Nick of Time (A Bug Man Novel)

by Tim Downs

  “It’s deep—I’ll try to figure it out.”

  “So you think I’m an attractive woman?” she asked.

  “I suppose so,” he said with a shrug.

  “You never said so.”

  “It didn’t come up.”

  “If you thought I was attractive, how come you never tried to hit on me?”

  “This could get ugly,” Nick said. “Would you excuse me? I’m going to see if I can find Pete Boudreau.”

  5

  Nick followed the Schuylkill Expressway along the river, then crossed over on Roosevelt Boulevard and headed northwest toward the neighborhood of Upper Roxborough. Nick had briefly considered leaving his car downtown and taking Septa’s regional rail to Manayunk, but the parking rates in Center City were abominable and he still would have had to take a cab from the station to Upper Roxborough. He decided to take his car instead, winding along Henry Avenue with the beautiful trees of Fairmount Park on his right.

  It had been a long time since Nick had visited Pete Boudreau at his home in Upper Roxborough—back before Lila passed away. Prior to Lila’s death Nick had been invited out to the house for dinner after almost every monthly Vidocq meeting; since then his meetings with Pete had been consigned to the paneled luncheon rooms of the Downtown Club. Lila was a charming woman who had always joined seamlessly into their conversations, despite the bizarre and repugnant peculiarities of their respective forensic specialties. But Lila’s death left a yawning chasm in Pete’s life, and Nick suspected that the reason he was no longer invited to the house was that his presence would only serve as a painful reminder of the past.

  The farther north he drove, the more residential the neighborhood became, gradually evolving into a traditional suburban landscape of tree-lined streets and single-family dwellings. Nick had trouble remembering the directions and made two wrong turns before finally pulling up in front of the unassuming fifty-year-old split-level with white vinyl siding and a gray shingled roof. He parked across the street from the house and looked at it; the blinds and curtains were all drawn, despite the early-afternoon hour and the seasonable May weather. It looked as if Pete might be off traveling somewhere, but Nick seriously doubted it. By nature Pete was a homebody; it just wasn’t in his blood to wander far from home, especially now that Lila was gone.

  Nick walked to the front door and knocked. The aluminum storm door made a tinny, rattling sound, too faint for Pete to hear from deep inside the house, so he opened the storm door and knocked on the solid wooden doorframe. He waited, but there was no response. After several more attempts, each louder and more insistent than the one before, he took out his cell phone and punched in Pete’s home number. He pressed his ear against the door and listened . . . There it was—the familiar trill of a landline coming from deep in the house. Nick could visualize the phone’s exact location; he knew right where it hung on the kitchen wall.

  He walked around the right side of the house. A narrow concrete driveway separated Pete’s residence from the one beside it, sloping down toward the back of the house and the basement garage underneath. Nick cupped his hands and peered through the cloudy garage-door windows; there was Pete’s car, parked where it always was. An uneasy thought crossed Nick’s mind; he pressed his face tighter against the glass and stared harder, searching for the silhouette of a figure slumped behind the wheel—but there was no sign of Pete.

  Thank God.

  Nick continued around the house, hoping to find an open window that might allow him a view of the home’s interior, but every window seemed to be draped and covered—and then, on the left side of the house, he spotted them.

  Blowflies.

  Dozens of them, clinging to the glass and sash of a large double window that opened into the living room. Nick squeezed through the hedge and adjusted his glasses for a better look . . . Holarctic blue blowflies, Calliphora vomitoria, easy to recognize by their dark eyes and dull metallic-blue thoraxes. There were common bluebottles too, most likely Calliphora vicina, similar in appearance to the vomitoria but larger in size with stout bristly bodies.

  Nick felt his stomach begin to sink. He knew there could be only one reason for blowflies to collect in those numbers . . . They were gravid females, searching for a protein-rich environment where they could lay their eggs—and they had found one.

  Something inside the house was dead.

