The Bodies Left Behind: A Novel

by Jeffery Deaver

“Hey. Come on in.”

  The sheriff walked inside. He noticed the smooth walls. Didn’t comment on them. “How’s your mother doing?”

  “She’ll be okay. Feisty, you know.” She tilted her head toward the closed family room door. “We made her up a bedroom downstairs. She’s sleeping now.”

  “Oh, I’ll keep my voice down.”

  “With the meds she’s on, she’d sleep through a party.”

  The sheriff sat and massaged his leg. “I liked the way you phrased it. About those two killers: the bodies left behind. Described it pretty good.”

  “Anything at all, Tom?”

  “I’ll tell you up front there’s not much. That fellow got himself shot was Compton Lewis. Lived in Milwaukee.”

  “Compton was his first name?”

  “Ask his mother or father. Fellow was just a punk, a wannabe. Did construction around the lakefront and ran some petty scams, smash-and-grab at gas stations and convenience stores. Biggest thing was he and some folks tried to rob a guard refilling an ATM outside of Madison last year. They think Lewis was supposedly the getaway driver but he dropped his keys in the snow. His buddies ran off and he got busted. Did six months.” Dahl shook his head. “Only kin I could track down was Lewis’s older brother. The only one still in the state. The man took the news hard, I’ll tell you. Started crying like a baby. Had to hang up and called me back a half hour later…Didn’t have much to say, but here’s his number if you want to talk to him.” He handed her a Post-it note.

  “How about Hart?” She’d checked every criminal database in five states, all the nicknames, all the mug shots for everybody named Hart, Heart, Harte, Hartman, Harting…nothing.

  “No leads at all. That man…he’s good. Look at the fingerprints. Didn’t leave a one anywhere. And digging the bullet with his DNA out of the woodwork? He knows what he’s doing.”

  “And Michelle? She would’ve given Hart and Lewis a fake name but I’d guess Michelle is real; Hart and Lewis found her purse and probably looked through it. And she’d’ve told the truth to me—because I’d be dead by morning.”

  Dahl said, “They’re more concerned about her ’cause the FBI’s sure it’s Mankewitz who hired her, and they want to prove him or one of his people hired her. But so far the snitches haven’t come up with anything concrete.”

  “Are they taking the composite picture of her I did to acting schools and health clubs?” Brynn was pretty sure the biography Michelle had told that night was a lie, its purpose to elicit sympathy from Brynn, but the young woman had been so credible it was worth checking out.

  “I think they’re working from the top down more, going for a Mankewitz connection first.”

  He went on to say that he’d opened files on the four meth cookers killed by Hart and Lewis. They were murder charges; like ’em or not, drug dealers have a right not to be killed too.

  If the mysterious shooter near the ledge in Marquette State Park in the early hours of April 18 had any connection to the methamphetamine industry in Wisconsin or to Mankewitz, nobody’d been able to find it. The State Police had found the probable location of the shooter’s nest but they’d recovered no physical evidence whatsoever. He’d collected all his brass and obscured his shoeprints. “Everybody’s a damn pro,” Dahl muttered. Then asked, “How’s that little girl doing?”

  “Amy? No other family that Child Protective Services can find.”

  “Sad.”

  “Not really, Tom. At least she’ll have a chance for a decent life now. She wouldn’t’ve survived there with Gandy and his wife…. And I have to say she’s looking okay. Pretty happy.”

  “You saw her?”

  “This morning. I bought her a new Chester and took it up.”

  “A new…?”

  “Toy. I don’t know what. Donkey-monkey or something. I was planning on going back to the park and getting the original. Just didn’t have the heart.”

  “That’d be above and beyond, Brynn. Physically, she’s okay?”

  “Well, nobody’d gone south.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “But the marks on her neck?” Brynn grimaced angrily. “The doctor who looked her over that night said they’d been made in the past few hours.”

  “Few hours? You mean, it was Michelle did that?”

