Guilt (2 page)

Tiny skeleton, now a scatter of loose bones.

The skull had landed right in front of her. Smiling. Black eyeholes insanely
piercing
.

Two minuscule tooth-thingies on the bottom jaw looked ready to bite.

Holly sat there, unable to move or breathe or think.

A bird peeped.

Silence bore down on Holly.

A leg bone rolled to one side as if by its own power and she let out a wordless retch of fear and revulsion.

That did nothing to discourage the skull. It kept
staring
. Like it knew something.

Holly mustered all of her strength and screamed.

Kept screaming.

T
he woman was blond, pretty, white-faced, pregnant.

Her name was Holly Ruche and she sat hunched atop a tree stump, one of a dozen or so massive, chain-sawed segments taking up a good portion of the run-down backyard. Breathing hard and clutching her belly, she clenched her eyes shut. One of Milo’s cards rested between her right thumb and forefinger, crumpled beyond recognition. For the second time since I’d arrived, she waved off help from the paramedics.

They hung around anyway, paying scant attention to the uniforms and the coroner’s crew. Everyone standing around looking superfluous; it would take an anthropologist to make sense of this.

Milo had phoned the EMTs first. “Priorities. It’s not like there’s any emergency to the rest of it.”

The rest of it
was an assortment of brown bones that had once been a baby’s skeleton, scattered on an old blanket. Not a random toss, the general shape was of a tiny, disarticulated human body.

Open sutures in the skull and a couple of dental eruptions in the mandible made my guess four to six months, but my Ph.D.’s in the
wrong science for that kind of prophecy. The smallest bones—fingers, toes—weren’t much thicker than toothpicks.

Looking at the poor little thing made my eyes hurt. I shifted my attention to details.

Beneath the blanket was a wad of newspaper clippings from 1951 lining a blue metal box around two feet long. The paper was the L.A.
Daily News
, defunct since 1954. A sticker on the side of the box read
Property Swedish Benevolent Hospital and Infirmary, 232 Central Avenue, Los Angeles, Ca
.—an institution just confirmed by Milo to have shut down in ’52.

The homely, squat Tudor house fronting the yard looked to be older than that, probably from the twenties when so much of L.A. had taken shape.

Holly Ruche began crying.

A paramedic approached again. “Ma’am?”

“I’m fine …” Swollen-eyed, hair cut in an off-kilter bob mussed by nervous hands, she focused on Milo, as if for the first time, shifted to me, shook her head, stood.

Folding her arms across her occupied abdomen, she said, “When can I have my house back, Detective?”

“Soon as we finish processing, Ms. Ruche.”

She regarded me again.

Milo said, “This is Dr. Delaware, our consulting psychologist—”

“Psychologist? Is someone worried about my mental health?”

“No, ma’am. We sometimes call Dr. Delaware in when—”

“Thanks but I’m fine.” Shuddering, she glanced back to where she’d found the bones. “So horrible.”

Milo said, “How deeply was the box buried?”

“I don’t know—not deep, I was able to pull it up, wasn’t I? You don’t really think this is a real crime, do you? I mean a new one. It’s historical, not for the police, right? The house was constructed in 1927 but it could’ve even been there way before, the land used to be bean fields and grapevines, if you dug up the neighborhood—any neighborhood—who knows what you’d find.”

She placed a hand on her chest. Seemed to be fighting for oxygen.

Milo said, “Maybe you should sit down, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry, I promise I’m okay.”

“How about we let the paramedics take a look at you—”

“I’ve already been looked at,” she said. “By a real doctor, yesterday, my ob-gyn, everything’s perfect.”

“How far along are you?”

“Five months.” Her smile was frigid. “What could possibly not be okay? I own a gorgeous house. Even though you’re
processing
it.” She hmmphed. “It’s
their
fault, all I wanted to do was have them get rid of the tree, if they hadn’t done it sloppy, this would never have happened.”

“The previous owners?”

“The Hannahs, Mark and Brenda, it was their mother’s, she died, they couldn’t wait to cash out … hey, here’s something for you, Detective … I’m sorry, what’d you say your name was?”

“Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“Here’s something, Lieutenant Sturgis: The old woman was ninety-three when she died, she lived here for a long time, the house still smells of her. So she could easily have … done that.”

