Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  I crept forward, carefully testing with each footfall. At the edge of the bushes the smell of putrefaction was overpowering. I listened. Silence. I scanned the underbrush. Nothing. My heart raced and sweat poured down my face.

  Move your ass, Brennan. It’s too far from the pond for alligators.

  I pulled a bandanna from my pocket, covered my mouth and nose, and squatted to see what the flies found so attractive.

  They rose as one, whining and darting around me. I waved them away, but they returned immediately. Sweeping back flies with one hand, I wrapped the bandanna around the other and lifted the yaupon branches. Insects bounced off my face and arms, buzzing and swarming in agitation.

  The flies had been drawn to a shallow grave, hidden from view by the thick leaves. Staring from it was a human face, the features shifting and changing in the shadowy light. I leaned close, then drew back in horror.

  What I saw was no longer a face, but a skull stripped bare by scavengers. What appeared as eyes and nose and lips were, in fact, mounds of tiny crabs, parts of a seething mass that covered the skull and fed on its flesh.

  As I looked around I realized there had been other opportunists. A mangled segment of rib cage lay to my right. Arm bones, still connected by tendrils of dried ligament, peeked from the undergrowth five feet away.

  I released the bush and sat back on my heels, immobilized by a cold, sick feeling. On the edge of my vision I saw Sam approaching. He was speaking, but his words didn’t penetrate. Somewhere, a million miles away, a motor grew louder then stopped.

  I wanted to be somewhere else. To be someone else. Someone who had not spent years smelling death and seeing its final degradation. Someone who did not work day after day reassembling the human carnage left by macho pimps, enraged partners, wired cokeheads, and psychopaths. I had come to the island to escape the brutality of my life’s work. But even here, death had found me. I felt overwhelmed. Another day. Another death. Death du jour. My God, how many such days would there be?

  I felt Sam’s hand on my shoulder and looked up. His other hand was cupped across his nose and mouth.

  “What is it?”

  I inclined my head toward the bush and Sam bent it backward with his boot.

  “Holy shit.”

  I agreed.

  “How long has it been here?”

  I shrugged.

  “Days? Weeks? Years?”

  “The burial has been a bonanza for your island fauna, but most of the body looks undisturbed. I can’t tell what condition it’s in.”

  “Monkeys didn’t dig this up. They won’t have anything to do with meat. Must be the damn buzzards.”

  “Buzzards?”

  “Turkey vultures. They love to chow down on monkey carcasses.”

  “I’d also question the raccoons.”

  “Yeah? Coons love the yaupon, but I didn’t think they’d eat carrion.”

  I looked again at the grave.

  “The body is on its side, with the right shoulder just below the surface. No doubt the smell attracted scavengers. The vultures and raccoons probably dug and ate, then pulled out the arm and the jaw when decomposition weakened the joints.” I indicated the ribs. “They chewed off a section of the thorax and dragged that out, too. The rest of the body was probably too deep, or just too hard to get at, so they left it.”

  Using a stick, I dragged the arm closer. Though the elbow was still connected, the ends of the long bones were missing, their spongy interiors exposed along rough, gnarled edges.

  “See how the ends are chewed off? That’s animals. And this?” I indicated a small round hole. “That’s a tooth puncture. Something small, probably a raccoon.”

  “Son of a buck.”

  “And of course the crabs and bugs did their share.”

  He rose, did a half turn, and kicked the dirt with the heel of his boot.

  “Jesus H. Christ. Now what?”

  “Now you call your local coroner, and he, or she, calls his, or her, local anthropologist.” I rose and brushed dirt from my jeans. “And everybody talks to the sheriff.”

  “This is a goddam nightmare. I can’t have people crawling all over this island.”

  “They don’t have to crawl all over the island, Sam. They just have to come out, recover the body, maybe run a cadaver dog around to see if anyone else is buried here.”

  “How the—? Shit. This is impossible.” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. His jaw muscles bunched and unbunched.

  For a moment neither of us spoke. The flies whined and circled.

