Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  “There’s a connection between Dacia Stewart’s death and Tim’s. Must be. He discovered something. He knew where the bones were, and someone shut him up.” I tried to keep the edge out of my voice.

  “That’s what we think. But we don’t have any more evidence now than we did when she first disappeared, except for her body. In point of fact, bones. Didn’t recover anything else from the crime scene. So far, no other forensic evidence. I’m really hoping that whoever Tim’s contact was will show up tonight, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Can you tell me exactly where Tim was shot?”

  “The north end of 501 College Drive.”

  “Mom said it was at the church.”

  “Yeah, in the parking lot. His body was found at 8:52 a.m. by one of the parishioners on her way to Sunday school. My department was there within five minutes, and we cordoned off the place. You’d have thought we stopped the world from spinning by the reaction of several churchgoing saints.”

  I could imagine Abigail’s response if she hadn’t been allowed to enter her church parking lot on Sunday morning. I could hear her now:

  “Why you boys had just better remove that yellow tape or else. Do you suppose that God is going to let you get away with these shenanigans? I’m sorry that boy is dead, but it IS Sunday: Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy. You ever heard of that commandment? There are ten of them, and I don’t think God will just willy-nilly let us break one because some poor soul—may he rest in peace—bought the farm on Sunday morning. Now you remove this yellow tape right now, or I’ll remove it for you.”

  I couldn’t help grinning when I thought about the police force versus Abigail. No contest. Abigail would win.

  I bent down and gave Scott another squeeze. “I’ve got to run and check on Rachel. See you tonight.”

  Then as an afterthought, I voiced the most obvious of all obvious statements. “And Scott, we’ve got to find out who murdered Tim.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I heard the shower running when I opened the door to our room at the Holiday Inn. It was only 10:00 a.m., and I was itching to go to Mounds Park to see the first crime scene. I hoped Rachel would hurry. Time permitting, we could go by the church and see where Tim was killed. Could he have been making a life change? Was God becoming important to him? Why had he been in the parking lot the morning he was murdered, and who would have known to look for him there? The questions came thick and fast, swirling around like autumn leaves in a heavy wind.

  Dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved, yellow-knit top, Rachel came out of the bathroom. The dark circles under her eyes weren’t as prominent. She wore no makeup, and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looked much younger than me.

  “Let’s go, girl, back to where all this began,” I said.

  A trace of anxiety flickered in her eyes. She said nothing, though, and plucked her purse off the back of the chair. She made a slight bow with an I’ll-follow-you hand flourish.

  It took fifteen minutes to drive to Mounds Park from the motel and another fifteen minutes to walk the trail and find where yel low, crime-scene tape cordoned off an area of about two thousand square feet. It was a good bit off the beaten path, but the path was clearly marked by flattened grass and broken branches. I pictured Gil Grissom and his little band of followers traipsing through the woods with crime-solving kits in hand.

  Surveying the area, I said, “I can’t imagine what Ms. Stewart would be doing in this part of the park unless she was forced here.”

  A squirrel raced up a tree. Three birds took flight, protesting loudly at the gall we had to intrude on their morning rituals. Both Rachel and I ignored their protests.

  Rachel nodded. “Yeah, I doubt she was sightseeing.” A hint of sarcasm laced her voice.

  “She could have been killed somewhere else and brought here.”

  “Sounds plausible, but it wouldn’t be easy to not be seen. Scott got a theory?”

  “Nothing he told me about.” I felt a shiver go through me as I imagined what the student teacher’s last images were and how terrified she must have been. “Let’s get out of here.”

  On the way to the church parking lot, I told Rachel what little information Scott had given me. She listened without asking questions. I nosed the yellow SUV rental into a parking space. Rachel, fully rested, and with the effects of alcohol now far behind her, jumped out of the vehicle first and started searching the large, asphalt lot.

  “Over here,” she called after a quick survey.

