“WHAT ARE THOSE?” asked Jamison as they neared their destination.
She indicated fiery gold plumes that winked in the darkness like ghoulish holiday lights as they zipped past.
“Gas flares,” said Decker. “Coming off the oil wells. Natural gas is found with oil. They drill for both up here. But they sometimes vent the gas off and ignite it at the end of the oil wellhead. I guess it costs too much to do anything else with it in certain situations and they don’t necessarily have the infrastructure to pipe it out of here.”
Jamison looked stunned. “Do you know how much gas we’re talking about?”
“One stat I read said each month the gas they burn off could heat four million homes.”
“Four million homes, are you serious?”
“It’s what I read.”
“But isn’t that bad for the environment? I mean, they’re burning pure methane, right?”
“I don’t know about that. But it probably is bad.”
“All those flames are eerie. I’m conjuring images of zombies marching with torches.”
“Better get used to them. They’re everywhere, apparently.”
And as they drove along, they did indeed appear to be everywhere. The landscape was like an enormous sheet cake with hundreds of candles.
They passed by large neighborhoods of trailer homes, along with paved streets, road signs, and playgrounds. Vehicles, most of them jacked-up, mud-stained pickup trucks or stout SUVs, were parked under metal carports in front of the trailers.
They also drove past large parcels of land on which sat the flame-tipped oil and gas wells along with metal containers and equipment with imposing security fences around them. Hardhatted men in flame-resistant orange vests drove or rushed around performing myriad tasks. From a distance, they looked like giant ants on a crucial mission.
“This is a fracking town,” said Decker. “Only reason there still is a town. Thousands of workers have migrated to this part of North Dakota to suck up the shale oil and gas found in the area. ‘Bakken’ shale rock, to be more specific. I read there’s about a hundred years’ worth of fossil fuel in the ground here.”
“Okay, but haven’t they heard of climate change?”
“Hey, it’s a job.”
“Yeah, a job today, no planet to live on tomorrow.”
“Preaching to the choir. But when you’re trying to put food on the table today? And people can make six-figure salaries here working the energy fields? They’ve had booms and busts before, but they seem to have things in better shape now.”
“Google again?”
He shrugged. “I’m a curious guy. Plus both my brothers-in-law work in the oil and gas fields. I guess I picked some stuff up because of that.”
They passed a fifteen-gas-pump truck stop that had a restaurant attached and also showers, a Laundromat, and a store that multiple signs said sold hot pizzas, propane, diesel exhaust fluid, truck driving logs, fans, and antifreeze, among many other listed items. On one sign were enormous photos of alluring waitresses in short shorts and low-cut tops. Another sign proclaimed the facility had the best adult entertainment DVDs in the entire state of North Dakota. The parking lot was packed with semis of every size, color, and style, with emphasis on chrome fittings, spike wheel caps, and spray-painted murals on the cabs. They ranged from dragons and firearms to American flags and busty, nude women.
“Well, I guess we know what’s popular up here,” said Jamison.
“It’s not just up here where that stuff is popular,” replied Decker drily.
They next passed RV parks that were packed and a shopping mall that looked freshly risen from the dirt. The mall had a BBQ restaurant with a sign promising the best southern pulled pork around; then there was a Subway, a China Express, a twenty-four-hour gym, a bar and grill, and even a sushi bar. There was an electronic marquee mounted on one wall that set forth the current prices for oil and natural gas. Next to the mall was a large brick church. On the front of its outdoor sign someone had arranged black letters to read, GOD CREATED THE HEAVENS AND THE EARTH AND THE OIL AND THE GAS. SHARE THE WEALTH. DONATE TO GOD. WE DO VENMO. BIBLE STUDY CLASS EVERY NIGHT AT 7.
Jamison glanced in the rearview mirror. “There’s a column of semis and dump trucks right on my butt, and they have been for the last half hour.” She glanced at the oncoming traffic. “And an army of them heading the other way. And the whole place smells of diesel fuel.”
