At the Stroke of Madness (18 page)

H
enry introduced Special Agent Maggie O’Dell to the rest of the group and watched the casual exchange and assessment. Of course, Bonzado got the longest look. Bonz looked like some California surfer dude instead of a professor in that goddamn Hawaiian shirt. But the kid was brilliant in a humble, nonarrogant way, and despite his getup, he was good at magically attributing an identity to a pile of bones. But Henry already knew what Dr. Stolz, the medical examiner, was thinking. He had shot Henry one of those famous “what the hell?” looks when he first saw Bonzado. And now, without saying a word, Henry could feel Stolz’s scowl saying, “The feds? You brought in the fucking feds already?”

Stolz was probably worried that it was a direct reflection on his own competence. Actually, Henry didn’t care what Stolz or any of the rest of them thought. He had learned a long time ago to live by one simple philosophy—CYOA—cover your own ass.

They had a body bag spread out under the lip of one of the barrels that had cracked open during Vargus’s shake-up. Henry would just as soon load it up and have the poor sucker join the woman from yesterday at the morgue. But this was Stolz’s call. He wanted to process the fractured barrels out here at the scene, worried that jostling around the fragile remains might compromise them. This process didn’t look any more efficient to Henry. But again, he reminded himself, it was Stolz’s call, Stolz’s risk to take. In other words, Stolz’s ass. He could only be concerned about one ass at a time, and right now it was his own.

All that could be seen of the corpse inside the barrel was the head and shoulders, a tuff of peppered gray hair and what looked like the lapels of a navy blue suit. Stolz and Bonzado, their hands covered in latex gloves, carefully groped inside, grabbing hold of anything solid that hopefully wouldn’t rip or tear or crack. At the other end of the barrel, two of Henry’s deputies held tight to a rope that had been secured around the cracked middle. They were ready to play a sort of macabre game of tug-of-war.

Henry handed Agent O’Dell a small jar of Vicks VapoRub. The smell would only get worse once they pulled the unlucky bastard out. But the agent declined with a polite “no thanks.” Something told him it had nothing to do with her pretending to be tough. No, she really didn’t need it. She was used to the stench of death, not that anyone could get used to that sour, pungent odor. There was something different about the smell of a human corpse, different from any other animal. He hated that smell. Had never gotten used to it and didn’t want to. Yet, without taking a swipe of Vicks for himself, Henry dropped the jar into his pocket. He knew better than to offer any to Stolz or Bonzado. And Bonzado’s students stayed back, probably at Bonzado’s instructions, his way of assuring Henry that they wouldn’t get in the way.

They started slowly easing the corpse out of the barrel and immediately there came a low, sickening noise, a sucking sound that made Henry cringe. This one was fresh. This one would be messy. Henry glanced at O’Dell. Maybe he hoped to see her cringe, show at least a twinge of discomfort. There was nothing like that. Anticipation, but certainly not discomfort. Hell, she had probably seen lots worse.

O’Dell stood maybe five five, had an athletic but slight frame and was a bit too attractive to fit Henry’s stereotype of an FBI agent. But her self-assured manner revealed an air of confidence that put him at ease. He had noticed it during their phone conversation, too. Confident, not cocky. Hell, he wouldn’t have confided what he had if she had come off with that government-issued cockiness that seemed to run rampant at the federal level.

Maybe he was crazy to be putting so much trust and faith in someone he hardly knew, but Special Agent Margaret O’Dell would come in useful if things went south. Bottom line—he wasn’t about to piss away a thirty-year career because of some psycho. O’Dell seemed nice enough, but if the governor came looking for answers, Henry needed to be ready. Hell, it wasn’t such a bad idea to have someone else he could blame if answers didn’t come quick enough.

“Hey, watch it,” Stolz yelled at Bonzado as the corpse came loose from the barrel with what almost sounded like a pop. The lower extremities swung free. The M.E. lost his grip and the corpse slid out of their control, falling onto the body bag, the torso slamming hard against the rocks. It fell flat on its face with a hollow thud. And, as it hit against the hard surface, the top of the head cracked open.

“God Almighty,” Stolz yelled again. “We’re gonna need a better way to do this. We may have just given this guy a new head injury. How am I supposed to figure out what the killer did and what we did?”

Henry practically bit his tongue to avoid saying, “This was your idea.” Only the second barrel and already Stolz’s incompetence showed in his blatant contradictions. This only reassured him about his decision to bring in Bonzado and O’Dell, two outsiders to witness and document any irregularities.

While the others backed away to regroup and rethink this archaic method, O’Dell came in for a closer look, kneeling on the rocks. Despite the fractured and now-open skull, the corpse appeared to have no other injuries, no mess. Even the navy blue suit had few wrinkles.

“This guy looks in good shape,” Henry said.

“Too good a shape. I don’t see any blood,” Bonzado pointed out. He moved aside for Carl, who came in closer with a camera.

