by Nero Blanc
“Touché,” said Sara. “But being old and set in my ways shouldn’t inspire the same behavior in you.”
“You’re not set in your ways, Sara. That would mean you can’t accept change. Stubbornness is a far different quality.”
Sara sniffed even as a private expression of pleasure began creeping across her face. “It takes one to know one, I suppose.”
“Stubborn,” Belle chided. “Synonyms: obstinate, headstrong, inflexible, willful, pigheaded—”
“Mulish,” was Sara’s rapid reply. “Bullheaded, hardbitten—”
Belle laughed full out. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
“It refers to horses that are difficult to manage.”
“That’s right. I forgot. You’re so ‘old’ you remember an era in which there were no automobiles.”
“Don’t you get fresh with me, young lady.”
“I’ll stop only when you stop referring to yourself as an obsolescent antique.”
Sara was silent a moment. Then she took the younger woman’s hand. “I have every right to worry about your safety, dear girl …”
“And I’m grateful for your concern, Sara—”
“But you’d like me to butt out.”
Belle laughed again. “I wouldn’t have used that precise term.”
“I like to keep au courant with my lexicon,” rejoined White Caps’s regal owner.
“In all seriousness, Sara, I am careful. But you can see as well as I can that this puzzle was created for fun … Which is too bad, because if the constructor had remembered to add a name and contact number I would have been tempted to publish it—”
“I remain apprehensive about your receiving anonymous messages, my dear—”
“And I remain uneasy—”
“With a worried old lady breathing down your neck.” Sara lifted her head, pulling her ramrod straight spine even straighter. “Now, let’s look at 38-Across …”
CHAPTER 10
Abe Jones had been with the Newcastle Police Department for slightly over ten years. He was the department’s chief forensics expert—a position that had more responsibilities than Crayola had colors. He’d fallen into this line of work by accident—having had every intention of becoming a medical doctor, as his father had hoped. But as an undergrad at BU he’d dated a woman who just happened to be a member of a Boston undercover unit. She’d convinced him that police work would be a more exciting and rewarding career choice, not to mention risky, exhilarating, and action-packed: all the elements that appeal to young men. Later, he’d suspected that the lovely policewoman’s function with the department might, in fact, have been that of a recruiter: Go out and seduce college students and sign them up. Nevertheless, she’d certainly won him over, and his career path was set.
But Abe was quick to discern that he was a lover and not a fighter, and had absolutely no desire to walk around for the rest of his life with a gun strapped to his side—or to get shot at, for that matter. A compromise was in order, and he’d decided to divide his studies between medicine and forensic science.
After all was said and done, he’d finished school with both a medical degree and a Ph.D.; and his work with the Newcastle Police Department often called upon the entire spectrum of skills that his studies provided: whether it was determining what bullet came from what pistol, if an assailant had been left- or right-handed, whose blood was on what shirt—or what DNA samples lifted from a set of truck tires might indicate.
Abe sometimes imagined running into the female who’d inspired his life in crime—although he knew from long experience that the relationship hadn’t been destined to continue. She hadn’t been the first woman to seduce him, and she wasn’t likely to be the last. Abe was an exceptionally good-looking man; standing an inch over six feet, with dark skin and a winning smile, he resembled a young version of Harry Belafonte. He never, ever lacked female companionship—a fact that garnered a fair amount of envy as well as a steady dose of ribbing in the Newcastle PD, from the beat cops all the way through to the detectives.
This modern-day Lothario now sat on a metal stool in the forensics lab in the basement of the NPD headquarters. Before him, on a stainless steel examining table, rested a group of human bones that had been painstakingly rearranged by Abe to form a complete skeleton. The task had taken him three days, and after all was said and done, he was left with more questions than answers.
Abe set his clipboard on the table beside the skeleton, folded his arms across his chest, and sighed. “What can you tell me, darlin’?” he asked. The inflection and expression were so sincere that any visitor entering the lab would have half-expected the skeleton to sit up and answer him, hand over a life story. Obviously, no response came.
