Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle

by Tim Downs

  Decker paused. “Did he tell you to say that?”

  Donovan looked at him; there was no change in his expression, but there was a definite intensity in his gaze. “No one tells me to say anything.” He broke eye contact and turned to the rest of the group. “Are there any other questions?”

  No one spoke up.

  “Look,” Donovan said. “You guys are the reporters and I don’t want to put words in your mouths—but when you write your stories I’d encourage you to exercise a little restraint. What we have here so far is an old forgotten graveyard, nothing more. As for the two unexplained bodies, well, that’s just what they are—unexplained. We’ll let you all know the minute we figure this out—but in the meantime, please try not to concoct any wild conspiracy theories, okay? That doesn’t help anybody.” He threw a glance at Decker with his last comment.

  The press conference ended here; photographers began to snap caps onto black, barrel-shaped lenses and fold the legs of tripods with dull metallic clicks. Reporters gathered up their belongings and began to work their way back to their cars, escorted by the public liaison officer.

  Decker turned to his cameraman. “Did you get anything worthwhile?”

  “Oh, yeah,” the cameraman said, “a nice head shot of a talking FBI man telling everybody, ‘Go on home, there’s nothing to look at here.’ I also got a shot of a big field with people digging in the dirt about a mile away—they’ll look like ants even in high-def. Terrific stuff—the station oughta pay us top dollar for this.”

  “You’re right,” Decker said. “We won’t make the 5:00 p.m. with this garbage—we need to find a better angle.” He searched the dwindling group and spotted Donovan collecting his notes at the portable lectern. “Mr. Donovan! Hang on a minute.”

  Donovan looked up and recognized him; he didn’t smile.

  “I have a follow-up question, if you don’t mind.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What’s the real story here?”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Decker?”

  “I can’t go back with a story like this. Help me out here.”

  “Sorry,” Donovan said. “I don’t write stories; I just relay facts.”

  “Then give me some more facts. Does the senator know about all this?”

  “Does the senator know that he might lose millions in interest on construction loans because his project has been shut down? Think it over, Paul—of course he knows.”

  “Does he have any explanation for the two bodies?”

  Donovan shook his head. “You’re just dying to bring Senator Braden into this, aren’t you?”

  “Why are you protecting him?”

  “C’mon, Decker, it’s an election year and politicians make easy targets. If you don’t like Braden then write about his fiscal policy or his stand on global warming. But don’t throw this in his face—it’s just not fair.”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “Telling stories that don’t make people fall asleep.”

  “Ever hear of a bedtime story? Some stories are supposed to make people sleep.”

  “Not the ones I write.”

  “Well, that’s your business. My business is to conduct a press conference, and I’m finished now—so if you don’t have any more questions, I’d like to get back to work.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” Decker said.

  “Any time. And Mr. Decker—I meant what I said about the crime scene tape. Right?”

  Decker didn’t reply—he was already on his way to the parking lot with his cameraman in tow.

  “What do you want to do now?” the cameraman asked.

  “Beats me,” Decker grumbled. “Maybe we could—” He stopped. In the parking lot ahead he saw a gleaming white SUV with the name Fidelis Search and Rescue Dogs printed across the side. The rear doors of the vehicle were open wide, where a woman dressed in khaki was grooming a black-and-tan dog.

  “C’mon,” he said. “I may have found our angle.”

  The chief of staff rapped his knuckles on the senator’s office door. “Sir— have you got a minute?”

  “Come in, Brad. What’s on your mind?”

  “There’s something I think you need to see.” He leaned over the senator’s shoulder and typed in an Internet address on his computer; a moment later the WRTL masthead appeared on the screen with the byline “WRTL: The Stories Behind the News.”

  “WRTL,” the senator read. “Is that the ABC affiliate?”

  “No, sir, that’s WJLA—but they’re both owned by Allbritton, the same people who own News Channel 8. WRTL is a recent acquisition for them; they’re targeting a nontraditional demographic—the same people we’d like to reach. That’s why I thought you should see this; it just aired at five o’clock.” He moved the cursor down to a section titled “Local News” and clicked on the headline “Braden Finds Skeletons in Closet.” A small black window opened and a video clip began to play:

  “Trish, I’m standing in front of the excavation site for the Patriot Center, the billion-dollar mega-mall and entertainment complex being developed by presidential candidate John Henry Braden. The workers you see behind me, however, are not construction workers. They’re a team of forensic experts from the FBI’s crime lab in Quantico. Construction on the Patriot Center ceased a few days ago when workers uncovered a forgotten graveyard—unusual in itself, but not enough to involve the FBI. What caught the attention of federal officials was the discovery of two additional bodies—bodies someone buried on top of existing graves. But who did it, and why? Rumors are circulating that a serial killer may be responsible.”

  “Rumors,” the senator said. “Since when are rumors news?”

  “When you’re the fourth-ranked station in the Washington–Maryland– Northern Virginia market,” Brad said. “Watch the next segment.”

