A Body To Die For

by G. A. McKevett

  “Oh, okay.” Dirk didn’t bother to write that one down.

  His cell phone began to ring, playing “The House of the Rising Sun.” Savannah knew it was the police station house calling. He’d chosen that ring tone after one too many all-nighters at his desk, buried in paperwork.

  “Excuse me,” he told Clarissa and answered it. “Coulter.”

  Dirk had a good poker face, but after so many years looking at his mug, Savannah could tell when it was an important call or a “the captain wants to know if you’re anywhere near his daughter’s school; she forgot her lunch money” call.

  “Yeah? Where?” He listened, gave Savannah a quick look, and then said, “Okay. I’m on my way.”

  He shoved the phone back into his pocket and stood. “I think I’ve got what I need for right now, Ms. Jardin,” he said. He handed her one of his business cards. “If you think of anything else or if you need to talk to me, just give me a buzz.”

  “Thank you.”

  She slid the card into her robe pocket as she searched his face, suspicious. “Is everything all right? I mean, that call you got?”

  “It’s just something I have to check out. But I’ll start working on finding your husband right away. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as we get anything new.”

  In less than a minute, Savannah and Dirk were out the door and walking through the courtyard garden, on their way back to the car.

  Savannah knew something was up. Dirk seldom moved that quickly.

  “Whatcha got?” she asked.

  He glanced back toward the house, the closed door. Opening the bell gate, he said, “A new, red Jaguar abandoned up in the hills on Sulphur Creek Road.”

  “Uh-oh. A body?”

  “Nope.” He opened the car door for her, then came around and got in himself.

  “Well, that’s good,” she said as he started the engine.

  “What?”

  “Just a dumped car. No dead body.”

  “It ain’t all that good,” he said. “There’s blood spatter all over the interior.”

  “Oh.”

  “And brain matter on the dash.”

  Savannah felt her stomach do a little flip-flop. “Oh. Yeah, not all that good. Sounds like ol’ Billy Bob Jardin done lost his mind.”

  “Yeap. At least part of it.”

  Chapter 4

  “I can’t believe we’re driving down Sulphur Creek Road, and you’re not accusing me of eating chili for dinner last night,” Dirk said.

  Savannah looked out the passenger side window at the moonlit, prickly cactus-covered hills and tried not to breathe. This area of the foothills was known for its sulphur deposits and its distinctive odor. It smelled a bit like rotten eggs, week-old cabbage soup, and Dirk after a night of chili, tacos, or anything containing beans.

  For the past eighteen years, whenever they had ventured this way, she had accused him of polluting her personal airspace.

  But with age she had become wiser. Less judgmental. Less accusatory. Kinder and milder.

  “I know it’s not you,” she said, “it’s the creek.”

  “Damn right it’s not me. Glad you finally got that straight.”

  “Oh, yeah. Like you’re above it, you gaseous, odious beast.”

  Okay. Just wiser.

  Savannah glanced at her watch. 9:48. This was destined to be another one of those exhausting, draining, all-nighters, for which her only compensation would be the pleasure of Dirk’s scintillating wit and the warmth of his companionship.

  She could be home right now cuddled up in her bed with a steamy novel, Cleo draped across her feet, Diamante tucked under her left arm, a piece of Death by Chocolate cake heaped with whipped cream sitting on her nightstand.

  Someday she’d learn to say “no” to these invitations of working for nothing.

  But it wasn’t going to be tonight. Because a moment later, they rounded a curve and she saw the blue and red flashing lights from the police cruisers parked around their crime scene. The sight of the guys in uniform milling around, checking out the area, caused a major rush of adrenaline to hit her system.

  It was a hit that was stronger than any shot of espresso or slice of Death by Chocolate cake. And she knew she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now.

  Dirk pulled the Buick off the road, onto the shoulder. There was barely enough room to park the car between the pavement and the steep, rocky hill that rose to their right. And to the left, on the other side of the road was a reinforced guardrail and less than two feet beyond that, a sharp drop of at least five hundred feet.

