by Bill Hopkins
hikers? Did you see anybody on foot?”
“No, I didn’t see anyone doing any of that.” Hermie stopped, then tapped a finger on his forehead, evidently to demonstrate that he was thinking. “Wait a minute.”
When he didn’t continue, Rosswell scratched his mustache and said, “What is it?”
“A couple of weeks ago, there was a car up there. Maybe two cars. Some guy drove a car up and then drove a different car down. And then he drove the first car down. Or maybe it was a woman. Then there was that fraternity party from out at the university. One girl took her clothes off and all the boys cheered. Rough looking characters. The next day some Methodists had a church picnic up there. They sang a lot of hymns. Then there was a couple of guys who looked like homeless bums. About a week ago, teachers from the school brought some seventh graders out to look at caterpillars or snakes or some- thing.”
“Thanks,” Rosswell said. A lot of good all that would do. Anybody coming up here that long ago couldn’t have had anything to do with a recent murder. “One last thing. Can you smell the bodies?”
Hermie sniffed, like a beagle searching for a scent. “No. Sorry.”
Maybe that meant the bodies weren’t as ripe as Rosswell had first thought. Yet, with the heat, decomposition would’ve been rapid. The murders could’ve taken place yesterday or even earlier that morning.
Rosswell said, “Don’t be sorry.” Pinching his nose again didn’t improve the smell in his nostrils. “You’re not missing anything.”
“Judge, I’ll do my duty.”
“This is a crime scene, Hermie. Do your best. I’m counting on you.”
When Rosswell turned to leave, Hermie saluted him again.
Rosswell drove back to the death scene and left Vicky to go stand guard by the log. After several minutes, he grabbed his camera, forcing himself back to the grisly site, careful not to approach closer than thirty or so feet to the bodies.
The corpses, he noticed on closer examination, were laid neatly next to each other, but not touching. Race, white. Probably. He guessed one male, the other female, each probably under forty. Both were about the same size. The male was dressed in blue jeans and a long sleeved red shirt. Rosswell found the long sleeves odd, considering the heat. The female wore a yellow sundress and, if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, red high heels. Who the hell wears high heels and a dress to go out in the woods? The male, on Rosswell’s left, had both arms pointing down at 45 degree angles. The woman had her left arm pointing up at a 180 degree angle from her body, her right arm down at a 180 degree angle.
The scene was strange, so Rosswell inspected the bodies again.
There was something odd about their placement. It would come to him if he thought long enough. He didn’t see it.
The longer he stood there, the worse the smell became. Aren’t you supposed to get used to a smell if you hang around sniffing it for a while? Deep breaths were alleged to help, but the deeper he breathed, the more his mouth tasted like a full garbage can sitting in the sun on the shores of the Dead Sea.
If he’d known one or both of the victims in life, he couldn’t recognize either of them now.
How had they died? With the bloating, he could tell little. Gazing at a bloated, dead human being was something he hadn’t done since his time in the military. He hadn’t missed doing it. Or much else about the military. Combat trauma made him view dead people in a skewed light.
Rosswell didn’t venture any nearer to the corpses. Death he could stand. Listening to the sheriff bitch about him screwing up a crime scene he couldn’t stand.
The scene worked a number on him. Acid reflux, his ever-present friend in times of stress, roared around his gut and seared his throat, joining his migraine for a happy dance on his whole body. Naturally, his allergies felt obliged to join in the assault on his health, inundating him with sneezing fits and burning eyes.
He returned to the barricade on the road and tugged the log off. This time when he moved it, he dislodged a mess of white wormy things. Termites. The formic acid stink of alarmed termites joined the other nasty odors. He saw something else besides wood and termites. A ring, a man’s ring by its size and appearance, fell out of the log. He scooped it up, and examined the skull and crossbones emblazoned on its onyx face and the writing inscribed inside the band.
When he heard a cacophony of sirens, he dropped the ring in his pocket.