  ***

  Nick stood on the stoop of the house and stared impatiently at the street. He looked at his watch for the third time, then turned to the patrol officer standing placidly beside him. “How long does it take to get a detective over here?” Nick asked. “I mean, this is Philadelphia—people have died here before, right? What about Betsy Ross? I haven’t seen her around lately.”

  “I told you,” the officer said. “Roxborough’s in the Fifth District, and the Fifth is a patrol district. We’re first responders; we assess the situation and then we call it in.”

  “So you’re basically just a flunky.”

  The patrol officer gave him a look. “I put in a call to Northwest Detective, but that’s over on Broad and Champlost. It takes a few minutes to get over here—okay?”

  “Why don’t we wait for him inside?” Nick suggested.

  “Why don’t we wait right here—and shut up?”

  It was another three minutes before an unmarked Crown Victoria Police Interceptor rolled up to the curb and a plainclothes detective stepped out.

  “Took you long enough,” Nick called to the street.

  The detective smiled thinly and took a moment to straighten his tie before starting up the short sidewalk toward the house. He gave a cursory nod to the patrol officer, then turned to Nick. “You must be the bug guy.”

  “And you must be the detective,” Nick said. “So now that the icebreaker’s over, can we all go inside?”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “Explain what?”

  “How you can tell there’s a dead guy inside just because of some flies on a window.”

  “I already told him,” Nick said, jabbing his thumb at the officer.

  “Tell me.”

  “Look, Detective—”

  “The name is Misco,” he said. “Danny Misco—‘Detective’ to you.”

  “Dr. Nick Polchak,” Nick replied. “ ‘Doctor’ to you. Sorry if I seem like I’m in a hurry, but the guy inside happens to be a friend of mine—a very old friend—and I’m pretty sure something’s happened to him.”

  “How? Explain it to me.”

  Nick let out an impatient sigh. “When a body decomposes it releases specific chemical compounds into the air, okay? Certain species of insects are attracted to that scent, and they’re very good at finding it.”

  “Are we talking about human bodies?”

  “Any body—any kind of decaying flesh.”

  “Then how do you know it’s not a cat or a dog?”

  “Because Pete had no pets—he had allergies. And because it takes a significant amount of decaying tissue to attract a blowfly through a closed window. Believe me, I know—I’ve done the research myself. My friend wrote to me a couple weeks ago; he asked me to meet him here today in Philly, only he didn’t show up—and that’s not like him. I drove out here to see if I could find him, but nobody answered the door. When I walked the perimeter of the house, I spotted a number of blowflies on the west-facing window.” He pointed. “Over there. Most of them were Calliphora vicina and vomitoria, but I also noticed a couple of Phaenicia sericata—in case you’re the kind of guy who’s impressed by big fancy words. The presence of those flies indicates that something is dead inside this house—something large—and it hasn’t been dead for long.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because blowflies are usually the first insects to find human remains. First responders, you might call them—then they call it in.”

  “Clever,” Misco said.

  “Of course, this is all just conjecture—but I know a way we can find out whether I’m
right or not.” Nick nodded at the patrol officer. “You can tell your flunky here to kick the door open so we can all go inside and take a look.”

  Misco didn’t reply—he just stepped up to the door and began to feel along the top of the frame. He bent down and lifted the doormat and looked at the damp concrete underneath; then he tipped forward the flower planters on either side of the door. He picked up a key and held it up to show Nick. “It’s a friendly neighborhood,” he said. “We don’t like to kick down doors unless we have to—it spooks the neighbors.”

  He turned the key in the dead bolt and opened the door a few inches, then motioned for the patrol officer to enter first—but when Nick stepped forward, Misco blocked his way.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Inside,” Nick said. “I thought—”

  “You thought wrong,” Misco said. “This is a police matter now, Polchak. Thanks for calling it in—now go home.”

  “But this is a friend of mine.”

