A Hard Death (13 page)

J
enner lay in bed, talking to Annie Carr on the phone, feeling her distance in the tinny sound of her voice.

“So let me get this straight, Jenner: you need to clean the skeletons down to the bone, and they don't have
any
equipment?”

“They usually outsource their anthro stuff.”

“Huh. Well, just get the biggest stockpot you can find, and a heating ring. Get the biggest thing you can find, that way you don't have to dismember them…that much.” She was enjoying herself.

“And what do I put the remains in? Water?”

“Well, you could do it in just water, but that'd take forever. Here's my recipe: detergent to emulsify the fat tissue, meat tenderizer to…uh, tenderize the meat, and liquid hand soap, for that meadow-flower freshness.” He jotted the list, pausing at the hand soap.

He wasn't laughing, so she added, “No, really: use liquid hand soap too—it'll help move things along. Let them come to a boil and go for a few hours—if you take them out too soon, the tissues will cook onto the bone, and scraping 'em off will be hell.”

Jenner was taking notes on a yellow legal pad; he wrote,
HELL
, and underlined it several times.

Christ.

“Okay, Annie, thanks.” He scanned his notes. “I got it. How's the missus?”

“She's good, thanks.” She was silent a second, and when she spoke again, her voice was earnest. “Jenner? We've been thinking about driving up to Provincetown and making it official. When do you get back? It would mean a lot to both of us if you could be there.”

“That's fantastic! And well overdue.” He paused. “I don't know when
I'll be back. It was just supposed to be three months, but I don't know what's going to happen now.”

She said, “Rats.”

“You know I'll make it if I can—you know I'm all about the hot lesbo wedding action!” He scrawled
LESBO WEDDING
on his pad.

She snorted. “Okay, well, let me know. And remember, Jenner, don't leave the bones in there too long…”

A
s soon as Jenner's seat belt clicked shut, the dog squeezed forward into the front passenger's seat, then draped himself through the open window, paws hanging out.

Jenner drove the few minutes to the Southland Mall, a newish development marked by an Outback Steakhouse at the entrance, anchored by a Super Target at one end and a Whole Foods at the other. He parked under the sparse shade of a small tree, then climbed out.

He studied the Art Deco mall directory, splashed in aqua and flamingo pink; the restaurant-supply shop was across the mall but the Port Fontaine Pet Sanctuary, the no-kill animal shelter Marie Carter had recommended, was just behind the Super Target. She'd told him to ask for Miss Craine.

Jenner decided to take care of the dog first—he didn't want the thing to melt while he was off buying stockpots.

He found some rope in his scene bag; to his surprise, the dog offered no resistance as Jenner bent to tie the rope around its neck. It trotted happily with him past J. Crew, a P. F. Chang's, a Borders, an Apple store, and a retro-styled shop that sold fudge and ice cream, and then peed generously on the chrome shopping carts gridlocked along the walkway in front of the vast Target. Though the day was not yet particularly hot, Jenner lingered with the dog in front of the megastore, enjoying the cool air pouring from the open doors.

The animal shelter looked like a fugitive from an older strip mall. Decorated with amateurish animal silhouettes in bright colors, the building was cheery enough, but strikingly at odds with Southland's slick and polish. The shelter's ramshackleness was offset by a gleaming, sapphire-blue Mercedes convertible parked in front, top down, tan
leather interior immaculate despite the car being a good twenty-five years old.

The reception area smelled of dogs, and Jenner heard a muffled clamor of yelps and barks from the kennels in the depths of the building.

Behind the glass of the counter sat a blond girl with glasses, perhaps ten or eleven years old. She was painfully thin, her skin pale and almost translucent. There was a small bandage on her left wrist, and Jenner noticed small crusted punctures in her lower arm—she'd recently had an IV. Her Hollister backpack spilled colored pencils and notebooks onto the countertop.

She was drawing dinosaurs. She was gifted; she was carefully cross-hatching them, shading the curve of the brachiosaurus's belly until it had depth. She didn't look up as Jenner and the dog came in; he noticed she wore small pink ovals of plastic in her ears—some form of hearing aid.

