Seth's hulking bubba build swung toward the sound of fresh tires joining this particular party. "There's Tonga now."
Kate checked the remaining photo storage capacity on her cellphone as the ME parked his meat wagon. She had plenty of room. By the time Tonga had reached her side, she was ready to begin her initial canvass of the scene. Unfortunately, Owen had been so unsettled, he'd forgotten to brief the ME—at least, properly.
Despite the circumstances that'd brought them there, Kate smiled a greeting, then tipped her chin toward the thermometer Tonga had pulled from his bag. "You can re-stow that, Doc."
His ebony brow furrowed. "Why?"
"You'd need a body to sink it in. All we've got is bags with parts."
It wasn't until Kate stepped between the cruisers that she realized how accurate the assessment had been.
The paper sacks were as Lou had described—fifteen in all, each yard-waste sized and plain brown—but there was little else. As murder scenes went, this one was beyond odd. Definitely staged to create a particular effect. Not only were the sacks laid out in an eerily straight line up the right side of the road, each appeared equidistant to the next, with roughly ten feet between. The sacks looked new too, with a succession of crisp elementary school "lunch bag" folds across the tops.
Hell, even the staples were evenly spaced and dressed down, like a row of eager third-graders at their desks, awaiting a cherished teacher first thing Monday morn.
Kate took the stack of tented evidence markers from Seth, then headed for the first bag. The ME waited as she placed a marker beside the already opened sack and snapped a photo.
"Ready?"
Kate nodded.
Tonga reached inside and retrieved a man's left hand, shrink-wrapped and hermetically sealed in clear plastic as Lou had stated. Kate carefully folded and flattened the sack, waiting for the ME to lay the appendage on top so she could take several close-ups. The flesh was eerily clean. But for a bit of seepage at the raw end, bloodless. There was no wedding ring, nor evidence suggesting one had been recently removed. But there were a number of reddened creases and thin cuts encircling the skin at the base of the severed hand.
The marks were distinctive. Definitive.
"The guy was bound before death—" Kate traced a gloved fingertip over the shrink wrap. "—with plastic flex cuffs."
"Are you certain?"
"Absolutely." She'd seen those marks during every terrorist roundup she'd participated in while in Afghanistan and Iraq. Here, now, those marks meant one thing—and it wasn't good. If their killer had drugged his victim to subdue and/or move him, the poor soul had come to long enough to realize whatever was about to happen and had fought for his very life...only to lose.
The weight of the coming investigation crushed in as Kate left the ME at the first sack to continue up the lane. She stopped at each subsequent bag, setting out markers and snapping exteriors of the sacks and surrounding gravel as she scanned for anything that appeared out of place. Not only did she come up empty, save for the faint boot impressions Lou and Scooter Ball had left around the first two bags, she couldn't find evidence anyone had even been there. It was as if the sacks had somehow materialized at the side of the road on their own.
Kate crouched low to study the area around the final bag. The gravel rocks were light gray from even weathering, with no discernible tire tracks, boot or shoe prints to be found. She couldn't even find depressions that suggested the wandering by of the massive eighteen point buck Scooter and his son claimed to have spotted in the area. It was as if nothing alive had made an appearance since Old Man Miller left to purchase that ball-peen hammer thirteen years ago.
Kate headed back to the ME. He was at the fifth sack, laying a shrink-wrapped upper arm out on the flattened paper.
"This bastard is evil and very, very sick." Tonga's tortured stare met Kate's as she crouched beside him, the man's warm South African accent at odds with the ice-cold fury carved into his leathery features.
"Worse—he's smart, Doc. Not only did the killer possess the forethought to cover his tracks, he's intelligent and capable enough to have drained the body of blood before severing the limbs somewhere far from here." Meaning whoever had done this could be at it again, carving up another body as she and Tonga spoke.
But where?
"He may have medical training." The doc tapped a latex-covered finger over the plastic at both ends of the sectioned limb. "See how he cuts cleanly and with confidence? He knows what lies beneath the flesh and how to separate the joints without nicking the bone."