Bonzado’s students now dared to come closer, the woman being the bravest of the group, looking over her professor’s shoulder. Both of the male students looked as though they might be sick. The older guy limply held a camera at his side and didn’t attempt to take a single picture. Maybe he was waiting for Carl to finish. Henry wondered if the two guys were having second thoughts about their choice of career.

“Nice suit,” Carl said, setting aside his camera and pulling out a forceps to retrieve a stray thread from the back of the corpse’s jacket.

“Doesn’t look like the body has begun to liquefy.” Stolz squatted on the opposite side of O’Dell.

“I think the skull’s been cut open,” she said, now on hands and knees.

“Probably sliced right open on these rocks,” Stolz said.

“No, I don’t think so. Take a look at this.” O’Dell moved aside for Stolz to get a better angle, looking up at Henry as she did. For the first time he thought he noticed something in her eyes. Maybe that bit of discomfort he had been searching for earlier. “It looks like someone may have used a saw. Maybe a bone saw or even a Stryker saw.”

“A Stryker saw?” Now Stolz seemed interested.

O’Dell got up and came around the rocks to peer inside the top of the skull. The flap that came loose hung over, like a lid or a dismantled toupee. O’Dell practically had her nose to the scalp when she said, “Whatever he used it’s left very fine marks. There’s no blade chattering.”

“Blade chattering?” Henry asked, and glanced around at the others, noticing Bonzado giving O’Dell a look of admiration.

“It’s sort of a technical term.” It was Bonzado who jumped in with an explanation. “It’s when a thin blade jumps slightly from side to side while you’re using it. You know, like a hacksaw, especially when you’re just starting to cut.” Ever the professor, Henry thought, though the kid had a genuine desire to provide information. There was no intention to upstage anyone or condescend to anyone, not like Stolz might do.

“From what I can see,” O’Dell continued, “I think the skull is empty.”

“A Stryker saw? Empty? What the hell are you talking about? Are you saying the brain is missing?” Stolz shot up, stepping over the corpse to get to O’Dell’s side.

Ordinarily, Henry would have laughed at the little man who rarely became animated or allowed an outburst of emotion. He usually confined his emotions to those famous facial expressions. He shouldn’t be focused on Stolz. But focusing on Stolz’s incompetence and his rising panic was a hell of a lot better than dealing with his own. This crap only got stranger by the minute.

“If you’ve got enough pictures, let’s try to flip him and get all of him on the body bag,” Stolz instructed.

Henry stood back. He hated to admit it, but he was starting to enjoy watching the little man get all worked up. Plus, Stolz had more than enough help with Bonzado and two of the students joining in. Even O’Dell had her jacket sleeves pushed up and was grabbing hold of a shoulder. This time the group wasn’t taking any chances on having the corpse slip out of their control. They barely had the body turned and Henry’s stomach took a plunge.

“Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath, and everyone stopped, looking up at him, and then back at the corpse. “It’s Steve Earlman.”

“You know this man?” O’Dell asked.

Henry found the nearest boulder to lean on before his knees buckled. “Not only do I know him, I was a goddamned pallbearer at his funeral last May.”

M
aggie could now see the tacks and pins holding Mr. Earlman’s tie and jacket lapels in place. She lifted an eyelid and found a small, convex plastic disk in the eye socket, something morticians used to give definition to the eye area and to keep the eyelids closed.

“It looks like an autopsy incision,” Dr. Stolz said, taking his glasses completely off and pocketing them.

“Can’t be,” Sheriff Watermeier said. “There was no autopsy.”

“You’re sure?” Maggie was back on her feet, inspecting the rest of the body while the M.E. poked at the flap of skull. The suit looked awfully clean, almost as if it had gone directly from the casket to the sealed barrel. “It certainly looks like a Stryker saw.”

“It definitely was a bone saw of some kind,” Stolz insisted.

“I know for a fact there was no autopsy,” Watermeier said.

“How about surgery?” Adam Bonzado was beside Stolz now, on hands and knees, peering into the top of the dead man’s head.

“No surgery,” Watermeier answered quietly. “Steve died of an inoperable brain tumor.”

Maggie glanced at Watermeier to make sure he was okay. She knew what it was like to discover a friend had been a victim of some heinous crime. Almost a year had gone by since she unzipped a body bag to find a friend of her own with a bullet hole in his forehead. She was sure she would never forget Special Agent Richard Delaney’s empty eyes staring up at her. None of the law enforcement workshops and no amount of experience could prepare someone for that shock, that helplessness, that sick feeling in the bottom of the stomach.

Watermeier removed his hat. He wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, despite what Maggie had noticed was a chill in the air now that the sun was disappearing behind the ridge of rock and trees. Watermeier put the hat on and this time pushed it back. Maggie surveyed the equipment the crime-lab technicians had carefully stacked out of the way on one of the boulders. Finally she saw a red-and-white water jug. She reached and grabbed it, glanced at Carl and waited for his nod of approval. Then she unscrewed the top, took a long slow drink and, as casually as possible, handed the jug to Sheriff Watermeier as if handing it down the line. He didn’t hesitate, took a generous swig and passed it on.