The dog padded forward, and she jerked up; behind thick glass lenses, her eyes were an astonishing bright blue.

She looked gravely at Jenner and then at the dog, then said, “Hello.”

Jenner said, “Hello. Do you work here? I'm looking for a Miss Craine.”

She said, “I am Miss Craine.”

“Hmm. I was looking for an older Miss Craine. Maybe your sister?”

“Her mother, actually. Can I help you?”

Jenner turned to see a woman watching him from the doorway to the kennels. She was in her late thirties, he figured. Underneath her white coat, she wore paint-dripped jeans cut off at mid-calf. Her espadrilles, too, were densely spattered with paint—a part-time artist, apparently. Her eyes were jade-green, and she wore her hair back behind a broad gray velvet band; under the harsh fluorescents, Jenner could see silver strands among the dark blonde. A pit-bull puppy cradled in the crook of her arm chewed on her finger.

She was breathtaking.

He said, “I was hoping you might be able to look after this dog.”

Miss Craine looked at his dog, and frowned. “What, you've had enough of him?”

Jenner shook his head. “He's not mine, he's a stray.”

“Oh, okay.” She put the puppy on the countertop, and the girl swept it up into her arms. “Lulu, honey—take him to Leo, 'kay?”

The girl slid off her stool and disappeared into the back.

Miss Craine squatted in front of the dog and scratched his head. “Well, you're a podgy fellow, aren't you!”

She looked up at Jenner, studying him, her pale green eyes clear and calm. In her gaze, Jenner felt suddenly adolescent; when he spoke, he thought he might stammer.

“I found him near my hotel. A colleague told me to bring him here.”

She turned to look in the dog's mouth, and inspect its eyes and ears. It was behaving remarkably well.

“So, you're the medical examiner…” She stood. “Marie told me you'd be by.”

Jenner nodded.

“Nothing wrong with him that a good wash won't fix.” She jogged the dog's belly with her foot. “And some time on the treadmill, eh? Eh, Podgy?” The dog's hind quarters shook as his tail bounced back and forth.

She put out her hand. “It's Dr. Jenner, isn't it? Maggie Craine.”

He nodded, shaking her hand.

She said, “And now you're supposed to say your first name, Dr. Jenner—that's how people get to know each other, at least down here.”

Jenner said, “Most people just call me Jenner.”

“Well, I'm not most people! What do your friends call you?”

“My friends call me Jenner.”

“Okay, Jenner it is.” She laughed.

“So you're visiting Port Fontaine from New York?” She leaned back against the counter. “Where do they have you? The Arrowhead?”

“Oh, no. Somewhere out in the Reaches, not great, but good enough.”

She frowned. “Oh, God. Sorry about that, Jenner.” She looked him over. “How did you get the shiner?”

He put a hand quickly to his eye; he'd forgotten.

She said, “I'm sure there's a story there.”

“Not a very exciting one. Some kids were hassling the dog, and I got in a fight with their father.”

She made a face. “A fight? I hope that's not how you solve all your problems.”

Jenner smiled. “If I solved all my problems that way, there wouldn't be much of me left.”

“Good. I like your face the way it is; I'd be sad if someone hit it again.”

He said, “Me too.” The heat of his blush took him by surprise. She ignored his embarrassment.

He said, “Does it help my cause if I point out he hit me first?”

Maggie was amused. “You have a cause?”

He grinned. The dog walked over to him, sat, and leaned heavily against his leg.

She said, “Well, Jenner, looks like you've got a friend there. Maybe you should keep him—no collar, and I couldn't feel any implanted tag, so I doubt we'll find an owner.”

Jenner shook his head. “A dog is about the last thing I need right now. And I'll be going home to New York soon, and I have a cat there.”

“A cat? You know what they say about men who have cats, don't you?” She leaned over to scratch the dog's head. “Well, I'll have the vet have a look at you when he stops by this afternoon. And then we'll see what we can do about finding you somewhere to live!”

