A Dirty Shame (3 page)

“You don’t have to do this,” I told Jack two hours later. “There are limits to friendship.”

“Nope,” he said, only slightly pale. “I’ve made it this far. I can make it through the autopsy. It’s the embalming fluid that gets to me, and you can hardly smell it anymore. I’ll be fine.”

Jack could stomach violent crime scenes all day long, but when it came to being enclosed underground in a place I frequently drained body fluids, he couldn’t quite keep it together. I didn’t even know what the smells would be like to someone who wasn’t accustomed. I’d grown too used to it over the years. I made sure the ventilation system was on as high as it would go and got to work.

I’d gotten the body set up on blocks so he was easier to clean, and I stood back while Jack inked the victim’s fingers to get prints. Officer Cheek had been the one to check Reverend Oglesby’s home and retrieve prints so we could use them in comparison to our victim. He’d also reported back there was no sign Reverend Oglesby had been at the house for a few days. The Reverend’s car hadn’t shown up either, so Jack had put an APB out on a 2001 white Honda Accord as soon as he’d received the word.

I’d already taken all the samples I could from the body and documented the exterior wounds on my recorder so I could make a written report later. The strong scent of disinfectant clung to the body now and I had him prepped and ready to begin the autopsy.

Somewhere between the third floor stairs and the white sterile box of my lab, I’d started to feel almost human again. Maybe it was because of Jack. Or maybe it was because I had something to do with my hands. But the great pressure that had sat on my chest like an elephant was gone for the moment.

Unfortunately, I was exhausted past the point of doing any good. The slight tremor in my hand wasn’t the only thing keeping me from proceeding with the autopsy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept. Or eaten for that matter. The thought of food had my stomach clenching with pain, but nothing sounded good so I ignored it.

“His back teeth are all missing,” I said. “Presumably pulled during the torture, which is going to make identification harder if this happens to not be Reverend Oglesby and there are no reports of other missing members of the community. The killer did leave the victim’s fingerprints intact, which is sloppy if you’re trying to hide someone’s identity, which leads me to believe the killer wasn’t trying to hide the victim’s identity at all.”

“Killers,” Jack corrected. “There’s no way one person did all of this. The victim weighed over two hundred pounds and is built like a linebacker. He was tortured, but in very different ways, telling me everyone involved got their chance to inflict their own personal brand of pain. Then they chained him to a tree in the dark. Someone had to steady the dead weight of the body while they wrapped the chains around the tree. I don’t even think two men could have done it by themselves. I’d say it’d take a minimum of three strong men.”

I stood up tall and stretched, rubbing at the small of my back. “What we’ve got here is a healthy male in the prime of his life. He’s strong, but not strong enough to fight off his attackers. He was restrained,” I said, indicating the marks around his ankles and wrists. “Then he was systematically beaten. Blows to the torso first. Broken ribs that punctured a lung. Shots to the kidneys hard enough that he’d be pissing blood for days had he survived.”

I could see it clearly. The body was a map, and blood and bone didn’t lie. Every cut and bruise had its own time stamp. “They broke his hands next. Pulverized them to keep him from fighting back once they unchained him.”

“He wouldn’t have been able to think much past the pain,” Jack said. “Thoughts of fighting back would have been replaced with thoughts of trying to survive. He wouldn’t have tried to fight back at that point.”

I touched Jack’s back lightly but didn’t linger. The reason he’d left the S.W.A.T. team was because of the three bullets shot into his chest during a raid. More bullets had taken the lives of six others on the team. He didn’t talk about that time of his life, but I knew he was very lucky to be standing next to me today. We were both lucky.

“The lashings would have come next?” Jack asked. “You said something metal was tied to the end of the whip.”

“Definitely metal. I pulled some rust and small slivers from inside the wounds for analysis. I don’t know for sure it was a whip though. Could have been a belt. But from the length of the cuts across his back I’d say the weapon was a DIY project. Where the metal dug into the skin and sliced was probably six to eight inches long. Rough-edged and rusty. Your guess is as good as mine on what it could be.”

Jack
hmmed
under his breath and said, “Give me a place to start looking. Where was he killed? Not at the place where we found his body.”

