by S. E. Chase
Kait disagreed with them. Of course two detectives didn’t like her either, including Layton. She didn’t care.
“Tell me the story,” Einar said.
“Three souls found their way back to Seward City.”
“Don't be dramatic.” Layton tugged on his tie. He stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed. When finished trying to straighten it, he fiddled with his cell phone—feigning checking for messages.
“It's the truth.” She didn't hide the edge in her voice.
Layton snorted. “Like that matters to you.”
“Enough, Robert.” Einar shook his head. “Let it go.”
“Right,” Layton said.
He didn’t follow when Einar and Kait circled the tables, footsteps in sync, reviewing the skeletons’ condition, possible age and gender. RJ continued photographing the bones, dodging them as they walked.
“Museum skeletons,” Einar said. “Interesting dilemma. Who throws them away?”
Kait shrugged. “People. Some of them are asses.”
“Amen.”
She laughed. No one would mistake either of them for a people person.
“Lacks archaeological romance . . .” Einar turned, brows raised. “Them coming from cardboard boxes.”
“Agreed. But many skeletons in museum corners have nebulous backgrounds.”
“Hmm. You might be jaded.”
“Think so?” She peered up at him.
“Figures you’d get this call. It’s weird.” He tapped a finger along the table edge. “Right up your alley.”
“I thought the same thing.”
“Must’ve been bored driving the speed limit. No racing with the dead?”
She laughed. “Didn’t need cops busting my ass with these passengers.”
“I can imagine that conversation. Would’ve made some bored state trooper’s day.”
RJ laughed softly.
Kait smiled. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Layton glaring.
Einar rolled his eyes.
“He’s in fine spirits this morning,” she said.
“Robert likes cases with action. You know . . . to further his reputation and career. High profile crimes lead to promotion. This doesn’t meet his requirements. Has the stench of Iceland on it, museums and monsters so he told me. Bitched the whole drive over.” Einar slipped into an impression of his partner, voice high, agitated. “Dusty skeletons, dirty bones, not worth our time.”
“Nor does it attract media,” Kait said.
“Let's hope not.”
“He thinks he wants it—but he’s never endured the vulture gauntlet. Doesn’t understand the cesspool it roils.”
Einar nodded. “He doesn’t have a fucking clue.”
RJ finished photographing the third skeleton and turned to them.
“May I present Mr. and Mrs. Deadman and their little one.” He bowed with a flourish. “Poor souls. Whoever they are.” He slung the camera around his neck. “From where they’re lookin’ down, they’re not happy.”
“Maybe they’re looking up,” Einar said. “From the bowels of the Earth.”
RJ eyed him. “Dark, man. Never thought of that.”
“Yeah. Arrogant to assume all ancestors watch from above. More bad people in the world than decent ones, right?”
RJ nodded. “Can’t argue with that.”
Kait cleared her throat. “Focus, please.”
Einar smiled.
RJ was flustered. “That’s it, Kait. Photographed everything. I’ll download the images and send them to you ASAP.”
“Thanks,” Kait said. RJ headed out the door, moving in animated steps down the hall.
Einar watched him leave. “New guy. Young.”
“Behave.”
“Impressionable.”
“Go easy on him. We’d like him to stay.”
“Yes, ma’ am.” Einar eyed her. “No troll or elf stories yet. No Bigfoot. No weird shit.”
She nodded. “Exactly.”
He turned serious. “Okay. Mentioned evidence of foul play. How’d they die?”
Kait shifted a skull and pointed to the hole.
He examined the wound.
“Sharp-force puncture wounds,” she said. “Pointed object, inch and a half in diameter on right side, lower. Injury done with intent. All died the same way.”
“Shit.” Einar nodded. “That would’ve killed them. Estimates on ages?”
Kait shook her head. “Too soon for that.”
“Native American? Early European?”
“Too recent to be prehistoric or early history archaeological finds.” She paused. “Try twentieth century.”
He whistled. “Interesting. Presents a problem, doesn’t it?”