“Was it public knowledge?” she asked Watermeier.

He looked at her, knew she was addressing him, but his eyes drew a blank. “What’s that?”

“Did Mr. Earlman tell people about the tumor? Friends, family, acquaintances?”

“Oh, yeah. He didn’t hide it,” Watermeier said. “But he didn’t complain about it, either.”

“Was there any public mention of it? Was it listed as COD in the obituary?”

Watermeier scratched his head, reaching under his hat. “I don’t remember about the obituary, but almost everyone knew Steve. He owned the butcher shop in downtown Wallingford. Bought it from old Ralph Shelby years ago but still kept the name. Figured everybody already knew it as Ralph’s. That was Steve. He was a pretty humble guy. And a good guy, fair and honest. Even after he got sick he was going in to work every day. Still did the custom cuts himself. After Steve died, the store closed. Someone bought all the equipment but didn’t want to run the shop. It’s some kind of knickknack shop now.”

Dr. Stolz looked up at Maggie from his perch. “What exactly are you thinking, Agent O’Dell?”

“If it’s not a surgery cut, it had to have been made postmortem, right?”

“Yes.”

“Was his funeral an open casket?” she asked Watermeier, who now only nodded. “So it had to be after the funeral.”

“Someone dug up his grave?” Henry asked, but from the look on his face, Maggie could tell he didn’t really want to think about it.

“When and how would they able to do that?” Stolz said. “A sealed vault isn’t the easiest thing to break into.”

“Not all caskets are put into vaults,” Bonzado offered. “Depends on whether or not the family wants to add that extra expense. If I remember correctly it’s about $700 to $1,000.”

“There’s another possibility,” Maggie said. “The body could have been taken before the casket was buried.”

“You mean someone may have snatched the body right from the funeral home?” Bonzado said as he stood, brushing his knees clean.

His sartorial get-up was an odd uniform for a forensic anthropologist, even for a professor. Maybe not for an eccentric professor with muscular, tanned legs. As Maggie caught herself admiring Bonzado’s legs, she also noticed his knees were covered with the rust-colored dust from the rocks and a green weed had latched onto the tops of his socks. It reminded Maggie to take a closer look at the dead man’s clothes for any similar debris.

“If someone had access they could have made a switch,” Maggie answered as she examined the suit, a lightweight wool, damp and sticky with what she guessed to be embalming fluid.

The skull cut had definitely been made after the body had been embalmed and prepared for its casket. There would be no way to hide leaking embalming fluid for an open-casket viewing without repairing the gaping hole, and the cutter hadn’t felt the urgency to make any such repairs. Now that she got a closer look at the blue suit, she could tell there were no signs of green weed, no brown rock dust on the wool. The cut hadn’t been made out here. In fact, other than the sticky embalming fluid, the suit looked clean.

“I helped carry his casket,” Watermeier said, sounding quiet and far away. “It was heavy. He had to be in there.”

Maggie glanced up at the sheriff. He rubbed his temple, not like a man puzzled in thought, but pressing hard—hard enough to wince—as if he wanted the image before him to disappear.

“I’m just saying we need to consider all the possibilities,” Maggie said. “In any case, we should find out who had access to the casket and the grave. Maybe his suit might tell us more.” She found Stolz watching and met his eyes, ignoring their skepticism and what she immediately recognized as a trace of suspicion. Not even an hour into the investigation and Stolz had already decided to label her an intruder. It didn’t matter. She was used to it. “Usually funeral clothes are clean when a mortician puts them on a corpse, right?” She continued, “So anything the clothes came in contact with would have to be from the mortuary or a destination that came later.”

Stolz simply nodded.

“We might find something on the suit, some debris from the killer like hair or fibers. He couldn’t have done this without making contact with the body.”

“He went to a lot of trouble just to take the brain. Maybe he sells parts to teaching colleges,” Bonzado’s female student suggested, as she helped Carl, who had been quietly collecting evidence that may have spilled from the barrel. The woman seemed overly anxious to help and held open a plastic bag while Carl dropped small particles in with forceps.

Maggie was impressed that Carl already had two bags in his other hand, one containing what looked to be a swatch of hair or fur and in the other, a small, crumpled piece of white paper.

“What is this?” She pointed to the crumpled piece of paper.

“Not sure,” Carl said as he handed her the bag. “It’s not a note, if that’s what you were hoping. It’s not even writing paper.”

Maggie held it up, examining it in the sunlight. “Looks like a waxy texture.”

“Getting back to more important matters,” Stolz grumbled. “Like missing brains. Serial killers often take things, clothing, jewelry, even body parts.” He looked from Bonzado and Carl to Watermeier and finally—lastly—to Maggie. “As trophies, right?”

“Yes, serial killers often do that. There’s only one small problem here,” Maggie said, stopping all of them, waiting for their attention. “Mr. Earlman wasn’t murdered.”