. But, overall, the guy was in pretty good shape. A skeletal analysis would not be needed.
“White male, fifty to sixty years old,” LaManche dictated. “Black hair. Green eyes. Circumcised. No scars, piercings, or tattoos.”
I helped Lisa maneuver the measuring rod.
“Approximately one hundred and seventy-five centimeters in height.” Five foot nine.
Ryan arrived as LaManche was circling the body, checking eyes, hands, scalp, and orifices. He handed me the Lumberton fax.
The image was so small and so blurry, it could have been anyone. But a few things were evident.
The boy had dark eyes, curving brows, and regular features. His black hair was worn side-parted and short.
“Victim shows no signs of external trauma.” LaManche looked up. Nodded in greeting. “Detective.”
After explaining its source, Ryan handed the fax to LaManche. He and Lisa studied it.
“Clean him, please,” LaManche requested.
Lisa used a spray nozzle on Lowery’s head. After toweling him dry and side-combing his hair, she positioned the printed image beside his right ear.
Eight eyes ping-ponged from the fax to the face and back.
Four decades of life and two days of death separated the man on the table from the boy in the photo. Though the nose was more bulbous, the jawline more slack, the pond victim had the same dark hair and eyes, the same Al Pacino brows.
Was the Hemmingford floater an older version of the kid from Lumberton?
I couldn’t be sure.
“Think it’s him?” I asked LaManche.
The chief gave one of his inexplicable French shrugs. Who knows? Why ask me? What herb flavors the ragout you are making?
I looked at Ryan. His eyes were glued to the man on the table.
No wonder. The sight was bizarre.
John Lowery had died wearing the following: a cotton soft-cup bra, Glamorise brand, color pink, size 44B; ladies’ polyester hipster panties, Blush brand, color pink, size large; a cotton-polyester blend nurse’s cap, one size fits all, white with blue stripe; one steel-toed boot, Harley-Davidson brand, side left, color black, size 10.
And that was just the wardrobe.
Lowery had taken two tools inside the plastic with him: a proctoscope, for sport I didn’t want to envisage; a Swiss Army Knife, for escape when the party was over.
The proctoscope remained in a fabric sack suspended from his neck. The knife had ended up at his feet.
Bite marks on the snorkel’s mouthpiece suggested this wasn’t Lowery’s first attempt at making subsurface solo whoopee. But somehow, this time, things went bad. Most likely scenario: the tube slipped from his mouth; the knife dropped from his hand.
The setting was unusual, but the chief’s initial impression was most probably correct. Lowery’s death would go down as accidental asphyxia associated with autoerotic activity.
John Charles Lowery died playing naughty nurse underwater in a self-made ziplock.
SATURDAY MORNING PRODUCED ANOTHER IMMACULATE BLUE sky. Again meteorologists
were promising eighty degrees.
Three spring beauties back-to-back. Perhaps a Montreal record.
LaManche called around nine. A courtesy, not required. I like that about him.
The chief’s autopsy findings were as I expected. Other than slight atherosclerotic disease, Lowery had no preexisting medical conditions. No traumatic lesions. Some pulmonary edema. A blood alcohol level of 132mg/100 ml.
Cause of death was asphyxia due to oxygen deprivation. Manner was accidental, in the context of autoerotic activity.
By ten Ryan and I were zipping south toward Hemmingford. His mood was upbeat. A rocking Friday night? Light traffic? Too many doughnuts? I didn’t pursue it.
I did ask the length of Laurier/Lowery’s residence at the address to which we were heading. Ryan said a very long time.
Given that, I queried Laurier/Lowery’s ability to stay off the grid. Ryan relayed a complex story of lax rental agreements and changing proprietorship. Bottom line, when the last landlord died without heirs, Laurier/Lowery simply stayed on. Instead of paying rent, he paid taxes and utilities in the deceased owner’s name. Or some such scheme.
The conversation turned to Jean Laurier/John Lowery’s unfortunate demise. How could we resist?
