Walking the Bones

by Randall Silvis

  DeMarco knelt on one knee, intending to take hold of the hairpiece and rip it away, a final humiliation.

  But at the last moment, DeMarco paused, stilled by the panic and confusion in the man’s eyes, the wheeze of his labored breathing, the blood under Jayme’s hand. And DeMarco’s contempt for Burl drained away and dissolved into something else, something like pity, as if Burl were a small, wounded animal, frightened and helpless and doomed.

  DeMarco leaned away from him, raised his eyes, and looked into the trees.

  When the girl returned with a white plastic grocery bag and a roll of duct tape, Jayme ripped off a square of plastic and pressed it over the wound. DeMarco took the roll of tape, ripped off one strip after another, and taped down all but a corner of the plastic. Each time Burl inhaled, the plastic was sucked tight against his skin, sealing the wound. When he exhaled, the flap jiggled, releasing air.

  To Susan, Jayme said, “Go back to the house and lift the security gate. There are people on their way.”

  Jayme kept her eyes on the plastic, listened to Burl’s breathing. She and DeMarco remained on their knees, waiting for sirens. At one point a cold shiver passed through her, and she said, “Hunh,” meaning nothing, an involuntary response.

  DeMarco laid his hand against her back. The warmth of her skin through her shirt was inviting; he wanted to pull her close, enclose her in his arms. But she had other things to do, so he lightly rubbed her back, touched his head to hers.

  “Heck of a day,” Jayme said.

  “Heck of a woman,” he told her.

  ONE HUNDRED FORTY-EIGHT

  When his father’s heavy snoring began, Ryan eased himself out of bed, found his jeans and shoes, and slipped them on. In the kitchen he slid open what they called the junk drawer, the one below the silverware, where matches and straws and twist ties and other stray items were kept. Near the back of the drawer he felt the penlight’s cylinder, wrapped his hand around it, and lifted it out.

  In the weeds behind the trailer he moved carefully, slowly playing the dim light back and forth, parting the weeds with his free hand. The weeds were damp, the night air sticky and heavy in his chest, his father’s snoring still as abrasive as a wood file grating back and forth across the boy’s nerves.

  The spot of white caught his eye, and Ryan dropped to his knees, laid a hand atop the puppy’s small belly. It was still warm, its breath fast and shallow. Ryan shined the light on the puppy’s face, saw the panic and confusion in its eyes, the blood that had run down over its snout and muzzle.

  Ryan rolled onto one hip, lifted the puppy as delicately as he could, and cradled it against his own stomach. He shut off the penlight, eased down onto his side in the weeds, held the puppy against him.

  After a while he opened his eyes and looked up to see the sky filled with stars. The puppy’s stomach was no longer moving. Ryan climbed to his feet and without using the penlight walked into the woods and found a soft depression between the roots of a big tree he liked to climb. He laid the puppy to the side and scooped out the depression with his hands. Afterward he cleaned his hands by swishing them through the damp weeds, and then back in the trailer in his bed again he wrapped the pillow around his head and tried without much luck to silence the awful snoring.

  ONE HUNDRED FORTY-NINE

  Jayme, DeMarco, and the Carlisle County sheriff conferred in the gazebo while personnel from three county vehicles, one state police patrol car, and one ambulance went in and out of the house. Another ambulance and patrol car had already left the barn and were on their way to the hospital. Mrs. Friedl’s personal nurse had been notified and arrived within minutes to administer ten milligrams of diazepam. Friedl himself, now wearing a pair of plastic double-loop cuffs, was allowed to remain in the house with his wife while the sheriff was debriefed.

  “All these years,” the sheriff said, and shook his head as he gazed at the impeccably manicured grounds, “and not once did anybody look in the right direction.”

  “Hardly anybody looks in the least likely direction,” DeMarco told him. “We got lucky.”

  “Maybe,” the sheriff conceded. He turned to Jayme. “You’re fairly certain Mrs. Friedl had no involvement in any of this?”

  “Hundred percent,” Jayme said.

  “What’s your take on Burl’s wife and kids?”

