“Anything new been on her mind?” I asked.
“No. She mentioned her boyfriend back home—that he wanted to take care of her and the baby. Sorry, Sarah, about mentioning the, uh, baby.” Then Jessica squealed, “OMG! Maybe they eloped. Wouldn’t that be romantic?”
“It doesn’t explain the blood in her room,” James said.
“Maybe she cut herself shaving. I do it all the time,” Jessica answered.
I almost started to say, “No way. It was too much blood.” I remembered that none of them knew about the bloody shirts. I looked at James, leaning against the wall. His dark brown hair was longer than a lot of military guys wore theirs, just barely within regulations. He watched me closely with his light brown eyes.
“Have you talked to her lately, James?” I asked.
He crossed his arms across his chest. “No. Barely knew her. I drove Jessica over because she wanted to see you.”
The guys returned with the snacks. The rest of the afternoon passed with kids coming and going. James and Jessica stayed. Jessica was now convinced Tiffany had eloped. She was mad because she hadn’t been asked to be a bridesmaid. James moved around filling drinks, picking up trash, and refilling the chip bowl. Jessica spent a lot of time on her phone.
“Where was Tiffany from?” I asked.
Jessica looked up. “West Virginia. I think she was a coal miner’s daughter. The military was her way out. I don’t think her parents or boyfriend liked it at all. Her mom wanted Tiffany to take care of her younger brothers and sisters. She told me her mom drank a lot. Do you think her boyfriend . . . ooh, I mean, husband will move here?” Jessica bounced a little when she said “husband.”
Emotions roiled between worries about Tiffany and joy when Jessica convinced someone that Tiffany had eloped. I yawned. I slipped into the kitchen to check my phone, hoping CJ had tried to reach me. Nothing. Normally I wasn’t as attached to my phone as these kids were to theirs. Since yesterday, though, I’d kept it near at hand.
James came into my tiny kitchen. “Are you okay, Sarah? Do you want us to leave?”
James had enlisted when he was twenty-seven, the high end of the air force’s age limit, and had already served three years. I’m not sure how he survived working with all these young kids.
“I’m fine.” My voice wasn’t convincing.
“Since the new commander hasn’t arrived and Acting Commander Walker just returned from her deployment, everyone still relies on you and Colonel . . . Chief Hooker.”
“It’s okay. I miss all of you. Most of you.” This group wasn’t the only one who turned to CJ. He had people from past assignments still calling him for advice.
“You don’t think Tiffany’s off on her honeymoon?” He grinned.
I smiled back at him. “No. And you don’t, either.”
“You think it’s something more serious. Not a shaving cut.”
“I don’t know what to think.” Boy howdy, was that true. “I hope she’s okay. Just went off for a few days to think. Lost track of time.”
James nodded. “You’ve been checking your phone more than you usually do.”
“I’m hoping for news. Will you call me if you hear anything?”
“Will do,” he said. I started to leave. James put a hand out to stop me. “If you know something about Tiffany’s disappearance, report it now. Protecting Chief Hooker won’t help the situation.”
“Nothing to protect.” I stepped past him back into the living room.
Jessica and one of the other girls had their heads together whispering. They broke apart when I walked back in. With raised eyebrows, Jessica looked at the other girl.
“Go on,” the friend said.
Jessica put on what must be her version of a cop face. It looked more like a pout to me.
“When Tiffany got back from culinary school, she went after Colonel Hooker. She said she wanted to bag him. She had it bad. Tiffany volunteered for all sorts of things that would keep her near him.” Jessica paused, looking at me like she wanted to say more.
She took my stunned silence as permission to continue.
“After her shifts, she’d change into these microscopic shorts and a sports bra. She’d prance around the office. If Tiffany saw him heading to the shooting range, she went. If he headed to the gym, she did, too. Tiffany was relentless. She kept going to Colonel Hooker for career counseling, even though she was set with the aide job at the general’s house.”