  Sam finally broke the silence. “You’ve got to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever has to be done. Dig this stuff up.” He swept an arm in the direction of the grave.

  “No way. Not my jurisdiction.”

  “I don’t give a flying rat’s ass whose jurisdiction it is. I’m not going to have a bunch of yo-yos running around out here, sabotaging my island, fucking up my work schedule, and very possibly infecting my monkeys. It’s out of the question. It’s not going to happen. I’m the bloody mayor, and this is my island. I’ll sit on the goddam dock with a goddam shotgun before I let that happen.”

  The vein was back in his forehead, and the tendons in his neck stood out like guy wires. His finger jabbed the air to emphasize each point.

  “That was an Academy Award performance, Sam, but I’m still not doing it. Dan Jaffer is at USC in Columbia. He does the anthropology cases in South Carolina, so that’s probably who your coroner will call. Dan is board-certified and he’s very good.”

  “Dan fucking Jaffer could have fucking TB!”

  There seemed no point, so I didn’t answer.

  “You do this all the time! You could dig the guy out and turn everything over to this Jaffer character.”

  Still no point.

  “Why the hell not, Tempe?” He glared at me.

  “You know I’m in Beaufort on another case. I’ve promised these guys I’ll work with them, and I have to be back in Charlotte on Wednesday.”

  I didn’t give him the real answer, which was that I wanted nothing to do with this. I wasn’t mentally ready to equate my island sanctuary with ugly death. Since first seeing the jaw, broken images had been floating through my brain, shards of cases past. Strangled women, butchered babies, young men with slashed throats and dull, unseeing eyes. If slaughter had come to the island, I wanted no part of it.

  “We’ll talk about this at camp,” said Sam. “Don’t mention bodies to anyone.”

  Ignoring his dictatorial manner, I tied my bandanna to the holly bush, and we headed back.

  When we drew close to the trail I could see a battered pickup near the point at which we’d cut into the woods. The truck was loaded with bags of monkey chow and had a three-hundred-gallon water tank chained to the rear. Joey was inspecting the tank.

  Sam called to him.

  “Hold up a minute.”

  Joey wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and folded his arms. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt with the sleeves and neck cut out. His greasy blond hair hung like linguini around his face.

  Joey watched us approach, his eyes hidden by sunglasses, his mouth a tight line across his face. His body looked taut and tense.

  “I don’t want anyone going near the pond,” Sam said to Joey.

  “Alice get another monkey?”

  “No.” Sam didn’t elaborate. “Where’s that chow going?”

  “Feeder seven.”

  “Leave it and come right back.”

  “What about water?”

  “Fill the tanks and get back to camp. If you see Jane, send her in.”

  Joey’s shades moved to my face and rested there for what seemed a long time. Then he got into the pickup and pulled away, the tank clanking behind.

  Sam and I walked in silence. I dreaded the scene about to take place, and resolved not to let him bully me. I recalled his words, saw his face as he uncovered the grave. Then something else. Just before
Sam joined me, I thought I’d heard a motor. Had it been the pickup? I wondered how long Joey had been parked on the trail. And why right there?

  “When did Joey start working for you?” I asked.

  “Joey?” He thought a moment. “Almost two years ago.”

  “He’s reliable?”

  “Let’s just say Joey’s compassion exceeds his common sense. He’s one of these bleeding-heart types, always talking about animal rights and worrying about disturbing the monkeys. He doesn’t know jackshit about animals, but he’s a good worker.”

  When we got to camp I found a note from Katy. She’d finished her observation and gone to the dock to read. While Sam got out the phone, I walked down to the water. My daughter sat in one of the boats, shoes off, legs stretched in front of her, her sleeves and pants legs rolled as high as they would go. I waved and she returned the gesture, then pointed at the boat. I wagged my head and held up both hands, indicating it wasn’t time to leave. She smiled and resumed reading.

  When I entered the field station Sam was at the kitchen table, talking on a cell phone. I slid onto the bench opposite him.