  “Yep.” Brynn sighed. “Amy was making some noise, and Hart and Lewis were nearby. Michelle pulled her aside to talk to her. And she was quiet after that. Half strangled the poor kid, I’ve got a feeling.”

  “Lord, what a witch.”

  “And Amy was terrified for the rest of the night. I never connected it.”

  “Poor thing. Good you went to see her.”

  She asked, “That FBI fellow who’s checking on Mankewitz? He’ll call us? Or are they thinking we’re bumpkins?”

  “Never knew where that word came from.”

  Brynn lifted an eyebrow.

  “They think we’re bumpkins but they said they’d let us know,” Dahl said.

  “Still, give me his number. I’ll call just to say hello.”

  Snickering, Dahl dug through his wallet and found a card. Showed it to Brynn and she wrote down the information.

  “You look tired. I owe you that time off. And I’m insisting you take it. That’s from your boss. Kick back. Let Graham take care of things for a while. A man oughta know his way around the kitchen and grocery store and laundry. Lord knows, I do. Carole’s whipped me into shape.”

  Brynn laughed and Dahl missed the mournful tone. “Well, I will. Promise. But not just yet. We’ve got open homicides and even if Mankewitz is behind it and the U.S. attorney comes in on RICO or conspiracy counts, it’s still a state crime happened in our county.”

  “What’re you planning to do?” Dahl asked.

  “Go where the leads take me. Here, Milwaukee, wherever.” She at least would follow up on some of the acting school and health club connections, anything else she could think of. Maybe gun clubs. The woman certainly knew how to use a firearm.

  “And it won’t do any good saying no?”

  “You can fire me.”

  He chuckled.

  Brynn sighed. “And this all ended up in our lap.”

  “Usually, you know, you can’t pick the bullet that hits you. Usually you can’t even hear it coming.”

  “What’re you and Carole doing this weekend?”

  “Maybe a movie. Only if her mother comes to babysit. These teenagers? They charge you ten dollars an hour and you have to feed them. I mean, something hot. What do you pay?”

  “Graham and I don’t go out much.”

  “Better that way. Stay home, have dinner. No need to go out. Especially with cable. Best be going.”

  “Say hi to Carole for me.”

  “Will do. And regards to your mom. Wish her well.”

  She watched him go and she stood, looking over the first item on her list.

  II

  MAY

  SITTING IN A

  diner in downtown Milwaukee, big, broad Stanley Mankewitz noted his reflection in the glass, intensified because of the dark gray afternoon light. The date was May 1 but the weather had been borrowed from March. This was an important date in Mankewitz’s life. International Workers’ Day, picked by worldwide labor movements in the late 1880s to honor common workers. That particular date was selected largely to commemorate the martyrs of the Haymarket Massacre, in which both police and workers were killed in May 1886 in Chicago, following rallies by the Federation of Organized Trade and Labor Unions in support of an eight-hour workday.

  May Day meant two things to Mankewitz. One, it honored working people—which he had been and which he now represented with all his heart—along with their brothers and sisters throughout the world.

  Two, it stood as a testament to the fact that sacrifices sometimes had to be made for the greater good.

  He had above his desk a quotation: the final words of one of the men sentenced to hang for his role in the Haymarket Massacre, Au
gust Spies (who, like all the defendants, scholars believed, was probably innocent). Spies had said, “The time will come when our silence will be more powerful than the voices you strangle today.”

  Sacrifices…

  Reflecting now on that momentous day, Mankewitz gazed at his image, observing not his rotund physique, which pestered him occasionally, but his exhausted demeanor. He deduced this from his posture, since he couldn’t see his facial features clearly, though they surely would have added to the overall profile.

  He took a bite of his club sandwich, noted the American instead of the Swiss cheese, which he’d ordered. And too much mayo in the coleslaw. They always do that, he fretted. Why do I eat here?

  The Hobbit detective had been proving scarce lately, which Mankewitz cleverly punned to James Jasons really meant he was proving “scared.”

