Eyeshot (10 page)

“Is this the original bag?” Sonora said. It looked to be in too good a shape.

Sizemore spoke through his handkerchief. “No, that bag was ripped open, and fish had been into it. The original's in there, though. What's left of it. I double-bagged it just to keep … anything from falling out.”

Like when you buy canned goods at the grocery, Sonora thought. She reached for her purse, and a pair of latex gloves.

Sam fished a tiny pocketknife out of his blazer and cut the fishing line.

“Let me put some newspapers down,” Sizemore said, moving quickly. He slid a thick wide padding of newspapers on the floor, and Sonora removed the bag from the cooler.

A thick splat of water stained the front page of the
Clinton Register
right over the article about trouble at the Main Street McDonald's. Sonora held her breath, taking air in nasty shallow snorts. Water streamed down one side of the bag as she rolled the top away.

Plastic garbage bags had long been a boon to criminals and homeowners alike, storage being a problem in many lines of work.

A small foot bulged through a ragged tear heel first, meat sagging, bone exposed along the top of the foot. Long black hair was twisted through the toes. The interior bag was battered brown plastic, stained and smeared with things uncomfortable to imagine. It was open at the top, revealing more black hair. Sonora pushed the shredded plastic to one side, and began to unpack.

The tally included one severed head, face hidden by heavy black strands of hair. In her mind's eye, Sonora saw the picture of Julia Winchell with her two little girls gathered into her lap. She held the image, trying to match it to the head that dripped onto the pad of plastic and newsprint.

She reached back into the bag, removed two hands and two feet, the right one taken off at the ankle, the left severed well over the joint. Sonora gently peeled and unwound the long black hair that stuck to Julia's face like cellophane against an iced cupcake.

The face was swollen pale and unrecognizable. The mouth was open and Sonora took the flashlight Sam handed her and pointed it inside. The meat of the tongue was gone, eaten back to the nub. The woman had small white teeth and no cavities, a tiny delicate mouth, turning black with rot.

The right eye was a gnawed, empty socket, thick with unhatched fly larvae.

“She's been outside some,” Sonora said.

Sizemore was nodding. “Boy who found her left her out in his minnow bucket while he decided what to do. Brought all this up on his trotline, first thing this morning.”

“His minnow bucket,” Sonora said softly, with a sigh. The left eye was still intact, small blood vessels swollen and burst. She looked up at Sam.

“Strangled?” he asked.

“Looks like. Petechial hemorrhaging, so strangled or hung.”

Sam grunted as he stretched the latex gloves over his thick hands. One size fit all—which meant they hung over the edges of Sonora's fingers, and went with difficulty over Sam's.

“Go slow,” Sonora said. “These have been in the water awhile.”

“Slippage?” Sam asked.

“Looks like.”

He picked the right hand up carefully. Bits of flesh had been nipped away, and what was left was pale white around the midnight blue mottling of rot. The flesh was swollen, giving it a thick, glove-like look, and it had been in the water long enough that the pelt of skin was pulling loose from the structure of bone.

She had small hands, even swollen with gas and bloated with water, and they looked tiny and fragile in Sam's thick long fingers. The index finger was gone on the right hand, just above the knuckle joint, and Sonora thought of torture and hungry fish, and wondered which it was.

“Any defense wounds?” she asked.

Sam turned the hand palm up and shoved it in her direction. “I don't see anything. What do you think about the chop?” He turned the edge up, for better viewing.

Sonora turned her head to one side, squinted.

Clean severing, leaving the fine-tooth grain of a serrated cutting edge.

“Some kind of saw,” Sonora said.

“Chain saw?” Sizemore asked.

Sonora shook her head. “Too fine for that.”

“Hacksaw,” Sam said, glancing over his shoulder at Sizemore. “Don't you think?”

The sheriff swallowed but stepped forward. Took a hard look.

Sonora knew he wanted to leave them to it, and wished that he would, but he was too polite to go, and she was too polite to ask.