  The grotesque, white chalk outline was as distinct as those on the crime shows on TV. That surprised me. I’d read that most police departments didn’t outline bodies because of the possible contamination of evidence. Maybe they had gotten all the samples they needed, but still needed to mark the spot. I didn’t know and didn’t care. My stomach was in knots. My eyes filled with tears. This wasn’t just chalk. This was my last link to Tim.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to think. It looked like Tim had gotten out of his vehicle and was headed to the church when he was shot in the back of the head. The chalk outline formed a crumpled, fetal position.

  I knelt down and caressed the blacktop where his head had come to rest. I didn’t bother to brush the tears off my cheeks as I looked at the deep, dark stains that pooled around the area. This was where my friend—who I hadn’t seen in thirty years, who had left ten million dollars to me, who I really hadn’t known at all—had bled to death.

  Lowering my head to the ground, I whispered, “Oh, Tim, I am so sorry.”

  Guilt pressed into me, leaving my chest feeling compressed and tight. I hadn’t known Tim at all. I hadn’t known Rachel at all. How could I have lived in such a bubble of happiness in high school not knowing what my friends were going through, or who they were on the inside? Had my relationship with Christ blinded me to the pain of others, or had I ignored all His urgings to “Love my neighbor?” And David. Where was David now? I felt my faith crumble into little pieces. I longed for David’s confident assurance of the truth. Instead, I felt Rachel’s slender hand rubbing my shoulders.

  A sudden gust of wind blew a discarded Subway wrapper into the center of Tim’s crude outline. I snatched it up, crumpled it, then tore it into pieces, and viciously tossed the shreds into the air.

  “Come on, Jamie, this isn’t helping. If we want to find the killer or killers, we need to keep it together. You can cry later.” The hardness edging Rachel’s words spoke of dreams long lost, of trust betrayed, and world weariness.

  I nodded slowly and stood.

  “We need to find the person Tim was bringing to the meeting tonight. We need to know if he played a part in all this.”

  Rachel handed me a tissue from her purse. I blew my nose, turning away from her to be polite.

  “Do you have a recent picture of Tim?” she asked.

  Guilt continued to hammer my chest. “No. I haven’t even seen Tim since high school. We didn’t exchange pictures, or much of anything else except hi and how are you.”

  “Let’s go back to the police station then. Scott will have pictures of the crime scene, and maybe he has Tim’s driver’s license photo if nothing else. If we find out where he was staying, we can ask around and see if anyone saw him with someone.”

  I felt like a traitor for leaving the spot where Tim died. But what Rachel said made sense. I couldn’t get bogged down in my feelings. Not now. Not until this was over. Then I’d take a long, hard look at my relationships, my walk with Christ, and myself. Somewhere along the line since high school, I had lost something, and I had a terrifying feeling that it was me.

  After we entered the police station, Rachel walked down a hall and entered Scott’s office in front of me. “Hey, buddy,” she said, greeting him shyly.

  “Hey, yourself. Wow, you look good,” Scott said.

  “Thanks. It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long. Where ya been hiding?”

  She slid her hands into the back pockets
of her jeans. “I live in Philadelphia now. Just can’t seem to make it back. Looks like you’ve changed a bit.” Rachel nodded toward his wheelchair.

  “True enough. Life happens. You win some, you lose some. But I’ve won way more than my fair share.” Scott grinned.

  “Do you have a picture of Tim?” I asked. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but we have a lot of work to do.”

  Rachel laughed. “That’s the Jamie we know and love. Business first, pleasure second.”

  I wasn’t amused by Rachel’s comment. Guilt and sadness threatened to overwhelm me. My only escape would be to bury myself in solving Tim’s murder case. I repeated the question.

  “Picture?”

  “Sure.” Scott opened the top folder on a large stack of files. He handed me an eight- by ten-inch photo of Tim. “We found this in his apartment in New York. It may be a couple of years old, but it’s what he looked like. We have copies in his file, so go ahead and take it.”