I didn’t want to hear this, but I was trapped. James was right behind me—someone was in the bathroom; someone else sat on the floor by the door to my bedroom.
“He always left the door open when she was in his office. When none of that worked, she started watching you. Once, she even bought the same color of lip gloss after she saw you at the BX. It was getting creepy. I told her to back off.”
How could I have been so obtuse? Not to have seen what was going on with Tiffany. Especially not to have noticed any change in CJ or what he was hiding. Our marriage had veered off course at some point. I didn’t know when.
“Enough.” It was James. “Time to go.”
They left reluctantly. Jessica hugged me, chatting about Tiffany’s wedding pictures, which she couldn’t wait to see. I thanked James for herding them out. I closed the door, for once, grateful to be alone.
I woke with my phone next to me on the pillow Tuesday morning. No word from CJ. Light played around the edges of the ugly white window shade. I quickly showered, dressed, and swallowed some more of the tasteless cereal before heading down to my Suburban. I did a quick trash bag count—the same number as I put in yesterday. I drove toward base on winding, narrow back roads that led to the Patterson gate and the Fitch Visitors Center.
I hoped Laura Nicklas remembered to sponsor me on base. Prior to my divorce, my dependent’s ID meant sailing through any of the base security gates. The ID was one more thing taken from me during our divorce. Now I had to make sure one of my base friends sponsored me. They had to go to the visitors’ center, leave their name, my name, where I was going, and how long I’d be on base. I had to head to the center, show my license, registration, and proof of insurance, get a pass, and display it in my car.
A line of people waited to get checked in at the visitors center. Luckily, it’s staffed by security forces. No one wanted this job because it was often a punishment for some indiscretion, underage drinking, missing curfew, fighting, or breaking any number of other rules. One of “our kids” noticed me and waved me over. Even though he knew me, I still had to show my license, registration, and proof of insurance. He wrote out a pass, which I stuck on the dashboard of the Suburban.
I drove past the back side of the base chapel, took a left on Grant, followed by a right onto Travis at the stoplight. I passed the movie theater (it played two movies a week—sometimes three, if they threw in a matinee), gas station, and library; then I took a left at the next light onto Wright Street. An electronic sign flashed messages about retirements, promotions, and other base activities. I wound my way back to the thrift shop.
It was tucked back in an old building not really good enough for offices, not bad enough to condemn, although most of us working would argue with that. The building backed to a field and woods. The trees were full of turkey vultures. They looked creepy hunched over on the almost-bare tree branches. Some had been nesting in the woods for a while. It looked like they invited all their friends for a party. It probably meant some idiot had dumped food in the Dumpster on the side of the thrift shop—the one that was clearly marked, FOR THRIFT SHOP USE ONLY and NO FOOD WASTE.
We only used it for things that were too bad for us to use or donate, or things that were dropped off that we couldn’t resell, like car seats. After parking, I headed over toward the Dumpster, listening to the vultures call to each other. I spotted a KFC bucket with bones scattered around it. That explained the vulture party.
I gingerly picked up the edge of the bucket, using it as a scoop to gather the waste. Why did
I show up first today? This was above and beyond what any volunteer should have to do. The vultures had done an excellent job of picking the bones clean and scattering them across the dirt.
The vultures, hunched in the trees, watched me. I yelled at them, waving my arms around. “Go away!” They ignored me. I saw a bigger bone and then another. These bones were way too big to be a chicken. I went around the corner of the Dumpster. A skull with gaping empty eye sockets stared up at me.
CHAPTER 6
The upper left side of the skull looked like it had been crushed. No, no, no. I took a step back. And another. I clutched the KFC bucket like it was holding me up instead of the other way around. A couple of vultures circled overhead. Their cries were like a reprimand. Get out. Get out. The skeletal remains didn’t look complete. Some of the bones had been dragged across the field toward the tree line. Most were picked clean.