There was a knock at the laboratory’s entrance. Out of habit, Abe checked his watch, then crossed the room and unlocked the door. Standing before him was Lt. Al Lever, Newcastle’s chief of homicide, a balding, overweight chain smoker with a gruff exterior that hid an intrinsically sentimental heart. Al was also known as a fair cop; he was diligent, honest, and hid a sneaky sense of humor that took strangers by surprise. It just didn’t seem to match the no-nonsense facade.
With Lever was a shorter man who appeared apprehensive and edgy, a fish out of water whose shoulders almost quivered with tension. Jones pegged him to be mid-fifties—about Lever’s age—and deduced that this was none other than Lonnie Tucker, the part-time constable/mechanic responsible for the jumbled set of bones that had been delivered to his lab three days earlier. The three men exchanged handshakes and walked toward the remains. Tucker seemed to take two steps for every one of Lever’s.
“Never seen a place like this,” Lonnie Tucker said a trifle breathlessly. “Not in all my years—”
“A good thing, too,” Lever observed in his wry and even tone. “Only kooks like Dr. Jones here enjoy year-round Hallowe’en.” He nodded at Jones. Enough of the polite chitchat. “Okay, Abe, I want you to run through what you’ve told me. I think Mr. Tucker should hear it from the horse’s mouth.” Lever reached for his cigarettes as he spoke.
“Don’t smoke in here, Al.”
“What? You’re serious? You can’t be serious.”
“New rules.” Abe smiled his signature smile. It didn’t impress Lever.
“Since when?”
“Since now. I’ve got a date later. I don’t want my hair smelling like a pack of Luckys.”
“So what’s that supposed to mean? I can’t smoke just because you have a date? When aren’t you hooked up with some luscious lady?”
Abe raised his hands over his head. “Guilty as charged … Maybe you should think about quitting. You know what they say about cigarettes—?”
“Oh, please! You and my wife … yap, yap, yap—”
“I keep telling you, Al: You gotta listen to these women. They have a unique ability to make your life more enjoyable.”
Lever only grumbled and shoved the cigarettes back into his shirt pocket.
“You pay attention to the ladies, Al, you’ll be all right. If you want to stay happy—”
“Please … Spare me the helpful hints, Doctor.”
Jones shook his head, but he was still smiling. “Okay, to begin with: Thank you for taking the time to drive all the way back into Newcastle, Mr. Tucker—”
Tucker held up a nervous hand. He was clearly trying to reestablish his equanimity. Jones recognized the behavior: a small-town, part-time government employee suddenly facing a big-city problem. “Call me Lonnie.”
“All right … But thank you just the same. I’m sure you have work to do …”
“Yeah … I do have a couple of guys who pump gas for me, but they’re not mechanics, so if anything of an emergency nature pops up back at the station …”
Jones looked past the two men. “Wasn’t there a woman who helped you with this?” He glanced at his clipboard. “A Ms. Amanda Mott? I was hoping she’d be with you to help answer some questions.”
“She cou
ldn’t leave her classroom today. She’s a teacher. Elementary school.”
When Abe Jones didn’t respond to this information, Lonnie forged anxiously ahead. “She’s also an EMT. That’s why I brought her in on the situation.”
Jones gave Lever a look that clearly said, Spare us from novices messing with crime scenes, but opted for a less cutting: “EMT. Right. Good thinking.”
Lonnie accepted the assessment as tacit approval. He stared at the skeleton. “He sure looks different all put together like that.”
“All in a day’s work,” Jones answered, “or three in this case … Now, what I want you to understand, Lonnie, is that everything I say, at this point, is based strictly on a preliminary visual examination of the remains. Other tests will take time …” Abe paused, waiting for Tucker’s response, which came in the form of a silent nod. “Now, from the hip and pelvic bones we know that this was most definitely not a male, but a female. At this point, I place her age somewhere between eighteen and twenty-one. Determining her age was a fairly simple exercise. Some of her bones are completely developed, where others, like her sacrum, for example, are not yet matured … Of course the most important fact, and the reason I alerted Lieutenant Lever, is that this woman was definitely murdered.”