“We’ll look into it, Ms. Ruche.”

“What exactly does
processing
mean?”

“Depends on what else we find.”

She reached into a jean pocket and drew out a phone that she jabbed angrily. “C’mon, answer already—oh, I got you. Finally. Listen, I need you to come over … to the house. You won’t believe what happened … what? No, I can’t—okay, soon as the meeting’s finished … no, don’t call, just come over.”

She hung up.

Milo said, “Your husband?”

“He’s an accountant.” As if that explained it. “So what’s
processing
?”

“Our first step will be bringing some dogs in to sniff around, depending upon what they come up with, maybe a below-ground sonar to see if anything else is buried down there.”

“Else?” said Holly Ruche. “Why would there be anything else?”

“No reason, but we need to be thorough.”

“You’re saying my home is a graveyard? That’s disgusting. All you’ve got is some old bones, there’s no reason to think there’s more.”

“I’m sure you’re right—”

“Of course I’m right, I own this place. The house
and
the land.”

A hand fluttered to her abdomen. She massaged. “My baby’s developing perfectly.”

“That’s great, Ms. Ruche.”

She stared at Milo, gave out a tiny squeak. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth went slack, she pitched backward.

Milo and I both caught her. Her skin was dank, clammy. As she went limp, the paramedics rushed over, looking oddly satisfied.

I-told-you-so
nods. One of them said, “It’s always the stubborn ones. We’ll take it from here, Lieutenant.”

Milo said, “You sure as hell will,” and went to call the anthropologist.

L
iz Wilkinson had just finished a lecture at the U., would be over in twenty. Milo went to make more calls and I sat with Holly Ruche.

All vital signs fine per the EMTs, but she needed to rest and get down some fluids. They gave me custody of the Gatorade squeeze bottle, packed up and left for an emergency call near the 405 freeway.

The first time I offered the bottle to Holly she clamped her mouth and shook her head. The second time, her lips parted. Several sips later, she smiled and lowered her right hand until it rested atop my left. Her skin had warmed. She said, “I feel much better … you’re a psychologist for victim aid?”

“I do what’s needed, there’s no set routine.”

“I guess I am a victim. Of sorts.”

“It had to be rough.”

“It was horrible. Do you think he’s going to dig up my entire yard?”

“He won’t do anything unnecessary.”

“That sounds like you’re covering for him.”

“I’m judging from experience.”

“So you work with him a lot.”

“I do.”

“Must be … ooh.” She winced, touched her belly. The black jersey of her top puffed. “She’s moving like crazy—it’s a girl.”

“Congratulations.”

“Girls rule.” She grinned. “I’m looking forward to having a little BFF.” Another grimace. “Wow, she’s being really hyper … oh, my … that one smarted a bit, she’s kicking me in the ribs.”

I said, “First baby?”

“You can tell?” she said. “I’m coming across like an amateur?”

“Not at all. You’re young.”

“Not that young,” she said. “I’m thirty-one.”

“That’s young.”

“My mother had me when she was eighteen.”

“That’s younger.”

She laughed, grew serious. “I didn’t want that.”

“Starting so young.”

Her eyes shifted upward. “The way she did it … but I always knew I wanted it.”

“Motherhood.”

“Motherhood, house, yard, the whole domestic-goddess thing … it’s going to be great.” Looking past me, she took in the crime scene techs studying the tree segments. They’d arrived fifteen minutes ago, were waiting for Liz Wilkinson, had placed a white cloth over the blue box. The fabric had settled into an oblong; a deflated ghost costume.

Holly Ruche said, “I can’t have them turning my property into a disaster zone or something. I know it’s not much right now but I have plans.”

Not a word about the tiny bones. I wondered why a married woman would avoid the plural form.

“It was all coming together,” she said. “Then that crazy tree had to—”

Movement from the driveway caused us both to turn. A man around Holly’s age, skinny-but-soft, bald and bearded, studied the
felled tree before heading over. He wore a long-sleeved blue shirt, gray slacks, brown shoes. Beeper on his belt, iPhone in his hand, aviator sunglasses perched atop his clean head.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he said.

His wedding ring matched hers. Neither of them took the greeting beyond that. He had one of those faces that’s allergic to smiling, kept several feet between himself and Holly, looked put-upon.