  All too well, Savannah remembered when they had responded to a call out here about ten years ago because a carload of drunken teenagers had gone off this cliff.

  That’s when the guardrail had been reinforced. Too late, of course.

  She had hated this crook in the road ever since.

  The locals had given it the terribly original name of Deadman’s Curve, and apparently, the notorious spot was living up to its name again. About sixty feet ahead of them, a bright red Jaguar convertible sat on the left side of the road nearest the cliff, only inches from the guardrail. It was facing the opposite direction.

  They got out of the Buick and walked down the road toward the Jaguar. “Looks like somebody’s awake enough to play the yellow tape,” Dirk said as they stepped over the yellow plastic ribbon that was strung around the scene.

  Savannah was glad that the area had been cordoned off, too, but for a different reason than Dirk. She had better, more pleasant, things to do than listen to him chew out his insubordinates—like clean her oven or visit her dentist. And since Dirk had been on the SCPD longer than almost everyone, including the captain and chief of police, the list of insubordinates he could abuse was a long one.

  As they approached the Jaguar, several of the policemen nodded to Dirk and greeted Savannah. They didn’t appear to be doing much except providing a “presence,” meandering around the scene, chatting with each other.

  Savannah knew the drill all too well. Cops were just as nosy as anybody else. Hanging out at a crime scene provided a lot better entertainment than sitting in your squad car in an all-night convenience store parking lot, sipping free coffee.

  A middle-aged cop wearing a uniform that was stretched tight across his ample belly walked over to them and put out his hand to Dirk.

  “Sergeant Coulter. Good to see you,” he said with a modicum of enthusiasm.

  Dirk gave him a grunt and a brief handshake that was dismissive at best.

  The cop turned to Savannah, perhaps searching for a warmer form of communication. “Hi, Savannah. You’re looking mighty fine tonight.”

  Savannah gave him a quick once-over, thinking that, even though he was totally bald—not a hint of a hair on his head—his appearance wouldn’t have been improved one iota if he’d had a world-class toupee.

  “Why, thank you, darlin’,” she replied, desperately trying to remember the guy’s name. “You’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself.”

  He flushed with pleasure at the compliment. In fact, he was so pleased that she felt only half-guilty for lying to him.

  If Granny Reid’s predictions were right, any minute now her nose would begin to grow, and her tongue would turn black and fall out.

  “Are you senior officer here, Wiggins?” Dirk asked him, waves of impatience rolling off him.

  “Yeah,” was the equally curt reply.

  “Start a log yet?”

  Rather than answer, Wiggins held up a clipboard with some forms attached.

  “Okay.” Dirk nodded toward the mob of blue uniforms crowding around the Jaguar. “Get all their names and tell them to stay at least twenty feet from the vehicle. Did you call CSI yet?”

  “Um…not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for? Do it! They should’ve been halfway here by now.”

  Wiggins walked away and once he was out of earshot, Dirk said, “Easy on the eyes, my ass. Herb Wiggins is as
ugly as a junkyard dog, but not nearly as smart.”

  “Herb. That’s his first name.”

  “He’s fat and bald.”

  “He’s sweet.”

  “Hurrumph.”

  She could have added that Dirk wasn’t as svelte around the middle as he’d once been, not to mention a little thin on top. But in all the years she’d known him, he had never once criticized her midlife spread, so…

  Once Wiggins had delivered Dirk’s message, the uniforms scattered, standing a respectable distance away, and watched, eager to see what was going to happen next.

  “Tromped all over my crime scene,” Dirk mumbled as he and Savannah approached the Jaguar. Then, loudly, he said, “You bunch of morons. Don’t you know to respect the perimeter of a scene? All of you…check the treads of your shoes before you leave here. I don’t want anybody walking off with evidence, like a spent shell.”