"Or he could be a hunter experienced at dressing his kill."
Like the ME, Kate had noted the clean, steady lines. But, while they could've come from a scalpel, they could also be the result of a thin, razor-sharp boning blade. And there was the shrink wrap. The plastic was freezer-grade and lightly textured on one side, like the type used with one of those food vacuum-packing machines thrifty homemakers and hunters used.
Finally, there was the time of death and its potential significance.
Had some reformed Bambi-killer decided to make a statement against an unrepentant sinner by displaying the body here, all but on top of a deer stand at the height of hunting season?
It was worth considering.
The ME nodded. "I agree. He could be an experienced hunter."
She prayed so. The Bambi-lover theory might be the only thing standing between this crime scene and the discovery of a second, meticulously sectioned body. Unfortunately, given the particulars she and Tonga had noted, it was more likely they were on the verge of a timely repeat, no matter the motive, and they both knew it.
"Shall we proceed?"
"Sure thing." Kate offered an arm to the aging ME as he stood.
"Thank you, young lady."
Kate held her tongue as she returned the doc's smile. At thirty-one, she doubted she passed as a kid anymore, even to a man on the verge of retirement. But there was no point in reminding Tonga, not when he'd come to know her as the teenage daughter of a local deputy who did her algebra outside the autopsy suite while waiting on her dad's "work".
Just as well. The doc's indulgent humor disintegrated with each subsequent unbagging. By the time they'd pulled the upper torso out and laid it on its slightly flayed-open front to photograph the reverse, Kate's mood had sunk deeper and darker than the ME's.
Like her, their victim was a combat vet.
She might not have had a chance to roll their mystery man's prints, but between the half-dozen bullet and shrapnel scars, the excellent level of physical conditioning of the chest and limbs, not to mention the detailed 101st Airborne "Screaming Eagle" tattoo that covered the entire upper back, they were most likely dealing with the remains of a former Army soldier between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five.
All they needed now was a face and name to go with it.
Tonga's sigh was heavy with dread. "I'll get the last one."
"No, you opened the previous three." He was the worse for wear for it, too. The endless string of drunk-driving, drug-related and natural-causes deaths hadn't prepared the ME for this. Pulling out coldly sectioned human limb after limb had taken its toll on the South African giant, each shrink-wrapped piece peeling off another layer of his surprisingly tender soul.
Kate knew the feeling. For her, the rude awakening had come at nineteen. She'd been a cherry military policeman on her first tour in Afghanistan. She could still close her eyes late at night and feel the scorching heat on her skin, smell the ripening muck that had once passed for human fluid and flesh invading her lungs as she canvassed the aftermath of her first IED explosion. A black plastic garbage bag in one hand, the damned-near unidentifiable remains of a squadmate in the other as she bent down, again and again, to pluck up the disjointed fragments of flesh and bone scattered about the road like the burnt and bloodied leavings of some twisted Mardi Gras parade.
The sludge that had been simmering in Kate's gut since before she'd woken that morning
began to churn.
"Are you unwell?"
She dragged on a smile. "Not at all. Look—Seth's waving to us. Why don't you head over and see what he needs while I verify the contents of that last bag?"
Shame mixed with the gratitude in Tonga's eyes—but he took the escape as Kate headed for the final sack.
One missing head laid out on the road, and they were done with the worst of it. The eyes would be the hardest. They always were. God willing, they'd be closed.
Kate braced herself as she knelt to pop the final row of staples. But as she reached inside to carefully cradle the head that did indeed await her, a wave of nausea crashed in, damned near swamping her. Instinct merged with an unexpected riptide of terror and she jerked to her feet.
The nausea worsened.
Threatened.
For the first time in her career, she was a split second from heaving all over her evidence. Instinct kicked in again as Kate spun to the right and bolted into the trees lining the road. She was still sucking in huge gulps of blissfully cool air to combat the nausea that continued to threaten when she felt the palm on her back.
Patting. Soothing.
Lou.
