Moser already had enough weighing on him as it was. The results of the hair analysis had come in, and the hairs found on Cameron Jasper’s body were not what he had been expecting. His sick-bear theory had lost ground with those results—had been all but obliterated, actually.
Sarah Gregors, lab tech to the Northwest PD, had called Moser with the results of the hair analysis. She informed him that she had performed microscopic comparisons of the hairs to all known local predatory species in southern Arizona, and when the hairs did not match any of the samples, she broadened the search to all known predatory species they had on record. The hairs recovered did not match any of the hair samples in their database. Moser rattled off every carnivore he could think of that might be found in the southern United States, but Gregors dismissed them all. The hair did not match a bear (brown or black), a mountain lion, a bobcat, a coyote, or a wolf. He even mentioned jackals and jaguars, but to no avail. Gregors was adamant that the hair did not come from your garden-variety desert dwellers, or any other carnivorous dwellers known on this green earth.
Moser suggested that a domesticated dog, turned feral, could have potentially done the damage. That got another refusal from Gregors. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m telling you it did not match any known animals currently in our database.”
“Well, what can you tell me then?” he asked Gregors, exasperated.
“Not a whole lot, Detective Moser,” Gregors said. “We found some similarities in the hair’s cuticle and cortex consistent with Ursus americanus—that’s the North American black bear, and Canis lupus baileyi—the Mexican gray wolf.”
“Then that must be it!” he exclaimed.
“No sir, I did not say they were a match. I said there were a few similarities to the black bear and Mexican gray wolf, but they are not a match. The medulla is completely different; I’ve never seen anything like it. This hair sample did not come from either of these animals.”
“Then what in God’s name did it come from?” Moser asked, his voice rising.
“I’m very sorry, Detective Moser, but we cannot confirm the animal involved based on these samples. The results are inconclusive.”
“So you’re telling me Sasquatch could have done this?”
“We do not have a Sasquatch hair sample to compare it to,” she said, unphased. “The only expert opinion we can offer is that these hairs did not come from the typical predators found in the Sonoran Desert. What they did come from is currently unknown, since we do not have any samples in our database that match the cortex, cuticle, and medulla of the hairs in question.”
Moser thanked her and hung up. Some expert, he thought bitterly. He reached for his breast pocket to grab his pack of smokes, only to find the pocket empty. Fourteen years and he still reached for his smokes whenever he got bad news.
☼ ☼ ☼
The medical examiner emerged from behind the white stucco wall on the north side of the house. Moser pushed himself off the hood of his cruiser and headed over to meet him.
“Whatcha got?” Moser asked.
“Geriatric female. Based on the state of decomposition I would estimate she died the night before last, somewhere between the hours of 8:00 p.m. and 4:00 a.m.”
Moser nodded. “And the cause of death?”
“Take your pick. She sustained extensive internal and external injuries. Multiple lacerations, removal of the scalp and jaw, removal of some of the internal organs, and the separation of the pelvis from the spinal column.”
“The what?”
“The lumbar spine was removed from the sacrum. That’s the tailbone. In layman's terms, she was basically severed in half at the waist.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Moser mumbled. “And what could have done something like that?”
“Hard to say exactly. I would put my money on a large predatory mammal. Perhaps a bear or a puma. The injuries are pretty extensive.” He paused. “There is one oddity though.”
“And what’s that?”
“If it was a predatory mammal, it seems peculiar that so little of the body was consumed. Or that the body wasn’t removed from the site altogether, to be consumed elsewhere at another time.”
“Yup, pretty peculiar alright.” Moser thanked him and made his way around the side of the house. The men working in the backyard were going around the side of the house instead of through it, so as to not disturb any evidence that might be inside. Moser had a sinking suspicion the forensic crew wasn’t going to find anything inside the house anyway—might as well just walk right through the damn thing. At least there would be some air conditioning in there. He wiped the back of his neck. The collar of his shirt was damp with sweat.
Moser walked through the gated entryway and into the backyard. The gate was ajar so men could come and go, but Jimmy had insisted that the gate had been closed when he originally went around to the backyard to check the patio door.
Men were coming Moser’s way, wheeling a stretcher with a black bag on top.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Moser grumbled, trying to feign anger. Secretly, he was relieved he wouldn’t have to see the poor woman sprawled across the blood-smeared patio.
The men wheeling the stretcher stopped and looked at him with wide eyes. “Well . . . the news chopper . . .” one of them stammered, pointing upward. “We thought . . . we didn’t want them taking pictures of the body and broadcasting it on the five o’clock news. Forensics, the crime scene photographer, and the M.E. were all done so we thought . . . we weren’t sure if you were even coming back so we decided to—”
“Ok, ok,” Moser said, cutting him off. He wanted the frightened man with the stretcher to stop yammering. Fucking animal attacks. He looked up at the news chopper hovering overhead. “Good work. Get going.” He gestured to the open gate with his chin.