  “They’ll cooperate,” she said, “given the right approach. You have a female deputy or two in your department? Somebody with patience?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Plus a terrific victim’s advocate.”

  “Search Burl’s house,” DeMarco told him. “Twenty-year-old videotapes.”

  “With what on them?”

  “Allegedly he taped other men having sex with his wife. Probably also taped Friedl with the victims. You might even find something featuring Pastor Royce in a starring role.”

  “Good Lord,” the sheriff said.

  “Sweeten the deal with McGintey,” DeMarco told him, “and you’re likely to get yourself a corroborating witness.”

  “If he talks after he lawyers up.”

  “If he doesn’t, you have Trooper Matson and me. We heard his full confession.”

  “You Mirandize him?” the sheriff asked.

  DeMarco smiled. “Good thing you didn’t deputize us,” he said.

  After a few moments the sheriff stood, raised both hands to a roof beam, and stretched his back. He held that position while he spoke. “Any chance you want to fill me in on what really happened in that forest out east?”

  “Bugs,” DeMarco told him. “A whole lot of bugs.”

  “Somebody put you onto Burl. Rosemary Toomey might have mentioned him as Royce’s former employee, but I think somebody else pinned a target on him for you. I’m thinking that was Virgil Helm.”

  “I can tell you with all honesty,” DeMarco said. “As far as I know, Virgil Helm is no longer among the living.”

  After a few moments, the sheriff nodded, then let go of the beam, and straightened his shirt. He looked at DeMarco, then at Jayme. “I’ll send a paramedic to take care of those scrapes on your arms.”

  “They’re just floor burns,” she said.

  “We’ll get her some X-rays,” DeMarco told him.

  “And you too,” Jayme said. “You reinjured your leg.”

  The sheriff watched them smiling at one another, then blew out a breath. “You two planning on heading back to Pennsylvania anytime soon?”

  Jayme looked to DeMarco, her eyebrows raised in question. DeMarco said, “I think it’s fair to say our plans are wide open.”

  The sheriff nodded once again, then stepped down off the gazebo. Without turning he said, “You mind writing all the relevant details down for me chronologically? I feel like I’ve forgotten half of it already.”

  Jayme said, “Email okay?”

  He raised a hand in affirmation. Then walked away toward the house.

  Jayme leaned close to DeMarco and whispered, “I think he’s developing a real fondness for you.”

  “Tough luck for him,” DeMarco said, and slipped his arm around her waist. “I like girls.”

  She jabbed her elbow in his ribs.

  “Umpf!” he said, and rubbed his side. “I mean women. Strong and quick. And a little bit nasty.”

  ONE HUNDRED FIFTY

  Before heading back to Grandma’s house later that evening, Jayme called Rosemary Toomey and offered a debriefing for the Irregulars. Rosemary promised to have Vicente and Hoyle in her living room within the hour.

  They were all seated around the coffee table, sipping tea, Hoyle nibbling on Rosemary’s shortbread cookies, when Jayme and DeMarco arrived. The Irregulars had left the sofa vacant, so Jayme and DeMarco, after declining the offer of tea, seated themselves with their backs to the picture window. The light was soft and low outside, and glowed through the curtains like candlelight.r />
  Anxious to avoid preliminaries and get back to the soothing privacy of Grandma’s house, Jayme provided an abbreviated narrative of the events in the llama barn. Even Hoyle’s eyes widened when she recounted the shoot-out. Her tone was matter-of-fact and unemotional, though she still felt herself quivering inside.

  “And you, Sergeant?” Vicente said after Jayme’s monologue. “While all this was transpiring?”

  Jayme winced at the question; it sounded like an accusation.

  But DeMarco merely smiled. “Dragging a bum leg a hundred yards.”

  Jayme said, “He showed up for the finale, though. Actually, the whole thing took less time than it did for me to tell you about it.”

  “Heroes both,” Rosemary said.

  Vicente sat leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees, eyes on the carpet. His one-sided smile struck Jayme as more of a frown.

