Satterfield took one of the tools from the wall and spread the handles, causing the metal jaws to gape; then, as he squeezed the handles, the jaws clamped shut. The cutting blade looked powerful and wickedly sharp, but the edge was all wrong—straight as a ruler—and he frowned and hung the tool back on the wall. He was turning to go when he noticed that there was more than one type of lopper. The one he’d inspected and rejected was an “anvil lopper,” according to the shelf tag. Satterfield puzzled over the name for a moment, then noticed that the cutting blade—the straight, sharp-edged blade that wouldn’t serve his purpose—closed against a lower jaw that was broad and flat, like a small steel chopping block. Like a little anvil, he realized. Hanging beside the anvil lopper, though, was another lopper—with a different name, a different design, and a different cutting action. This one was a “bypass lopper,” and it cut scissor fashion—the edges of the two blades sliding past one another as the handles were squeezed together. The blades weren’t straight like scissor blades, he noticed, with growing excitement. The tool’s lower jaw was blunt edged and concave, to encircle and support a branch from beneath as the upper jaw—the sharp-edged, steeply curved, convex upper jaw—sliced into the limb from above.
The bypass lopper came in three sizes. The biggest had handles as long as Satterfield’s arm; in addition, the jaws incorporated a cam to compound the handles’ leverage, multiply their force. Satterfield took the tool down from its pegs and opened and closed the handles a few times. He nodded approvingly at the metallic friction he felt; at the precision and power with which the edges slid past one another.
A selection of rakes and hoes hung on the wall a few feet away, and Satterfield walked toward them, the lopper in one hand, swaying beside his right leg. The handles of the rakes were about an inch in diameter: about the thickness of his thumb, he noticed when he held up a hand to compare. Taking a step backward, he spread the handles of the lopper wide and fitted the jaws around the wooden shaft of a rake. He closed the handles slowly, feeling for resistance—just as he’d done earlier, with the hole punch—as the concave jaw hugged the wood and the sharp edge began to bite into the layers of grain. Once the edges were well seated, he gave a smooth squeeze. The rake’s handle snapped with a dry pop, the amputated portion clattering to the floor as a razor-thin smile etched Satterfield’s face.
He took a step to his right. The hoes had heavier-duty handles: hickory, by the look of it, and nearly twice as thick as the rake handles. Satterfield opened the handles wide and worked the jaws around one of the handles. The blade cut easily at first, but the going got tougher fast, the steel handles of the lopper bending under the strain as he bore down. Just as Satterfield feared the handles might buckle, the hoe’s shaft snapped. The cut piece clattered on the concrete floor with a resonant, musical note, like the ring of a baseball bat colliding with a fastball. Satterfield bent and picked up the severed piece, studying the cross section closely. The cut was clean, but when he held the wood so that the ceiling lights raked across the end at a low angle, he could discern the cut marks, a myriad of ridges and valleys etched in the wood as the jaws had bitten through it. The marks were steeply curved, approximating “the arc of a circle 3.5 inches in diameter.”
Pocketing the piece of wood, Satterfield headed for the front of the store to check out. On the way home, he’d stop at Kroger, whose meat department sold big beef bones for soup, or for dogs. More tests were needed, but so far he had a good feeling about the bypass lopper.
He found a checkout lane with no line, and slid the tool across the stainless-steel counter. The young man working the register said, “Is that it for you today?”
“Only thing I need,” said Satterfield, but then he added, “Whoa, wait, I take that back. One more thing.” He backtracked two steps, to the end cap at the entrance to the checkout lane, and snagged a fat, striated roll of shrink-wrapped silver-gray tape. He stood it on edge and rolled it toward the scanner as if it were a thick slice from a bowling ball. With a broad smile and a worldly wink, Satterfield said, “A man can never have too much duct tape, can he, now?”
CHAPTER 5
Brockton
TYLER SHOOK SWEAT FROM his face, like a wet dog, spattering the ashen ankles of the corpse he and I were carrying toward the pig barn. “Hang on a second,” he said.