“By the rate of decomp and the greenish tinge to the body, I can tell you he’s been dead around two days. It’s Friday morning so that’s going to put his death early Wednesday morning.”

“This type of torture would’ve taken time. The planning of it. The tools. But they wouldn’t want to hold him for too long. So maybe he disappeared Monday or early morning on Tuesday.”

I picked up John Doe’s arm and turned it over. “You can see by the bruising around the wrists and the raw scrapes that they cuffed his wrists and then tied them above his head, most likely when they whipped him. The broken hands didn’t work with the cuffs though. His hands would’ve slid right through and he’d have dropped to the ground before they could finish the lashes.”

“Christ, people never cease to amaze me.” Jack ran his hand over the top of his head. “He was relatively clean when we brought him in. If he’d been killed outdoors there would have been a lot more debris and dirt covering his body. Especially if he’d taken a fall to the ground.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I found tree bark along with the rust and slivers of metal in his back, and I found larvae in the open wounds giving me a decomp time consistent with a body who’d spent a few hours outside, but if he’d fallen to the ground after his hands slipped through the restraints, there’d be dirt and other debris embedded in the skin. He wasn’t killed outdoors in my opinion. But they kept him upright somewhere, similar to how we found him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s got ligature marks around the neck, but not deep enough to cause strangulation. The splinters I found in the buttocks and backs of the legs are different than the tree bark embedded in the skin. I can tell you he died standing or in a vertical position, tied to a rough wooden beam of some kind with a natural fiber rope around the neck, torso and thighs. All of his remaining blood is pooled at his feet and lower legs, so he would’ve been standing when they removed the genitals and let him bleed out.”

“The location of death would have to be somewhere in the county,” Jack said. “Far enough from the drop site but not too far away. It’s never good to piss in your own pool. There’s no reason to leave him where they did otherwise. So we’re looking for a place large enough to hold several men and various tools for torture. They’d need privacy and it would need to be relatively soundproofed. It also needs to be a place with exposed wooden support beams. Piece of cake.”

“We’ve got those buildings in the warehouse district,” I said. “Some of them go vacant from time to time. And we’ve got barns.”

“Which would be on private property,” he said, looking up at me with serious eyes. “What I want to know is how they got him. Like you said, he’s a big guy.”

“I didn’t find an initial blow that might have rendered him unconscious. There’s nothing to indicate how he was incapacitated. There’s no defense wounds that I can see, and his body is too battered to see any puncture marks from a syringe, even under the light. But that’s how I think they did it. I’m willing to bet I’ll find something in the tox screen.”

“Or maybe he went willingly with his attackers,” Jack said.

“It’s a possibility. If he is Reverend Oglesby then all they’d have to do is tell him someone was in trouble and he’d go with them.”

“What about the brand?” Jack asked, putting the fingerprint card inside an envelope and sealing it up.

“The brand is the only wound on the body that occurred post-mortem,” I said. “In fact, by the lack of blood and the consistency of the skin tissue around the burns, I’d say it was inflicted a good while after death. Like it was an afterthought, or something they’d forgotten to do.”

“So it could have happened after they tied him to the tree for us to find.”

“I’d say that’s likely. Let me get an inking of it for you to take with you. It’s an unusual symbol.”

I used a warm wax mold to take an impression of the brand, and peeled it back gently. I set it aside on wax paper, and once it dried we could run multiple copies to pass out to Jack’s other officers.

“I’ve seen enough animals branded in my life to know they used a branding iron for this. They’d have to get it specially made. I should be able to run down some leads on that.”

Jack’s phone beeped in a series of shrill tones that made me jump, and he pretended not to notice my skittishness as he answered.

“Sheriff Lawson,” he said.

I blocked out what he was saying and studied the wax impression. It was a shield with what looked like a sword on the inside, and on top of the sword hilt rested a five-point crown. It wasn’t a symbol I recognized, but it reminded me briefly of something that Richard the Lionheart might have worn during the Crusades. Jack’s back was turned, so he didn’t see how my hand shook when I reached out to trace the outline.

