In other words, they were beaten to death. He continued.
“Most evidence to date points to Luke as the culprit.”
Matt said, “Most?”
“The ME found a Negroid hair on the second woman, the one that was just zipped up. Eddie is claiming he was forced by his father—actually, he calls him Luke—to help him bury the women. A solitary hair would support that claim. If they find any more….” He let the thought speak for itself.
I said, “So Eddie’s resurfaced?”
Tom nodded. “This morning. They caught him trying to reenter his home. They questioned him. Took him to his Aunt Mary’s.”
I said, “I don’t think Luke was his father either, but I don’t have any clear proof. I wonder if Eddie has found any evidence other than the marriage dates on the genealogy. I certainly would be wishing Luke wasn’t my father.”
I was thinking about the purloined diary. Waiting for him to tell me the authorities were looking for it. But he said nothing.
Tom just made a small sound at the back of his throat that I couldn’t interpret. Then he returned to his discussion of Eddie’s possible involvement in the crimes.
“More importantly, both Eddie’s small bedroom in the den and the basement cell were swept. They held no blood or hair evidence of any of the women. They’re also not finding any proof that Eddie has ever ventured into his parents’ bedroom, not even since his release from his cage.
“Most of his clothing was likewise clean. However Luke’s hair--and some blood from one of the women--was found on a shirt discovered in a garbage can out back. Eddie claimed the shirt is his and that it’s the one he wore the day he shot Luke because he was hurting another woman.”
“Wait! He says he shot Luke?”
“Yeah. He confessed, more or less. But no one thought to read him his rights. And the gun hasn’t been produced.”
Beardsley let the errors float. So were they deliberate? Were the authorities giving him a legal pass?
Matt was staring at him, expectantly. I was thinking Tom had just let something slip he didn’t intend to. I was thinking he wished he could snatch his words back.
I said, “We won’t breathe a word.”
He nodded, glanced at Matt. Matt nodded. Mums the word.
So then I started wrestling with my feelings on whether Eddie should be charged with Luke’s death or get a medal.
The ME, followed by a small knot of uniforms and one suit, entered the theater below us. I couldn’t make out all of their faces because of our view from on high, but Tom Beardsley was there.
While the three of us had chatted, Luke had been removed from his bag and a sheet draped over him. That sheet was now removed, exposing his corpse.
I gasped.
Matt said, “He still looks crazy.”
I said, “I thought death would end that. He looks like he might open his eyes and go boo.”
I turned to look at him, almost let out a giggle, then looked back at the body of Luke. He was frightening even in death. Or maybe it was just death that made him seem so. Hair wild, as if he’d been chopping it with a hatchet, cuts and scratches on his face, gaunt from his years of alcoholism.
I wondered how he managed to lure women into his home, up to his bedroom, looking like this. Even if the women were stoned, they should have been alarmed at the sight of him.
Then I began trying to fix him up to look normal. The way he might have looked after a shower and shave. Before being shot…before being dragged out to the graveyard by his son-nephew. Before being buried and dug back up.
Nope. I still wouldn’t let him take me home. Maybe he appealed to these women for reasons I just couldn’t see.
The blank eye of a large monitor suspended above the dome sprang to life. Unfortunately, we’d have color close ups. Marana proceeded according to routine, and I grimaced at the sights and sounds of another Y section—the sounds cleverly delivered through four speakers in surround sound.
What? No Dolby?
Delivering the details in a monotone voice, the mostly-Asian doctor quickly identified two bullet wounds and explored their routes. I watched as Marana dipped both his hands into Luke’s exposed intestines, parting them and fingering the back wall of the body cavity with one gloved hand.
My stomach contracted. This wasn’t getting easier, exploring cadavers. The opposite.
Marana and his assistant lifted one hip and peered at it. They let the body fall back on the table unceremoniously.