  I looked into the startling, cobalt-blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. Gray framed his temples, but the rest of his hair remained dark brown, nearly black. His smile was genuine, even if it was posed for the camera, and I noticed that while his shoulders had broadened since high school, he was not overweight. He must have taken good care of himself.

  “Did he tell you where he was staying when he was here?” I asked.

  “Sure. He was staying in his old house. When his parents died, they left the business and their home to him. He sold the corner grocery, but he kept the house, probably for sentimental reasons. Anyway, that’s where he stayed when he was in town. He’d actually done some remodeling on the old place.”

  “You serious?” I said.

  “Hard to believe you guys ever e-mailed. You don’t know squat,” Scott observed.

  Yeah, and maybe you can twist the knife in a little deeper too.

  “Could we get in there?” Rachel asked. “Into his house, I mean?”

  I added my two cents. “It would really help.”

  Scott hesitated for a moment. “My department searched, fingerprinted, bagged, tagged, and cleared the house. It’s a bit of a mess, but I don’t see how it could hurt. You’re technically the owner once the estate is settled, so go check it out with my blessing.”

  Taking the key from the top middle drawer, he handed it across the desk to Rachel. “Have a field day.”

  I was excited. “Thanks, I owe you one. We’ll go over there now.”

  “Could we have lunch first?” Rachel asked. “I’m starving.”

  I wondered whether I’d ever be hungry again until this case was solved, but Rachel hadn’t eaten breakfast, so I agreed. Magnanimous of me, don’t you think? That’s me, always thinking of the other fellow. “Let’s go. Where to?”

  “Mexican sounds good. Want to come, Scott?”

  “I’d love to, but today won’t work. Too many irons in the fire, including this homicide investigation. Eat a chicken taco for me.” He smiled.

  After leaving the station, we ended up at the Taco Palace, and over crunchy tortilla chips, Rachel and I discussed the case.

  “I think it’s time to divide and conquer,” I said. “Maybe Scott will let you go through the case file and do a little background profiling on the four names that Tim had highlighted.”

  “I’d rather stay together.” In spite of her height, Rachel suddenly seemed small and frightened.

  “You’ll be fine on your own,” I assured her. “We can get twice as much done if we split up. I’ll go over to Tim’s and see if I can find anything.”

  “Two heads are better than one,” Rachel said. Her anxiety was obvious as she nibbled her lower lip.

  I shook my head. “Really, Rache, we don’t have a lot of time to prove my innocence. What if the police arrest me? While I canvass Tim’s neighborhood with his picture, you can do your magic computer thing at the police station. In fact, why don’t we play Nancy Drew here and show Tim’s picture at the counter? Maybe they’ll remember seeing him with someone.”

  Rachel offered a weak smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She grabbed the photo and headed to the front of the restaurant. Both girls behind the counter looked at the photo and shook their heads no.

  Rachel scooted back to the table and shrugged. “It was a long shot anyway. I’ll drop you off at Tim’s and come back for you in an hour.”

  There was something in Rachel’s voice that struck me as odd. “Something wrong?”

  “Um, nothing. I’ll be okay.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll go see Scott, get a couple of passwords, and do some background checks from my laptop at the motel.”

  “Hopefully, he’ll cooperate.” I handed over the rental car keys and scooted out of the booth. “Okay then, let’s hustle.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It only took a few minutes to drive to Tim’s house from the taco place. Rachel dropped me off at the curb, waved good-bye, and I walked to the door. My heart felt like a big, heavy log had plopped down on it. I felt shame and regret for not putting any effort into my relationship with Tim, for not seeing him as anything more than an acquaintance. Now it was too late.

  Resolve settled in. I would do my best to find out who killed him. Whatever it took. And clear yourself in the process, my pesky conscience whispered. There are times a conscience can get on your nerves.