“So Lowery got his kink on bundling in plastic, going deep, and beating off in a pond.” Ryan’s tone was tinged with distaste.
“Dressed as a nurse.”
“Apparently he changed in the canoe. The duffel contained jeans, socks, sneakers, and a shirt.”
“Must take good balancing skills.”
“It also contained a flashlight.”
“Suggesting he went to the pond at night.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Ryan shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s the kick?”
Having no life, I’d done research the evening before, learned that the term autoerotic refers to any solitary sexual activity in which a prop, device, or apparatus is used to enhance sexual stimulation. I knew Ryan was fully aware of this.
“Most autoerotic activity takes place in the home,” I said.
“Gee. Why would that be?”
“Death is usually due to the failure of a preestablished escape mechanism.”
“Lowery probably lost his snorkel, then panicked and dropped the knife he was using to cut himself free.”
“That’s LaManche’s take. And it’s plausible. Most autoerotic deaths are accidental. The person chokes or smothers, due to hanging, or the use of a ligature or plastic bag. Also in the mix are electrocution, foreign-body insertion, overdressing, or body wrapping.”
“Body wrapping?”
“A plastic bag over the head is fairly common, body wrapping less so. Last night I read about a sixty-year-old man found rolled in fourteen sewn blankets, his penis wrapped in a plastic bag. A forty-six-year-old man was discovered wearing seven pairs of stockings, a dress, and ladies’ undies cut to allow Mr. Happy a front-row seat. A twenty-three-year-old schoolteacher died sporting a plastic mackintosh, three cotton skirts, a raincoat, and a plastic—”
“I get the picture. But what’s the point?”
“Heightened sexual excitement.”
Two killer blues swung my way. “I can think of better routes to that end.”
Oh, could he. I felt myself blush. Hated it. Focused on what I’d learned the night before.
“Autoerotic arousal derives from a limited number of mechanisms.” I ticked points off on a hand. “One, direct stimulation of the erotic regions.” My thumb moved to middleman. “Two, stimulation of the sexual centers of the central nervous system.”
“As in strangulation or hanging.”
“Or the use of a head covering. It’s well known that cerebral hypoxia can heighten sexual pleasure.”
My thumb went to ring man.
“Three, creation of fear and distress in the context of a masochistic fantasy. Spice things up with electrocution or immersion, for example.”
“Weenie-whacking submerged can’t be all that common.”
“There’s actually a term for it. Aqua-eroticum. I found a few cases reported in the literature. One victim used an ankle rock, just like Lowery.”
Ryan turned onto Highway 219. We passed the pond, and a few minutes later pulled to the shoulder beside a mailbox with the number 572 hand-painted on one side. An SQ cruiser was already there.
Ryan and I studied the house.
Laurier/Lowery’s small bungalow was set back from the road and partially obscured by a thick stand of pine. Green frame. One story. Small storage shed attached on the right.
As we walked up the gravel drive, I noted freshly painted trim and neatly stacked wood. A large garden in back appeared recently plowed.
Catching movement through a window, I turned to Ryan. He saw it too.
“Bandau better not be pulling more of his Lone Ranger bullshit.”
The outer door stood open, its frame gouged and splintered at the level of the knob. Ryan and I entered directly into a living room sparsely furnished with what looked like Salvation Army castoffs. Bandau was in it. Hearing footsteps, he turned.
At Bandau’s back was a desk holding a MacBook Pro that appeared fairly new. Its cover was open.
“Not jumping the gun again, are we, Agent?” Ryan’s smile was icy.
“No, sir.”
“You entered ahead of the warrant.”
“Just securing the scene.”
“Let’s hope that’s true.”
Bandau offered nothing in defense or apology.
Ryan and I moved methodically, unsure what we were seeking.
In the kitchen cabinets were chipped tableware, cleaning products, supermarket shelf goods, and enough home-canned produce to outlast the next coming.
The refrigerator offered the normal array of condiments, dairy products, lunch meat, and bread. No caviar. No capers. No French bottled water.