I took a step back and flexed my hands into fists before walking over to the big stainless steel sink in the corner. I scrubbed with antibacterial soap until I was red and pruny. John Doe was going to have to be put on ice for a few hours. If I didn’t get some rest I was likely to cut off my thumb with my scalpel. I could catch twenty minutes of sleep, sitting in my chair with the lights on, and that would be enough to get me through the rest of the day.

I was just pushing the body back in the refrigeration unit when I heard Jack say, “That was Officer Cheek again. They found tire tracks at the back of Reverend Oglesby’s house and a couple of drops of what looks like blood. I think we need to go pay a visit to Reverend Thomas and get a better idea of timeline. It looks like we have a dead preacher on our hands.”

St. Paul’s Episcopal Church was on Queen Mary Avenue, only a few miles from the funeral home. I rode in the front seat of Jack’s cruiser and fiddled with the heater. My coat was bundled around me and my scarf was wound up over my chin and mouth. I could never quite get warm, but Jack sat beside me in only his flannel shirt, so I figured it must just be me.

“When did Reverend Oglesby join the church?” I asked Jack.

He winced and shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. “A couple of weeks after you went into the hospital. I’ve never actually met the man. He’s not one to be seen around town much, and it’s been a while since I’ve sat in a pew on Sunday mornings.”

“Well, I guess it’s nice to know I won’t have to spend an eternity in hell by myself. I’d hate to think I’d be stuck down there with the rest of my family.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, sugar. We’re the good guys. But I’m still not going to church. Every time I’ve tried to go to service it feels like Reverend Thomas is preaching on the sins of the body and lust, and how our duty is to settle down and procreate. And if we don’t, we’re damned to spend an eternity roasting in hellfire. I don’t mind the settling down part, but the procreation part makes me break out in hives. I figure I’ve got some years of fun left before I start all of that. And I can get that same kind of abuse from my mother without having to wake up early and listen to Betty Schumaker butcher How Great Thou Art. Last time I was there she’d set it to rap music so it would be more current for the younger folks in the audience. I thought Reverend Thomas was going to have a heart attack. ”

“Shut up,” I said, laughing.

“I’m serious,” he said, a smile quirking his mouth. “That woman has
not
perfected her beat boxing techniques. I thought her false teeth were going to fly right out.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I said, slapping him on the arm. “Go back to your mother. She couldn’t possibly be abusing you in any way. That woman would commit murder for you, and she’d beat Reverend Thomas on the head with her handbag the whole time she was pulling you out of the fiery depths of hell.”

“Maybe,” he said, lips twitching. “But that’s easy for you to say. You haven’t had to listen to her talk about how nice it would be if she had grandkids before she gets too old to enjoy them.”

“That’s what you get for being an only child.”

“Which is exactly what I told her. She stopped talking about it once I started signing her up to get information from adoption agencies. Apparently, she doesn’t want to raise another child. She just wants to spoil mine and send them back home with me.”

“I always thought your mother was a smart woman.”

Jack grunted and we drove on in companionable silence. St. Paul’s was almost a hundred years old. It was a large, square box of freshly painted white wood with a sharp steeple and a bronze bell that was rung every blessed Sunday morning and could be heard all over town. I’d gotten used to sleeping with my head under my pillow so I wouldn’t be disturbed by the reminder that I could add sloth to my considerable list of other sins.

We pulled into the recently paved parking lot behind the church, the smell of fresh tar still heavy in the air, and Jack parked in the little graveled driveway beside the rectory. We got out of the car and headed to the front door of Reverend Thomas’s personal lodgings, but I heard the crunch on the gravel behind us and we both turned around to see who was there.

“Lorna,” I said on a gush of breath. I couldn’t decide if I was more annoyed at Lorna for sneaking up on us, or at myself for startling so easily.

Lorna Dewberry was a small sprite of a woman in her mid-forties, and she’d been the church secretary for almost twenty years. She held a basket of what looked like herbs hooked over her wrist, and a pair of shears and gardening gloves lay on top of them. If I ever bothered to do yard work, it looked like I spent half my time rolling in the mud, but Lorna looked fresh and spit-polished.