I stared at the bones in the KFC bucket. I chucked the bucket away from me. A soul-wrenching ripple of horror shook through me. On the edge of the bone field, I spotted a piece of paper or something. I crept toward it. Stared down. It was a plastic rectangle. A military ID—CJ’s active-duty military ID. This was old—no longer valid—once he retired he was issued a new one. The retiree cards looked different than active-duty cards. This one should have been destroyed.
A car pulled up somewhere behind me. I wanted to throw myself over the ID as if it were a grenade that I could keep from exploding. Eventually I’d have to get up. There was no way to hide the ID. I wondered why I thought I should. I glanced over my shoulder. Laura had arrived, thank heaven. She stepped out of her car, slender and athletic, with close-cropped, dark hair. She’d been mistaken for Halle Berry more than once.
“Stay there. Call security!” I shouted.
“What’s going on?” Laura yelled. “Are we going to be able to open today? What happened? Did someone break in? We need to open. People plan on it.”
“No.” I hurried over to her. “I found bones.” I choked out the words. This was not the time to fall apart. I waved my hand back at the Dumpster. “A skull and other bones.”
Laura’s big brown eyes widened. She called 911, sounding amazingly calm while she talked to them. After she hung up, she said, “I’m calling Mark.” Having a colonel for a husband, especially the wing commander, came in handy when the thrift shop needed something.
The first security forces cars showed up, followed shortly by Laura’s husband. They shuffled us back, near the edge of the parking lot, where we’d be out of the way. We watched the activity in silence. A protocol was in place for emergencies. It started the minute Laura dialed 911 and played out around us.
An agent from the OSI, Office of Special Investigations—the air force equivalent of NCIS—showed up. After he consulted with a few people, it looked like he took over. The base OSI office only consisted of a few agents. As far as I knew, they’d never dealt with a murder on Fitch. If that’s what it was.
While the base security forces were in charge of protecting the base and law enforcement, the OSI was in charge of serious offenses. They investigated terrorism, fraud, illegal drug rings, and distribution, as well as violent crimes and computer hacking. They wore suits and were called special agents, instead of by their military rank. I knew that they worked closely with the security forces. Some were scruffy undercover types. A few really believed they were special and smarter.
I recognized Special Agent Bristow. We’d sat at the same table at a base function about a year ago. His wife had died the year before and the sadness was still etched around his eyes.
One of the agents pulled Laura away. I could see her talking, waving her hands around, pointing toward me, then the Dumpster.
“I’m not leaving you here,” Laura called over to me. “I’ll stay even if that guy”—she pointed to Agent Bristow—“won’t let me talk to you.” It’s what I loved about Laura; she was feisty and got things done. The Minuteman Thrift Shop had blossomed under her leadership. I was happy to have a friend close by. It kept me from focusing too much on the bone field.
However, ten minutes later, I overheard Mark, Laura’s husband, tell Laura to go home. Laura shouted her apologies. “Mark’s making me leave.”
Agent Bristow turned to me. Small coffee stains dotted the front of his shirt. “Mrs. Hooker, you were the first one here?”
I nodded yes to his question without bothering to correct my name.
“Did you see anyone else around?”
“No. It was just me, until Laura Nicklas pulled up.”
He quizzed me about what time I’d arrived, my movements, what I’d seen. He didn’t seem happy with my lack of information. “Okay.” He turned to one of the other OSI agents. “Let her sit in my car for now.”
More police cars had arrived, including CJ and three other Ellington police cars. Base jurisdiction was a funny thing. Technically, parts of the base, housing and schools, were in the town of Lincoln, while other parts were in Bedford and Ellington. Base security forces, as well as the Lincoln police, responded to domestic issues in the housing areas. This section was in Ellington’s part of the base. CJ would have been contacted because no one knew if the remains were military, dependent, or civilian.
CJ didn’t come near me. People moved carefully around, putting numbered evidence markers down. Others took pictures. I wondered if it was Tiffany out there. I hoped not. As much as I disliked her, I didn’t want her life to end this way, head bashed in and her body violated by buzzards and coyotes. I ran a hand over my stomach. If Tiffany was dead, the baby was, too. I wrapped my arms around myself, rocking and shaking.