  Immediately, fifteen to twenty policemen began hopping on one leg, then the other, as they lifted their feet and examined their soles. It reminded Savannah of a really bad Riverdance routine, and she had to suppress a giggle.

  Her moment of humor faded, though, as they neared the convertible.

  The car was only dimly illuminated by the headlights and flashing lights of the squad cars. Momentarily, the moon had gone behind some clouds, and there were no streetlights of any kind up in the foothills outside of town. The red and blue lights playing over the glistening surface of the expensive automobile gave it an eerie, sinister appearance.

  She felt a prickling feeling that ran along the back of her neck and down her arms, a sensation she’d had many times when approaching the scene of a violent crime.

  She was prepared to admit that some of the creepy feeling she was experiencing might have been due to what she had been told about the car’s interior. But many times when approaching an area—even before she knew it was the scene of a crime—she had felt the same instinctive revulsion sweep over her, warning her that all wasn’t well.

  And all wasn’t well with the Jaguar. The top was down on the convertible and even in the poor lighting, the gory evidence was obvious.

  The blood spray on the passenger’s side of the windshield and the other biological matter on the fine, burled walnut trimmed dash, told the story all too clearly; someone had been murdered in that vehicle.

  “Ee-e-ew,” she said, feeling her stomach turn.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “At moments like this I wish I’d followed my dream and gone into another line of work.”

  “Dream? You had a dream?”

  “Well, don’t look so damned surprised.”

  “What was it?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  She gouged him in the ribs. “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll laugh, and I’m busy.”

  He had her there. They were busy. With Bill Jardin’s brains on his dash, there were more important things to attend to.

  She flipped a mental switch and went into professional mode.

  A young policeman walked by, and she asked to borrow his flashlight. He handed it to her with a flirtatious smile, and as he walked away, it occurred to her that she did miss being a cop, being surrounded by gorgeous, virile and…okay…seriously horny…men all day.

  She sighed and mentally flipped that switch again.

  Playing the beam of the flashlight over the exterior of the car, she said, “This vehicle hasn’t been sitting here for any five days. It’s dusty and dirty up in these hills, but the outside of this car is as clean as a whistle.” She trailed the light over the seats and doors. “And other than the blood spatter, it’s clean inside, too.”

  “Of course it hasn’t been here,” Dirk said, slightly miffed.

  She had paid attention to two other males in less than five minutes and that was bound to put him in a huff every time.

  “You don’t have to be snippy about it,” she said.

  “It’s just obvious. This car cost more than my trailer and—”

  “Well, ye-e-eah. More than your whole trailer park.”

  “Be that as it may. My point is: A car like this one doesn’t sit abandoned without people noticing and reporting it, or stealing it, or stripping it, or God knows what. I don’t know where it’s been before, but it’s been sitting here only a few hours, I can guarantee you.”

  She had to agree with him. While Sulphur Creek Road wasn’t as heavily traveled as your average Southern California freeway, it was the main road connecting San Carmelita with Twin Oaks, a smaller inland community of about three thousand people.

  “That’s true,” she said. “A red Jaguar convertible sitting on Deadman’s Curve would have raised a ruckus, even if no one had noticed the bloodstained interior.”

  “Lemme borrow that flashlight,” Dirk said.

  She handed it to him, and he walked slowly toward the guardrail.

  Knowing his fear of heights, Savannah couldn’t help admiring him and snickering just a little, as she watched him tiptoe up to the edge and peek over. Her thing was snakes. His was heights. She freaked out at the sight of an over-grown worm; he couldn’t go more than three rungs up a ladder.

  Hey, you couldn’t be a superhero twenty-four hours a day.

  She joined him at the railing as he trailed the beam of the flashlight back and forth over the thick sagebrush, cacti, and large craggy rocks that covered the steep cliff.

  At the very bottom, far beyond the reach of the simple flashlight, was a river. She could hear it, rushing over its rocky bed and she had seen it before—the day the kids had gone over the cliff and landed in the water, upside down.