Her face was smooth with only a few fine lines around pale blue eyes, and she never bothered with makeup of any kind. She’d been overheard telling more than one person that makeup was the Devil’s tool. Her hair was a mousy brown that was always pulled back in a neat bun at the nape of her neck and she was allergic to color of any kind. I’d never seen her in a dress that wasn’t brown or navy or black. Sometimes I liked to think she added color to her wardrobe by wearing red lacy underwear or the occasional thong, but it probably wasn’t normal to think about what people wore under their clothes, so I never mentioned it aloud.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” she said, gifting Jack with a simpering smile that had my hackles rising before I could control it. I forced myself to relax. I’d never been jealous of Jack’s hordes of women. There was no reason to start now, especially considering Lorna was the polar opposite of Jack’s type.

Lorna’s smile disappeared and a stern frown took its place when she turned that watery blue gaze to me.

“I didn’t realize you were back in town, J.J. We all thought you’d decided to go for good since trouble seems to follow you around. Sins of the father. Remember that. Repentance is the key, child. I’m sure I’ll see you at services Sunday morning.”

A snarl was trying to work its way out, and I was thankful at that moment that my voice chose to fail me. I’d been considered a bad omen of sorts ever since I moved back to Bloody Mary. When I’d been growing up, I’d always been known as that odd Graves child—the one whose parents liked being with the dead more than socializing with the living. The one whose grandmother had drunk herself to death and whose great-grandmother had been pushed from a third-story window. I came from bad stock, but I was fourth-generation so they tolerated me. Jack’s mother was the only one who’d really welcomed me into her home and treated me like one of her own.

Now I was known as that odd Graves woman, whose parents had killed themselves to avoid going to federal prison for running an international smuggling ring through their funeral home. After I’d gotten my head bashed in and my throat crushed this past December, I’d heard a lot of people say it was no more than I deserved, considering what I’d come from. No more than they’d expected. As if I was the one who needed to pay for my parents’ misdeeds. Them driving off a cliff into their own fiery hell hadn’t been punishment enough, apparently.

Jack took a step closer to me and put a protective hand on my shoulder. I didn’t even flinch this time. I wasn’t sure if it was to show his support or hold me back in case I decided to pop Lorna in her prissy mouth, but it made me feel better all the same. Especially since Lorna didn’t particularly care for the fact that Jack and I had always been close.

“We’re here to see Reverend Thomas,” Jack said. “He’s expecting us.”

She nodded stiffly and switched her herb basket to the other hand so she could dig in her apron pocket for keys. “I’m supposed to show you into his office. One of the water heaters busted this morning, and the Reverend is talking to Leo Sklut. Ever since Leo put his name in the yellow pages under the plumbing section he thinks he can charge an arm and a leg for his services. The Lord will show him the way, or Leo will burn in a fiery hell with the rest of the sinners of this world.”

“It’s going to be crowded down there,” I muttered. Jack pinched my arm, but I could feel his silent laughter as we followed Lorna inside.

She led us through a plain entryway with dark wood floors and stark white walls. Small ornamental crosses hung on the walls to the left, and a large picture of the Virgin Mary holding a baby Jesus was painted on black velvet and framed in gold on the right. It smelled of Pine Sol and old people, and I had the sudden urge to turn around and go back outside so I could breathe the fresh air of the newly tarred parking lot.

“Please don’t touch anything,” Lorna said as she showed us into the Reverend’s office and pointed to the two straight-backed chairs in front of a scarred wooden desk. “The Reverend is very particular about his things. He said he’d only be a few minutes.”

She tried to back out the door, but Jack stopped her. “While we’re waiting, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Reverend Oglesby.”

Lorna’s eyes went hard and her mouth pinched, but she nodded and stepped back inside the room. “Very well. Though I won’t participate in vicious gossip. I know how these investigations go. You think you can horn in on people’s private lives and then all you cops sit around your box of donuts and judge the law-abiding citizens of this town. The Bible says,
Judge not, lest you not be judged.
Remember that, Sheriff, so you don’t end up on the path to hell with this one.”