  “When will he be back?” he asked into the mouthpiece. He looked more agitated than I’d ever seen him.

  Pause. He tapped a pencil against the table, reversing from tip, to end, to tip as he slid it lengthwise through his fingers.

  “Ivy Lee, I need to talk to him now. Can’t you raise him somehow?”

  Pause. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “No, a deputy will not do. I need Sheriff Baker.”

  Long pause. Tap. Ta—The lead snapped and Sam threw the pencil into a trash basket on the far side of the kitchen.

  “I don’t care what he said, keep trying. Have him call me here at the island. I’ll wait.”

  He slammed down the receiver.

  “How can both the sheriff and the coroner be out of contact?” He ran two hands through his hair.

  I turned sideways on the bench, brought my feet up, and leaned against the wall. Through the years I’d learned that the best way to deal with Sam’s temper was to ignore it. It came and went like a flash fire.

  He got up and paced the kitchen, punching one hand into the palm of the other. “Where the hell is Harley?”

  He looked at his watch.

  “Four-ten. Terrific. In twenty minutes everyone will be here, wanting to get back to town. Hell, they’re not even supposed to be here on Saturday. This is a make-up day for bad weather.”

  He kicked a piece of chalk across the room.

  “I can’t make them stay here. Or maybe I should? Maybe I should tell them about the body, say ‘nobody leaves the island,’ then take each suspect into the back room and grill him, like Hercule fucking Poirot!”

  More pacing. Watch checking. Pacing. Finally he dropped onto the opposite bench and rested his forehead on his fists.

  “Are you finished with your tantrum?”

  No response.

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  He didn’t look up.

  “Here it is anyway. The body is on the island because someone doesn’t want it found. Obviously they didn’t count on J-7.”

  I spoke to the top of his head.

  “I see several possibilities. One. It was brought here by one of your employees. Two. An outsider dropped in by boat, possibly a local who knows your routine. The island is unguarded after the crews leave, right?”

  He nodded without raising his head.

  “Three. It could be one of the drug traffickers who cruise around these waters.”

  No response.

  “Aren’t you a deputy wildlife officer?”

  He looked up. His forehead glistened with sweat.

  “Yes.”

  “If you can’t raise the coroner or Sheriff Baker, and you won’t trust a deputy, call your wildlife buddies. They have jurisdiction offshore, right? Calling them won’t arouse suspicion and they can get someone out here to seal off the site until you talk to the sheriff.”

  He slapped the tabletop. “Kim.”

  “Whoever. Just ask them to keep it cool until you’ve talked with Baker. I’ve already told you what he’s going to do.”

  “Kim Waggoner works for the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources. She’s helped me out in the past when I’ve had law enforcement problems out here. I can trust Kim.”

  “Will she stay all night?” While I’ve never been a timid woman, holding murderers or drug dealers at bay was not a job I would want.

  “No problem.” He was already dialing. “Kim is an ex-marine.”

  “She can handle intruders?”

  “She eats nails for breakfast.”

  Someone answered and he asked for Officer Waggoner.

  “Wait till you see her,” he said, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

  * * *

  By the time the staff reconvened everything had been arranged. The crew took Katy in their boat, while Sam and I stayed behind. Kim arrived shortly after five and was everything Sam had promised. She wore jungle fatigues, combat boots, and an Australian bush hat, and packed enough munitions to hunt rhino. The island would be safe.

  On the drive back to the marina, Sam again asked me to do the recovery. I repeated what I’d told him earlier. Sheriff. Coroner. Jaffer.

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said as he pulled up to the walkway. “Thanks for taking us out today. I know Katy loved it.”

  “No problemo.”

  We watched a pelican glide over the water, then fold its wings and dive headlong into a trough. It reappeared with a fish, the afternoon light metallic on its wet scales. Then the pelican tacked and the fish dropped, a silvery missile plummeting to the sea.

  “Jesus Christ. Why did they have to pick my island?” Sam sounded tired and discouraged.

  I opened the car door. “Let me know what Sheriff Baker says.”