I stopped. “You need to set him down, Mr. Yoga Super-Athlete?”
“Naw. I just need to get the sweat and sunscreen out of my eyes.” He shrugged his shoulders and craned his head from side to side, rubbing his face on the sleeves of his T-shirt—like a dog pawing at itchy eyes. The movement made the sagging body sway from side to side, like a guy sleeping in a hammock, except there was no hammock. And the sleeping guy wasn’t ever going to wake up. “Okay, that’s better.”
As we resumed walking, I heard a familiar buzzing. A small squadron of blowflies materialized and began circling the corpse.
“Amazing,” said Tyler. “Those guys can smell death a mile away. Hell, you don’t even have to kick the bucket—just swing your toe toward the bucket—and bzzt, they’re all over you.” He grimaced and sputtered, spitting out a fly that had strayed into his mouth. “Hey, you little bugger, get out of there. I’m not quite dead yet.”
“Maybe your personal hygiene isn’t what it ought to be,” I said. I mostly meant it as a joke, but at the moment, Tyler was trailing a fairly pungent cloud of aroma. For that matter, I probably was, too. “Speaking of flies, though, we need to talk about your thesis project.” I’d been poring through the Chinese forensic handbook the night before—it had been my bedtime reading, much to the dismay of Kathleen, to whom I’d read several graphic passages aloud—and during my sleep, something in the thirteenth-century book had clicked, connecting somehow with the wasp nest and tree seedling we’d found in the skull from the strip mine.
“What do flies have to do with my thesis? I’m making good progress, by the way. Honest. That’s why I was in the bone lab on Labor Day—looking at a bunch more pubic bones.”
“I know,” I said. “I saw the tray of bones. But I’ve been thinking.”
“Crap,” he muttered. “I hate it when you think.”
“What? Why?”
“Because whenever you start thinking, I end up with more work,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as he backpedaled toward the barn. Wafting toward us through the open door came the unmistakable smell of death, mingled with another powerful stench. Tyler disappeared as he backed into the darkness. “Christ, this place stinks,” came his voice from within, floating on the fumes.
I suspected Tyler was stalling, trying to distract me from the thesis discussion. But he was right about the stench; in fact, if anything, he was understating things. Over the course of several decades, countless litters of pigs had been farrowed and nursed in this barn, and every pig—sows and piglets alike—had left a legacy of stink. As the state’s only land-grant university, UT still had a strong agricultural college, but in recent decades the school’s working farms had been scaled back in favor of a more academic orientation for Ag majors. By 1992, the university was largely out of the farming business, with the exception of a few cornfields along the river and a small dairy farm adjoining the hospital.
We laid the body down in one of the empty stalls, the ground soft and slippery underfoot from decades of pig droppings and a half-dozen decomposing corpses donated to me by medical examiners so that I could begin building a teaching collection of modern, known skeletons.
The barn was windowless, but shafts of sunlight angled through gaps in the plank siding. Dust motes drifted and danced in the shafts of light. The blowflies—a dozen or more by now—appeared and disappeared in strobing succession as they traversed the slivers of light.
“Funny thing,” Tyler mused. “I don’t mind the smell of the decomp so much; it’s the pig shit I can’t stand.”
“Anyhow,” I resumed, “I’ve been thinking abou
t your thesis, and I think you need a different research project.”
“What? I’ve spent weeks—months—looking at pubic bones. I’ve looked at hundreds of pubic bones. Maybe a thousand pubic bones.”
“But wouldn’t you rather do something important?”
“You said the pubic-bone study was important, Dr. B.”
“It is. But not as important as this.”
“As what? Never mind—I don’t want to know.”
“Everybody studies pubic bones,” I said. “I’m talking about seminal research, Tyler.”
“You want me to research semen? I’m supposed to write a thesis about spunk?”
“Don’t be so literal. Or so argumentative. This research will be unique. Original. A pioneering contribution.”