Maggie disappeared through the door with the dog, and then reappeared behind the counter. She scribbled a note in her ledger, then peered up at Jenner.

“Dr. Jenner?”

The fifteen-year-old boy in him had taken over completely. He was lost in the pale gray-green of her eyes; he'd seen the ocean that color once after a storm, on a boat in the Andaman Sea.

“Yes?”

“This is a no-kill shelter, which means any pet we take in is properly cared for, fed, watered, all that. We're privately funded, and every little bit helps.” She nodded to his right, where he saw a small wooden box labeled
DONATIONS
.

Jenner pulled out his wallet hastily. It was empty except for Jun's check, a ten-dollar bill and three singles; she watched as he stuffed all his money into the slot.

“Sorry it's not more—I've been meaning to get to the bank.”

“Oh, the box will still be here when you come back.” Maggie smiled.

“Here, I need you to fill out this bit here about the dog's history.” She slid the ledger across the counter. “I know you don't know anything, so just put that.”

She watched him write, then said, “Tell you what. Since I've just cleaned you out, why don't I invite you along to dinner tonight? My father's taking me to dinner at the golf club—we go most nights, and Daddy'll be thrilled to have a guy to talk to, for once.”

Jenner was surprised. “Sounds good. What time?”

“Why not come to our house around half past six, seven. You can have a look at the place, we'll have drinks, then we can drive over to the club. Sound like a plan?”

He nodded. “Where's your place?”

“Dr. Jenner! Don't you know you're talking to Port Fontaine royalty?” She smiled again. “Our house is called Stella Maris; it's the big Italian villa at the uptown end of the Promenade. What are you driving? I'll tell security to expect you.”

“Tell them to expect a Hyundai Accent, a blue Hyundai Accent.” She nodded, her eyes so merry that he blurted, “It's a rental.”

She murmured, “Of course,” as if no one would ever actually
own
an Accent.

She got a leash from the office; it took her a second to slip it onto the dog. “So, tonight, Stella Maris, somewhere between six and seven. Sorry, but the Polo Grounds insists on sports coats at dinner, okay?”

Jenner stuck out his hand awkwardly, and she shook it, a coolly amused look on her face.

J
enner glanced up at the autopsy room clock. Three p.m. He'd better get moving.

He'd picked up a battered twenty-five-gallon stockpot and a large heating ring from the Used section of the Southland Mall restaurant-supply shop. It was now installed at the far end of the morgue, under the principal exhaust vent. Half-filled with water, meat tenderizer, and hand soap, the pot had been sitting on the heating ring for almost a half hour, and was now steaming nicely.

Jenner cleaned the skeleton, carefully dissecting off the soft tissue, expertly exposing the underlying ribs and spine. He slowed: scalpel nicks in bone were finer and shallower than the sort of knife cuts he was expecting in the ribs, but he didn't want to give the experts any room to accuse him of creating the injuries himself.

The reek had eased—his nose was now burned out on it. He leaned over the autopsy table, squinting as he stripped the muscles and ligaments from the junction of ribs and spine.

“Ha! Doc! You should see your face! You look like you just found roaches in your eggs…”

He looked up to see Flanagan grinning at him from the doorway, Rudge behind him.

“I told the detective maybe he oughta wait until you came up, but he wanted to come down anyway.” The morgue supervisor winked at Rudge. “Told ya!”

Jenner nodded at Rudge as he approached the table. “You okay with this, detective?”

Rudge shrugged. “The sweet smell of job security, doc. I've worked Major Crimes in this hot-ass county for five years, and was a deputy for
another ten before that; not that I love it, but this shit doesn't throw me.”

He gestured at Jenner's black eye. “So, how's your head, Rocky? You okay after yesterday? That shiner makes you look pretty damn hard…”

Concentrating on the table, Jenner muttered, “I'm fine. Just give me a second, will you…”

He'd severed the spinal column below the ribs, and cut the ligaments attaching the shoulder girdle to the chest on each side. Rudge watched Jenner open the joint at the top of the spine using short strokes with the tip of his scalpel, then cut around the top vertebrae to separate off the cranium and jaw.