“You mean, why would someone dig them up?”
He nodded. “After they killed them. Why would someone bury and then unearth them?”
“At their oldest, they might date to the early twentieth. I think they’re more recent. Post World War II, at least. Marta and I’ll extract DNA tomorrow. We’ll have answers in a week or so.”
Einar sighed. “I'll start reviewing—”
“Are you done with the farce?” Layton huffed. He extended a wrist and stabbed at his watch. “Long enough Iceland. We’ve done the musty bones jaunt. You’ve been humored. Stop wasting time. Let's go.”
Einar turned and put a finger to his lips. “Sshh, Robert, keep your voice down. You’ll wake the dead.”
Layton glowered. “So what. Like you said, they’re dead.”
Einar exhaled and ran a hand through his short grey hair. “Christ, get a sense of humor.”
“We’ve no reason to be here. Don’t need to get mixed up with this. Ancient history. It’s obvious.”
“Not obvious,” Einar said. “Unnatural deaths.”
“Dusty collections. Take them and stow them on a shelf.”
Einar narrowed his eyes. “Robert, you heard Kait. Puncture wounds.” He banged a fist in his hand. Smack. “Base of their skulls.” Smack. “Murder victims.”
“So you say. So she says.”
Einar swore.
Kait sighed. Layton aimed his vitriol at her as much as Einar whenever she was involved in a case. He’d refused to forgive her for impersonating a lawyer three months earlier during a witness interview. He’d been fooled. And she was unapologetic, which Einar told her more than once he found inspiring—within earshot of Layton. That made him angrier.
“Let the ME deal with it.” Layton glowered. “Let's go.”
“It's not your call,” Einar said.
“Don’t take my word for it,” Kait said. “Evidence will back me up.” Layton had been appalled when Marta offered her a temporary position after the monster-filled fiasco. As if being fooled wasn’t enough, he’d been humiliated during a chase with three suspects when one was decapitated—and its toothy yellow-eyed head had rolled alongside, eyes staring into his. He’d screamed like a baby, the fact of which spread through the department. Someone rubbed it in, leaving a small plastic monster with bobbling eyes on his desk every day for weeks. Layton would’ve been happy to never see her again. Instead he ran into her at crime scenes.
“We don’t know why a museum excavated them,” she said. “They ended up in storage, but it doesn’t absolve the probability of murder. The bones don’t lie.” His discomfort amused her.
Get over it. It was Einar’s idea and I was protecting Michael from your overzealous ass. Besides, he saved your life.
“It means,” Einar said, “someone came up with a clever hiding place.”
“Or took the museum for a ride,” she said. “Used it as unsuspecting cover.”
“The perpetrator covered their tracks well.”
Layton huffed. “Whatever. Let someone else handle it.”
Einar shook his head. “That’s not how it works.”
Kait suppressed a smile and held her tongue. Aggravating Layton wasn’t constructive. It made Einar’s job harder. He already dea
lt with too much departmental shit.
Layton glared. “Right. Lessons in manners from Iceland.” He swore, turned and headed out the door. “I’ll be at the car. Don’t be late. Captain called a division meeting at four sharp. Despite what you think, you’re not in charge.”
Einar watched him go. “Hann er að gera mig brjálaðan. He’s driving me nuts.”
Kait sympathized. “He holds grudges.”
“Guess plastic monsters didn’t help.”
“No, probably not.”
“Well . . . it diffused the monster talk.”
“You have a way with people.”
“Yeah. Allison tells me the same thing. Pissing people off is an art.”
“Good thing your wife loves you. She puts up with a lot.”
“And Al loves to remind me of the fact.” He laughed, but then his demeanor changed. “More important matters . . .” He pulled her away from the tables. Leaned against a counter and pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. “How’s Michael? Any progress? Good week or a bad week?”