“They’re bringing in equipment and supplies, including the chemicals they inject into the ground. Apparently it goes on 24/7.”
“And the trucks heading the other way?”
“Taking the oil and gas out, I guess.” He pointed ahead. “We have to get off this road soon. They built a loop around the town so the trucks wouldn’t have to drive through downtown with their loads.”
Jamison took the next exit, and they shortly saw a cluster of lights in the distance. “I take it that’s the town we’re headed to.”
“Yep. London, North Dakota.”
“I wonder how it got that name,” said Jamison.
“Maybe some guy from England came here and planted a flag. Right in the middle of a sea of oil and gas. Population’s around fifteen thousand, and over half of them work in the oil fields and the other half service them. And that’s about triple what it was just three years ago. And it’ll triple again in half that time if things keep going as they are.”
“Boy, you really did read up on this,” commented Jamison.
“I like to know what I’m getting into.”
She looked at him curiously. “And what do you think that is, apart from a murder investigation?”
“This is the Wild West, Alex. It’s like the California Gold Rush of 1849, only on steroids.”
“So what exactly are you saying?”
“That the ordinary rules of civilization don’t necessarily apply up here.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
They drove down the main street that was bustling with people despite the coming storm, and reached a dead end when the first drops of chilly rain began to fall.
“Directions, please.”
“Next left,” said Decker.
They pulled to a stop in front of what turned out to be a funeral home.
Now Decker shot Jamison a curious glance.
“North Dakota is a coroner state, not a medical examiner state. The local guy here also runs this funeral home, crematorium, and mortuary. Full service.”
“You read up on it?” he asked.
She smiled impishly. “I’m a curious gal.”
“Is he at least trained in forensics?”
Jamison shrugged. “We can only hope.”
They barely beat the sheets of driving rain as they sprinted for the front door to see a dead person.
THEY INTRODUCED THEMSELVES to Walt Southern, the coroner and owner of the funeral home. He was medium height and in his midforties with thinning sandy-colored hair and a runner’s lean physique. He wore tortoise-shell glasses, his dark slacks were cuffed and pleated, and his sparkling white shirt seemed to glow under the recessed ceiling lights.
He looked at them in surprise. “But why is the FBI interested in this case?”
“Wait, didn’t you know we were coming?” asked Jamison.
“No, nobody told me.”
She said, “Well we’re here and we’ve been assigned to investigate this murder. We’ve read your post report. Now we need to see the body.”
“Now hold on. I can’t let you folks do that without checking with the detective on the case.”
Decker said, “Then call him. Now.”
“He might not be in.”
“You won’t know till you try.”
Southern moved off to a corner of the room, took out his cell phone, and made a call. He spoke with someone and then rejoined Decker and Jamison, not looking thrilled.
“Okay, I guess you Feds always get your way.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Decker.
“Well, let’s get to it. I’ve still got a body to prepare for a viewing tomorrow, and the family was real particular on her clothing and makeup.”
“Do you bury people here during the winter?” asked Decker.
“We prefer not to. Have to dig through the snow, and then the ground is iron hard. Hassle even with a backhoe. And who wants to stand outside saying good-bye to a dearly departed when it’s sixty below? Funny how quickly tears dry and people beat a retreat when their fingers, toes, and ears are getting frostbite. But most people these days opt for the quick-fried route anyway over a plot of dirt.”
“ ‘Quick-fried’?” asked Jamison.
“Cremation.” He chuckled. “I mean, doesn’t that mean they’re opting for Hell in a way?”
“Can we see the body?” said Decker with a frown.
Southern led them down a short hall, and they passed through into a small utilitarian room smelling strongly of antiseptic, form-aldehyde, and decomposing flesh.
In the middle of the room was a metal gurney. The bulge under the sheet was what they had come for. Hopefully, the body would tell them a story about who had killed its owner.
Jamison glanced at Decker, who was already seeing the room in electric blue. It was a testament to how many dead bodies he saw that this no longer bothered him. Well, almost.