  She thought about mentioning her conversation with Antoinette Coates and the increased revenue the young woman would soon be enjoying from Eli Royce, but then decided to remain quiet. If Vicente was too bitter to enjoy the day’s victory, she was not about to throw him a bone.

  Hoyle said, “I am intrigued by the abrupt though fortuitous turn in your investigation, Sergeant—a turn none of us ever thought to take. What led you to Todd Burl?”

  DeMarco shrugged. “Local tip about his employment history with Royce,” he said, and smiled at Rosemary. “After that it was just a matter of connecting the dots.”

  Hoyle said, “The dots, as I recall, were exceedingly scarce.”

  Jayme said, “McGintey and his girlfriend were finally persuaded to be a bit more forthcoming. So as to enjoy less of the county’s hospitality.”

  “At least they will face some punishment,” Vicente said. “While Eli Royce continues on unscathed.”

  Jayme thought DeMarco would snap at that, and turned to watch his response. But he continued to smile. The look in his eyes seemed almost sympathetic. “The FBI is keeping a close watch on him,” he said. “He’ll trip up sooner or later.”

  A few moments of silence followed. Rosemary broke the tension by asking, “And you think Burl procured the girls as a way of currying favor with Dr. Friedl?”

  DeMarco lifted his gaze to Jayme, gave his head a little nod.

  Jayme said, “I would use the word ‘leverage,’ or even ‘power,’ instead of ‘favor.’ I think Mr. Burl views himself as a master manipulator of some kind. He has a pathological need to be in control, whether with his wife and daughters, the men who paid him to have sex with his wife, or Dr. Friedl. Initially Burl had it out for Royce, who refused to go into partnership with him. So Burl secretly used the church not only as his stash house, but also as a brothel. He took pleasure from that. From…”

  “Defiling,” Hoyle suggested.

  “Exactly,” Jayme said. “From defiling Royce’s private space. Then, when Friedl appeared on the scene, I think Burl saw another opportunity for self-gain. The very day Friedl closed on the property, Burl was there waiting for him. And Friedl was easy pickings. Weak. Susceptible to flattery. Probably a very lonely man at the time.”

  “Interesting,” Hoyle said. “So you’re suggesting…an elaborate plan on Burl’s part?”

  Jayme looked to DeMarco to continue. “You’re doing fine,” he told her.

  “Then no,” Jayme said. “Not necessarily elaborate. In the beginning maybe all he wanted was a job. Maybe he viewed Friedl, another rich man, as a substitute for Royce. And the more he got to know the doctor, especially the doctor’s fetish, the more opportunities he envisioned.”

  “But why kill the girls?” Rosemary asked. “Why reduce them to skeletons?”

  To DeMarco, Jayme said, “Jump in anytime, Sergeant.”

  “At first,” DeMarco answered, “maybe just for the money. Friedl said he paid each of the girls ‘a lot.’ I’m guessing a thousand dollars or more each. So Burl thinks, why drive four hundred miles round trip to take her home? I’m guessing he never took them off the estate. Drove out into the woods somewhere, strangled them, maybe raped them, and buried them. They’re like money in the bank to him. A hedge in case Friedl ever turns against him.”

  “Yet they ended up inside the church,” Vicente said.

  “Personally,” Jayme said, “I think that the church, especially that secret space between the walls, became a kind of…place of empowerment for Burl. From there he could watch his wife having sex with other men. He could leave his scent all over Royce’s office.”

  Hoyle said, “Mark his territory, so to speak.”

  “Right,” Jayme said. “He could easily have developed his own fetish for that place. He was all-powerful there. His own kingdom.”

  “Surrounded,” Hoyle said, “by the spoils of his war against the world.”

  DeMarco shrugged. “Burl’s mind is a rat’s nest. For now we can only speculate as to his motives.”

  “I, for one,” Hoyle said, and dipped a shortbread cookie into his tea, “would relish hearing any and all of those speculations.”

  “Things were going well on the estate,” DeMarco said after a pause. “Every time the doctor wanted to put up another building, Burl was in charge. Made the purchases, hired the help, skimmed a healthy portion off the top for himself.”