  Once inside I noticed a lot of remodeling had indeed been done since our high school days. The room colors, the furniture, the car pets. Everything looked different. Much brighter and bolder. The wall between the kitchen and living room had been knocked out to make one huge open area. Two bedrooms had been combined to make a master suite with a large bathroom and walk-in closet. Very updated, yet it still maintained the comfortable, homey feeling I remembered when Tim’s folks were alive. Only now the house seemed alive with personality. It definitely fit Tim—Mr. Energy himself. And though I felt a little like a peeping Tom, I went through every room, closet, drawer, and box I could find. Nothing grabbed my interest, nor did I detect anything unusual. No surprise there. Scott was nothing if not thorough.

  Suddenly, a thought startled me. If Tim’s will stood up in court, this house belonged to me now. I felt creepy thinking about it, as though I’d somehow caused his death by inheriting his estate.

  I left the house determined to canvass the neighborhood, knocking on all the doors in that block. It didn’t take long to find out most of the old neighbors were long gone, and few even knew that anyone ever visited the house at 222 Sycamore. Busy lifestyles and social networking made getting to know your neighbors a thing of the past. Frustrated, I looked at my watch—fifteen minutes before Rachel was due, so I expanded the search to the next block.

  A huge, black Labrador bounded out of a small, ranch-style house I approached. A woman, who appeared to be in her seventies, followed him, yelling, “Roger, get back here! We need to put your collar on. Roger, now!”

  The dog was too busy sniffing me to obey any commands.

  I pushed his nose away gently. Dogs had such a crude way of saying hello. This one looked like he’d eaten one too many pork chops, and his tail wagged fiercely. His eyes begged for friendship.

  The woman scurried toward me with a bit of a hitch in her get-along. Her rubber-soled, sensible shoes shored up her thick ankles nicely. She wore an aquamarine, polka-dot print dress gathered at the hips. It had short sleeves with white cuffs and a white collar at the neck. Flattering it was not, but she reminded me of my grandmother, and I liked her sense of self if not her sense of style.

  “Roger, leave the nice lady alone.” Turning to me she said, “I am so sorry. Roger just loves people. We walk every day, and every day he makes a new friend.”

  “How nice. How long have you lived in the neighborhood?”

  “Oh goodness, I’ve been here for ages, just ages.”

  She smiled at some distant memory only she could see. If I had to describe her expression, I’d say s
he looked wistful.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Do you ever walk down that way?” I pointed down the street.

  “Roger and I walk everywhere. They say dogs are man’s best friend, but Roger is my best friend. Always will be. You’re probably wondering why I named him Roger.”

  No, no I’m not.

  She evidently wasn’t telepathic because she kept talking. “Roger was my nephew. Died on 9/11 in New York. Firefighter. So when I got Roger, this Roger, I just had to name him Roger.”

  “I’m Jamie Storm, and you are . . .?” I tried not to sound impatient.

  “Martha—Martha Moss. Pleased to meet you.”

  I smiled. “Martha, I’m looking for someone who might have visited a friend of mine. He lived just down the street on the next block. His house is blue with white trim and shutters. It also has French doors with rain-glass windows. Do you remember seeing anyone there on your walks? ”

  “At Tim’s house, you mean?”

  My interest ratcheted up a notch. “Yes, have you seen anyone visit him?”

  “Roger and I see lots of people. Not that I’m nosy, mind you, but Roger makes friends real easy. So did my nephew Roger. That boy had so many friends. You should have seen his funeral. One of the biggest I’ve ever been to.”

  “So have you seen anyone visit Tim’s house?” I hoped to bring Martha back to the topic at hand.

  “Sure, nice guy, too. Roger’s a good judge of character. Took to the man in the blue car immediately. Took to his tires, too, if you know what I mean. Now my other Roger—not as good a judge of people. He liked everyone. Never had an enemy. You should have seen his funeral. Biggest I’ve ever seen. And he lived in New York, too, where people don’t make—”

  I interrupted again. “The man you saw, can you describe him?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot myself. Local boy I’d guess. Had one of those bumper stickers with the plaid-skirted man, playing bagpipes. You know, from that school over on the north side. Can’t remember the name.”