  “I’m here with Marjory Claire Anderson-Forsyth, owner of Fidelis Search and Rescue Dogs, and this is her dog, King. Ms. Forsyth, your dog has an unusual ability—can you tell me about it?”

  “King is a forensic detection dog.”

  “And what is he trained to detect?”

  “Human remains.”

  “He’s a cadaver dog?”

  “We prefer the term forensic detection dog, or sometimes historical remains dog.”

  “The FBI says that this graveyard may date back to colonial times. Is a dog actually capable of finding human remains that are two hundred years old?”

  “Definitely.”

  “That’s remarkable. When the FBI arrived here a few days ago only four graves had been discovered, and now there are almost thirty. Were you responsible for this?”

  She hesitated. “The credit really belongs to the dog.”

  “Tell me, Ms. Forsyth, as an expert in finding bodies, do you expect the FBI to find more of these double graves?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  “Let me put it another way: Is it easier for a dog to find recent remains than very old ones?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m told that all these graves were found in a single night—that seems like fast work. Doesn’t the speed of these discoveries suggest to you that at least some of the graves might contain more-recent remains?”

  She considered this. “That seems reasonable, yes.”

  The reporter stepped to his left until he was alone in the frame with the busy excavation site visible in the background. As he began his wrap-up, the camera slowly zoomed over his shoulder and gradually came to rest on a man with large glasses sifting dirt through a wire screen and studying the unseen bits and pieces that were left behind.

  “Though the FBI refuses to speculate on how and why these bodies were buried here, the unavoidable conclusion seems to be murder. The FBI also refuses to speculate on how many more of these bodies they might find—but experts like Marjory Claire Anderson-Forsyth believe there could be many more.

  “The FBI’s investigation here is being s
pearheaded by Special Agent Nathan Donovan—a name familiar to many due to his involvement in the infamous Plague Maker case in New York City a few years ago, in which hundreds of thousands of lives were spared due to his efforts. Buy why is an agent of Donovan’s caliber and experience required here? What does the FBI expect to find?

  “The missing piece of this mystery might just be John Henry Braden himself. Why were these bodies buried on his ancestral land? Did someone in his family know about it? Does the senator himself know? Until the graves are excavated and the bodies examined, these secrets will lie buried—just as they have for many years. This is Paul Decker, reporting from the Patriot Center near Endor, Virginia.”

  The screen went black.

  “He practically called me a serial killer,” Braden said. “That’s inexcusable.”

  “It’s a nonstory story,” Brad said. “He’s got nothing to work with, so he made a story out of what he doesn’t know.”

  “And what happens when he does have something to work with? I thought we agreed to control media access to this. Who was that cadaver dog woman? Why was she allowed to be interviewed? Her comments were irresponsible and inflammatory—the last thing we want to do is create a desire for more of this nonsense.”

  “I agree. Do you want me to call Nathan Donovan?”

  “Call Victoria,” the senator said. “Mr. Donovan was her idea—and I’m beginning to think she made a mistake.”

  12

  “Now this is more like it,” Kegan said, passing a bucket of dirt up to Nick.

  Nick took the bucket and spread the soil evenly on a sifter, a rectangular wooden frame with a fine wire mesh stretched across its bottom. The frame hung down from four hinged arms, one attached at each corner, allowing the frame to swing back and forth like a porch glider and slowly sift the dirt through the mesh. Nick shook the soil through the screen, stopping from time to time to pluck out an almost invisible insect part with a pair of forceps and carefully deposit it into an evidence container.

  “You’ve got to hand it to Marge and Bosco,” Kegan said.

  Nick didn’t reply.

  “They may start slow, but once they get going, they really pick up speed.”

  “You’re particularly annoying today,” Nick said. “Did I do something to deserve this, or are you just being yourself ?”

  “I just believe in giving credit where credit is due.”

  “So do I.”

  “Well, look around: Two days ago we were sitting on our thumbs staring at an empty field, and today the place looks like Flag Day at the UN. Twenty-nine graves in one night—that’s pretty impressive work. Hats off to Marge—I’d like to shake her hand.”

  “I’d like to shake her too,” Nick mumbled.

  Nick and Kegan had agreed on a procedure for excavating the remaining graves: They decided to excavate all of the graves halfway first in order to search for additional bodies, since that was the issue that concerned the FBI; after that they could take their time removing the coffins. The forensic technicians carefully removed the soil from each grave layer by layer, collecting and photographing any artifacts found at that site, while the soil itself was stored in plastic containers for later analysis.

  So far ten of the graves had been partially excavated, revealing two important facts: None of them contained a second body, but each of them contained a casket. The witch and her three-legged cadaver dog were proving unerringly accurate; every flag she had placed marked the precise location of a grave. There were no “false positives,” as Marge had promised. Marge was wrong—Marge had been wrong about everything—but Nick was the only one who knew it, and it was driving him crazy.

  “Admit it,” Kegan said. “You were wrong about Marge and Bosco.”

  Nick said nothing.

  “I get the feeling you just don’t like this woman.”

  “Really? Your powers of perception are astonishing.”

  “What have you got against her, anyway?”