Moser stepped aside and pressed himself against the wall of the house so the men could pass by. There was a small shadow there, and it felt blissfully cool compared to the sweltering sunlight. The two men trudged past him with the remains of Ava Cuthbertson. Moser diverted his eyes. He felt like such a goon, getting his knickers in a twist over a dead body. Why did it have to be animal attacks? he thought. Anything but animal attacks. Damn nasty, violent deaths. That poor broad didn’t deserve to go out this way. A serial killer would be better than this, he thought. After a moment of consideration, he decided it might be a serial killer after all—just not a human one. First Jasper, now Cuthbertson. Who’s next?
God, why couldn’t I have stumbled across a Bundy or a Dahmer? Still sick bastards to be sure, but at least they were human. Who the hell knows what is causing all this? Not even Gregors could figure that out.
Moser surveyed the backyard. There were still half a dozen men finishing up with the scene. A couple from forensics and four officers from his department. He approached one of the forensic men, almost tripping over a toppled planter in the process. “Son of a whore, who knocked this thing over?” he asked no one in particular.
One of the officers perked up. “It was knocked over when we got here, Detective. Same with the one over by the body,” he pointed toward the patio. A tarp had been placed over the majority of the blood-stained flagstones. At least the news chopper couldn’t broadcast aerial shots of the bloody aftermath.
Moser took a look around the rest of the backyard. It was well-kept, all the bushes neatly trimmed and the potted plants blooming beautifully. Except for the two pots that had been knocked over. Large pots, too—especially the one next to the tarp. That one looked like it would take two men—possibly three—to topple it over. Yet there it was, lying on its side with a crack going down the middle.
“You sure none of the guys knocked that one over when they were taking out the body?” Moser asked, looking at the large pot near the tarp.
“No sir, it was on its side when we arrived. Whatcha think could have done something like that? That thing looks like it would be hell to push over.”
“Can’t say,” Moser said
. He didn’t feel like shooting the shit with this young kid anymore. Since when did his whole crew get so young? Or is it that he got so old? “Why don’t you guys head out, Officer . . .” Moser looked down at the kid’s badge, his name having slipped his mind.
The kid saw him looking and said, “Wesley. Ken Wesley.”
“Thank you, Officer Wesley,” Moser said. “That will be all for now.”
Wesley started making his way to the gate with the other officers. Moser called after him. “The men inside finish up?”
Wesley turned around and glanced at the wall of windows facing the back patio. “Yeah, they’re all done in there. Couldn’t find anything that looked out of place.” He pointed at the windows. “They’re not sure what to do about that, though.”
Moser pivoted on his heels and squinted at the sliding glass door. Down near the floor, a white cat was watching him. He could see the cat’s mouth opening and closing. He knew it was meowing even though he couldn’t hear it from where he was standing. “How about one of you guys call the local animal shelter? See if they can take it in. It’ll end up starving in there otherwise.”
“I’m on it,” Wesley said. He walked around the side of the house and disappeared.
The two men from forensics were also headed toward the gate. “You find anything?” Moser asked them as they passed by.
“Nothing much,” one of the men answered. “Just a few hairs on the body. Looks like they belong to some kind of animal. We’re sending them to lab.”
“Any chance they coulda come from that thing?” Moser gestured toward the white cat in the window.
“Highly unlikely. Cats have fine fur, and that one is completely white. These hairs were coarse and dark gray, almost black.” The forensic men began walking again. One of them paused and looked back at Moser, who was standing alone on the patio next to the carefully positioned tarp. “You thinking a black bear?” he asked.
Moser sighed. “I was.”
The man waited a moment to see if Moser would say more, and when he didn’t, he turned and headed through the gate with his team member.
Moser listened to the sound of their boots on the gravel until it faded away. He glanced at the red smears around the edges of the tarp, and then at the toppled planter with the dirt spilled out. There were boot imprints in the spilled soil, and crushed white flowers pressed into the dirt.
He looked up at the mountains, not wanting to stare at the red any longer. He could see Wasp Canyon from where he was standing—a dark, shaded crevice between two towering peaks. He felt a chill go up his spine despite the heat of the day. He wouldn’t go back into that canyon for all the tea in China, not after discovering the remains of Cameron Jasper between its walls.
And now Cuthbertson. Two of Tucson’s wealthiest residents, killed brutally in the span of a week. Forget local news, this was going to be the top story on NBC.
Moser strolled up to the patio door. He could see a great expanse of kitchen on the other side of the glass. He looked down at the white cat that was sitting on the floor on the other side of the window. It looked up at him with large, green eyes.
Moser squatted down to see the cat better, grunting with the effort. The cat got on its hind legs and pressed its front paws against the window. He could hear meowing faintly through the glass.
“How about you? Did you see anything?” he asked. The cat meowed in response. Moser pivoted to look at the tarp and the red smears below, his boots grinding on the flagstone. Perfect view of the patio and the crime scene. He looked back at the cat and mumbled to himself, “If only cats could talk.”
Chapter 36
When Moser arrived back at the station, the officer running the front desk informed him he had a couple of visitors.
“Who?” he asked. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“Two girls. One of ‘em said she’s talked with you before. She wouldn’t say what it was about; just that she’d wait until you got back. They've been here almost two hours now.”
