Murder in the Mist (11 page)

He spotted Ranger Cole as he walked from the building and waved him toward a parking space. Cole vigorously pumped Mitch’s hand.

“What you got?” Mitch hefted the black crime satchel from the back seat of the patrol car.

“Like I said over the phone, I’m not sure. Climb in. We’ll take the Mule 4x4 in from here.”

A ten-minute ride over rough terrain and past the wilderness campsites, the senior ranger rolled to a stop.

The air hung mild and faintly misty, and the grass was dappled green in the late afternoon sun. Another ranger jumped from her sitting position on a large rock to greet them.

“Deputy Carter, meet Ranger Jane Dorsey.”

Like her boss, Dorsey was dressed in khaki walking shorts, a matching khaki shirt with the park’s insignia badge sewn on the sleeve, and brogan hiking boots. A walkie-talkie was strapped to her waist.

Mitch glanced around the area, then quizzically asked, “What’s the range on the walkie-talkie, Ranger Dorsey?”

“Between seven and eight miles.”

A nod was his only response.

Cole extended his hand toward the woods. “We’ll walk the rest of the way in. Lead the way, Dorsey.”

Mitch followed. “Can you give me details of what you found?”

Jane Dorsey obliged. “Two teenagers were gathering wood. They tugged on a rotten log and unearthed a bloody bone.”

Another five minutes, and Jane Dorsey held up her hand to signal a halt. She pointed to where she had marked the spot with a yellow streamer. “There.”

The nub of a bone protruded from the ground. Mitch set the crime kit on the ground and opened it. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves and slid them over his hands. He handed Ranger Dorsey the crime book and instructed her to write as he squatted and put his hands into the damp soil, searching. Gingerly he brushed away debris and dirt until he brought up the remainder of the article sticking out, a small bone laced with dried blood.

“Where are the kids now, Ranger Dorsey?”

“With their parents. Pretty shook up.”

“Gender, age, and names?”

“Bobby and Chris Ferrell. Ages thirteen and eleven—brothers.”

“How long ago did the boys find the bone?”

“All total, it’s been about an hour and half.”

Senior Ranger Cole said, “What do you think it is? The bone appears too big for a bird.”

“I hope it’s an animal bone.” Mitch offered. “Anyone report a missing dog, or a pet being sick and gone missing?”

Cole glanced at Dorsey, who nodded. “Neither. In the case of a sick animal, we would have advised the owner to contact a veterinarian. But, since we have no vet, it would have been Ken Musuyo they’d contact.”

Mitch used special care brushing away more dirt. He hoped what he was about to find wasn’t another human body—because this was a recent kill.

In the quiet woods came the unmistakable sound of sharply indrawn breaths. It was the gases from decomposition that caused the rangers to gag. Mitch swallowed the bile biting his throat. A veteran of many autopsies, the putrid odor of death still roiled his stomach.

He continued to gently sift soil. Relief shuddered over him when, at last, he’d exposed the dirt covered maggoty remains of a white liver-spotted spaniel. He continued sifting away dirt. A cat. Then another, until no more bodies were unearthed. The animals lay neatly side by side.

Cole leaned forward. “This looks like some kind of ritual burial.”

Mitch grabbed a slender dowel from the crime bag. He lifted the head of one of the cats. “I want to take these back for Dr. Musuyo to examine. I have a hunch their necks were broken.”

Ranger Dorsey grimaced. “You mean…by a person?”

“Yep.”

Dorsey grimaced. “Sick. That’s just plain sick.”

Cole said, “What’s going on, Mitch? You’re not telling me something.”

“You’re right. I’m not.” He went on to explain about the skeleton Laura had accidently stumbled across out on the island. “The bones were intact, but old. Dr. Musuyo figures about ten years, but here’s the thing: The cause of death—broken neck.”

A brief frown showed on Cole’s face, then disappeared. “Get out of here. Unbelievable. And you think if these animals died of broken necks there might be a connection?”

“It’s a long shot, but, yeah, that’s my theory.”

Mitch used his phone to take picture after picture of the perimeter, of the inside of the hole, of the alignment of the bodies. After bagging them, he said, “Spread out. We’ll walk the area. Look for anything out of the ordinary—broken twigs, mashed-down brush, hopefully a footprint, and even better, a torn strip of clothing. Keep a sharp eye out.”