He spoke into the suspended microphone again. “The first GSW entered the subject’s back just above his left hip then traveled through his small intestines, pierced his pancreas and stomach, destroyed his right ventricle and exited through his right lung. The second GSW entered the subject’s left eye. There is no exit wound.”
Two gunshot wounds.
I found myself hoping Luke enjoyed several terrifying moments of having his brain scrambled by the second, ricocheting bullet.
Matt was on the same page with me. Disgusted, he said, “Who was this guy?”
I said, “What we know is he beat his wife Ada all through their marriage. We know he kept his son in a dungeon for twenty years…but we don’t know if he still thought of Eddie as his son. And he was a drunk. Drunks are capable of really bad decision making.”
Marana caught our attention again, saying, “The subject’s penis appears to have been tattooed.”
What?
As if in response, the camera did a close up.
Matt moaned and said, “This goes way past poor judgment. When did he get like this? Didn’t someone notice he was going over the edge? He must have fallen under the influence of some cult.”
I said, “A lot could have happened between the death of Ada at the end of June, and the death of Jake and discovery of Eddie in mid-September. Maybe all of this.”
Below us, Marana continued. “The angle and pathway of the wound on the forehead indicates that Luke Stowall was turning toward and looking down at his assailant with the second shot.”
The ME’s impersonal recitation of the visible facts was making me nuts. Explain why, for heaven sakes. Give us the obvious hypothesis. My now thorough familiarity with the Stowall master bedroom came into play here, and I whispered some of that knowledge to Matt as we watched.
I said, “Luke was prone, belly down, probably on his bed with the first shot, while the assailant was positioned near the door into the room.”
Matt said, “Eddie.”
I said, “Eddie, no doubt moved by the feminine screams from upstairs—had just entered the room, catching him unawares. First bullet went in directly from behind, second caught him turning to see who was shooting him.”
Another voice joined us. “She’s probably right. But you got it wrong about Luke.”
I turned to see who had joined us. Mosby, the black horse named Famine, had slipped in unbeknownst to us and was sitting up one level.
I wondered if he thought I was right about the positioning of Eddie and Luke, or about Eddie being Luke’s nephew and not his son.
But Mosby was intent on illuminating his second comment, that Matt had it wrong about Luke.
“Jake is the one who was a cult worshiper, not Luke. Luke was just a vicious drunk.”
We caught our breaths. Finally Matt said, “Who did Jake worship?”
Mosby shifted in his seat, re-crossing his long legs. “A doctor, a quack. He was so bad that even back then when the county had only one other doctor he couldn’t get his practice up and running. Guy became a drunk. Then tumbled upon Jake and his many children. Jake raised rattlers. He was, like, obsessed with them. The doctor was Jake’s connection with the medical field in San Diego. Helped Jake sell his venom, skimmed some of the profits.
“I guess it kept the doctor out of the poor house, but mostly this quack liked to practice “the art of the knife”. I’ve heard people say he had Mengele’s disease. Jake was too foolish to understand this.”
Dr. Joseph Me
ngele, infamous torturer in Hitler’s death camps. Just the mention of this monster’s name made my heart shrink. Trying to hide in my chest.
“What’s this doctor’s name?” Matt said.
“Doesn’t matter. That was decades ago. He’s dead by now. Or senile.
“Luke went crazy after killing Ada—boys are thinking he hit the bars, got so juiced up he finally went looking for Ada substitutes. Luke had pretty much become a recluse by the time Ada died.”
The sounds of the saw drew my attention.
Marana’s heavy voice said, “What’s this?”
“Sir?” The pathtech.
“This. What’s this blue? Is this another tattoo?”
The knot of observers moved as one toward the head of the steel table. From our perch, Matt, Mosby and I could see quite clearly on a suspended television monitor what the others were viewing up close and personal. There were two elongated, triangular blue marks at Luke’s hairline. Definitely tattoos. Marana began pushing his gloved fingers through Luke’s short, steel-gray hair, examining the scalp.
