Collecting the Dead (34 page)

“We’re too late, aren’t we?”

Jimmy just shakes his head; he won’t look at me.

I look around on the ground for Susan’s shine to see if it’s still vibrating, but there’s none to be found.

Decomp.

Even the truncated word is unpleasant—cop shorthand for decomposition. The smell is hard to explain and impossible to forget. The best description might be rank sweetness; a wretched stench that, if allowed to marinate, causes involuntary vomiting and seeps into every fiber of your clothes and every follicle of your hair.

The body begins to decompose almost immediately upon death through two distinct and separate processes: autolysis and putrefaction. Autolysis can best be described as self-digestion. The enzymes within the body begin to break down the cells and tissue, much like saliva and stomach acid break down food.

The uglier side of decomposition, putrefaction, is the process whereby bacteria in the body, particularly in the intestines, begin to break the body down. This causes massive bloating as the bacteria gives off gases that accumulate in the body’s cavities and in the skin. The skin itself becomes discolored, marbling into a spiderweb of green-black veins on the face, the torso, the arms and legs. Eventually the skin blisters, fingernails slough off, and purge fluids begin to drain from the nose and mouth.

The speed of this process varies greatly depending on the environment. The most significant factor is temperature: heat speeds up the process, cold slows it down. Other factors come into play as well, such as whether the body is exposed, buried, or submerged. Bacteria react differently in each of these environments. The exposed body is also subject to a greater degree of predation—animals making a meal of it.

That’s decomposition; the process is nasty, the smell is worse.

Moving close to the opening, I peer in. “FBI,” I shout. “If anyone’s in there, call out.” I barely get the words out before having to force down the bile rising in my throat. At the same time, my body starts dumping saliva into my mouth, that telltale precursor to vomiting. I move back from the hole and gulp fresh air.

“It’s pitch-black in there,” I gasp at Jimmy. “We’re going to need a flashlight or a torch or something.”

Jimmy quickly shrugs off his backpack and sets it on the ground. I follow his lead and begin with the pockets in the front, working my way into the main pouch. We each find a small Maglite and numerous packs of twelve-hour tactical glow sticks.

There’s something else.

At the bottom of the bag is a sealed container of light blue surgical face masks. Next to it is a small brown bottle that looks like it came from a kitchen pantry; it’s peppermint oil. I hold them up for Jimmy to see. “I guess we don’t have to throw up after all.”

Some people prefer a dab of Vicks VapoRub when dealing with decomp; you see it in the movies all the time, detectives walking in on an autopsy and dabbing some Vicks or other menthol-based gel under their nose to deal with the smell.

The peppermint oil is a nice touch, a better option.

Unwrapping two masks, I pour out three quick drops of oil onto each, hand one of the masks to Jimmy, and pull the other over my nose and mouth. The result is instantly pleasant, even soothing.

Standing above the bunker opening, I snap two glow sticks and toss them in. They land on dirt ten feet down and reveal a metal ladder at a slight incline connecting to the metal frame of the hatch. I shine my light into the hole as Jimmy descends the steps with his Glock in hand.

He moves forward into the darkness and I see the scattered beam of his flashlight as it sweeps left and right and left again. His back is to me and his figure is cast in shadow, but I see him slowly lower his gun, then, just as slowly, he holsters it.

“Clear,” Jimmy calls, his voice slightly muffled by the mask.

He comes back to a narrow wooden table to the left of the ladder and begins to fiddle with something as I make my way down two steps at a time. Just as I reach the bottom and turn around, a bright glow bursts from the table, and Jimmy turns around holding an electric lamp that casts light fifteen feet in every direction. It’s the type of lamp designed for hunters and campers, and uses fluorescent bulbs powered by a rechargeable battery pack. It puts off a good glow, but even so the bunker is large enough that the corners are in shadow.

I pause to look around as Jimmy makes his way to the far left corner. The bunker is primitive by any standard: unpainted, stained cinder-block walls, a timber roof held up by a series of four-by-six beams, a dirt floor filthy with squalor.