  “There’s an entomological term for people like her,” Nick said. “‘She has a bug up her—’”

  “Dr. Polchak!” one of the techs shouted. “Take a look—we’ve got another body.”

  Nick and Kegan hurried over to the grave site; the technician scrambled up out of the hole to allow them a better look. Kegan lowered herself into the knee-deep pit and pulled a bristle brush from her back pocket.

  “Coracoid process of the right scapula,” she said, “and here’s the head of the humerus. This body has the same orientation as the others: fetal position, left side down.” She brushed away the soil six inches above the scapula, exposing a smooth ivory surface. “The cranium appears to be intact,” she said. “We’re in luck—this is a better specimen than either of the other two.”

  “We’ve got another one over here!” another technician shouted from a grave a hundred feet away.

  “This must be our lucky day,” Nick said. “That’s four bodies. We just won the graveyard lottery—that doubles our evidence pool.”

  “I’ll get to work on both of them right away,” Kegan said.

  “Good—and I’ll start going through the soil samples.”

  He started for the tent when his cell phone rang; he opened it and pressed it to his ear. “Nick Polchak.”

  “Nick, it’s Donovan.”

  “Good timing,” Nick said. “I was just about to give you a call. We’ve got two more bodies, Donovan—that makes four. We just found them a minute ago. You might want to come take a look.”

  Donovan paused. “I’m off the case.”

  Nick stopped. “What?”

  “I got a call from the ADIC late last night.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Did they give you a reason?”

  “They rarely do.”

  “But why would they pull you? You haven’t had time to screw things up yet.”

  “My guess is that Braden got cold feet. There was a news report last night that raised questions about his connection to all this, and that’s the last thing he wants. I think he’s decided to keep his head down, and I won’t help.”

  “So he’s shutting down the investigation?”

  “He can’t do that—only the FBI can make that call. But Braden has a lot of influence and he can pull a few strings. He’s probably the one who asked for me to be reassigned, since he requested me in the first place—or his wife did, anyway.”

  “Victoria?”

  “That’s right. Do you know her?”

  “No, but I visited her shrine.”

  “Her what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Anyway, whether it was Braden or his wife, I’m off the case.”

  “What about me?”

  “I picked you, but the Bureau hired you—so you’re working for the Bureau until they fire you.”

  “Will they?”

  “No. I told them I had top people in place and they believe me— unless you prove otherwise.”

  “So who’s in charge now?”

  “They’ve already assigned a new special agent in charge—a young guy named Daniel Flanagan. I briefed him early this morning; he’s on his way out there now.”

  “A new boss,” Nick groaned. “It took me years to break you in.”

  “Go easy on this guy,” Donovan said. “He’s a little green.”

  “Are we talking who-left-this-cheese-in-the-refrigerator green, or Ireland-in-the-springtime green?”

  “You’ll know soon enough. Look, do me a favor—keep your balance this time, okay? Try not to turn into the usual neurotic, self-destructive Nick.”

  “Thanks, I’ll write myself a note. How am I supposed to do this without you around? What do I do when I need to bend the rules a little? What happens when I need the boss to look the other way?”

  “Here’s an idea: You might try following the rules for once.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Look, I’ll help you in any way I can. Give me a
call if you get stuck and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Has it occurred to you that Braden might have other reasons for wanting you off this case?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know what. Maybe he wants somebody a little less experienced in charge. Maybe he doesn’t want this thing resolved too quickly. Maybe he’s got something to hide.”

  “It’s occurred to me,” Donovan said, “but we have no way to know—so let’s not get paranoid, okay?”

  “Sorry—paranoia is a part of my neurosis.”

  “Keep me posted, Nick. I’d like to know how this thing plays out.”

  “Right. Gotta go—I think Mr. Green just arrived.” Nick dropped the phone into his pocket.

  A man had just stepped across the crime scene tape and, after a brief word and a handshake with the sheriff ’s deputy, headed in their direction. He was definitely young, not more than a year or two out of the academy, with a fresh, scrubbed face and a messy, tousled hairstyle that seemed more appropriate for a club than a crime scene. He was dressed in a standard executive three-button with a white handkerchief in his lapel pocket; he kept fingering the buttons as he walked, as if he was still checking the fit.

  “Who’s the suit?” Kegan asked.

  “Our new boss.”

  “New boss? You’re joking.”

  Nick looked at her. “We’re working for the government, where jokes don’t exist—just nightmare after nightmare.”

  “He’s kind of cute.”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “What is it with you women? Is everything cute?”

  “Except insects.”

  “That figures.”

  “Dr. Polchak,” the man called out. “Dr. Nicholas Polchak.”

  “Present,” Nick said, raising one hand.

  “I’m Special Agent Daniel Flanagan. Have you spoken with Agent Donovan today?”

  “I just got off the phone with him.”

  “Then I assume you’ve been apprised of the change in command.”

  Nick looked him over. “How old are you?”

  Flanagan paused. “Why do you ask?”

  “Donovan told me you were green, but I had no idea—all you need is a sash full of merit badges.”