“This is the first time I’ve done a postmortem on a victim who’d already been autopsied,” noted Southern.
“You’ve been trained to do this, I assume?” asked Decker bluntly.
“I’m properly credentialed,” replied Southern, who seemed to take no offense at the question. “Just because it’s not my main business doesn’t mean I don’t take pride in it.”
“That’s good to know,” said Decker curtly.
Southern lifted the sheet off the corpse, and they all three stared down at what was left of Irene Cramer.
“Cause, manner, and time of death?” asked Jamison.
“The cause and manner are pretty straightforward.” He pointed to a wound in the middle of the chest, appearing a few inches above the bottom intersection of the Y-incision. “Long, sharp, serrated knife penetrated here and bisected the heart. The manner was homicide, of course.”
“Killer was pretty accurate with the knife strike,” noted Jamison as she leaned in for a closer look. “Clean and efficient. Only one stab did the deal.”
“My thinking, too.”
“So, unemotional. No savagery or lack of control,” opined Decker. “Killer might not have known the victim. Or at least had no personal relationship with her.”
“Maybe not,” said Southern.
“And the time of death?” asked Decker.
“Okay, there we get into the speculation zone,” conceded Southern. “Based on what I found out, she’s been dead maybe about a week to ten days.”
Decker did not look pleased by this. “That’s a pretty big range. You can’t narrow it down more than that?”
“Afraid not,” said Southern, looking unhappy. “If this comes down to whether an alibi gets someone off or not, well, my report’s not going to be a bit of help on that. I’m sorry.”
“Insect infestation?” asked Jamison.
“A lot. That allowed me to gauge the week or so. After that, it gets dicey. At least for me. Again, I know what I’m doing, but this isn’t exactly the FBI lab here.”
“Had she been lying out there long, then?” asked Jamison.
“That’s both a hard and simple question.”
“Come again?” said Jamison.
“If she’d been out there too long, the animals clearly would have gotten to her. They hadn’t.”
“That’s the simple part, so what’s the hard?” asked Decker. “The insect infestation doesn’t reconcile with that?”
“Bingo. Lots of bugs, but no animal bite marks. And another thing, the lividity was fixed. Shows that after death she was in a prone position.”
“The report I read says she was found supine,” noted Decker.
“Right, but you can see that the lividity discoloration does not jibe with that. Blood won’t collect around parts of the body that are in contact with the ground. But once lividity is fixed, meaning when the heart stops beating and the large red blood cells sink via gravity into the interstitial tissues, the cells don’t move again. The discoloration stays where it was.”
“So she was obviously killed and laid on her face. But then the body was at some point turned on its back because that’s how she was found,” said Jamison.
“Right. After lividity was fixed.”
“Bleed-out would have been minimal, since the heart would have stopped shortly after the knife strike,” said Decker. “But there would have been some, and none was found at the crime scene. That means she was killed elsewhere and placed there, which would also explain the lividity discrepancy.”
Southern nodded. “But with such major insect infestation you would expect animal intrusion as well. I mean, if she’d been lying outside all this time, the critters we have around here would have gnawed her to bone in far less than a week, which is the bare minimum I put her TOD at.” He paused and added matter-of-factly, “Other than that she was in excellent condition. Very healthy. Heart, lungs, other organs, shipshape.”
“Yeah, the woman’s in great shape, except she’s dead,” said Decker grimly.
“How much skill are we talking about with the killer doing his own postmortem?” asked Jamison.
“The incisions were first-rate. I’d say the person had some medical training. And he, if it was a he, knew the forensic protocols. What was the source of that knowledge and training, I couldn’t venture to say.”
Decker pointed to the Y-incision. “How about the tools he used? Regular knife or medical grade?”
“I’d say he had some hospital scalpels and a Stryker saw or something like it to cut open the skull. And the thread he used to suture the Y-incision is surgical grade.”
Decker looked the body over and had the coroner help him turn the woman.