  That was a day she would never be able to forget.

  “Hell of a thing,” Dirk muttered. “This happening here of all places. I thought we were done with this friggen place.”

  She reached for his hand and for a moment, her fingers entwined with his. She squeezed them gently. “I know, buddy,” she said. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  She released his hand before any of the other cops could see. No point in starting rumors. And policemen gossiped worse than anybody she knew. Probably because they had more exciting tales to tell than the average accountant or store clerk.

  “There’s a lot of water down there,” she said, stating the obvious in an attempt to change the subject. “All those rains we’ve had. One storm after the other last week.”

  “And that one last night was a doozy,” he replied, playing along.

  Yeah, she thought, when all else fails, discuss the weather.

  After a few more awkward moments of reminiscing, Savannah said, “If they took his body out of that car and threw it off this cliff…do you think he’d hit the water down there?”

  Dirk leaned forward, ever so slightly, and took a quick look. “Yeah. I do. It’s pretty much straight down.” He took a couple of steps back from the guardrail. “I really wish it wasn’t this spot,” he said. “For more reasons than one.”

  “I hear you.”

  Gently, with her best fake-nonchalant look on her face, she took the flashlight from his hand.

  Stepping around him, she moved closer to the railing and shone the light down the cliff.

  Unlike him, she was fine with cliffs. As long as those cliffs were certifiably snake-free.

  Swinging the light back and forth, she peered into the darkness and saw nothing at the bottom but a black void. However, as she trained the light on the cliff itself, she saw something interesting.

  “I think he’s down there,” she said.

  Phobia or no phobia, Dirk was instantly alert. He took a few steps, closing the gap between them.

  “Why? What do you see?”

  “Some broken cactuses, I mean, cacti or whatever. Right down there. See?”

  He did see. It was obvious, several large clumps of prickly pear about ten feet down from the edge, broken—their pads torn off or crushed. And all around the smashed cacti was equal
ly damaged sagebrush.

  “Something definitely went down through there. Recently,” he said. “Something big.”

  “Like a human being,” Savannah added.

  “Exactly like a human being. And even if he was alive when he went over that cliff, he sure wouldn’t be by the time he hit the bottom.”

  Savannah winced at the very thought. The cliff with its sharp, jagged rocks and nettled vegetation, that terrible drop, and of course the river at the bottom with its rushing water and stone-covered banks and bed.

  She glanced back at the luxury car, fouled by its gruesome biological evidence. “I guess the good news for Bill Jardin is…” she said, “…he wasn’t alive when he went over.”

  Dirk shook his head. “Yeah, right. Goody for him.”

  Savannah looked at her watch. 10:15. “It won’t be dawn for hours,” she said. “And there’s no way we’re going to find him until we’ve got some daylight.”

  “That’s for sure. We’ll get the crime scene unit out here as soon as it’s light to process that car, the road, and as much of this cliff as they can get to. That’s gonna be great fun for them, processing a scene while hanging from ropes.”

  “And of course, we have to go down there to search the river—either rappel down the cliff or have a chopper drop us.”

  He didn’t answer, and she knew he was searching his mind for any excuse to get out of doing either of those.

  “Your mom could have another emergency appendectomy,” she suggested.

  “Naw.” He sighed. “They wouldn’t buy it. She’s already had three in the past five years.”

  “That’s gotta be some sort of record.”

  “Yeah, especially for a woman who’s been dead twenty years.”

  She stifled a giggle. “This time you might have to fake an attack yourself.”

  He took another tentative look over the cliff. “Hell, if it comes down to it, I’d rather actually have the operation. Anything would be better than going over that cliff on a rope or hanging from a helicopter by a thread.”

  Turning away from the guardrail, he shuddered and added, “I hear you don’t really need an appendix.”

  “Yeah,” Savannah replied. “They’re just for decoration anyway.”