  “That doesn’t make you a police officer.”

  “At least let me identify the body.”

  “Glad to—if we have any problem identifying him. Chances are we won’t.”

  “Are you seriously going to make me wait out here?”

  “I’m not making you do anything,” Misco said. “I’m just not letting you inside. You can wait here if you want to; I’ll take a look around and let you know what I find.”

  Misco stepped into the house and flashed a quick smile at Nick before closing the door behind him.

  The front of the house was in afternoon shadow and the window to the left of the door turned a faint orange when the lights in the house went on. Nick searched for a gap in the curtains that might allow him a peek inside, but there was none. There was nothing he could do but stand and wait while Misco poked and prodded Pete’s body—and that thought drove him absolutely crazy.

  It was a full fifteen minutes before the door opened again and Misco and the patrol officer stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind them.

  Nick waited. “Well?”

  “Dr. Peter Boudreau,” Misco said, handing Nick his old friend’s driver’s license. “I’d say he’s been dead two, maybe three days by the looks of things. The body’s still in decent shape— the ME should be able to pin it down better.”

  Nick looked down at the driver’s license and saw Pete’s familiar face smiling back at him. He felt shocked and stunned by the detective’s blunt announcement, but the feeling confused him. Why was he surprised? He knew it was Pete’s body inside that house—he knew it the instant he saw those blowflies. He knew it wasn’t a cat, or a dog, or a neighbor who had stopped by to check on the house while Pete was away. He knew the same way those blowflies knew—by instinct—and Nick’s instincts were rarely wrong.

  Right now he wished they were.

  He looked up at Misco. “Were you able to determine cause of death?”

  The detective didn’t reply.

  “Come on, Misco, you can tell me that much.”

  “Gunshot,” he said. “Two to the chest, a third to the forehead. Medium-caliber bullet, judging by the wounds—I’m betting a .38 or a .357.”

  “Check the exit wound in the back of the skull,” Nick said.

  “It won’t be level with the entry wound.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because nobody shoots a man in the head and then bothers to fire twice more into the chest—it’s the other way around. The first two shots would have knocked Pete down; the shooter would have still been standing, and he wanted to make sure Pete was dead—so the third shot would have been taken at an extreme angle.”

  “Good point,” Misco said.

  “I have a lot of clever ideas like that,” Nick said. “If you’ll let me take a look at the body, I’ll be glad to give you more.”

  “No thanks,” Misco said.

  Nick stared in disbelief. “I’ve seen cops get territorial before, but this is nuts.”

  “I never did like being called a ‘cop,’ ” Misco said, turning to the patrol officer. “How ’bout you?”

  “Nope—never did.”

  “ ‘Officer,’ maybe. ‘Detective’ sounds even better, since I earned it.”

  “I’ll call you ‘Your Imperial Highness’ if it makes you happy,”

  Nick said. “Just let me take a look at that body.”

  “Not a chance. This is a crime scene now—my crime scene—and I don’t want the general public contaminating it.”

  “The general public? Do you have any idea what I do for a living, Misco? I’m a forensic entomologist—I happen to be in town because I’m a member of the Vidocq Society. Ever heard of them?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Misco said with a smirk. “The ‘Women’s Murder Club.’ Cute.”

  Nick did an incredulous double take. “Are you out of your mind? We’ve got some of the best forensic minds in the world over there.”

  “And I suppose you’re one of them.”

  “In my field? Yes, I am—I’m the best there is.”

  “Well, this is my field, Polchak, and we have a certain way of doing things here.”

  “Believe me, I’ve seen the way guys like you do things—and after they screw things up, they always call somebody like me to straighten out the mess. Why don’t you save us both a lot of time and trouble and let me take a look while I’m here?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Look, you’re a detective—what is that, one pay grade above corporal? And as for the ‘Women’s Murder Club,’ why do you think Vidocq even exists? Because people like you always miss something, that’s why. That’s where cold cases come from, and I don’t want to see my friend turn into one.”