Cole stood a good thirty feet away from Mitch, walking soundlessly around the fringes of the forest, with Dorsey the same approximate distance from Cole. For two hours they walked seamlessly in a grid pattern, slowly and methodically dissecting each inch of the area for that one clue which would magically connect a ten-year-old human skeleton and the recently dead animals.

If such a thing existed.

Mitch stopped and turned once more, frowning in spite of himself. He wanted to know who had buried these bodies, and if the animals’ broken necks were pure coincidence. The area was sheltered, the thick canopy of trees making the path invisible at night. He gave an impatient sigh. “Nothing. Not even a broken twig.”

Turning and walking back to where he had left his crime kit and the black polyurethane body bag, he picked up the bag with its contents. Cole lifted the kit, while Dorsey led the way until they reached the 4x4 utility vehicle.

At the main parking lot, Mitch thanked the two rangers. “For now, keep this under wraps. There’s no need to cause a stir where one might not exist. Either way, I’ll keep you updated.” He placed the black bag inside the trunk.

Seated behind the steering wheel, and before leaving the parking lot, he phoned Dr. Ken Musuyo.

Chapter Fourteen

Ken Musuyo used a scalpel to slice through the black bag. He spoke into a tape recorder as he lifted the neck of each animal. “Liver-and-white spotted spaniel or spaniel-type canine, cause of death—broken neck. Calico feline—broken neck.” He moved to the next cat, and felt from behind the head and down the spinal cord. “Grey striped feline—broken neck.”

He looked at Mitch. “Do you recognize the calico?”

“Don’t tell me it’s Mrs. Cruex’s old cat, the one I’ve twice rescued from the tree in her front yard?”

“I’m afraid so.” Ken turned the tip of the cat’s left ear to show the tattooed number.

“Damn.”

Ken pulled back the dog’s eyelid. “The dog was sick. From the lesions on the retina, I’d say distemper. Nadia Cruex’s cat was about nineteen years old. Without an autopsy, my guess is all of these animals were in various stages of infirmity which would make them easy to catch. The question is—what sick and twisted motive would anyone have for killing them?”

Mitch stroked his chin. He was thoughtful for a moment. “In your medical opinion, do you think the broken necks on these animals have any connection to the broken neck of our female skeleton?”

“I can’t honestly say. With a ten-year span, it’s nothing more than a morbid coincidence.”

Mitch glanced at his watch. He had about forty-five minutes to get cleaned up and to the Fridays’ for supper. He was glad he’d left a message to have the restaurant deliver the meal. “You’re probably right—my gut instinct says different. Comb through the hair of these animals to see if you pick up any fibers, or anything unusual I might use for evidence.” He spread his hands wide. “I’m grasping at straws here. Humor me, Doc.”

Ken Musuyo smiled. “As you can see, I’m not exactly overrun with work, and things are slow at the clinic. That is, until Fourth of July weekend. Then I’ll pray for an extra set of hands and two more nurses. I’ll get my report to you stat.”

As Mitch turned to leave, Ken said, “Nadia Cruex is in her nineties. She knew the cat was old. It’s my opinion the most merciful thing is to let her think it went off and died.”

Mitch tipped the brim of his hat. “Agreed.”

Outside the lab, Mitch telephoned Laura to let her know he was running late. “I’ll explain when I get there. Wanted to let you know a delivery guy from the Silly Lobster should be on his way to your place.”

An hour later, he joined Laura and Phyllis on the sun porch of their apartment. He filled them in on the animals.

“By Godfrey…horrible. That’s all I can say. Except thank you for not telling Nadia about her beloved cat. In her heart she believes Princess went off to die so as to spare Nadia the grief of finding her. To say otherwise would be just plain heartless.”

Laura wadded her paper napkin and set it aside. “Mitch, am I reading you wrong, or do you think there’s a connection between our skeleton and the animals?”

“Right now, Friday, I’d rather not say. Whoever killed those animals is one sick SOB.”

Phyllis stood to gather the empty disposable containers. Laura intervened. “I’ll clean up. Mitch has a few questions to ask you about Lynnette Braswell.”

“Ten years is a long time. My brain might be a bit foggy.”

Mitch removed a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “Whatever you can recall is better than what we have now.”

He picked up a magazine from the side table to use as a writing support. “Just start talking. I’ll write.”

Phyllis briefly closed her eyes as if sorting out her thoughts. “I believe in the article Dan Fremont gave her age at twenty-two. She had long blonde hair. She mostly wore it in a ponytail. She enjoyed reading romance novels—historicals—and was fond of Chai tea and scones. She was especially proud of graduating from nursing school. Even talked about becoming a physician’s assistant.”