“Get me a razor.”
He’s gonna scalp him? My stressed brain shouted. No. Just shave his head.
A few seconds later a new buzzing began and Marana slowly exposed the top of Luke’s head.
The ME said, “His entire head. You didn’t notice this?”
The pathtech shook his head, no.
“How far does this go? Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“I didn’t set him up, sir. I was removing the first woman.”
“Stitch him up. We’ll have to flip him.” Seething, Marana left the room. The downstairs witnesses mulled around staring at anything but the body being sutured.
Matt said, “Who’s the suit?”
Mosby said, “FBI. Latest victim is one of our Mexican visitors. We’re into multinational jurisdictions now.”
I heard a loud slap, of flesh hitting steel. The two pathtechs had just unceremoniously flipped Luke.
And then we saw what was on Luke’s back.
Marana stepped back into the room and stopped. His face was turned down, but I was certain he was shocked.
“How quaint. A full body snake.”
“Snakes, sir,” The lead pathtech. He held up three fingers.
They exchanged a glance that lasted two seconds too long. Marana reached for his microphone again, clearing his throat. He began searching Luke’s posterior, from the top of his head to his buttocks. Then he moved to the feet and followed the markings up his legs.
Straightening and inhaling, he dictated, “The subject has a large tattoo on his posterior of multiple rattlesnakes. The first, done entirely in blue ink, begins on the bottom of the subject’s left foot with seven rattles.”
“Seven Stowall children,” I murmured.
“Snake number one winds around the subject’s heel and up his calf and thigh, to his left buttocks, widening and thinning rhythmically as it climbs the leg.
“On his buttocks, the blue tattoo is joined by a red and yellow snake, and rises up his torso, level with his scapulas.
“Correction. There are three snakes, the first blue, the second and third, red and yellow. At the center point between the scapulas, the two smaller snakes veer away, the red going left across his left acromion, and the yellow going right to his right acromion. These two side snakes finish up in the subject’s two armpits.”
“Ouch.” Matt.
“The blue snake continues, widening considerably and forming a mouth with two lower fangs at the posterior of the neck, and two larger, upper fangs pointing down onto the forehead.
“The tattooed snake head gives the appearance of swallowing Luke Stowall’s head from behind.”
I heard a spattering of remarks from the pod of viewers below. Someone said, “Devil’s horns.” Marana shot them a look and they quieted.
Marana and the pathtech lifted each arm to peer into the armpits.
“I note at this point, that whereas the blue snake begins on the head and ends on the left foot, the red and yellow snakes end in the armpits; the left, red snake ending with four rattles, and the right, yellow snake ending with three rattles.”
I murmured, “Four pink daughters and three yellow sons. Maybe Luke was taking pointers from Ada’s quilting. He’s tattooed secrets on his body. Pink is normal for females, but yellow speaks to the boys’ characters.”
Matt said, “But the left snake is red, not pink.”
I almost argued this with him. But he was right. The tats were still fairly recent, and the snake was definitely red. Perhaps for blood?
A thought popped into my head--the reason why Mosby was sitting upstairs with us. He was angry at Matt for forcing them to accept me in the middle of their investigation.
It took three men to flip Luke over again and set up gynecology stirrups.
“So tell me, Colonel Lyons, you were sent to Vietnam in its final days, is that right?”
Matt turned slightly in his seat, clearly caught off-guard by the sudden change in conversation.
“Right. Why?”
A butterfly lifted off in my tummy.
“So I was wondering were you part of the group of Marines who were sent in to bring out the embassy staff?”
Matt’s frown deepened.
“What’s your point, Detective?”
“Well, you know, like what were you doing there? Did you actually fly them out? Cause I heard you did.”
Matt turned in his seat, a cord on his neck standing out like an explanation mark.
It was time for us to leave. As coolly as he could, Matt replied that he didn’t.