An hour later, Agent Bristow popped his head into the car. “We’re taking you to Ellington to ask you some questions, if that’s okay with you?”
Even though he asked, I knew I had no choice. I wasn’t surprised we were heading back to Ellington. The base had MOAs—memorandums of agreement with the surrounding cities. They must have decided the EPD was best suited to investigate this murder. They could have taken me to the OSI office. I guess the Ellington Police Station could accommodate the crowd more easily.
“Of course. I’d like to ride with CJ.” I really wanted a few minutes alone with CJ first.
“Best I can do is a ride with me.” Agent Bristow smiled as if to reassure me this was routine. “Chief Hooker has a bit of a conflict of interest.”
If they knew about the bloody shirts, it would be more than a conflict of interest. It would look bad if one of us mentioned them and the other didn’t. Which was exactly why I wanted to talk to CJ.
“What about my car?” I asked.
“I can have someone take it to the station and leave the keys at the desk,” Agent Bristow said.
“Thanks.”
A medical examiner had joined the scene and the security forces maintained a perimeter around the crime scene. One of them tracked who came and went. Since this was a remote part of the base, they didn’t have to worry about crowd control. As Bristow walked around the car to the driver’s side, an Ellington police officer trotted over. He had thick, dark hair and powerful shoulders. I didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t one of the officers who delighted in pulling me over. His name tag said, Pellner.
“I can escort Miss Winston back to town,” he said. When he spoke, I noticed a dimple on his left cheek. Somehow his dimple looked menacing.
Even though every part of me wanted to cling to Agent Bristow and scream “No,” I stood my ground and met Pellner’s dark eyes. It looked like he was itching to slap some cuffs on me and toss me in the backseat of the squad car.
“Thanks. She’s coming with me,” Agent Bristow said. Pellner watched as Bristow opened the front passenger door of his car for me. I couldn’t help tossing a little wave to Pellner as we passed. It probably meant another ticket loomed in my future.
Bristow settled me in an interview room. It looked a lot like the one on base: a two-way mirror and a scarred, bolted-down table. I sat in one of the two uncom
fortable chairs. He left, came back with a Coke for me, and left again. I took a couple of sips. The acid didn’t sit well in my already-upset stomach.
Before long, Bristow returned, alone, which surprised me, since it was a joint investigation. Although, for all I knew, the entire Ellington Police Department could be amassed behind the mirror, probably hoping I’d confess to something, anything, that would let them lock me up.
“When was the last time you were at the thrift shop?” Bristow asked. The lighting in here made the lines around his eyes look even worse, like life had worn him down. His white shirt wasn’t crisp and had press marks from a poor iron job. The sleeve of his suit was on the verge of fraying. It looked like fending for himself didn’t sit well for him. His vulnerability made me want to trust him.
“Last Thursday. I locked up around two-thirty. We’re only open every other Saturday. It’s hard to find enough people to keep the place open. A lot of spouses prefer to stick to less messy jobs, like writing stories for the newsletter or organizing the monthly spouses’ club meetings. Not that we don’t need people to do those things, too. I’ve done them myself at other assignments. Some spouses volunteer for jobs they think will help get their husbands promoted. The thrift shop isn’t it.” I look a breath, realizing I’d started to babble.
“Did you notice anything unusual at that time?”
“No. Laura Nicklas and I hauled some junk to the Dumpster when we left. We would have noticed a body. Do you think it is Tiffany Lopez?”
“It’s too soon to tell.”
“How long will it take to find out?”
“I’m not sure. Her DNA will be on file. They take a sample from all military personnel for identification purposes.”
I looked down at my hands. The knuckles were white from clasping them together. “What about her baby?”
“We will have to wait for all the reports to come back. When is the last time you saw Airman Lopez?” he asked.
Tagged for Death Page 4
