Boneyard (15 page)

Dwight felt the same sensation in his stomach now as he tracked the raccoon, wending back through the aisles, pausing periodically to note the tiny drops of blood. He tried to identify how he was feeling. It wasn’t fun, exactly, it was something better than that. Maybe a little like sex, he mused. At the end, when he’d finished positioning the boys and had stepped back to examine his handiwork, he’d felt a thrill course through him like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Which is probably why the Captain did it, he thought. Not that he cared, really. For him this was just payback for one of the many wrongs done him over the years. Still, he could see where it could become a particularly satisfying hobby. Not that he’d need that, he reminded himself. Once the Agency accepted him, he’d pretty much have a license to kill, and wouldn’t need to waste his time on ratty little boys. In a way he felt sorry for the Captain, having to settle like that. If you looked at things a certain way, he was doing him a favor.

The beam of his flashlight found a small furry lump at the edge of the aisle. Dwight was in the cul-de-sac he’d passed before, boxes towering above them on all sides. The raccoon was backed into a corner, dragging one leg, hissing at him. It knew it was trapped. Dwight smiled at it. He tucked his gun back in its holster and withdrew his night stick. “You and me, we’re going to have some fun,” he said in a low voice, swinging the stick in a slow circle and whacking it on his open palm. “Hell, we got all night.”

Fifteen

“So what are you saying?” Kelly asked. “Were they all moved?”

They were seated around the table in the command center at the Berkshire State Police barracks. The building was quiet, even for a Saturday; all but a skeleton crew was off enjoying the long weekend. The four of them perched on the rickety chairs, sweltering in the heat. Dr. Stuart cleared his throat nervously and clenched the folder tightly with both hands. “I can’t say that with any certainty. But based on the evidence surrounding the victim found in Vermont—”

“Randy Jacobs,” Monica interjected.

“Yes, Mr. Jacobs.” Dr. Stuart avoided her eyes as he responded. “If that truly was the dump site, the body had been left there quite recently, after the decomposition stages were almost complete.”

“How can you tell?” Kelly asked.

“Insect activity. There was clear evidence of subterranean insect activity on the body, which differs markedly from what would have caused decomposition aboveground. In addition, there were traces of sand that differed markedly from the surrounding soil.”

“So what does that mean?” Doyle demanded impatiently. Kelly cast him a hard glance. Since Sommers’s arrest, he’d regressed to his usual surly self.

“I can’t say for certain with all of them but, based on my examination, at least three of the bodies had been previously buried.”

“Wait a minute—you’re saying someone dug these boys up? Why?” Monica asked, running a hand through her hair. She looked tired, Kelly noted.

Dr. Stuart shrugged. “I’m afraid that determining the motivation behind that doesn’t fall under my purview. All I can do is present you with the facts.”

“Have you had a chance to look at the two more recent corpses?” Kelly asked. “I wasn’t sure if they fell into your field of expertise…”

“Although I don’t specialize in soft tissue, I am also a certified forensic pathologist,” Dr. Stuart said.

“What’s the difference?” Monica asked.

“One requires a Ph.D. and focuses primarily on skeletal remains, the other a medical degree and further training in soft tissue trauma,” Dr. Stuart replied, a note of pride in his voice.

“Wow,” Monica said. “Now I really feel undereducated.”

“Finally, she admits it,” Doyle snorted.

“This from someone who probably only has a GED,” Monica retorted.

“Getting back to the latest two bodies,” Kelly said. “What did you find?”

Dr. Stuart held up a folder. “There the pattern remains—your John Doe was almost certainly previously buried, and showed signs of being shackled. His stomach contents were also negligible, he hadn’t eaten in a few days. And there was something else…” He fumbled open the folder, dumping a stack of papers onto the desk. He sifted through them until he found photos that zeroed in on the wounds to one corpse.

“Is this our John Doe?” Kelly asked, leaning forward. She noticed Monica looked a little green.

“No, this is the other one, Jim Costello. Note the initial stab wounds, here, and here?” He pointed them out. “Hesitation marks. But if you compare them to the wounds found on your John Doe; which were almost identical, by the way, in terms of placement…” He pulled out a different photo and laid it next to the first. “No sign of hesitation. These were done decisively, by a practiced hand.”