“No tats or distinguishing marks,” noted Decker.
“No liver spots or sun damage. She was too young for age spots, but her skin was not tanned, either. She wasn’t out in the sun much.”
They turned her back over and Decker ran his gaze over her once more.
How many bodies had he stared at in precisely these circumstances? The answer was easy. Too damn many. But if he didn’t want to look at bodies, he’d have to change careers.
“Anything of interest in her system?” asked Jamison.
“Almost nothing in her stomach, so she hadn’t eaten recently. No obvious signs of drug use. No needle marks, that sort of thing. Tox reports haven’t come back yet.”
“Anything else out of the ordinary?” asked Decker.
“I think her having a postmortem done on her before she got to me is enough out of the ordinary for any case.” Southern tacked on a grin.
“So your answer is no?” persisted Decker.
The smile fell away. “Right, my answer is no.”
“Is she from around here? Who made the ID?”
Southern placed his arms over his chest. “Once I put her face back on somebody from the police department recognized her.”
The door opened at that moment and a man around Jamison’s age walked in. He wore jeans, scuffed tasseled loafers, a checkered shirt, and a navy blue sport coat. He was about six feet tall, lean and wiry with a knot of an Adam’s apple and a classic lantern jaw. His hair was dark brown and thick, and a cowlick stuck up in the back like a periscope.
He looked first at Decker and then at Jamison. “Lieutenant Joe Kelly with the London Police Department,” he said by way of introduction.
“He’s the one I called,” said Southern.
Kelly nodded. “I’m with the Detective Division. Sounds impressive until you understand I’m the only one.”
“The only one working homicide, you me
an?” said Decker.
“Homicide, burglary, armed robbery, domestic abuse, human trafficking, drugs, and I forget the others.”
“Quite the one-man show,” remarked a wide-eyed Jamison.
“It’s not by choice. It’s by budget dollars. We doubled the size of the force after the last oil bust went boom again, but it hasn’t caught up to detective level yet. Just uniformed bodies on the streets and in the police cruisers. They’ll get around to promoting a uniform to detective about the time the next bust comes along and we all get fired.” He stared up at Decker. “They grow all of them as big as you at the FBI?”
“Yeah, sure. But the other guys wear shiny armor. I like my denim.”
Kelly took a moment to show them his credentials, and they reciprocated. Then Kelly glanced at Southern. “Sorry I didn’t come straight over, Walt. Little bit of trouble at the OK Corral. Was driving by when it happened and heard the ruckus from outside.”
“Another fight?”
“Another something. Stupid name for a bar anyway. Too much testosterone, money, and liquor. I’m not a fan of that combo.”
“He said someone at the department recognized the victim once she was put back together,” said Decker.
“That someone would be me,” replied Kelly.
Decker hiked an eyebrow. “How’s that?”
“I left out one of the other things I’m responsible for here in London. Prostitution.”
“So Cramer was a hooker?” said Decker.
Surprisingly, Kelly shrugged. “I don’t know for sure.”
“Why not?” asked Jamison. “Seems to be pretty easy to tell whether someone is or isn’t.”
“You’d think. Now, the term ‘streetwalker’ is pretty outdated these days, but up here, we still have them. The guys drive by in certain sections of town and the ladies hook up with them right then and there. With that said, a lot of the arrangements are made online so as to avoid doing any direct soliciting in public.”
“So was Cramer arranging things online?” asked Decker.
“I’m on the computer all the time looking for sites that offer this stuff. I know where to look, at least for the sorts of things that go on here. I found one site advertising ‘consulting services’ for men in the oil and gas field here in London. Even though the site took pains to make it look legit, because these folks know cops are looking, there was one picture that looked really familiar to me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she looked really different, makeup, hair, clothing, but I recognized Cramer. I’d seen her around town,” he added hastily. “So at the very least, it seemed that she was in the ‘escort’ business in some way. She called herself Mindy on the site, for what that’s worth.”
Walk the Wire Page 2