“Dammit!” He swatted the back of his neck.
“You need to quit killing the flies, Tyler,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because they’re your new best friends. The stars of your new thesis project.”
“What new thesis project? You keep dropping these veiled hints,” he grumbled. “Veiled threats. Just spit it out, Dr. B.”
“The first detailed study of insect activity in human corpses,” I said. “Our first step toward basing time-since-death estimates on scientific data. One blowfly at a time.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re saying you want me to spend even more quality time out here, crawling around in pig shit?”
“Gathering data,” I said. “Advancing the cause of science.”
“And in your new vision, how much more time do I spend out here advancing the cause of science? How many data trips a day? This is a long damn way from the bone lab.” He had a point there, I had to admit. “Any chance you could get me a transporter beam, so I don’t spend four hours a day shuttling back and forth from campus?”
“I’ll figure something out,” I said, hoping it would prove true. My flash of nocturnal inspiration hadn’t extended to anything so mundane as transportation logistics.
In the darkness a few feet away, I heard the sound of one hand clapping—Tyler’s hand clapping against a fly on the back of his neck. Perhaps he had not yet fully grasped the brilliance of my new research plan. But he would. What choice, after all, did an indentured academic servant have?
CHAPTER 6
Crystal
CRYSTAL HEARD THE GROAN of the semi’s brakes close behind her, then the popping and skittering of gravel pinched by the edges of the tires, as a massive cab—no trailer—drew alongside her and stopped, the big pistons of the diesel knocking in its iron heart. The brakes hissed, causing her to jump. The truck was a long-hooded Peterbilt, which loomed over her like a locomotive; its small, divided windshield was shaded by a metal visor, jutting and ominous; the sleeper compartment, grafted behind the cab, looked half the size of Crystal’s house trailer.
Crystal took two more steps forward, into a band of shadow, to avoid being blinded by the sun as she looked up at the driver. The shadow, she realized, was cast by the Baptist Church’s giant cross, and for the first time in hundreds of comings and goings past it, Crystal was glad the cross was there, dispensing a bit of shade along with its monumental dose of disapproval.
The cross, the shade, and Crystal were thirty miles northwest of Knoxville, atop Jellico Mountain. Just beyond the point where I-75 finished its long, slanting climb up the mountain’s flank and leveled out, a handful of buildings clustered at Exit 141: a blue-roofed Comfort Inn; a Pilot truck stop; Redeemer Primitive Baptist Church; and—last but not least—Crystal’s place of employment, XXX Adult World. Adult World was the seamiest and the flashiest of the exit’s buildings: a neon-emblazoned establishment surmounted by a pair of billboards and ringed by a gravel lot capable of accommodating half a hundred tractor-trailer rigs at a time. For efficiency’s sake, Adult World ought to have shared a parking lot with the Pilot truck stop, since truckers constituted most of Adult World’s clientele—and since women like Crystal spent a lot of time shuttling back and forth between the two businesses. But irony had trumped efficiency in this case: The truck stop lay on the opposite side of the interstate, and Adult World instead sat cheek by jowl—or haunch to haunch—with Redeemer Primitive Baptist, a corrugated metal building whose five-story cross did double duty, inspiring multitudes of passing motorists while simultaneously rebuking Adult World’s lusty customers and fallen women.
“DIDN’T MEAN TO SCARE you.” The voice floated down from the cab toward Crystal. “You want a ride?”
She looked up, over her right shoulder, shading her eyes against the glare of the slanting morning sun. All she saw were wraparound shades, the brim of a cap, chiseled cheeks, and a stubbly jaw leaning out the driver’s window. “I don’t care to walk,” she said. “I’m just going over yonder to the truck stop. Thanks anyhow.”
“You fixing to get some breakfast? Come on, I’ll buy.” He took off the sunglasses so she could see his eyes. He was looking at her face, not her tits. She appreciated that, though she knew he’d already had plenty of time to check her out as he pulled up behind her and then drew even. Hell, he’d probably seen her naked not more than twenty minutes before, dancing on the peep-show stage.