I had no idea what was happening between these two men. Absolutely none. I just knew it wasn’t good.
Feeling Matt and I needed to exit as quickly as possible, and that it was imperative that Matt not lose face or be forced into some kind of confrontation with Mosby, I heard myself speak in queenly tones.
“I think it’s time to go, Matt.”
I distinctly remembered learning how to do queenly tones when I was in kindergarten. The teacher used them. It came in handy speaking authoritatively, and to let everyone know how close to anger you were, without losing your cool. Matt stayed focused on the spectacle before us. So much for queenly tones.
Khoja Marana said something we couldn’t hear to his assistant and the camera angle changed, doing a close-up. I quickly climbed the three steps to the door.
“I’m leaving Matt.” My back was to the freak show taking place beneath us.
I felt a staying hand on my arm.
“One more thing, Ms. Lyons. In case you’ve heard the rumors, let me explain what really went down at Ada’s discovery. A couple of dirt-bag sheriffs were the ones who scared off Eddie. They’d been covering for Luke for years, and they freaked when Eddie started making noises about how his father killed his mother, and now was even killing other women. They had to shut him up to cover their asses. So they hustled him out of the house and scared him into staying away. We tried to find him—to help him, and to question him about his claims--but he’d gone way underground.”
I didn’t want to believe anything that Mosby said, but I had to admit that this fit with the details I already had on that day.
“And, you shouldn’t have violated a police line, Ms. Lyons.”
I heard Matt suck in air.
I knew Mosby was talking about the second bedroom upstairs, but I said, “There wasn’t any police tape over the basement stairs.”
We’d been very careful not to move the tape over the door that led to the quilted shrine. I thought he was just guessing.
“That’s another thing you shouldn’t have done, Ms. Lyons. You could end up with a bad rep. You could end up being thought of as a loose cannon.”
My blood chilled.
Matt stood and stretched, and said, “Yeah, I think we’ve seen enough of this show.”
I could have kissed him. I opened the door and stepped into the narrow stairway.
“Before you leave, Lyons, tell your wife I need a copy of your pictures and notes from yesterday.” Mosby said.
I pretended I didn’t hear him and let the upper door of the stairway close behind me.
Matt joined me moments later with a note of caution.
“We don’t need these guys as our enemies, honey. Send him your report. Make it brief—one paragraph will do.”
I smiled. The report was two and a half concise pages.
Chapter 35: Late Calls
The phone rang. But the line was dead by the time I answered. I crawled back into bed, bringing my cell phone with me.
Another phone rang. The house phone. I listened. It went to message. No one.
A third phone rang; this one in the living room, probably Matt’s cell. I crawled out of bed again and ran to intercept it.
Three calls: all dead ends. The number was the same. Matt was snoring so I jotted the number down again and moved my pillow to the back bedroom, carrying two of the phones. I’d unplugged the landline.
I jumped a mile when my cell rang a second time. Not thinking, I flipped it open and fiercely whispered something unfriendly.
It was Gerry. She’d called to say she couldn’t sleep for worrying about Eddie, she was certain he was the victim in this whole mess.
“Tom told me that nothing had been uncovered that would point to him being a child molester, as the Depo Provera might suggest. Even though they’re looking for him.”
The authorities were looking for him? Uh-oh.
I assured her that Eddie already had my heart. She hung up. I was thinking chamomile tea, but I was too tired to move.
So I lay there awake, worrying, asking God to send me another reason why a boy was kept loaded with female hormones and locked in a basement prison.
After an hour I gave up on sleep and opened Ada’s second diary. She wrote this one when she was fourteen.
“Dear Hazel,
I’m sorry I missed writing to you for a few days, but things have been bad again. We went boating this weekend, down at the harbor. We tied up next to the Kellys and Nelsons, as usual. You know how they get. It all starts out well enough at first, but after dark the drinking gets serious.
Ada Unraveled Page 22
