by Gary Braver
Greg knew what he meant: Had he ridden down the grief? Had he gotten on with his life since Lindsay’s death? Had he started dating other women?
During the first year after his wife’s death, Greg’s grief was ravenous, all-consuming. Early on, he wasn’t certain he could survive—and several nights he had found himself gnawing on the barrel of his gun. He had lost the love of his life and his baby-to-be, and with them all purpose. Yet, knowing that Lindsay would want him to go on, he threw himself into his work, taking on extra cases, doing overtime. Still, there were days when he could barely function for missing her. It was like trying to breathe on one lung.
The thought of seeing other women during that first year was borderline heresy. In his mind, his marriage to Lindsay had been a rare alliance with a woman whom he respected as much as he had loved. It always amazed him that someone so extraordinary as she had settled for someone so unextraordinary as he. He felt truly privileged. So, in the second year when friends tried to fix him up, he knew he could not settle for just any woman. She had to be special. He dated casually a couple times and met some fine people. He even on occasion met a woman he had fantasized over. But he soon lost interest and gave up. Lindsay had spoiled other women for him.
Today, the pain of her loss was no less keen. It still throbbed at the core of him. He had just gotten harder around it. And instead of other women, he took up the Sagamore Boy case. It gave him uncompromising purpose.
“So, what do we have?”
“His name is Grady Vernon Dixon, age six, white male from Coldwater, Tennessee. He’s been missing for fourteen months.” From a file folder, Joe produced several color blowups of a human skull and a single long bone. As he had explained on the phone, the remains had been processed at the main office in Boston and the State Crime Lab in Sudbury. After twelve weeks, Gloucester and state police had exhausted all leads, as had investigators at the Tennessee end. All they had were the boy’s abduction and an unattended death—no suspects, no evidence, no leads. Just two devastated parents. And a skull and leg bone.
Greg moved his chair forward and examined the photos.
“You can thank Patty Carney for the link,” Joe said. “She’s the forensic anthropologist at the Boston lab where they processed your Sagamore Boy. She made the connection just the other day and called me.”
“Any idea how long it was in the water?”
“Hard to tell, but from the wear and tear from bouncing around the bottom, I’d say at least a year.”
“So, it’s possible he drowned.”
“It’s possible.”
The skull, like the leg bone, was grayish-brown, not bleached from the sun. Only a few of the teeth were missing, unlike the Sagamore Boy whose skull contained only the incisors and two half-grown back teeth.
“I think he was pretty deep, because there isn’t the weight loss you’d get in warm water.”
“How did they determine it’s a male?”
“There was no soft tissue, but the leg bone had traces of marrow inside,” Joe explained. “And with that, they could detect certain DNA markers which only occur on the Y chromosome—the male chromosome. The calibrations of the skull also point to a male. The same with his ethnicity. Different races have different skull-feature measurements. His age we determine by bone growth and plate fissures, but there’s a larger window of error there—between five and seven years.”
Steiner handed Greg some color photos of the remains lying on the boat deck among piles of scallops, fish, crabs, and seaweed. They looked so sadly out of place. “They were taken by the boat captain.”
Greg turned to one of the several profile shots of the Dixon skull. “It’s got the same holes.”
“That’s what I called you for.”
There were two clusters each of ten small holes on the left side of the Dixon skull——one group between the eye socket and ear hole; the other above the left ear.
Joe opened his desk drawer and pulled out a folder with photos of the Sagamore Boy’s skull. “When this came in three years ago, my guess was the holes were some marine-animal artifacts.” From the same drawer he removed three large white quahog shells. “Also from Sagamore Beach,” he said. He laid the shells under the desk light. Each of the shells had small-bore holes of roughly the same diameter. “These were made from calcium-loving worms called polychaetes. They bore holes that are almost perfectly round, about one to two millimeters in diameter.”
“They look like the skull holes.”