  Life had turned into a nightmare after the death of Emma Feldman. He’d been “invited” to the Bureau and the state’s attorney’s office. He went with his lawyer, answered some questions, not others, and they left without receiving anything other than a chilly good-bye. His lawyer hadn’t been able to read the signs.

  Then he’d heard that the law firm where the Feldman woman worked was considering a suit against him for wrongful death—and their loss of earnings. His lawyer told him this was bullshit, since there was no legally recognized cause of action for that sort of thing.

  More fucking harrassment.

  Mankewitz snapped, “Maybe it’s also bullshit because nobody’s proved I killed her.”

  “Yeah, of course, Stan. That goes without saying.”

  Without saying.

  He looked up from his lopsided sandwich and saw James Jasons approach. The thin man sat down. When the waitress arrived he asked for a Diet Coke.

  “You don’t eat,” Mankewitz said.

  “Depends.”

  Which means what? Mankewitz wondered.

  “I’ve got some updates.”

  “Go on.”

  “First, I called the sheriff up there, Tom Dahl. Well, I called as the friend of the Feldmans—the aggrieved friend. Ari Paskell. I put on the pressure: How come you haven’t found the killers yet? Et cetera.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m convinced he believed I’m who I said I was.”

  “What’d he say about the case?”

  Jasons blinked. “Well, nothing. But he wouldn’t. I was just making sure he wasn’t suspicious about my trip up there.”

  Mankewitz nodded, trusting the man’s judgment. “What’s up with our girlfriend?”

  Referring to the deputy, Kristen Brynn McKenzie. Right after the events of April 17 and 18, Jasons had looked into who was leading the investigation into the deaths of the Feldmans. There was that prick of an FBI agent, Brindle, and a couple of Milwaukee cops, but it was the small-town woman who was really pushing the case.

  “She’s unstoppable. She’s running with it like a bulldog.”

  Mankewitz didn’t think bulldogs ran much but he didn’t say anything.

  “She’s better than the Bureau and Milwaukee PD combined.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Well, she’s working harder than they are. She’s been to Milwaukee four times since the murders, following up on leads.”

  “She have jurisdiction?”

  “I don’t think that’s an issue anybody’s worried about. What with all the shit that went down in Kennesha County. And the dead lawyer.”

  “Why do I end up in the crock pot?”

  Slight James Jasons had no response to that, nor should he offer one, the union boss reflected. Besides, the answer was obvious: Because I think immigrants who work hard ought to be let into the country to take the jobs of people who’re too lazy to work.

  Oh, and because I say it in public.

  “So, Ms. McKenzie’s not going to stop until she gets to the bottom of what happened up there.”

  “She’s not going to stop,” Jasons echoed.

  “Out to make a name for herself?”

  His man considered this, frowning. “It’s not like she wants a notch in her gun or career advancement, anything like that.”

  “What’s her point then?”

  “Putting bad people in jail.”

  Jasons reminded Mankewitz again about being in the forest that night in April—an unarmed Brynn McKenzie on top of a cliff, launching rocks and logs down onto the men pursuing her, while they fired back with a shotgun and automatic pistol. She had only vanished when Jasons himself began firing with the Bushmaster.

  Mankewitz knew without a doubt he wouldn’t like Deputy McKenzie. But he had to respect her.

  “What’s she found exactly?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been on the lakefront, Avenues West, the Brewline, over to Madison, down to Kenosha. Went to Minneapolis for the day. She’s not stopping.”

  The running bulldog.

  “Anything I can use? Anything at all?”

  Speaking from memory—he never seemed to need notes—Jasons said, “There is one thing.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “She’s got a secret.”

  “Give me the gist.”

  “Okay, six, seven years ago—married to her first husband. He was a state trooper, decorated, popular guy. Also had a temper. Had hit her in the past.”

  “Prick, hitting women.”

  “Well, turns out he gets shot.”

  “Shot?”

  “In his own kitchen. There’s an inquest. Accidental discharge. Unfortunate accident.”

  “Okay. Where’s this going?”