“Ms. Dewberry,” Jack said with more patience than any one man should possess, “This will go much faster if you’d just let me ask a few routine questions.”

Her lips pinched together even tighter, if that was possible, and she nodded her head.

“Is it possible for you to get me a photograph of Reverend Oglesby? It would be helpful to the investigation.” What Jack wasn’t saying was that it would be nice to see what the man was supposed to look like without his face bashed in.

“All of the pastoral staff has a photograph taken to hang on the wall in the church lobby. You’re free to look at it at any time, just like the rest of the congregation.” She folded a neat pleat in her dress and crossed her feet at the ankles.

“Was Reverend Oglesby fitting in okay here at the church? Any trouble with one of the congregation members or maybe other staff?”

“Of course not. Reverend Oglesby was sent over to help Reverend Thomas late last December. The Reverend’s getting older, and it’s been harder on him to keep up with his hospital visits and the extra duties that come along with a growing congregation, so Reverend Oglesby was here to take some of the load. Not that Reverend Thomas was shirking his duty, mind you. I don’t want it being spread around that he’s lost interest in doing the Lord’s work.”

“No, ma’am,” Jack said.

“And he fit in as well as anybody. He did his job and did it quietly, and I resent you implicating that there might have been bad blood between Reverend Oglesby and those of us who work here at the church. We all have one mission, and our personal feelings will never get in the way of that.”

“Did anyone from the congregation pay closer attention to him than they should have? Did he seem overly interested or worried about anyone in particular?”

I could follow Jack’s line of thought easy enough. He wanted to know if Reverend Oglesby had been killed by jealous lovers or angry fathers.

“His personal life is none of my business. It isn’t Christian to pry. He was a man who did his job.”

“You never saw him around town? Never saw him talking to other members of the church outside of Sunday morning? Come on now, Lorna. This is Bloody Mary. You can’t sneeze without bumping into someone on the street that you have to stop and talk to for five minutes.”

“I’ve answered what I’m going to answer. You won’t get information so you can spread tales from me.”

“Ms. Dewberry,” Jack growled, the first signs of irritation starting to show. But he was interrupted by the rattle of the old iron doorknob as Reverend Thomas pushed his way into the room.

“Now, Lorna,” he said, his deep baritone just a little louder than an indoor voice required. “That’s not what the Sheriff means, is it Jack? It’s our duty to remember a man’s soul has departed, and if we can help we will.”

Reverend Thomas was a stooped man of close to eighty years of age with kind brown eyes and a sharp wit that didn’t put up with any nonsense. It seemed he’d grown shorter over the years, and his black, natty suit seemed to swallow him whole as he’d shrunken. His papery thin skin hung on his bones, and his earlobes and nose had almost doubled in size since I was a child. His hair was thin and solid silver, but he kept it combed ruthlessly back with Brylcreem. I’d always been distracted by the wild tangle of wiry hair that sprouted from his ears.

“Thanks for seeing us, Reverend,” Jack said.

He waved his hand in dismissal and turned to me. “It’s good to see you back, J.J. I’ve said many a prayer for you these past months.”

“Thank you, Reverend.” I was uncomfortable with the kindness, and I wasn’t really sure if he’d been praying for my recovery or praying for my soul like Lorna. Kindness was harder for me to understand, so I usually just expected the worst from people. I understood why some were wary and hostile toward me. It made sense in an odd way that they would be.

“Come talk to me when you’re ready, child. And make sure you’re taking care of the physical needs of your body as well as the spiritual. I’m sure Jack will be a great help to you if you’ll let him.”

I nodded and then turned my attention back to Jack to get the focus off me.

“You called the station last night and reported Reverend Oglesby missing,” Jack said. “What made you do that? Wasn’t he supposed to be visiting his father?”

“Yes, that’s right.” The Reverend steepled his fingers together. “After services last Sunday, Daniel was supposed to drive to North Carolina to see his father. The man’s battling Alzheimer’s, and Daniel’s been worried about him. Mr. Oglesby has a full-time nurse who stays with him, but his episodes have gotten more frequent of late. Daniel had planned to stay the week and drive back tomorrow morning so he’d have time to prepare for Sunday services.”