  “I will.”

  “You do understand why I can’t do the scene, don’t you?”

  “Scene. Christ.”

  When I slammed the door and leaned in the open window he started with a new argument.

  “Tempe, think about it. Monkey island. Buried corpse. The local mayor. If there’s a leak the press will go crazy with this, and you know how sensitive the animal rights issue is. I don’t need the media discovering Murtry.”

  “That could happen no matter who works the case.”

  “I know. It’s—”

  “Let it go, Sam.”

  As I watched him drive off, the pelican circled back and swooped low above the boat. A new fish glistened in its beak.

  Sam had that same tenacity. I doubted he would let it go, and I was right.

  AFTER DINNER AT STEAMERS OYSTER BAR, KATY AND I visited a gallery on Saint Helena. We meandered the rooms of the creaky old inn, inspecting the work of local Gullah artists, appreciating another perspective on a place we thought we knew. But as I critiqued collages, paintings, and photos, I remembered bones and crabs and dancing flies.

  Katy bought a miniature heron carved from bark and painted periwinkle blue. On the way home we stopped for coffee ice cream, then ate it on the bow of the Melanie Tess, talking and listening to the lines and halyards of the surrounding sailboats clicking in the breeze. The moon spread a shimmering triangle outward from the marsh. As we chatted I watched the pale yellow light ripple on the undulating blackness.

  My daughter confided her ambition to be a criminal profiler, and shared her misgivings about attaining that goal. She marveled at the beauty of Murtry and described the antics of the monkeys she’d observed. At one point I considered telling her of the day’s discovery, but held back. I didn’t want to sully the memory of her visit to the island.

  I went to bed at eleven and lay for a long time listening to the creak of mooring lines and willing myself to sleep. Eventually I drifted off, taking the day with me and weaving it into the fabric of the last few weeks. I rode in a boat with Mathias and Malachy, desperately trying to keep them on board. I brush
ed crabs from a corpse, watched the seething mass re-form as fast as I scattered it. The corpse’s skull morphed into Ryan’s face, then into the charred features of Patrice Simonnet. Sam and Harry shouted at me, their words incomprehensible, their faces hard and angry.

  When the phone woke me I felt disoriented, unsure where I was or why. I stumbled to the galley.

  “Good morning.” It was Sam, his voice sounding strained and edgy.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost seven.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the sheriff’s office. Your plan isn’t going to work.”

  “Plan?” My brain fought to patch into the conversation.

  “Your guy is in Bosnia.”

  I peeked through the blinds. At the inner dock, a grizzled old man sat on the deck of his sailboat. As I released the slats he tipped back his head and drained a can of Old Milwaukee.

  “Bosnia?”

  “Jaffer. The anthropologist at USC. He’s gone to Bosnia to excavate mass graves for the UN. No one is sure when he’ll be back.”

  “Who’s covering his casework?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Baxter wants you to do the recovery.”

  “Who’s Baxter?”

  “Baxter Colker is the Beaufort County coroner. He wants you to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to do it.”

  That was straightforward enough.

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. Harley’s got a detective and a deputy lined up. Baxter is meeting us here at nine. He has a transport team on call. When we’re ready to leave Murtry, he’ll phone over and they’ll meet us at the Lady’s Island dock to take the body to Beaufort Memorial. But he wants you to do the digging. Just tell us what equipment you need and we’ll get it.”

  “Is Colker a forensic pathologist?”

  “Baxter’s an elected official and has no medical training. He runs a funeral home. But he’s conscientious as hell and wants this thing done right.”

  I thought for a minute.

  “Does Sheriff Baker have any idea who might be buried out there?”

  “There’s a lot of drug shit that goes on down here. He’s going to talk to the folks over at U.S. Customs and the local DEA people. Also the wildlife agents. Harley tells me they were staking out the marshes in the Coosaw River last month. He thinks one of the drug brethren is our best bet, and I agree. These guys value life about as much as a used Q-Tip. You will help us, won’t you?”