  “It wasn’t an accident at all. Intentional shooting. There was a cover-up. Might’ve gone all the way to Madison.”

  “The kind of cover-up where people’ll lose their jobs, if it comes to light?”

  “Lose their jobs and probably go to jail.”

  “This just rumors?”

  Jasons opened his briefcase. He removed a limp file folder. “Proof.”

  For a little runt, the man sure did produce.

  “Hope it’s helpful.”

  Mankewitz opened the folder. He read, lifting an eyebrow. “I think it’s very helpful.” He looked up and said sincerely, “Thanks. Oh, and by the way, Happy May Day.”

  HE LIKED THIS

  town. At least he liked it well enough as a temporary home.

  Green Bay was flatter than the state park around Lake Mondac, less picturesque in that sense, but the bay itself was idyllic, and the Fox River impressive in that hard, industrial way that had always appealed to Hart. His father used to take him to the steel mill where the man worked in the payroll office, and the son was always excited beyond words to don a hard hat and tour the floor, which stank of smoke and coal and liquid metal and rubber.

  His rental house here was on one of the numbered streets, working-class, not so great. But functional and cheap. His big problem was that he was bored.

  Biding time never worked for Hart but biding time was what he had to do. No choice there, none at all.

  If he got too bored, he’d go for a drive to the forest preserve, which he found comforting, especially since to get there he’d take Lakeview Drive—the name similar to the private road at Lake Mondac. He would go for walks or sit in the car and work. He had several prepaid mobile phones and would make calls about forthcoming jobs.

  Today, in fact, he was just finishing one of these walks, and noticed a maypole set up in one of the clearings. The children were running in a circle, making a barber pole. Then they sat down to their picnic lunch. A school bus was nearby, a yellow stain on the otherwise pretty green.

  Hart returned to his rental house, drove around the block, just to be sure, then went inside. He checked messages and made some calls on a new prepaid mobile. Then he went into the garage, where he’d set up a small woodworking shop, a tiny one. He’d been working on a project of his own design. It started out being just an hour or two a day. Now he was up to about four hours. Nothing relaxed him like working wi
th wood.

  As he sanded by hand, he thought back to that night in the woods, recalling all the trees there—oak, ash, maple, walnut, all the hardwoods that made up the medium for his craft. What he purchased as smooth, precisely cut lumber, with perfect angles at the corners, had begun as a huge, imposing, even forbidding creature, towering a hundred or so feet in the air. In one way it troubled him that the trees were cut down. In another, though, he believed he was honoring the wood by transforming it into something else, something to be appreciated.

  He now looked over the project he’d been working on: an inlaid box. He was pleased with the progress. It might be a present for someone. He wasn’t sure yet.

  At eight that night he drove to downtown Green Bay, to a woody, dark bar that served pretty good chili and had a bowl and a beer, sitting at the bar. He got another beer when he finished the first and went into the back room, where there was a basketball game on. He watched it, sipping the beer. It was a West Coast game and the hour was later here. Pretty soon the other patrons began to check their watches, then stand and head home. The score was 92–60 well into the second half and whatever interest had existed before the halftime show had evaporated.

  Anyway, it was just basketball. Not the Packers.

  He glanced at the walls. They were covered with old signs from Wisconsin’s breweries of the past, famous ones, he supposed, though he’d never heard of them. Loaf and Stein, Heileman, Foxhead. An ominous tusked boar stared at him from a Hibernia Brewing logo. A picture of a TV screen on which two women looked out at the audience. Penned below it was, Hey there, from Laverne and Shirley.

  Hart asked for his check as the waitress passed by. She was polite but cool, having given up flirting with him when it wasn’t reciprocated the first time, a week or so ago. In bars like this one, once is enough. He paid, left and drove to another bar not far away, in the Broadway District. He stepped out of the car and into the shadows of a nearby alley.

  When the man came out of the bar at 1 A.M., which he’d done virtually every night for the past week, Hart grabbed him, pushed a pistol into his back and dragged him into the alley.