“And that’s what threw me,” Joe said. “Same size, but they’re not from polychaetes or any other aquatic organism I know of. These skull holes occurred premortem.”
“How do you know that?”
“First, the animal holes are random and only partially clustered—maybe a dozen holes in an area then random spacing over a broader surface. Sometimes, as in this shell, you only get two or three on the whole surface, and some don’t go all the way through. But the Sagamore skull and the Dixon boy each have a cluster of ten and twelve above the temple and another cluster of ten above the ear,” he explained, moving from shell to photos. “And no other holes anywhere else on either skull, or the leg bone.”
Greg studied the photos. Both hole clusters were located in exactly the same areas on the skulls. Too much for a coincidence.
“That’s when I stopped guessing and put it under the scope.” From the same folder he pulled out other enlargements.
“On the right is a polychaete bore, on the left a hole from the Dixon skull—both straight-on.”
“They look the same.”
“That’s right.” Then he laid out two more enlargements. He pointed to the photo on the right. “This is the cross section of a polychaete hole in skull bone. Notice the homogeneous field of small pockmarks.” Joe then placed next to it another enlargement. “And this is one of the skull holes. See the difference?”
Greg studied the two for a moment. Laying his finger on the right photo, he said, “This one looks grooved.”
“That’s right. The polychaete worms leave smooth cavities. Those are cut marks from a drill.”
“Jesus!” Instantly Greg conjured up Geoffrey Dahmer-style horrors.
“But it’s not what you may think,” Joe said. “From the angles and the smoothness of the bores, it looks like these were done with very high-speed cranio-blade drills under precision guidance.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning nobody attacked the kid with a Black and Decker. He had some kind of medical procedure. There are no signs of the drill bit sliding on the skull or forced entry. Also, the cutting was fast and controlled—no microchipping or breakage like with a slower handheld instrument. This kid had some kind of sophisticated brain operation.”
Greg looked at him blankly. “Like what?”
“If they were bigger and fewer holes, I’d say they were drainage shunts to relieve internal bleeding—say if he had sustained some kind of trauma such as a car accident.” Joe let out a whimper as if reminding himself of his daughter. “With so many holes, my guess is some kind of biopsy.”
“You mean if he had brain tumors.”
“Or lesions, because something was either taken out of his brain … or put in.”
“Like what?”
“Well, if he were an old man, he might have been treated for Parkinson’s disease—except six-year-old kids don’t get Parkinson’s. Another possibility is he had several tumors. It’s rare, but if that were the case, surgeons might have implanted radioactive seeds.”
“Any way to test for that?”
“I asked Boston to do a radioactive scan. But, like I said, all soft tissue is unfortunately long gone—and no traces were detected in the bone.”
Greg held up the profile enlargements of the two skulls. There were variations in placement, but the clusters appeared identical.
“Another thing,” Joe added. “I checked around, and neurodrill holes are always refilled after such a procedure, either with some
synthetic bone or even coral. From all microscopic indications, these were left empty.”
“Maybe they came out in the water.”
“Maybe. But I think there’d still be some signs of bone regeneration, which happens when there’s a fracture or fissure. But I don’t see any sign of the holes closing up.”
“That could have been lost in the water too, no?”
“Sure, but still.”
“If that were the case, it would mean that the kid died from the operation.”
“Or shortly thereafter,” Joe said.
Greg held up photos of the two skulls. “What’s the likelihood of two kids treated for brain tumors being found dead in the waters off the Massachusetts coast?”
Joe nodded and lit up another cigarette. “You’d do better playing the lottery.”
“And how the hell did they end up at the bottom of the ocean?”
“You’re the cop.”
“Do the parents know about the holes?”
“We notified the DA’s office and the CO in Gloucester, who, by the way, has pretty much given up on the case. I guess they hit a dead end and deferred to Tennessee since it’s where the kidnapping took place.”
“And the remains?”