“What about friends?”

“Not many young people stay in a town where employment opportunities are limited. No, I don’t recall her hanging out with anyone in particular. I mostly saw her in the bookstore.”

“How did she dress? Conservative, flashy—”

“When she wasn’t in her nurse’s uniform, she dressed like any normal young person—shorts, but not too short, flip-flops, T-shirt. Occasionally, she’d wear cute sundresses. Didn’t wear very much makeup, or jewelry. I do recall she had pierced ears. The only reason I remember that is because one day she came in wearing little sailboat earrings. I’d say she was conservative.”

“What about her personality? Wild…high-strung…sensitive?”

Phyllis shifted in the chair. “Ayuh. Sensitive, maybe. Wild or high-strung, neither of those. Lynnette lived in Cole Harbor for about eight years. She graduated high school, then left for a short time to attend nursing school. Seemed quite happy to do her internship here, at the clinic.”

“Did she live with her parents?”

“No. Sad. Maybe that’s why she was sensitive. Lynnette was a foster child. She lived with the Dentremonts. Who, by the way, loved her as if they’d given birth to her, even if they were old enough to be her grandparents.”

“Where are the Dentremonts now?”

“Like most old folks, buried in the Cole Harbor cemetery. Mr. Dentremont died before Lynnette graduated from high school. Vedette’s heart gave out after Lynnette’s car was found.”

“Who was the physician at the clinic when Lynnette worked there?”

“Dr.
Gérard
Babineaux
. Everyone loved Dr. Jerry, but he was almost eighty when he retired. He, too, was devastated by her death.”

Mitch tapped the tip of the pen against his lips. He hesitated to ask the next question. “Do you think Dr. Babineaux was responsible for Lynnette’s death?”

The sharp gasp indicated Phyllis’s shock. “Why, that’s absurd. Be-because Dr. Jerry had a stroke shortly before Lynnette’s death. He lost partial use of his left arm. There’s no way he could have broken her neck, lifted her into a boat, dragged her onto the island, then dug a hole to bury her. Uh-uh, no way.”

Mitch’s dark brows gathered in a concerned way. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Phyllis.”

She shrugged. “Ayuh. It’s your job to ask tough questions.”

“One last question. You said she didn’t hang out with any special friends, but do you know if she had a boyfriend?”

“In Dan’s article, he said the friend who reported her missing lived in Bangor. I believe Amos Gilman and Roberta questioned the girl. I don’t recall any mention of a boyfriend.”

Mitch remembered reading the summary Amos had written about interviewing the friend in Bangor. A summary with sketchy details. A dead end.

He closed the notebook and stuck it back inside his shirt pocket. “Thanks, Phyllis.”

Laura joined her aunt and Mitch. “All done?”

“Ayuh, and enough talk of morbid things. It’s a lovely Sunday evening. There’s no need for the two of you to squander it hanging around here when there’s plenty of daylight left. Go for a stroll around the park, or down to the docks. Besides, I need some alone time. I have a good mystery novel to finish reading.”

“We won’t be gone long, Aunt Philly. Enjoy your book.”

Once outside, Laura lifted her head and inhaled. “The air in Cole Harbor is clean and crisp. It almost makes your lungs hurt. Unlike New York.”

“Yep, but I miss Texas. There’s a lot to be said for mild winters.
Unlike Maine. When I left in December, it was fifty-six degrees. I thought that was cold until I arrived here to freezing rain and temperatures in the low twenties. Way too cold for this country boy.”

At the gazebo, Mitch escorted Laura inside. “I do have to admit, El Paso doesn’t have these views. There’s something calming about the way the town’s lights reflect off the bay. Even the forlorn clanging of the buoy is comforting.”

“Is El Paso your home?”

“Yep. Grew up on a ranch there. My dad is a real-deal cowboy, championship bull rider, and was once a Hollywood stuntman.”

“Sounds like you admire him.”

“He’s my hero.”

While dusk fell, Mitch and Laura sat inside the gazebo and watched fireflies flicker and dart in the purple-tinged air.

“Friday…I’m leaving Cole Harbor.”

She turned to stare at him through the dim light and had to close her gaping mouth. “Wh-what? When? Why?”

“Got a phone call earlier today from my dad’s best friend, Sheriff Alcazar Juh. Al is one tough buzzard. Thing is, he’s outlived his days as a lawman. Forty years is a long time. He’s retiring after the election in November and has asked me to run. He thinks I’d be favored to win.”