Jenner straightened, placed the skull on the table, and put down his scalpel.

“Done!” he said brightly.

He lifted the headless upper-torso skeleton from the body bag, and carefully carried it down to the stockpot, Rudge following with a look of faint distaste. Jenner checked the thermometer in the pot, turned down the hot plate a little, then lowered the truncated skeleton carefully into the foaming water. The greasy bones slipped under the surface.

“Thanks for coming down.” Jenner put the lid on the stockpot, then looked over at Rudge. “Do me a favor—for Christ's sake, spare me the ‘let's get ribs' jokes…”

“Not me, doc. That's more the kind of crap you'd hear from Detective Bartley, or maybe the guys in Highway. I'm more about the subtle puns, the slightly uncomfortable race-based observational humor.”

Jenner led Rudge to the dictating room. He pulled open the desk drawer, fished out the small drug packet and put it on the desk.

Rudge said, “No thanks—I just had coffee.” He picked up the packet and looked it over. “What is this?”

“I found it in Marty's car—he had one of those boxes where you stash spare keys hidden on the steering column deep under the dashboard.” Jenner hesitated a second. “To tell the truth, I didn't know if I was going to hand it over.”

“I feel you, doc.” Rudge nodded. “But you had to—it's the right thing
to do. I have to say, I don't figure Roburn for a drug user—I've seen that man at death scenes all hours of the day and night, and he's always been a hundred percent. Anyone else have access to his car?”

“No clue. As far as I know, it was just him and his wife, and I doubt Bobbie even knew the hiding place was there—I'm pretty sure this is Marty's. But I have no idea what he was doing with it. I mean, if it was from a case, why didn't he log it into evidence?”

They stood looking at the packet.

Jenner said, “What do you think?”

“Powder cocaine or meth, probably. Maybe heroin.”

“It's whiter than most heroin I've seen.” Jenner picked up the bag. “I'll take it over to the Evidence Unit now and get it vouchered.”

Rudge shook his head slowly. “Tell the truth, I've been figuring that's what this is all about—the Roburns, the bodies from the Glades. When people act out like this, it's most always drugs.”

Jenner nodded. “So, that kid who called in the bodies said they were farm workers—you talked to him?”

“Adam Weiss? Bobby Bartley interviewed him. I'd like to talk with him myself, except now he's in the wind. But we'll find him.”

“You got people actively looking?”

“We're stretched pretty thin, but we're doing our best.”

He stepped out into the autopsy room, looked around, then turned back to Jenner. “Sheriff Anders told me to bring you up to speed on the investigation into Doc Roburn's death.” He paused. “Such as it is.”

“That doesn't sound good.” Jenner sealed the shrink-wrapped packet in a clear Ziploc biohazard bag. He looked Rudge in the eye. “Marty's not going to get lost in the shuffle, right?”

Rudge shook his head. “No shuffle. But there's just five of us, and there's a lot of shit to do. We're tracking the Roburns' whereabouts on the days leading up to their departure, we're canvassing the farms for missing field hands, we've put up posters in Bel Arbre with rough descriptions of the clothing—you know that hardly anyone in the sheriff's office speaks Spanish? But there's not much news coming out on the hanged men, so now the press is finally waking up to the Roburns.”

He grinned. “I heard Mayor Reynolds tell the sheriff he doesn't want to see some ‘Resort Town of Death' segment on CNN—his actual words, ‘Resort Town of Death.' Anders has authorized maximum overtime, and we got Highway pitching in to look for Weiss.”

“You think you'll get something from Weiss that Bartley didn't?”

“Maybe—Bartley's good, I'm better. But maybe there's not much to get. Guy doesn't know much, I don't think—doesn't know the men who came to him, doesn't know anything about them, says he couldn't pick 'em out of a lineup. He's a city kid, completely lost down on the farm. He's trying to do the right thing, has a bunch of wild theories, but no definite information.”

“Like what?”