Tucker drew in a breath, although he didn’t utter a single word. It seemed a lot for him to take in all at once.
With his pen Jones pointed to a small section of the skull that had been crushed inward. “This type of trauma to the rear of the skull would cause almost instant death … in most cases.”
“Jeez,” Lonnie finally said, “Amanda and I thought maybe the guys with the backhoe did that … Actually, we kind of hoped they had …”
“No. The fracture would appear quite different if that had been the case … I’m surprised Ms. Mott hadn’t made that assessment, given her EMT experience. Anyway, you’ll note that the woman’s bones have a dry and brittle appearance. If the backhoe had come into contact with the skull it would have cracked—like an eggshell cracks—while scrapes and nicks, easily recognizable as recent disturbances, would have then been introduced … The skull of a living person is much more flexible …” Again, Jones looked to Tucker for signs of comprehension. “My initial read on this, Lonnie, is that the damage occurred when our lady here was alive—and was definitely the cause of death—”
“You still don’t have any idea when she died? Or how long she was buried?” Lever interrupted.
“Not yet … As I said, Al, tests like that are going to take some time.” Jones returned to Tucker. “Is there any way you could fill in some blanks for us?”
“I can try …” Lonnie squinted his eyes, then muttered an unhappy: “Murder … This ain’t lookin’ good.” He blew out a breath and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.
Lever again reached for his pack of cigarettes, then, remembering Abe’s request, groaned and dropped his hands into his pockets. “I guess the big question is: Who was this young woman? Any ideas, Constable?”
Tucker shook his head. “’Fraid not … Taneysville’s always been a real sleepy place. A big crime is breaking the speed limit. And we’ve had our share of DUIs, but that’s it.”
Lever returned to Jones. “How long do you think she’s been dead?”
“Like I said, I’ve got to run more tests. Definitely over five years, I’d say, judging by how little remains of her flesh and clothing. But beyond that—maybe ten years? Maybe thirty? Maybe fifty? It’s a shame she didn’t have any dental work done. That could help us a lot. Technology’s changed over the years. Even a good clothing sample can give us an indication of dates.” Jones shrugged. “Considering a section of what was clearly an elasticized clothing material, we’re not talking ancient history, but at this point, it’s really up in the air. Soil conditions vary, meaning that states of preservation vary … also decomposition rates.” He turned back to Tucker. “As I mentioned, I picked up very few other textile samples in what you brought in … I took the liberty of driving out to the site yesterday evening, but it’s completely compromised. That storm’s turned everything into a huge mud pit.”
“That’s why I thought it was important to get the bones out of there as quickly as I could.”
Lever and Jones exchanged another look that indicated they didn’t agree with Tucker’s decision.
“What’s done is done,” Abe said as politely as he could. “So … Did you—or Ms. Mott—notice anything that might have been a larger clothing sample? Anything in the surrounding soil?”
Tucker thought. “Nothing at all. But the dirt was very loose. The backhoe seemed to have scooped out underneath where the skeleton was and then a whole clump of earth sort of slid into the work site. The photos I brought don’t really show that very well.”
“I’d like to have those negatives. Maybe we can get better prints than the one-hour photo place.”
“Ahh … sure,” Lonnie said. “Maybe you want to talk to the guys who were working the backhoe … They might be able to tell you how it ended up in the position where we found it.”
“Right.” Al Lever coughed and cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to the who … Taneysville’s a small place. In your recollection, have there ever been rumors of a young woman going missing? Even old-time rumors?”
Tucker shook his head. “I was born and raised out there … Well, I was gone for my twenty-two years in the navy, so I guess maybe then someone might have … Nah … I would have heard all about it. I always came home on leave. Christmas, Thanksgiving when I could. My pop would’ve told me about anything like that. We’re too tight-knit a community … News travels faster than folks can create it. You can’t step outside without a neighbor wondering where you’re headed.”