There’s a steady
tap-tap-tap
coming from the left and I turn to find the source: a six-inch puddle in the dirt. Above the puddle, sitting on a wooden frame, is a fifty-five-gallon white plastic drum about half full of water. The seal at the spigot is faulty and the water drips from it with a clocklike rhythm.

Jimmy’s already in one corner and as I make my way over I notice he’s standing on a makeshift floor of two-by-six planks laid down over the soil. No other part of the bunker has a floor, just this corner. A mattress rests upon a portion of the planks and a still figure rests upon the mattress: a rag doll cast aside after play.

Susan Ault.

She’s covered in an old blanket with a quilt pattern, not a true quilt, just some knockoff made to look like one. A primitive, homemade manacle is around her scarred and bloody left wrist, secured in place by a small lock. A section of chain connects the manacle to the wall.

As before, a key is nearby, this time in plain sight. A nail protrudes from the cinder-block wall just beyond Susan’s reach; a nail that holds the key. It’s as if he put it there intentionally, on display, to taunt her.

A minute later she’s free of the manacle but still not responding. Her eyes are closed, her lips dry and cracked, her pulse weak. Jimmy takes her in his arms, blanket and all, and lifts her from the filthy mattress. As he does, her eyes flutter and then open to a narrow slit.

Jimmy sees it. “We’ve got you,” he says gently, his voice breaking at the edges. “It’s all over. You’re safe.”

It takes a moment for her to focus on his face, and then on the FBI logo on his jacket. “Thank you,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “My … daughter?”

“She’s safe,” I say, taking Susan’s hand and holding it to my chest. My mind is suddenly overcome by the image of little Sarah burying her small face in my chest when we found her in her crib. The memory breaks me apart. “Your sister’s looking after her,” I manage. “She’s a beautiful little girl and she’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes close, and for a moment I fear that she’s letting go, drifting away, but then her breathing steadies.

“We’ve got to get her out of here,” Jimmy says.

“Let me get topside. I can pull—” The words fall away, fractured and spent.

I stand rigid in the heart of the bunker, staring into the gloom of the right corner.
The smell!
My knees threaten to buckle and I stagger forward several steps.
Oh, God. I should have known—I should have guessed
.

“Steps.”

Jimmy’s voice does little to call me back.

“Come on, Steps, I need your help. STEPS!”

I don’t answer him. My next words are directed elsewhere: difficult words that are hard to think, let alone speak. I push them from my throat, from my mouth, through my teeth. I force the words out and feel the sting of salt in my eyes as I address the silent shadow slumped in the corner.

“I’m sorry, Lauren. I’m so sorry.”

Her naked body is bloated, discolored, and misshapen from decomposition. She’s unrecognizable, but I know her. I know her shine, sweet girl. It’s dull and flat now, with no vibration, like the locket, but it’s her.

Seconds pass, minutes pass, maybe even hours. I feel a hand on my shoulder like someone reaching down from the rafters above.
No … not rafters
. I realize I’m huddled on the ground; folded over; broken. Jimmy takes me by the arm and helps me to my feet. He guides me away from the silent shadow and back to the light of the world above.

Susan has already been rushed from the bunker and spirited away in the back of an SUV. An ambulance is en route and will meet them somewhere along the way to Red Bluff.

Lauren is gone. I already knew that; I always know, I’ve known for days. But finding her body, seeing her … it makes it that much worse. My failure becomes tangible; in sight, in smell, in every way imaginable.

This is on me.

Jimmy will tell me later that it’s not my fault, that we did everything we could to find her, to unmask Sad Face, but in the end his words are but wind and I’m left with the image of a once-beautiful girl on one side of my brain and a rotting corpse on the other.

My
failure.

I feel hands on both sides of me now, Jimmy to my right and a giant to my left. It’s Walt. He has tears in his eyes. They lay me down on the cool dirt in the shade of the copse of trees and I rip the surgical mask from my face and toss it aside. Jimmy forces me to drink some water; his forehead is hard and wrinkled, his eyes narrow with concern. He pats me on the chest and forces a bitter smile.

“Susan’s alive,” Jimmy says. “
You
saved her. She’s going home to her little girl because of you, Steps.”

I’m shaking my head and trying not to lose it again. “Lauren…”

“I know.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, my brother in so many ways.