A plate, glass, and utensils stood drying in a green plastic dish rack. A half-empty bottle of Scotch sat on one counter.
The bath, like the kitchen, was surprisingly clean. Over-the-counter meds and personal products in the medicine cabinet. Cheap shampoo and soap in the shower.
The bedroom was equally unremarkable. Double bed with gray wool blanket, pillow, no coverlet. Side table with lamp, clock radio, and lubricating eye drops. Wooden dresser containing boxers and tees, one striped tie, a half dozen pairs of rolled socks, all black.
The closet was the size of a mailbox. Jeans and shirts. Black polyester pants. One bad sports jacket, tan corduroy.
On the floor were two and a half pairs of boots, one pair of oxfords, and one pair of sandals, the kind with tire treads for soles.
The overhead shelf held stacked magazines.
Ryan pulled and scoped a couple. “Hell-o.”
I read the titles. Tit Man. Butt Man.
“The guy’s flexible,” I said.
Ryan chose another. Lollypop Girls. The lead story was headlined Park It in My Panties. I tried to decipher that literary gem. Gave up. The request made no sense.
I looked at Ryan. His eyes were doing that scrunchy thing. I knew a panty suggestion was coming my way.
“Decorum, sir.”
“Hither we yonder to fair computer?” Ryan asked demurely.
“Hither is not a verb.”
“Let us forth, flaxen-haired maiden.”
My eye roll may have attained a personal best.
“I yield to my lady’s superior skills.”
“Thank you.”
“And to her unclean undies.” Whispered.
Smacking Ryan’s arm, I hithered to the desk.
Bandau continued staring out the window, feet wide, elbows winging, hands clasped behind his back.
“No phone,” I said. “No cables. Did Laurier have an ISP account?”
“Meaning?”
“Internet Service Provider. Like Videotron or Bell.”
“Not that I found record of.”
The Mac whirred to life, asked for
a password. I tried PASSWORD. 123456. ABCDEF. Various combinations of Jean and Laurier. Laurier’s address and street name. All of the above jumbled, reversed.
No go.
LOWERY.
Nope.
YREWOL.
I took the initials JCR and converted them to number positions within the alphabet. 100318. Flipped the sequence. 813001. Reversed the initials to RCJ. 180310. Flipped that. 013081.
Still the little cursor defied me.
Picturing a phone, I tried the digits associated with the letters LOWERY, 569379.
I was in.
When the computer was fully booted, I checked a fan-shaped icon on the far right of the toolbar. Three stripes. I clicked on it.
“He pirated signal from the neighbors.” I pointed to a network code name. Fife.
“Can he do that?”
“The Fifes probably use their phone number as their password. A lot of folks do. Laurier knew or looked it up. Or maybe he asked permission. Anyway, once the password is entered, the computer remembers and automatically selects that network. The Fifes can’t be far away. The signal’s weak but sufficient.”
As Ryan jotted the name Fife in his spiral, I noted applications.
Standard Mac stuff. Numbers. Mail. Safari. iCal.
Laurier/Lowery had stored no spreadsheets or documents. He’d entered no contacts into the address book, no appointments into the calendar.
“He didn’t use e-mail,” I said. “Or iTunes, iPhoto, iMovie, iDVD.”
“I see.”
Another eye roll. “Let’s check what he found amusing on the net.”
I launched Safari and pulled up the browsing history.
In the past two weeks the user had researched mulch and fertilizer, corn hybrids, scuba diving, hypoxia, poison ivy, copper wire, roofing tiles, North American squirrels, Quebec dentists, and a variety of vitamins.
“A site called robesoniandotcom was visited six times,” I said.
Ryan leaned close. He smelled of male sweat and a “Don’t worry, be happy, mon” cologne. Bay rum, I think.
The flaxen-haired maiden felt a tingle in her southern parts. She managed to stay focused.
Robesonian.com was an online newspaper for Lumberton, the county seat of Robeson County, North Carolina.
“Hot damn,” Ryan said, close to my ear.