“So what are you saying?” Monica asked.

Kelly stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s saying we might have a copycat on our hands.”

“Bullshit,” Doyle said. He waved an arm dismissively at Stuart. “We got one killer, his name is Sommers, and he’s a sick fuck. Case closed, time for all of you to go back where you came from.”

Kelly gritted her teeth. “Lieutenant Doyle, I’ll remind you these cases are still open. The district attorney hasn’t even officially filed charges against Sommers.”

“That’s just because he was too busy planning his Labor Day barbecue,” Doyle said. “Trust me, when he gets back in the office on Tuesday, that’s the first thing on his agenda. The mayor told me so himself.”

Kelly decided to ignore him and turned back to Dr. Stuart. “And was Jim Costello also previously buried?”

He shook his head vigorously. “Definitely not. Despite these two being found together, I’d postulate that they were murdered by different perpetrators.”

“And is there any way to tell which of the killers is responsible for the original bodies found in the boneyard?” Kelly asked.

Dr. Stuart shrugged. “Based on the evidence we have, no.”

“But if you had to guess?” Kelly pressed.

“I’d say most of them were the work of a more experienced killer,” he acknowledged, pulling out another photo. “Particularly with the removal of the eyes, there’s a marked difference. I suspect your second killer is a bit squeamish.”

“Can’t say I blame him.” Monica shuddered. “Maybe Sommers had a partner.”

“Yeah, and maybe I’m going to sprout freakin’ wings. What’s with you people? You got something against wrapping up a case?” Doyle slammed a palm down on the table. “It’s Labor Day weekend, I got better things to do.”

“Lieutenant, we’re not quite done yet,” Kelly said, but he stormed out of the room.

The three of them looked at one another. “How certain are you of this?” Kelly asked, turning to Dr. Stuart.

He shrugged. “Obviously not one-hundred percent, but I’d say pretty certain.”

“And the John Doe, can you give me a time of death?”

“He’d been dead four days when you found him, give or take. Of course, I had to readjust my estimate based on the fact that he appears to have been buried, which slows the rate of decomposition dramatically. And since there was evidence of methamphetamines in his system, that would accelerate the life cycle of the insects—”

“But you’d say he died earlier in the week, on Monday or Tuesday?” Kelly interrupted.

“Approximately. Again, if we knew where he’d been buried first…”

“I doubt we’ll find out,” Kelly mused. “And no hits on prints for him, either, which is strange.”

“I’m having the lab work up a facial reconstruction for him, if that helps,” Dr. Stuart said.

“It should. We’ll post it on the air, see if we get any bites. When will that be done?”

“In a few days. I assigned it to my lab at the Smithsonian. The Massachusetts State lab is still doing papier-mâché models,” he said disdainfully.

“What do you want to do about this second-perp theory?” Monica asked. “I mean, I hate to say it, but the case against Sommers looks pretty strong. If Massachusetts decides to pull the rug out from under the task force, I’m not sure I can stop them. My captain wants to mark this one in the win column, too. We’ll have to come up with more than hesitation marks to convince them to keep going.”

“You’re right,” Kelly agreed. And she still had no rock-solid evidence that any of the boys had been escorted across state lines to turn tricks. She could try to claim the Mann Act at this point, asserting jurisdiction, but it would be a stretch. If any of the state police units balked she’d have a tough time proving her case, and it was clear Doyle wasn’t ceding jurisdiction without a fight. Not that she was angling for one anyway, she reminded herself. In truth, she was tempted to stop arguing this. They had someone in custody who had a relationship with at least two of the boys, and he satisfied many of her profile’s requirements. He was the right age, physically strong, and a longtime resident of the area. Not that Sommers seemed particularly outdoorsy, but then one never knew. Most agents would be happy to close the case and catch the next plane home.

Kelly sighed, sat down and kneaded her forehead with one hand. Something about it just didn’t feel right. She was usually a good judge of people, and she pegged Sommers as a creep but not a killer.

“So what do we do?” Monica asked. Kelly looked up. Monica was standing on one side of the desk with her arms crossed over her chest. Dr. Stuart was standing on the other side of the room as far away as possible from her.