“Ok, thanks Cal.” Moser left the front desk and headed out to the lobby.
A lanky, blonde girl was sitting in one of the plastic, maroon-going-on-brown lobby chairs. She had a large, black medical boot on her left leg. Another girl, shorter and with dark hair, sat beside her.
“Hello, I’m Detective Moser.”
The blonde looked up. Moser could see cuts and abrasions covering her arms and face. She was holding a stack of papers on her lap. She stood up with some effort. The brunette jumped up and held the blonde’s arm to help steady her.
“Detective Moser,” the blonde said, “I’m Jessica Cleary. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, of course.” Moser remembered her now. She was the Wasp Canyon victim that escaped. Looks like she got pretty banged up in the process. The clunky, black boot made her off-balance. He wondered how long she was going to have to wear that thing. He turned to the brunette. “And you are?”
“Tonto. Robin. Samwise . . .” Claire said.
“The sidekick, I get it,” Moser said. “And your actual name?”
“Claire Barnett.”
Moser looked from Claire to Jessica. “Well ladies, what can I do for you? I’m having one hell of a day.”
“Yeah,” Jessica said, taking a step forward, “it’s all over the news. That’s why I thought I should come in. I have some information about the attacks. I would really like to go over some of the stuff—”
“Not here,” Moser interrupted. “Let's go somewhere private.” Moser glanced around the lobby. With such a high profile case, he wouldn’t put it past anyone to leak some intel to the press for a few extra bucks. “Can you walk with that thing?” he pointed to Jessica’s boot.
Jessica looked down. “Yeah, I can. Kinda clumsy, but it works.”
“Ok then, follow me.”
Moser led the two women to one of the interview rooms. Jessica went in, but Claire lingered at the doorway. “An interrogation room?” she asked. “Some people go in these rooms and then never get to walk out again—not without handcuffs on.”
Moser looked at Claire and smiled. “You do anything that would warrant handcuffs?”
“I stole a lipstick when I was thirteen.”
“I think we’ll let that one slide.” Moser gestured to the table in the center of the room. “Let’s head on in.”
Claire went into the room and joined Jessica. He heard her whisper to Jessica, “It looks just like it does in the movies.”
Moser shut the door and sat down across from them. “Ok Jessica, let's talk.”
Jessica set the stack of papers down on the desk. She fanned some of them out into various piles. It appeared she had them in some sort of order. One page had a picture of some sort of strange animal on it. Claire looked away from the picture and started squinting at the mirror behind Moser. She’s trying to look through the mirror, he thought with some amusement.
“Ok, here’s what I found out,” Jessica said. She went over the various papers, showing Moser different stacks as she talked. He saw a map of Tucson, a map of Wasp Canyon Estates, a bunch of articles from back in the eighties, and then—to his growing dismay—a collection of pictures and eyewitness accounts of some sort of goat-sucker demon creature. Christ, did she hit her head out there, too? he thought. Moser looked at Jessica. She didn’t look like she was off her rocker, but all this urban legend shit certainly suggested that she was. He looked at Claire, who was now picking at her fingernails and ignoring the pictures on the table.
“Ok Jessica, this is quite a bit of information,” Moser said. “I want to thank you for bringing it to our attention.” Concussion maybe? he thought. I wonder if they did any head scans while she was at the hospital.
“Would you like to make copies of some of these pages? I don’t mind waiting,” Jessica said.
“That won’t be necessary,” Moser said as he stood up. “We have plenty of information to go on in our computer system. I’m sure there are details about all the 1978 a
ttacks in there.”
“1987,” Jessica corrected, her eyebrows dropping. She looked hurt as she gathered up her papers and stood from the table.
Moser felt a gnawing guilt in his chest as he watched her. Poor girl went through all that, and now she’s concocted some sort of creature feature to help her cope with what happened. He looked at Claire, who was watching him with one eyebrow raised. Moser shrugged helplessly. Claire looked away and grabbed the last few papers on the table. She handed them to Jessica.
“Thank you for your time, ladies,” Moser said. He opened the door and held an arm up to show them out.
Jessica gave him one more wounded look and then limped through the doorway with her slightly crumpled stack of papers. Claire followed, not making eye contact with Moser.
In the hallway, Moser heard a bizarre yowling sound. What in God’s name is that? The yowling drifted down the hall, and it was getting louder.
Wesley appeared, holding a pet carrier. The sound was coming from inside the carrier.
“Wesley, what the hell—”
“It's the Cuthbertson cat,” Wesley said. “She had a pet carrier in the house. Instead of having the shelter people drive all the way out to Wasp Canyon with all those reporters around, we’re having them meet us here.”
“Good thinking,” Moser said. “You can take it to—”
“What cat?” Jessica asked, standing in the hallway next to Moser.
He looked over at Jessica and Claire, having momentarily forgotten that they were there. Moser sighed. “The Wasp Canyon victim had a cat,” he told Jessica. “She has no next of kin, so we are getting the cat taken to a shelter. It can’t survi—”
Wasp Canyon Page 16