  Misco glared at Nick for a long time before he finally said, “Didja ever get a hunch about somebody the minute you met him? I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like you the first time you opened that big fat mouth of yours. And you know what? I was right.” His countenance gradually relaxed again. “Now here’s what’s gonna happen next: I’m gonna stand here and watch while you get in your car and drive off, and you’re not going to come back here again—understand? This is now a crime scene—my crime scene—and my people will take care of it.” He raised his right hand and made a little shooing gesture, as if Nick were a bit of rat scat he was flicking off the porch.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Nick said.

  “The only mistake I’ve made so far is wasting time talking to you.” He shooed him again.

  When Nick finally turned and started toward his car, Misco called after him: “By the way, about your little ‘Murder Club.’ Just out of curiosity, has the FBI ever consulted you people on a case?”

  Nick turned but didn’t reply.

  “Uh-huh. What about NYPD?”

  Nick said nothing.

  “I didn’t think so,” Misco said. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Ego,” Nick said. “It’s a chronic problem with people who wear badges.”

  “Is that the reason? Or is it because they’ve got good people of their own? The Philadelphia Police Department is the fourth largest in the nation, Polchak—that’s why we don’t need you either. Now be a good boy and go home.”

  6

  Nick left his car three streets over and approached Pete’s house from behind, slipping over fences and ducking under windows as he crept through the narrow side yards that separated each house from its neighbor. He had to move fast because night was quickly falling and there was a moonless sky. The neighborhood behind Pete’s was unfamiliar to him and he needed the last vestiges of daylight to find his way; the last thing he wanted was to surprise some neighbor’s pit bull or to garrote himself on an invisible clothesline.

  He emerged from the last row of houses and found himself directly behind Pete’s garage. He quickly crossed the open driveway and ducked into the concealing shadow of the house. He sidled his way to the corner of the house and poked his head around, searc
hing for signs of a patrol car surveilling the front of the house—but Misco had left the house unguarded. Nick smiled—Misco must have thought he was a lot more intimidating than he really was.

  Misco’s final words still buzzed in Nick’s head like an annoying mosquito: Now be a good boy and go home. What was it about the human species that so easily confused arrogance with competence? The “Women’s Murder Club” . . . The guy actually thought Vidocq was a joke! He thought Nick was a joke too—that’s what really burned him. Well, the feeling was mutual, and Nick was not about to leave the investigation of an old friend’s murder to some amateur with an inflated ego.

  Pete’s body would have been removed from the house as soon as the forensic technicians had finished taking photos and collecting evidence; by now it was probably at some downtown morgue awaiting autopsy by the medical examiner. Nick wished he could have examined Pete’s body in situ, for both personal and professional reasons. But even without the body there were still things to look for in the house—and nothing was going to stop Nick from taking that look.

  He crossed in front of the garage doors again and climbed a stairway to a small porch with a white wooden railing and two empty lawn chairs that looked out over the driveway. He lifted the sisal welcome mat and found a silver key. Definitely a friendly neighborhood, he thought. Maybe a little too friendly. He wondered if Pete’s killer might have gained access to the house in exactly the same way.

  When Nick stood up and faced the door he found two strips of yellow crime scene tape crisscrossing the frame in an ominous X. Nick ignored the warning and unlocked the door, then ducked under the tape and entered the house. He quietly shut the door behind him and listened for a moment before switching on his flashlight and shining it about the room.

  He was in the kitchen. The house was completely dark and the narrow beam of the flashlight illuminated the room in disjointed fragments, the same way his memory recalled it: side-by-side refrigerator on the left, arched doorway, wall-mounted telephone with long dangling cord, laminate countertop, electric range, breakfast nook under a window on the right. He started toward the doorway to the living room, but before he even reached it he was met by the stomach-wrenching odor of decomposing flesh.