Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (101 page)

“I'm not a child, Noah.”

“Of course you are, Nicholas. Intellectually you're quite extraordinary, but let's face it—when it comes to impulse control you're essentially an adolescent.”

“Thanks, Dad. So what's the news?”

“The bad news is: The entomology department is hosting a reception for incoming graduate students and we're encouraging our faculty to attend—
all
of our faculty.”

Nick let out a moan. “Why me? You know I despise things like that.”

“This is their first introduction to our department, Nicholas. We're making an effort to give our department a human face.”

“Our department should have an insect face,” Nick said. “If they wanted a smiley face, they should have enrolled in the humanities.”

“Nicholas—for some of them it's their first introduction to our nation. We have several foreign graduate students every year, you know. Who is there to greet them when they arrive? Who helps their wives and children settle in? Who tells them, ‘Welcome to America'?”

“Doesn't the government take care of that? What are we paying taxes for?”

“Now you're just being silly. What does this really require of you?”

“In terms of physical energy or emotional trauma?”

“Nicholas.”

“Okay, Noah, I give up. I'll be there.”

“In body
and
in spirit.”

“That I can't promise.”

“Nicholas.”

“Oh, all right—I'll do my best. Now what's the good news?”

“Our office just received a phone call from the Sampson County sheriff's department. It seems a man has been murdered there, and they're requesting the assistance of a forensic entomologist. They specifically asked for you—not that there are many options. Sampson County is about—”

“I know where it is, Noah. How long ago did they call?”

“About an hour.”

“Do you have an address?”

Noah held out a slip of paper.

Nick snatched it from his hand and hurried for the door. “Why didn't you tell me this in the first place?”

Noah watched as the door slammed behind him. “That's why,” he said.

3

T
he body sprawled facedown in the dirt between the long rows of bushy green shrubs. The victim's arms lay at his sides with the palms facing up, indicating that the man had made no attempt to break his fall.

“Dead before he hit the ground,” the Sampson County detective said.

“At least unconscious,” Nick replied. “Have you got a name?”

“Massino,” he said. “Call me Danny.”

“I meant the victim.”

“Oh. His name is Severenson—Michael Severenson. This is his farm. How long you figure he's been out here?”

“Quick guess? Three days, possibly four. It's a little hard to tell because the body's been shaded by these plants. If he was lying in the direct sun this time of year, he'd be a lot further along.”

The furrow was no more than thirty inches wide, allowing the two men barely enough room to kneel—Nick at the victim's feet and the detective at the head, with the overhanging branches brushing against their arms.

“What kind of a farm did you say this is?”

“Tomatoes, mostly—one of those organic places. You know—” He lifted his little finger and wiggled it.

Nick blinked at the detective. When he did, his huge brown orbs vanished behind his lenses and reappeared an instant later. “I'm not following you.”

“You know, one of those froufrou places.
Back to nature
—no bug spray, no chemicals, nothing but dear old Mother Earth. I'll bet this guy never thought he'd end up fertilizing his own plants—talk about organic.”

“The human body makes excellent fertilizer,” Nick said. “The soft tissues contain carbon and nitrogen, and the bones are a good source of calcium and phosphorus. It's like a slow-release fertilizer, really, since the body decomposes over a period of—” Nick noticed a sudden silence and looked up.

“I was kidding,” Massino said.

“Oh.”

Nick went back to the body again. There appeared to be two bullet holes near the center of the back, one on either side of the spine. “Have your forensic techs got everything they need here?”

“Yeah, they're done.”

Nick worked two gloved fingers into the holes in the victim's khaki shirt and carefully ripped the fabric open, exposing the skin. The bullet holes were spaced just an inch or two apart, and the wounds were already heavily infested with maggots. He studied the placement of the bullet holes. “Pretty good marksmanship,” he said.

“Yeah, that's a tight spread—and judging by the spacing of the guy's footprints, it looks like he might have been on the run.”

“He was,” Nick said. “See the slide pattern in the dirt? He was moving pretty fast when he was hit, probably at a dead sprint. He was obviously trying to get away from someone. Did you find any footprints from the perp?”

“None—and the dirt's pretty soft, so we figure the shooter must have fired from the grass at the end of the row.”

Nick turned and looked; it was a good thirty yards to the end of the row. Beyond it he could see a farmhouse with white siding and a gray aluminum roof. “I'd look for a hunter if I were you. Whoever did this was no stranger to guns—he got off two shots before the victim even dropped.”

“A hunter,” Massino said. “Gee, thanks. That narrows it down to every man in Sampson County—and half the women too.”

“I'd be nice to your wife if I were you. Any ideas about a motive?”

“We think it might have been drug-related.”

“Why's that?”

“This is a farm community, Polchak—people know each other out here. Michael Severenson grew up on this farm; he inherited it from his folks. That's how most people end up with farms these days 'cause the land's getting too pricey to buy. Severenson had a drug problem and everybody around here knew it—so did we. He had a couple of priors for possession; nothing major. He went through rehab a couple of times, but it never took.”

“Was he married?”

“Yeah—got a kid too.”

“Was his wife the one who found him?”