“I've used a hacksaw a time or two,” the sheriff said, voice deep and tight. “I'd say could well have been, though tell you the truth, I don't have my reading glasses on, and I'm not much used to this end of the job.” He looked at the stub of index finger. “I'd say a gar got hold of that right there.”

“Excuse me,” Sonora said. “What the hell is a gar?”

Sizemore looked at her kindly. “Kind of a cross between a fish and an alligator. Little legs and sharp teeth.”

“Ick.” Sonora tilted her head to one side. “What you think, Sheriff Sizemore. Is this Julia Winchell?”

He looked away from the floor, and studied the outer wall, as if there were a window there. “I can't say for sure, but with that hair and all, and her up and missing. I'd say so.”

Sonora reached for the left foot, turning it to one side to expose the ankle. The skin was coated with moss and snagged leaves. She pushed them away, revealing a mask of blackened decomposition. She wondered if there was a dragon tattooed underneath.

16

Julia Winchell's killer had run into bad luck when the plastic bag containing her severed head, hands, and feet had snagged on a trotline draped across the bottom of the Clinch River.

Sonora looked across the water to a small park. She wished Heather was on one of the swing sets, instead of crammed in the back of the sheriff's car with Clampett, air conditioner straining in the hot humid air. The sun was formidable, and beer consumption was high among the spectators of the softball game across the river. Sonora smelled charcoal and hot dogs, saw the large black grill, the thin drift of smoke. The softball players seemed out for blood, in spite of the afternoon heat. Likely a grudge match, Sonora decided.

Sheriff Sizemore looked over at Sam. “Not to interfere, but your brakes were squealing on that Blazer. They feel mushy when you drive?”

Sam smiled good-naturedly. “Felt fine to me.”

Sizemore shrugged, pointed through the trees. “The ole boy who dredged up that garbage bag lives back there. Got a mobile home just behind those trees. Not far.”

Sonora looked over her shoulder at the trim fields, green and fragrant against the water. “All this land his?”

Sizemore shook his head. “Belongs to Cleaton Simms, been in his family for years. No, this ole boy used to do some handy work for Cleaton's daddy—he still helps keep the tractors up and the machinery going. Name's George Cheatham. Hell of a mechanic, but he's old now, and slowing down, and his wife is in bed most the time with the diabetes. He looks after her.” Sizemore glanced up and down the river. “It's a good spot, out here. George does a lot of fishing.”

The mobile home was vintage fifties, aluminum painted sky blue so long ago the color was mostly memories and paint flakes. It was hidden behind the trees, all the windows cranked open with old-fashioned levers and sticks. The front door was propped open, screen door shut. The outside metal looked like it would be hot to the touch.

There was no breeze. Sonora could not imagine the mobile home being anything but unbearably hot inside.

A stack of old tractor tires was a presence on the left. One had been set down and filled with sand. A plastic sand pail and broken off shovel, both a faded yellow, sat to one side of the tire, and a child's Tonka dump truck sat on top. An orange cat sat in the middle of the sandbox, blinked, turned his back, and began digging.

Sizemore noticed Sonora's look. “Their grandkids come sometimes. Cleat fills it up with sand for them every year.”

The screen door creaked and the sheriff raised a hand. He looked at Sam and Sonora. “This is George Cheatham. This is the old boy that found her.”

Cheatham wore khaki work pants, mud-stained around the bottoms, heavy work shoes, unlaced, tongues flopping, and a worn white T-shirt that hung loose on his thin neck and arms. His skin had the rough and red bronze veneer of years of work in the sun, and his hair was short and fine and steely gray. He walked slowly, like his back hurt, and dragged his feet. The toes of his shoes were scuffed and scarred, so dragging his feet along was more habit than reluctance to make their acquaintance.

“George, these are the detectives from Cincinnati I told you about.”

George nodded. His hand shook when he offered it to Sonora and he looked a little white around the lips. Sonora glanced over his shoulder. Saw a curtain move in a window of the mobile home. It was too bright out to see inside. Probably the wife, wondering if they were coming in.

“I'm Specialist Blair, this is Specialist Delarosa.”

Cheatham shifted his weight like his feet hurt. “Y'all like to come on in and sit down? Get out of the sun?”