“Sent them back to the parents. We had no further use for them, and they were anxious for a burial. In fact, they threatened the DA with a court order.”
“They could still be evidence.”
“We’ve got plenty of photos and bone samples. And if something unexpected develops, they can always be exhumed.” He coughed a couple times and stubbed out the second cigarette although it was still long. “From what I hear, they’ve hit a brick wall down there, too.”
Greg picked up the card with the child’s name on it. “Coldwater, Tennessee. Never been there.”
“You and six billion other people.”
“First time for everything.”
Joe nodded at the Sagamore Boy shots. “Got anything here?”
“No, but we’re trying to ID with photo superimposition.”
“That’s a good idea,” Joe said. “I’ve seen the software and it’s pretty sophisticated.”
Greg was hoping to match the Sagamore skull to known missing persons registered in the National Missing Children Network. “As backup, we’ve submitted a reconstruction we got made by a forensic artist.”
“We means you,” Joe said.
Greg made a dismissive shrug. He picked up the folder with copies of the photos and ME’s report on the Dixon boy and tucked it under his arm.
Joe nodded at the shot of the Sagamore Boy drawing. “You’ve really got a thing about this kid.”
“He’s some child who ended up a skull on a beach. I can’t sleep with that.”
“When the day is done, my friend, we’re all skulls on a beach.”
“Uh-huh, but before that happens, this one’s going home, too.”
8
Billy had done custody snatches before. But this was the first time he’d used the camo suit, and the first time any of the parents had included with the advance hypodermic needles full of sedatives and instructions on usage. That was fine by him, since it beat all the kicking and screaming. This was also the first time he’d been offered ten grand for a delivery—more than three times the usual fee. The old man must really want his kid back.
Billy didn’t know who the guy was. In fact, rarely did he know his contact. Nor did he give a rat’s ass. That’s how these things got set up. A guy knows a guy who knows a guy who needs a job and has the cash. Billy’s guess was that the old man had lost the custody case and had gone off with another woman and earned the dough to get his kid back—screw the mom. And if he had ten big ones to lay out, then the kid’s probably better off where he’s going, since the old lady lives in a goddamn bug-infested aluminum box in the woods.
About two miles out of Callahan, down service road 108 past the junction of 301, A1A, and U.S. 1 North, Billy spotted the red-white-and-blue Amoco sign.
He had no idea what the kid’s father looked like or what his name was—Something Valentine. (Sounded like a Delbert McClinton song.) And all he’d been told was to bring the kid to the blue shack in a lot about twotenths of a mile past the station on SR 108—which was where the transfer would be made.
He also didn’t know what the guy was driving. But the guy knew what Billy was driving because they had supplied the van, dropping it off in a mall parking lot with the key and an advance of three thousand dollars cash and promise of the balance on delivery.
(It had crossed Billy’s mind to take the money and run, but he was told the guy was good people and true to his word. And ten grand to bag a kid was a piece of cake. Besides, Billy had his professional code. Not good for business.)
He pulled slowly past the Amoco lot, which was one of those gas station /minimart setups that were open twenty-four hours and manned by a couple of kids. He drove on, checking his rearview mirror. Nothing—just black road as far back as he could see.
Around the bend, he saw the lot, and set back under some trees a dark locked shack with a big sign reading BOILED PEANUTS—SALTED AND CAJUN STYLE. They were big in Central Florida with stands dotting the roadsides. But Billy could never understand the attraction. They looked like cat turds and tasted worse.
There were no other cars in the lot, so he backed in, facing the road, and turned off his headlights, keeping the motor running. He was early. He reached under his seat and pulled out his Python. It was fully loaded. He always had it on these jobs—standard operating procedure, whether he knew his clients or not. It made him feel more comfortable about driving off into the night with seven thousand dollars.
He kept the CD playing, but very softly so he could hear the outside sounds. There were none but cicadas and frogs.
After ten minutes, he began to get nervous. He turned off the CD.