She kept her eyes on a spindly pine, desperately trying to focus on the fragmented lines in its bark and not the perfect, scarlet slash at the base of that shrink-wrapped head.
"Kato? What the devil was in there?"
"Nothing!" Scratch that—and calm down, damn it. "It's a head, Lou. Just a head."
So why did merely picturing it—a simple, solitary head attached to a face she'd never even seen before today—make her want to vomit all over again?
And her lungs. Why wouldn't they cooperate?
Kate clamped down on the dive watch wrapped loosely about her wrist and began to twist, forcing herself to draw her breath into her lungs, then push it out with each steady sweep. The exercise in tactical breathing helped. But it was the constant, scraping friction that gradually hauled her out of the past, slowly but surely anchoring her in the present.
Lou's hand pressed into her shoulder as she straightened, then disappeared as she edged away.
"You want me to call the doc?"
The irony of the ME having to hurry over to soothe her nerves almost caused Kate to smile. Almost.
She found the strength to face Lou. "I'm fine. Must've been the pancakes I had for breakfast."
It was a lie, and this man had known her long enough and well enough to call her on it.
Lou swallowed it anyway. He patted her smooth cheek for good measure. "S'okay, kiddo. This is my first freshly severed head too."
That was just it. When she'd stared into that bag, she'd had the distinct impression this wasn't hers.
2
The sympathy permeating Lou's face had Kate turning away to focus on the dusty lane—and that final, waiting sack. The vacuum-packed head was still secreted within. Not that it mattered. She could still see that perfect, scarlet line where a fellow soldier's neck had been neatly separated from the rest of his body, and she could still feel the ever-present muck as it began to bubble up, yet again.
"Kato?"
She pulled the morning air deep into her lungs, praying the pungent mix of fallen leaves and loblolly pine would soothe the throbbing panic. It did.
But the unease remained.
The case. Focus on the case, damn it.
Begin the brief.
Kate dragged her rusty training to the fore and turned to face her boss. "The good news is we're most likely dealing with a single victim. Skin tone, body hair texture and color, not to mention the consistent dimensions and impressive musculature of the limbs—it all points to a single corpse. Plus, while we can't rule out a woman, based on the sheer strength it would take to subdue and move this particular victim, along with a few psychological factors, odds are the killer's also male. As for the bad: this guy's organized, Lou. Smart. Logistics and time are on his side and he knows it. Make no mistake; he's an expert at killing. Animals, people. He can stalk and take down either, and easily. Hell, he should. He's had enough experience—especially with people."
"How can you be so sure?"
Kate pointed toward the macabre collection strung out along the lane. "Our victim was Army. There's a Screaming Eagle tattoo on his back, meaning he was with the 101st Airborne at some point. On his front: two sets of small puncture scars above the heart. Most likely the result of prongs jammed into his chest from insignia awarded upon completion of his military courses. Given the Screaming Eagle, my money's on Airborne and Air Assault. Then there's the collection of old bullet wounds and shrapnel scars. This guy saw action—a lot. Finally, though he's no longer active duty, he was no couch potato." Brief though her glimpse had been, the length of the man's hair confirmed the former; the impressive muscle tone of his limbs, the latter.
Lou nodded as he refreshed his chew. "You're sayin' our victim was a top-notch man hunter in his own right."
"I am. But as to whether or not an avid pursuit of Bambi drew him into his killer's crosshairs, I have no idea. Yet. But it's certainly possible, given the dump's location and timing."
"Had the same thought when I saw how close those bags were to Scooter's stand. I had Scooter's son take me to their site before Nolan drove 'em to the station. There's no sign the slicin' and dicin' took place there, and I'm assumin' there would be."
Lou was correct. She was all but certain Scooter and his son had simply stumbled across the dump site. She'd have Old Man Miller's shack and the surrounding property scoured, but she doubted they'd find anything. The kill zone and carcass prep area may or may not be one and the same—but both were located elsewhere. Experience suggested miles elsewhere. Anyone with the patience and means to stage a scene this antiseptic was too thorough to risk placing it closer. Too bloody smart.