“I’ve more or less finished my analysis. If you don’t need me anymore, I could catch the train back to Washington tonight,” Dr. Stuart said after a pause.

Monica looked sharply at him. “Tonight? But I thought…”

Kelly came to a decision. Until told otherwise, this was still her case. And if she didn’t feel as if it was finished, then it was worth investigating further. “No, Dr. Stuart, I need you to stick around for now. Monica, you and I will try to find Danny Smith, or one of the other boys. Let’s see if anyone can tell us who Jim was stealing for.”

Monica looked visibly relieved to hear that Stuart was staying, and Kelly felt a rush of sympathy for her. Clearly she wasn’t as lackadaisical in her feelings for the anthropologist as she’d claimed. “You want to try the flophouse in North Adams again?” Monica asked.

Kelly nodded. “We’ll start there. If we don’t have any luck I’ll call Officer Bennett and ask if he can think of anywhere else to look.” Danny Smith hadn’t been at the house when the units stopped by the day before, which was starting to worry her. If the case went to trial, he was the sole witness to Sommers’s mental state the night of the murder. At the very least she needed to get an official statement from him.

“Maybe someone figured it was cheaper to off Jim than to share the cash. So they mimicked the other killings,” Monica said, nodding.

“There’s a flaw in that theory,” Dr. Stuart pointed out. “The bodies were laid out side by side. Whoever was responsible had to know where the John Doe was buried.”

“So that person would know if Sommers really is the killer,” Kelly agreed. “All the more reason to find them.”

Monica grabbed her purse off a chair. “Sounds good to me. I had nothing planned but a boring barbecue at my friend Syd’s house today, anyway. Let’s head out.”

Danny Smith sank back against the wall and drew his knees in to his chest. The past twenty-four hours had been a nightmare. Cops were stopping by the house every couple of hours now, and it was becoming a huge pain in the ass to dodge them. They’d caught him unawares the first time, grilled him about Jim and the art guy. He’d told them the truth, that the guy had been crazy, waving a gun around, just enough to make them happy so they’d leave him alone. The fact that they kept coming back meant they were looking for more, and he knew better than to give it to them. One thing he’d learned over the years was to keep his head down and let the shit fly over it. There were people out there a hell of a lot scarier than the cops.

With the recent rash of murders most of the other boys had taken off early, hitching rides south to New York or even farther, to South Beach. Pussies, he thought to himself. You just had to have your head about you, stick with one of the old assholes you knew. You hooked up with some stranger, you deserved what you got. Not that he would mind being in South Beach right now, he thought wistfully. He’d never been farther south than New Jersey, but he heard Florida was amazing. He’d almost landed a ticket himself, had spent weeks seducing this one trick, only to have him fly the coop in a panic when the cops arrested his buddy. Danny sighed and scratched at his arms. He was jonesing, hard. And it was almost a week until the next Metro night, which would probably be his first chance to hook up with someone else.

Danny felt like shit. The meth had worn off, and he was fully sober for the first time in a few weeks. It was never his favorite state of mind, he preferred being too stoned to think. He was hungry, too, totally starving, and he’d bet there wasn’t any food around. He ran a hand through his hair and slumped through the house to the kitchen, picking his way through a maze of stained mattresses, empty soda bottles and fast-food wrappers. He threw open the refrigerator and leaned in. The power was off, and a few empty ice bags had seeped water into the bottom drawer. There was nothing left but a bottle of mustard with a caked film around the top, and a jar of sauerkraut left over from a barbecue some trick had thrown for them a while back. He grabbed the sauerkraut jar and dunked his hand in, drawing out a clump of vinegary strands and stuffing them in his mouth, wincing slightly at the taste but swallowing hard to force them down. He finished the jar in three gulps and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. That should tide him over until tonight, at least. Maybe he would make a few house calls, see who was left in town and feeling lonely.

There was a knock at the door. He cocked his head to the side. Couldn’t be Jordan, the only other kid left—he would never knock. Probably the cops again. He sidled over to the side window, the one that looked out on the street. There was a cheap sedan parked out front, it had cop written all over it. He ducked his head back and dropped to the floor, cursing under his breath.