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Cheatham. But what would really help is for you to tell us what happened and show us where you found the … the bag. Let us take a couple of pictures.” Sam held up a camera.

Sonora put a fresh tape in her recorder. Sweat trickled down the small of her back. The heat was making her queasy.

Cheatham nodded. His mouth worked in nervous little chewing motions. “My boat's down this way, y'all want to see?”

Sonora glanced over her shoulder—the sheriff's car was out of sight behind the trees. She nodded at Sam. “Head on down. I want to check on Heather, then I'll catch up.”

“Want to bring her down?”

Sonora glanced at Cheatham. He wouldn't talk freely about dismembered body parts with a seven year old around. Neither would she.

“Nope.” Sonora headed back through the trees.

A man stood next to the sheriff's patrol car, his back to her, arms resting on the open window. She could see the top of Heather's head, and Clampett sitting in the driver's side. The front dash was fogged with dog drool and snout marks.

The man wore a faded pair of Wranglers, a white cotton T-shirt. Cute butt, which didn't stop Sonora from wondering what he was doing chatting up her seven year old, and why Clampett didn't bark.

Her feet hit gravel and the man turned.

“Girl, you look like you're going to tear my head off. Don't recognize me?”

She didn't right at first. His hair was longer than the last time she'd seen him, thick and brown, and his face was tan. He looked fresh-scrubbed and cool, sunglasses hung from the neck of the T-shirt. His cheeks were pink from a fresh shave, arms more muscular than she remembered, coated with coarse tan hair.

“Smallwood.”

He gave her a sideways look, fluttered his lashes provocatively. “You can call me Deputy, if you want.”

“I'm still trying to figure out why my dog doesn't bark at you.”

“I have a way with animals. Usually sheep.”

She was going to shake his hand, but he gave her a hug instead. She caught the faintest whiff of scent. He smelled good. She liked it when men smelled good. She wished she wasn't so hot and sweaty.

He nodded at Heather. “These rookies get younger every year.”

“It's take your daughter to work day.”

“Mom's going to take me to the morgue when I'm older,” Heather said.

“Much older,” Sonora muttered.

“
And
teach me to shoot.” Heather gave him a cheerful grin. “Mommy, I'm hot. Can Clampett and me get out of the car?” A film of sweat coated her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed.

“Yeah, hop on out.”

“What's going on?” Smallwood asked.

Heather was fumbling with the door handle, and he opened the door, gave her a hand out.

Sonora stepped away from the car, voice low. “Got a find here that may match up to what you got in London.”

“Head, hands, and feet,” Heather said. She looked at Sonora. “That lady in the office told me.”

“Good of her to bring you up to date. What brings you out here, Smallwood?”

He smiled. “This is Southern law enforcement. We all know what goes on in each other's backyards. Plus, we did kind of find the leg on our watch, if it turns out to be a match.”

“Did you know Julia Winchell?”

He shook his head.

“You want to walk down with me, talk to the guy who found her, take a look around?”

Smallwood glanced at Heather. “What you going to do with little bit here?”

“Take her along. It's too hot to sit in the car.”

Smallwood glanced across the water to the little park full of swing sets, Softball players, lush green grass, and noisy children.

“Why don't I take her over there till you get done with your business?”

Sonora hesitated.

Smallwood smiled patiently while she turned the pros and cons over in her mind.

“You sure you don't need to go down there with me?” she asked.

“I've seen a trotline before.”

“Not like this one, I bet. And how you getting over there to the park?” She glanced at the sheriff's patrol car.

“I've got my Jeep just over there. You didn't think I walked down from London, did you, Sonora? Brought my dog too. We'll take yours along, and they can keep each other company.”

Sonora frowned. “Clampett's kind of big. He can be a little aggressive.”

Smallwood grinned. “I figure Tubby can handle the shock.”

“Don't let Clampett hurt him.”

Smallwood laughed and Sonora gave him an uneasy look.

“Heather, you want to go to the park with Deputy Smallwood, and swing on the swings?”

“Clampett's coming with me?”

Sonora nodded.