She noticed a chrome silhouette of a nude woman on the truck’s mud flaps, as well as a bumper sticker on the sleeper cab, just below the door handle: I ♥ LOT LIZARDS. She had mixed feelings about the sticker. On the one hand, it meant he was willing to pay for sex. On the other hand, it showed that he considered the truck-stop prostitutes he bought it from—“lot lizards,” in trucker slang—to be less than human.
Crystal’s head was pounding and she was seriously pissed off; she’d worked all night for seventeen dollars in tips, and that bastard Bobby T had given her an “attitude adjustment”—a one-week suspension—for sassing a customer who’d looked and groped but never did tip. She’d wanted to sass Bobby T, too—to say, “Hey, man, you try dancing bare-assed all night for a bunch of fat guys with BO and grabby hands, see how chirpy you feel.” But she’d bitten it back, because this was her second attitude adjustment, and she knew Bobby T had a strict three-strikes-and-you’re-out policy. “They’s plenty other crack-whores to take your place in here, princess,” he’d told the last girl he sent packing. Sad truth was, he was right. Seventeen bucks wouldn’t go far, but zero bucks went nowhere. And the night before last had been all right, thirty-something in tips, plus two quick twenty-dollar blow jobs in the parking lot out back. “Sorry; what?” she said, realizing that the trucker had said something to her and was waiting for an answer.
“I said business looked kinda slow in there.” She shrugged by way of a noncommittal acknowledgment. “Wondering if you might like to make a little extra on the side.”
On the side, hell, she thought. On my ass, you mean. But what she said was, “Might. Depends on what you’re lookin’ for. And what you’re offering.” Careful not to say what she’d do, and careful not to ask outright about the money. She’d never heard of an undercover cop driving a semi, but you couldn’t be too careful.
“The no-frills, good old-fashioned way, forty bucks,” he said. “Take me around the world, I could go sixty. Show me something I’ve never seen before, might be worth a hundred.”
She didn’t much like feeling pressured, but she definitely liked the prospect of making a hundred first thing in the morning. Maybe he’d even spring for a room in the Comfort Inn, which would give her a chance to shower and nap before traipsing home to the trailer. “Well then,” she said. “All aboard, I reckon.”
He grinned down at her. “That’s the ticket. Come on around. You need help getting up?”
“Nah, I can manage. I’ve done it once or twice before.”
“Ha. I bet you have, babycakes. I bet you have.”
She walked around the long, looming prow of the truck, the top of the hood a foot higher than her head, the windshield b
locked from view by the mammoth engine. When she got to the side, the passenger door swung open for her. Planting her left foot on the thigh-high step, she grabbed the chrome bar running up the side of the cab and swung her right leg up to the floorboard, almost as if she were climbing onto a horse.
“Oh yeah, I’d say you’ve done this once or twice,” he said, grinning.
He was younger than most truck drivers. Better looking, too—good muscles, no gut. Well, that would change soon enough, if he ate and drank and sat on his ass all the time, like every other truck driver she’d ever known. Once she was in, he eased out the clutch and the truck rumbled forward. “Name’s Jake. As in ‘jake brakes.’ What’s yours?”
“Crystal,” she said. It wasn’t her real name—or at least, it didn’t use to be—but maybe by now she’d turned into Crystal. Didn’t matter anyhow. Plus she was pretty sure his name wasn’t really Jake.
“Crystal. Pretty. So how’s about we work up a little more appetite before breakfast, Crystal?”
She was already starving, but she figured she’d best reel him in while she had him on the hook. “Whatever you want. You’re in the driver’s seat.”
He smiled, putting the shades back on. The truck rumbled up to the stop sign where Old Kentucky Road intersected I-75. He turned left, toward the underpass and the Pilot, but then he cut the wheel to the right, turning onto the interstate’s northbound on-ramp instead of heading for the truck stop.
Cut to the Bone Page 4