Kait sighed. She wanted to say Michael was his old self, but that couldn’t happen. Ever. She crossed her arms and leaned beside him, head lowered. “Same. He’s trying, but struggling. Still shut down. Some days are almost good, others not. Physically, he’s healed. Emotionally, he’s less unstable. Mentally, well . . .you’ve seen him. He puts on a game front at times, but can’t hide it. He’s terrified of losing control. Won't let down his guard. He repeats the same quandary over and over.” She pushed an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. “He’s adrift. Keeps saying he knows who he was but not who—what—he is.”
“Shit. Does anyone really know?” Einar looked at her. “He worries too much.”
“You tell him that.”
“I have.”
“I know. Wish it would sink in.”
“Won’t be easy. It's a rotten spot. Michael’s a stubborn SOB when he puts his mind to it, maybe more than me if that’s possible. Hell, one of the reasons I like him. But, makes it difficult to break through his armor. I’ve tried throwing work his way. He puts me off. I ask him to help with research. He refuses.” Einar scuffed his heel against the tile floor. “Damned if I can figure how to pull him out of his funk. He’s gotta know we don’t give a shit what happened, in terms of him or his condition. Needs to get back to the world, take his mind off . . . things.”
“Preaching to the choir, Einar.”
“He can’t hide forever.”
“Thinks he can.”
“Need to convince him otherwise. He's still here.”
“Easier said than done.” She exhaled. “It’s difficult to know what to say. He’s not your average trauma victim and agonizingly aware of it.”
“I know. But I’m determined.” Einar rested his arm on her shoulder. “Between us, you’d think we’d come up with something.”
She nodded, more concerned than she was willing to admit. Not that she was fooling him. Einar worried about Michael, her fiancé and his friend, as much as she did. They’d been partners, Michael a rookie detective placed with him because no one wanted to work with Iceland. Unlike Layton, or the laundry list of failures, nine or ten partners over Einar’s twenty-five year career, Michael had been easy to work with (most of the time), shared his dark humor and took his idiosyncrasies in stride. It amused them that other detectives kept a running tally of his failed partner statistics. Then that whole bad case exploded and Michael’s life was turned upside down in unimaginable ways.
Kait touched Einar’s sleeve. “Sorry he hasn’t been communicative. Some days I’m lucky to get three words out of him or a reaction other than the thousand-mile stare. But he’s read every book you’ve given him.”
“Really? Even Abominable Snowmen, Legend Come to Life?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “The monster books are strange but effective comfort coming from you.”
“Hmm, a kindred spirit.”
“Or sarcasm mixed with concern. Another special skill.”
“Is there any other way? Too many people go through life with no sense of humor.”
She sighed. “Wish his sense of humor would return.”
“Give him time.” Einar paused. “He’s dealing with a lot of crap. Christ. Realizing you’re no longer human, undead, can’t die unless your head’s chopped off and possibly dangerous isn’t easy to come to terms with. Sucks. I’d be lousy processing it, probably get wasted every night trying to forget. I’d be impossible to live with. Al would kill me.”
Kait thought for a moment. “I'm strangely reassured knowing he’s handling it better than you would.”
“I’ll walk over tomorrow night. He need another monster book?”
“Anything to keep his mind occupied.” She hugged him. “Thanks. From both of us.”
“Don't need to say it . . . ” He waved her off.
She smiled. Einar was trying to be supportive and give them space. He and Allison had made the generous offer of an old hunting cabin on their property. It was small and heated only by a wood-burning stove. But it gave them a place to stay while they figured things out.
After Michael had died, she’d sold their house, gave away her stuff, most of their joint possessions and put his things into storage. Then accepted a job in Texas, not able to remain on the East Coast—too many reminders of what she’d lost. Two years later, he’d reappeared, a strange damaged phantom. When Einar contacted her, she put her life on hold and returned, determined to help. Then extended her leave of absence. They’d made remarkable progress considering how messed up he’d been, but they had a long way to go.
Einar stepped to the table with the child’s skeleton. Kait followed, picked up the skull with gloved hands and turned it over. Pointed to the eye socket edge where a cut mark suggested a struggle.