“When did you finish with the navy?” Lever asked.
“Twelve years ago. And I’ve been back in Taneysville ever since.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone dumped a body a good distance from the murder site,” Jones said. “If our lady here isn’t a local, then her killer probably isn’t local either.”
Lever rubbed at his forehead. “Lonnie, can you recall what was on that particular site before the crew started digging the foundation for that addition? Was it similar to the way you described the rest of the property—just empty land?”
Lonnie smiled. He was ahead of Lever on this one. “Right, I thought of that, too, Lieutenant. The body turned up exactly where the Quigleys used to keep their vegetable garden. Just behind the house there … If any dirt had been disturbed—somebody using it for a dumping ground, for instance—no one would have noticed … Aside from the growing season, of course … But late fall … this time of year when they’d turn the soil over … or early spring before the new crops are put in … you could have had a field day out there—”
“Where are the Quigleys now?”
“Old Mrs. Quigley died eight or nine years ago; her husband ended up in an old age home here in Newcastle somewhere. I heard he’d died, too, although he was never buried in the graveyard next to his wife and I never read an obituary anywhere. Their house has been vacant for five years, easy.”
“No heirs?”
“Nope. No kids. No relatives. Kind of a shame … But they were private people, the Quigleys. Not mean, necessarily, but not friendly either. You didn’t want to be caught cutting across their land to get into town.” Lonnie allowed himself a small laugh. “Especially if you were a youngster.”
Lever folded his arms across his chest, then sat on the stainless steel stool. He studied the skeleton for a long moment and finally said, “What’s the feeling about this in Taneysville, Lonnie? I guess folks must be pretty upset?”
“I’d say curious is a better term, Lieutenant … We’ve got rumors, sure … Indian burial mound, that kind of thing … But what Abe’s sayin’ makes sense: Someone unknown in the community could’ve dumped a body, and then skedaddled out of there … I guess the next story to circulate is that we’ve found Jimmy Ho
ffa.” Tucker attempted another brief chuckle. “And that sure wouldn’t sit well in Taneysville. People out home don’t like a lot of fuss—or press.”
“Trust me,” Abe said with a thin smile, “this lady’s not Mr. Hoffa.”
Lever stood. “There’s not much I can do on my end until you give me a place to start, Abe. And I’ll admit I’ve got more pressing business on my plate right now than trying to track down a mystery murderer of an unknown woman … If you can narrow down the year she died, I’ll get someone started on the missing persons records … Until then, I’m afraid this is going to get ‘cold case’ classification.”
CHAPTER 11
“Polycrates Agency.” Rosco stared out the window of his downtown office as he spoke into the phone. The afternoon had turned suddenly squally and grim, the sky a leaden color that presaged a storm rapidly moving in from the sea. He hoped Belle hadn’t taken advantage of the day’s earlier sunny weather to bring Kit out to Munnatawket Beach. If she had, it looked as if she and the puppy would be soaked through in about five minutes’ time. For the briefest of seconds he considered trying to phone her, then caught himself and shook his head. Belle didn’t appreciate cautionary advice any more than he did. In fact, she probably liked it less. “Hello?” he repeated into the telephone, “Polycrates Agency. May I help you.”
“Yes … I’m trying to reach Mr. Polycrates.” It was a female voice, young and vacillating between insecurity and pushiness.
“This is Rosco Polycrates. May I help you?”
“Um … yes … I’m calling on behalf of Milton Hoffmeyer the Third, the candidate for—”
Rosco interrupted what he assumed was a solicitation job, scaring up contributions for Hoffmeyer’s congressional bid. It seemed a little late in the game to Rosco—Hoffmeyer was holding a nice lead in the polls. “This is an office you’ve reached. A work number?”
The woman at the other end of the line uttered a sharp, “I realize that—”