Not to mention that Scooter Ball's deer camp consisted of a three-sided run-in that barely protected him from the elements. Whoever had cut up that body had had four walls and a door.
A hefty sound and smell buffer.
"See anything else that points to some sicko activist?"
Kate caught the hope in Lou's eyes. She and Tonga weren't the only ones praying for a one-off nut job.
"Perhaps." Kate rubbed at the knot forming between her neck and shoulders. "But it's more what I don't see. Aside from the dismemberment, there's no evidence of trauma. No fresh punctures, gunshot wounds, contusions or broken bones. Other than a number of slices from being flex cuffed, there's nary a fresh mark on the guy. That, combined with the lack of blood, is a serious flag. Someone new to exsanguination might've sliced the vet's jugular or carotid before hanging him upside down to drain his blood. But our guy's experienced enough to know that simply stringing a carcass up after gutting is enough for gravity to do its thing—which, given the rope burns at the victim's ankles, appears to be all the killer did."
It took a good four to five hours to drain a deer. God only knew how long it took to drain a man.
Had the bastard clocked it?
Her dark sigh spread into the surrounding trees. "The most telling part may be the internal organs."
"What about 'em?"
"They're missing—along with the victim's penis, scrotum and windpipe."
Lou's curse split the air. A stream of tobacco-fouled spittle followed.
Kate nodded. As any serious hunter knew, the removal of that specific trio of body parts constituted the initial steps in field dressing a deer. First, the hunter ensured the animal was dead. Next, he or she laid it on its back. If it was a buck, the hunter removed the genitals; a doe, the udder. A shallow slice up the front all the way to the base of the animal's jaw exposed the windpipe and internal organs—which the hunter then removed to prevent tainting of the meat.
Had their killer removed the parts out of habit? Or had the removal been deliberate? And why discard the bulk of the victim's body out on this particular road? For the extreme animal-rights, PETA-level shock value?
Then wh
y exclude the organs?
Because he'd deemed them unimportant? Or had packaging them proved too messy?
Or did the killer possess a perverse taste for organ meat? Had he reserved the innards for his own deviant use?
As revolting as the latter theory was, the presence of those brown paper bags supported it. Upon her arrival, they'd all but resembled a tidy row of oversized lunch sacks, with an odd "to go" feel.
Surely that image was significant, at least to the killer?
From the horror on Lou's face, her final, morbid line of thought had seared through the sheriff's brain as well. His jowls took on a decidedly green tinge as he spat his chew onto the bed of pine needles at their feet.
"Are you thinkin' the son-of-a-bitch ate—"
"It's possible." Though she prayed not. "Either way, we'd best keep the suspicion close, at least for now."
Once the shock wore off, Scooter and his son were bound to talk. Given the way the body parts had been packaged, equally disturbing speculation and supposition were certain to follow.
And if a local hunter or group of hunters should stumble across an unknown woodsman who hadn't yet had a chance to wash off the results of a more traditional field dressing? Braxton could end up with a lynching on its hands, or worse.
And that didn't take into account the deliberately organized booze-fueled posses that would likely form.
Lou retrieved his tin of tobacco and studied it, then frowned as he shoved it back into his pocket. "I'd best get to the station and make that call to the governor. I'll take Scooter and his son aside soon as I get there. Let 'em know there'll be hell to pay if they open their traps about what they found and how they found it before we give the all clear."
Kate snagged one of the evidence markers she'd pocketed earlier, and bent to place it beside Lou's puddle of expelled tobacco for crime scene exclusion. "You might want to give Feathers a call too. Maybe even re-deputize him for a spell."
As kids, Lou, Bob Feathers and her dad had been inseparable. The three-way friendship had taken up where it had left off following her dad's inexplicable decision to trade in his career as one of the Army's best investigators to scratch out a living writing speeding tickets in bum-fuck nowhere after her mom's death. While Kate could do without the trips down memory lane that would inevitably accompany the deputy's recall, Feathers' presence could only be a net positive.
The Garbage Man Page 2