Einar swore. “Poor kid. Didn’t deserve to end up an unidentified museum piece.”
“No one does,” Kait said.
He motioned to where Layton had been standing. “Come on, Robert, let’s go. Coordinate tasks. Review missing person reports, look for victims missing left hands. Maybe we can clear this before the summer crazies flock . . .” He stopped and peered at Kait. “Oh, wait. He deserted me.”
She smiled. “Sorry. I have that effect on him.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Perhaps so, but it's true.”
Einar shrugged. “His loss.”
“Thanks . . . ”
“Except for Michael,” Einar said, “this damn partner thing doesn’t work. It’s going to be a pissed-off ride to the station.”
She laughed. “Have fun.”
“I won’t. You know it.” He shrugged, grinned and walked out of the lab. She watched his tall figure with laconic gait disappear at the end of the hall.
*
Kait stepped through the door and dumped her messenger bag on the small table. “Hey Michael.”
He didn’t answer.
She called again. He wasn't in the front room so she raised her voice—“Einar wants to know if you need more reading material.”
The only response was a thud. Loki, their black Belgian sheepdog, jumped off the bed and romped to greet her, tongue lolling, tail wagging. She rubbed the scruff of his neck and stepped to the galley kitchen, grabbed a beer from the 1950s GE fridge and went to find him, dog following. Her footfall echoed on the hardwood floor.
She wandered into the bedroom but would have been surprised to find him there. He insisted on sleeping in the other small room, still healing, physically mangled—his words—and afraid of moving too fast, pushing her. At least that’s what he told her. His reticence was tangled in darker fears.
She crossed the hall. A half-read book, Monsters in America, Einar’s latest reading material, lay spine up on the futon. Visible from the window, Michael was chopping wood. She watched for a moment, relieved he’d pulled himself out of bed, gotten dressed. Each small step to normalcy was a victory. He was focused,
working in easy rhythm. She smiled. Physical activity was good, provided an outlet for his suppressed confusion and frustration. Besides, they needed wood—nights were still cold. She knocked on the window, got his attention and went outside, Loki on her heels.
“Hey K.” Michael smiled, his dark green eyes shadowed, hollow. He laid the hatchet on the ground and wiped his hands on a tattered pair of jeans.
Loki walked over and nosed his thigh. He scratched the dog’s head.
Kait brushed bark chips off his shirt and squeezed his arm. “Sanity check. How are you?” They’d agreed—she could ask once a day and he would give an unvarnished answer.
“Another day in eternity.” He sighed. “Not good. Sorry.”
“That bad?”
He nodded, dark hair falling into his eyes.
“Michael, allow yourself perspective.” She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pressed him close. “I keep hoping you’ll listen. You’re a good man.” How could she reach him, convince him she didn’t care what he was or wasn’t?
“Yeah. Man or mutant monster.” He hesitated. “Good or evil . . .”
“Give it a rest. You don’t—”
“Sorry.” He hugged her. “I have my concerns. If I said I was shiny and happy, I’d be lying.”
“True.” She swigged her beer and pulled him to an Adirondack chair, pushed him to sit. He offered no resistance. She crouched and leaned close. “I don’t expect shiny. That'd be annoying. But you can be happy. Not a crime. You did nothing wrong.”
Michael nudged her. “Victim of circumstance?”
“Selfless impulsive rescuer.” She kissed the scar on his face. “And you know it.”
“Hmm . . .”
“I saw Einar this afternoon. He’s worried about you.”
He pursed his lips. “How was Utica?”
“Nice deflection.”
“Let’s not talk about me.”
She exhaled, giving in to his reticence. She cared too much to goad him when he wasn’t feeling up to it. “Long day. Five hours out and back. Four assembling skeletons. Another hour finishing reports.”
“How many people?”
“Three. All stabbed at the base of the skull with a pointed object.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Murdered?”
“Looks that way.”
He seemed momentarily lost in thought.
“Michael?”
“Weird. Did . . . you expect that?”