“Yeah. Stumbled onto him this morning. That's gotta be tough.”

Nick frowned. “The woman didn't miss her husband for three days?”

“They've been separated for about a year. Not legally—he just up and took off one day. They've got a little workers' cottage over behind the barn, a place where the migrants used to live; whenever he dropped by he stayed there. She didn't see much of the guy—sometimes for weeks at a time.”

“Do you think he was dealing?”

“We don't know yet. We think maybe he was trying to break into the business. If he was, he might have stepped on somebody's toes.”

“You have that kind of problem out here?”

“They have that kind of problem everywhere—Sampson County's no different. We won't be positive about the drug angle until we can go over the place with a narcotics dog team. We're looking for one in Charlotte, but we're not having much luck.”

“You need a good dog team? I can recommend one.”

“Yeah?”

“I know a woman up in northern Virginia. She trains the dogs herself. I've worked with her. Never saw anything like it—her dogs can practically talk.”

“Think she's available?”

“I can give her a call.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

Nick opened a large plastic toolbox and removed a long slender forceps and a series of small bottles half-filled with a clear liquid. “Hold these,” he said, handing the bottles to Massino. “Take the caps off and set them down. Be careful not to spill them.”

Next he took out a sleeve of small Styrofoam cups, a stack of coffee filters, and a ziplock bag filled with dark red meat cut into mediumsized cubes. He separated the cups and lined them up in front of them; he opened the plastic bag and dropped a cube of meat into each one.

“What is that?” Massino asked.

“Beef liver.”

“What are the cups for?”

“They're known as ‘maggot motels,'” Nick said. “Here—take a couple.” He handed two of them to Massino, then leaned out over the body and began to examine the wounds, sorting through the wriggling mass of maggots with the forceps.

Massino grimaced. “What are you doing?”

“Searching for the largest specimens.”

“Why?”

“They'll be the oldest. They were the first ones here.”

Nick carefully plucked a particularly plump specimen from the roiling mass. He held it up to his glasses and examined it, then reached across and dropped it into one of the Styrofoam cups. When each cup contained three or four of the hardiest specimens, Nick took the cups back from the detective, stretched a coffee filter across the top of each of them, and secured it in place with a rubber band. Then he repeated the process, collecting specimens from each of the wounds until all the motels were occupied.

“Now the bottles,” he said, depositing two or three specimens into each of them and labeling them with the location of the wound where they were found.

“What are these for?”

“To identify species. The liquid is a preservative.”

Massino swatted at a fly buzzing around his face.

“Don't do that,” Nick said.

“Why not?”

“Those are specimens too. I need to net a few.”

“Don't they ever bother you?”

“Does physical evidence bother you?”

Massino watched as Nick carefully returned each item to the toolbox. “What happens now?” he asked.

“Certain insects are attracted to decomposing bodies,” Nick said. “Blowflies and flesh flies, for example—those things buzzing around your head. The females are looking for places to lay their eggs. They look for soft tissues that their babies won't have trouble chewing—open wounds and decomposing flesh are just the thing. The eggs hatch into maggots; the maggots grow and develop; they pass through distinct developmental stages that are easy to recognize; finally they pupate and emerge as adult flies. Are you following me?”

“So far.”

“We've studied the life cycles of several different species, and we know exactly how long it takes for the insects to develop from egg to mature adult—
exactly
. So here we are; we've got a dead guy and he's got maggots. But how long has the dead guy been dead? When was he killed? To find out, I collect the oldest maggots from the body and take them back to my lab. I rear them—I allow them to continue to grow in exactly the same conditions I find here. I time them—I count the precise number of hours until those maggots crawl out of their puparia as adult flies. After that, it's just mathematics. I identify the species, I look up the total time it takes for them to develop, I subtract the time it took for me to rear them, and I count backward.
Bingo
—we know the postmortem interval, the precise amount of time between death and the discovery of the body.”

“How precise?”

“This should be a textbook case,” Nick said. “A body in the open air during warm weather—it doesn't get any easier than this for a guy like me. I should be able to calculate a postmortem interval that's accurate within a few hours. That should help you narrow your field of suspects.”

“Yeah—that would help a lot.”

“I'm a little confused,” Nick said. “You don't seem to know anything about forensic entomology.”

“Never had much use for it.”

“Then why did you send for me?”

“I didn't—she did.”

“Who?”

“The wife.”

Nick paused. “The victim's wife requested a forensic entomologist?”

“She requested you—specifically.”

“Me?” Nick stopped to think. “
Severenson
. . . I don't know anyone by that name.”

“Well, she knows you. She seemed to know all about you—and this weird business of yours. She told us, ‘After seventy-two hours of death, forensic entomology is the most accurate way to quantify the postmortem interval.'”

“She said that? She used the term ‘postmortem interval'?”

“Yeah, just like that.”

Nick paused. “I think I'm in love.”

“She seemed to know what she was talking about, and she was insistent. We figured, ‘Hey, it's her husband—why not humor the woman? What can it hurt?'”

“Your confidence is overwhelming,” Nick said. “You might be surprised to know that—”