After ten more minutes, he began to wonder if this was the right place. He looked back at the kid, who had stirred, but didn’t wake up. He wished the guy would arrive, because he didn’t want to have to go back there and shoot up the kid again if he awoke. Let the old man take care of that. He had done his part.
Twelve minutes later, Billy was still waiting, the kid still asleep. The dashboard clock said 10:04. He was over half-an-hour late.
Just as Billy began to think he had the wrong place, a big black Mercedes pulled alongside. Startled, Billy gripped his gun, his heart thumping like a kettle drum in his chest.
The driver gave a little wave and got out. He was alone. He was about six feet and slender, dressed in dark pants and a pullover. His hands were empty and there was no gun in his pants or holster across his torso. But around his neck he wore a stethoscope.
“Sorry I’m late,” said the man.
Billy nodded. Already he was feeling better, especially with the big M500. Billy imagined he was a wealthy millionaire who would take his kid off to a foreign country to beat an extradition rap. What didn’t make sense was how he had ended up with a trailer-trash wife. Unless he had met her in a bar on some business trip down here and one drink led to the next and that led to some hotel bed where he knocked her up. Billy had glimpsed the mother during stakeout. She was a looker.
The man peered into the windows of the van. “You have Travis?”
“Yup.”
“Good.”
“You the father?”
“Uncle,” the man said. “Can I see him?”
“First things first,” Billy said. He got out of the van, holding the Python at arm’s length.
“You don’t need that,” the man said. Then he turned around with his arms raised to show that he was carrying no weapons. But there was an envelope sticking out of his rear pocket. The man pulled it out and handed it to Billy.
Billy backed up a safe distance behind the van and with a penlight inspected the contents. Hundreds. A stack of hundred-dollar bills. He pulled a few randomly out of the pack and held them over his light to make sure they weren’t cou
nterfeit or photocopies. They weren’t. When he was satisfied, he stuffed the envelope into his jacket and led the man to the rear of the Caravan.
They looked around and waited for a car to pass. Then Billy opened the rear door.
Travis was lying on a mattress with a blanket over him. He was still asleep from the shot two hours ago. Billy’s instructions had been to avoid restraining the kid in any way—no cords or handcuffs. Just to put him to sleep. The stuff was good for a minimum of six hours—and they had supplied three backup needles. He was also told to drive under the speed limit and not to get caught, no matter what. There was no worry of that. Billy had been doing small heists for years and knew how to keep his ass off radar screens.
As Billy waited, the man pulled out a small penlight from his pocket and raised the kid’s eyelids. With the stethoscope he listened to the kid’s heart. Billy watched, thinking that the uncle was the family doctor, which explained the big German wheels. No doubt he was footing the bill for his po’boy country bubba.
When the guy was satisfied, he carefully lifted the kid out and hustled him to the Mercedes where he laid him across the rear seat, strapped him in, then covered him with a blanket. He thanked Billy and shook his hand. “This is going to make some people very happy. Thank you.” With that he got in his car and left.
Billy watched the car turn east onto 108, which would take the guy back to A1A and onto U.S. 1 North—the big red taillights disappearing into the black.
Man, that was easy, he thought, and got into his van and pulled into the southbound lane. In his mirror, the road was an empty black as far as he could see. He would take the service road to the next junction, reconnecting him with A1A South.
About a mile down the road, no cars in either direction, Billy flicked on the overhead light and opened the envelope. “Oh, yeah!” he said, riffling through the wad of Benjies with his thumb. Seventy big ones. He flicked off the light and stuffed the envelope into his inside jacket pocket and turned up the CD—Delbert McClinton’s Nothing Personal.
At about three miles down the road, Billy flicked on the light and once again inspected the money, his mind tripping over ways to spend it. First he’d get himself one of those fifty-inch TVs and a DVD player and a bunch of DV discs —Predator, Terminator 2, The Score: the good shit.