  “Knowing,” Jayme added, “that Friedl wouldn’t complain. Burl knew too much.”

  “And one day, for whatever reason, Burl’s festering resentment toward Royce flared up again. So he dug up the bodies, reduced them to skeletons, and gave them a new home. For which Royce, he figured, would someday pay the price.”

  “He might even have had that plan in mind from the beginning,” Jayme told them. “From the first girl. He might have never stopped looking for a way to get his revenge on Royce.”

  Hoyle raised a finger in the air. “And yet,” he said, and paused to consider his words. “The care, if I may use that expression, Burl showed to the victims’ remains. The bones were washed of all dirt. All shreds of clothing removed. Even their hair. One might call such attention ‘reverence.’”

  “I can think of two possible explanations for that,” Jayme said. “First, Burl appears to be a very possessive man. He likes to have absolute control over what he thinks of as his. What, in his mind, he owns. Dr. Friedl called him meticulous, Mrs. Friedl called him proprietary. Which could explain why he treated the remains as he did.”

  “In a sense,” Hoyle mused, “retaining each of the victims’ identities, rather than throwing all the bones together in one heap.”

  Jayme nodded. “The other theory has to do with arousal levels. Some research links criminality with low arousal levels in the brain. Certain individuals inherit a nervous system unresponsive to normal levels of stimulation.”

  DeMarco asked, “They have to up the ante?”

  Jayme nodded. “High-risk activities, antisocial behavior, crime, sexual promiscuity, anything considered deviant or perverse.”

  “Including,” Hoyle said, “meticulously and obsessively cleaning the bones of his young victims.”

  Rosemary shook her head. “Oh my, my. Such a mind. I shudder to think individuals like that actually exist.”

  “Sadly,” Hoyle said, “in multitudes. Lacking only the opportunity.”

  They all sat silent for a while. Hoyle brushed the crumbs from his lap. The light outside the window had faded, and the room was growing dim.

  DeMarco was the first to stand. He shook hands with each of the Irregulars. Jayme followed suit, ending with a long hug from Rosemary.

  “Will we ever see you again?” Rosemary asked before releasing Jayme’s hands.

  Jayme looked to DeMarco for an answer.

  He said, “‘History never really says goodbye. History says, see you later.’”

  “Excellent quote,” said Hoyle. “Eduardo Galeano. Simply excellent.”


  VI

  I become a waterwheel, turning and tasting you, as long as water moves.

  —Rumi

  ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-ONE

  In the evening they sat for a while on the front porch of Jayme’s grandmother’s house, rocking gently on the swing, feet scraping the boards. Neither felt much need for conversation, nor for anything more than the other’s presence, a hand to hold, her head on his shoulder. The light faded and cooled, and in the dimness the scent of the summersweet bushes grew stronger, more redolent than on any other night.

  “I must say,” Jayme told him, “you seemed almost gentle with David Vicente earlier.”

  He shrugged. “I understand his disappointment. Royce stripped him of his job. And is still trying to bankrupt him.”

  The swing slid back and forth, back and forth.

  Now and then a dog barked somewhere down the street, but otherwise the night seemed preternaturally still to DeMarco, almost like the October nights he remembered as a boy, when he was old enough to leave the trailer alone after dark and go wandering into the woods or in search of a field from which he could study the stars.

  The call of a loon in the distance surprised both of them, its reedy wail starting low, then rising a few notes higher, then sliding back to the original note again. “That’s odd,” Jayme said. “Loons don’t usually come through Kentucky till much later in the year.”

  “He’s lost,” DeMarco said.

  “It sounds that way, doesn’t it? So full of sorrow and longing.”

  They were quiet again for a while, and set the swing moving once more. After a few minutes Jayme said, “What are you thinking about, babe?”

  “Tom Houston. And what he said to me in the dream I had in the bear cage.”

  “Do you have any idea what he was talking about? Or is it still gibberish?”

  “That strange word he used…‘sentipensante.’ Turns out it’s Portuguese. It means ‘feeling thinking.’”

  “Feeling and thinking what?” she asked.