“Well, he thinks they were killed by other farm workers. Apparently, yesterday, kid was going around to the different estates, trying to interview workers—which doesn't go down real well around here. You don't want to piss too many people off up in Bel Arbre: the field hands may be second-class, but those farms are all either part of major agribusiness, or vanity projects for Port Fontaine's richest citizens. Lot of old money up there in those drained swamps, son.

“Anyway, Bartley told him to calm down and let us do the work. I doubt we'll get very far with the farms—the owners don't want us on their property, the workers know it and won't talk—particularly if they think they'll get killed for talking.”

“And what do you think?”

Rudge shrugged. “He could be right. These people…they call them migrant workers, which sounds like some romantic Depression-era shit, but they're really just cattle. They pay to get smuggled into the country like animals, work like dogs, make just enough money to cover their bed and their food and their beer, a few leftover bucks to send home…Call it what it is: it's slavery, Jenner. Pure and simple.

“And do I think farm overseers could be handing out a little intimidation? Sure. It's happened before, I'm sure it's happening now. Even murder. But I figure there's a lot more to it than that, here.”

Jenner nodded. “Particularly if Marty Roburn's involved.”

Rudge scratched the back of his head. “Shit. You really think he's involved?”

“It's no coincidence he has the same injuries as one of the hanged men. More than one, I think—we'll see once the ribs are clean.”

Rudge said, “The Roburns' house is a wreck—looks like they were packing to leave, but someone's tossed the place. It looks like they were looking for something but trying to make it look like a burglary—money and jewelry's gone, but they left a laptop untouched on the bedroom dresser.”

“Had Marty done any cases from the farms recently?”

“Yeah, I thought of that. I went through the morgue logs with Flanagan—nothing sticks out. This winter we had a stabbing in one of the worker huts in Bel Arbre, and a guy got run over by a backhoe while they were digging a new septic. I'll make it up to the farms in question to check it out, but it doesn't sound promising.”

“Had he been on any scenes up there? Maybe he saw something.”

Rudge shook his head. “Nope. The stabbing guy died at the clinic in Bel Arbre, and Roburn didn't respond to the backhoe thing.”

The door swung open, and the sheriff strode in, followed by a thick, hirsute man in a Highway Patrol uniform. Both wore white paper masks and moved gingerly, as if worried about being contaminated by touching something unclean.

Over the mask, the sheriff's eyes were piggy little beads. “What're you two gossiping about?”

Rudge shook his head and said, “Just catching the doctor up, sheriff.” He nodded at the Highway Patrol officer. “Gordie.”

Anders grunted. “Well, it's my turn to catch you both up…”

He looked past Rudge to the stockpot. “What the hell is that?”

Gordie Cooper took a paper towel and lifted up the lid, grimaced at the stale reek of the steam. He picked up a ladle from the autopsy table and reached into the pot, pale bone billowing up in the gray water.

“Tommy, check it out—ribs!”

“Jesus! That's disgusting…”

Anders stared at Jenner, then looked back at the stockpot; Cooper
was standing next to it pretending to be a chef, waving his hand over the water as if wafting the scent to his nose. He nodded to Rudge.

“You making gumbo, Fudgie?”

Anders snapped, “Let's talk in the hallway.”

Jenner and Rudge followed him out of the autopsy room, Cooper behind them. Anders pulled off his mask; Jenner saw the glisten of Vicks VapoRub on the sheriff's upper lip before he caught the whiff of menthol.

Anders said, “What are you doing? I never saw Roburn do that.”

“That's because they did it for him in Tallahassee. I need to see if there's any marks on the bone. This is the safest way to clean them.” He shrugged. “I know Dr. Roburn never did it—I had to buy the pot and the heating ring.”

When he heard those words, the sheriff's face reset, bulging into something ominously smug, lips pursing and cheeks puffed, like a sphinx with a terrible secret.

He began, “Well…”

Behind him, Cooper was smirking.

Anders said, “Well, Bobby Bartley just found out something pretty interesting: turns out that no South Florida cruise line has ever heard of Marty Roburn. No reservations, no tickets, nothing. It looks like Dr. Roburn was planning to get out of Port Fontaine alright—just not on a cruise…”