He doesn’t say it; he doesn’t have to. I hear the words in my head, the motto, the mantra.

We save the ones we can
.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

July 9, 5:27
P.M.

The burgundy Chrysler 300 sits where I last saw it, still impeccably clean, still loved, still waiting. The well-groomed car is the embodiment of the Brouwers’ sad vigil for a daughter too long missing.

I stand on the porch, Lauren’s locket tight in my right hand, working up the courage to ring the doorbell. I can feel Jimmy watching me from inside Walt’s Expedition. I insisted that they let me do this myself; I don’t know why. It all seems so hard at this moment and I’m weary; weary beyond measure, beyond sleep.

My soul is weary.

I’m just about to turn and walk back to the SUV and let Walt and Jimmy handle this when I hear the doorknob turn, and then Alice Brouwer is standing before me. She sees the subtle streaks on my face and the watery glisten in my eyes and she knows.

She knows.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all I can manage to say as I gently place the locket in her hand. Her fingers hesitate to take it at first, but then she holds it tight. She collapses, broken, in my arms, sobbing, weeping; she wails a dreadful dirge that shatters the last of me into tiny pieces. I cradle her. I cry with her.

I don’t know how long we stand there. There’s no clock in purgatory. Eventually Walt and Jimmy join us and help guide Alice to the living room. Her pastor was notified before our arrival and is soon at her side. An assistant pastor is on his way to Redding to retrieve Martin Brouwer from work and drive him home.

Minutes turn to hours and word spreads among neighbors and family. They begin to arrive in ones and twos until the house is full to bursting. I’m on the porch, standing by myself at the rail and looking out over the California hills, when a young man arrives. He has Lauren’s eyes and cheeks, and I immediately recognize him from her Facebook page—Larry, her brother. Beside him is another young man who can barely walk, his face tortured, his mind in a surreal fog. It’s Lauren’s fiancé.

Larry pauses on the porch and looks at me a moment. Letting go of the fiancé’s arm, he walks over slowly and extends his hand. We’ve never met and I wonder how he knows me, but then I remember I’m wearing a Windbreaker with
FBI
in large letters on the back.

I take his hand; we shake. He puts his other hand over mine and just holds it for a moment. No words are said; there are no words for such a meeting. We just tip our heads at each other and share a moment of grief, an unspoken thank-you, an unspoken sorry. Then he’s gone, guiding the fiancé into the house to face the sorrow within.

So much lost.

So much broken.

After a while, Jimmy and Walt join me on the porch and we make our way slowly back to the Expedition, Jimmy to my left, Walt to my right. Walt still has two crime scenes to process and three bodies to recover. For Jimmy, it’s back home to Jane and little Pete. They’ll wonder why he holds them so tight, as they’ve wondered a time or two before.

And when Jimmy kisses little Pete on the cheek, he’ll say, “Stop, Dad. You’re goofy. Boys don’t kiss boys.” He’s said that a time or two before as well.

For me, it’s back to Big Perch and Jens. It’s back to Mom, Dad, Diane, an eccentric nudist neighbor who has too many hats, a pint-sized rodent who pees in my shoes, and … maybe … Heather?

Right now it’s hard to hope for good things.

As I open the Expedition door, I hear a shout from behind and turn to see Alice racing from the porch. She slows a few feet in front of me and then embraces me hard. Her eyes are dry now, empty of tears. She stands on her tiptoes and whispers in my ear, “Thank you,” and then holds me again. Stepping back, she places a piece of paper in my hand, and then says to the three of us, “Thank you for finding my girl, for bringing her home. You don’t know what it means.”

She turns without another word and walks back to the house. Larry’s waiting on the porch and slides his arm around her as they come together and make their way back inside.

I feel it between my fingers—the paper. It has a silky smooth feel to it and I suddenly realize what it is, though I haven’t yet looked.

I don’t want to look
, I tell myself. I’ll just put it in my pocket, and later, much later, when the wound is not so fresh or so deep, then I’ll look. But my eyes betray me, my hand defies me. I find myself staring at the four-by-six photo, and I can’t look away.

Lauren smiles at me from a happier time not too long ago.

It’s a good smile.