She said, “Matt?”

His attention shifted to the hand she’d continued to drape over mine.

I stood, introduced myself.

He said, “A doctor? There’s a problem, health-wise?”

“She’s doing well, considering.”

“Good. Matt Ruche. She’s my wife.”

Holly said, “Doctor as in psychologist. He’s been giving me support.”

Matt Ruche’s eyes narrowed. “Okay.”

His wife flashed him a broad, flat smile. “I’m feeling much better now. It was crazy. Finding it.”

“Had to be … so when can we clean up?”

“Don’t know, they’ll tell us.”

“That sucks.”

“They have to do their job, Matt.”

He touched his beeper. “What a hassle.”

“The stupid tree fell down,” said Holly. “No way could anyone—”

“Whatever.” He glanced at his phone.

I turned to leave.

Holly Ruche said, “Hold on, one sec.”

She got to her feet. “Do you have a card, Dr. Delaware?”

I found one. Matt Ruche reached to take it. She beat him to it. He flushed clear up to his scalp. Shrugging, he began texting.

Holly gripped my hand with both of hers. “Thanks.”

I wished her good luck just as Liz Wilkinson strode into the yard,
carrying two hard-shell cases. She had on a pantsuit the color of bittersweet chocolate; same hue as her skin, a couple of tones lighter. A white coat was draped over one arm. Her hair had been straightened recently and she wore it loose and long. She saw me, waved, kept going.

Someone must’ve prepped her because she headed straight for the tarp, put on the coat, tied her hair back, gloved up, stooped, and drew the cloth back deftly.

“Oh, look at this poor little thing.”

The bones seemed even smaller, the color of browned butter in places, nearly black in others. Fragile as lace. I could see tiny nubs running along the chewing surfaces of both jaws. Un-erupted tooth buds.

Liz’s lower lip extended. “Buried under the tree?”

I pointed out the hole. Liz examined the blue box.

“Swedish Hospital? Never heard of it.”

“Closed down in ’52. What do you think the box was originally used for?”

“Maybe exactly this,” she said.

“A morgue receptacle?”

“I was thinking something used to transfer remains.”

“The baby died a natural death in the hospital and someone took the body?”

“Bodies don’t stay in hospitals, they go to mortuaries, Alex. After that, who knows? Regulations were looser back then.”

I said, “The box is solid brass. Maybe it was intended to transfer lab specimens and someone thought iron or steel increased the risk of oxidation.”

She returned to the skeleton, put on magnifying eyeglasses, got an inch from the bones. “No wires or drill holes, probably no bleach or chemical treatment, so it doesn’t appear to be a teaching specimen.” She touched the tooth buds. “Not a newborn, not with those mandibular incisors about to come through, best guess is four to seven months, which fits the overall size of the skeleton. Though if the baby was neglected or abused, it could be older … no fractures or stress marks … I’m not seeing any obvious tool marks—no wounds of any sort … 
the neck bones appear to be intact, so cross out strangulation … no obvious bone malformations, either, like from rickets or some other deficiency … in terms of sex, it’s too young for sexual dimorphism. But if we can get some DNA, we can determine gender and possibly a degree of racial origin. Unfortunately, the backlog’s pretty bad and something this old and cold isn’t going to be prioritized. In terms of time since death, I can do some carbon dating but my gut tells me this isn’t some ancient artifact.”

I said, “The box was out of active use in ’52, those newspaper clippings are from ’51, and the house was built in ’27. I know that doesn’t determine the time frame—”

“But it’s a good place to start, I agree. So rather than go all supertech from the get-go, Milo should pull up real estate records, find out who’s lived here, and work backward. He identifies a suspect, we can prioritize DNA. Unless the suspect’s deceased, which is quite possible if we’re talking a sixty-, seventy-year-old crime. That’s the case, maybe some relative will cooperate and we can get a partial.”

A deep voice behind and above us grumbled, “Milo has begun pulling up real estate records. Afternoon, Elizabeth.”

Liz looked up. “Hi, didn’t see you when I came in.”

Milo said, “In the house making calls.”

And taking the detective walk through the empty space. His expression said that nothing obvious had come up. “So what do you think, kid?”