Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (15 page)

“What are they?”

“Blow flies. Mostly Calliphora vomitoria, I would guess—they’re very common in rural areas and one of the first to arrive after death. We will examine them to determine their species.”

“Why?”

“The larvae back at the lab are being reared to maturity for two reasons. First, by determining exactly how long it takes them to reach adulthood, we can work backwards and determine a very precise time of death.”

“How can you tell that?”

“Suppose it takes seven days for our specimens to emerge from their puparia. And suppose we know from past studies that this species requires exactly fifteen days between oviposition and final eclosion—to develop from an egg to a mature fly. If we note the exact moment the adult flies emerge from their puparia and count backward fifteen days, we would know the exact time of death.
And we would also know the postmortem interval—the amount of time between the moment of death and the discovery of the body.”

“How does that help us?”

“It may not. But there is a second reason we are rearing those larvae to maturity. It’s very difficult—sometimes quite impossible—to identify the species of a fly while it’s still in its larval form. There are ways to tell—but to be certain, you must wait until adulthood, when species becomes obvious. In this case there seems to be no dispute over the time of death—but the possibility has been raised that the body was moved sometime after death.”

He held up the killing jar and tipped it from side to side. A small pile of lifeless black dots lay huddled at the tip of the soft, gray netting.

“These mature flies will tell us what species we should expect to find when our larvae mature. If there are any surprises—and especially if we find any species not indigenous to this area—then our suspicions will be confirmed. We will know that the body was moved. We may even be able to identify the actual place of death.”

Kathryn’s eyes betrayed the glimmer of hope she felt. “I’m not promising,” he reminded her, “but one can never tell. We’re not finished yet.”

Teddy repeated the sweeping motion three more times, each time exposing the specimens to the deadly ethyl acetate, then emptying the contents into a vial of isopropyl alcohol. One group was deposited into an empty vial—“For dry mounting later,” he explained.

Down on his knees again, he searched among the blades of grass for other living specimens.

Suddenly Kathryn sensed the hiss of compressed air. The black valise by Teddy’s side exploded inward and then spiraled up into the air, dropping again a few feet away. An instant later a faint cracking sound echoed past them from the distant woods.

Teddy straightened and reached out for the shattered valise, its back panel blasted outward in curling strips of black sheet metal.

“The case … my specimens … what—?”

Kathryn lunged for Teddy, knocking him flat. She lay stretched across his body, pinning him to the ground.

“Teddy, stay down! Someone’s shooting at us!”

Nick snapped the lens cap back on his Nikon, then bent down and shook the leafy green milkweed. Hundreds of tiny black dots rolled off and disappeared into the grass around the decomposing body. They were teneral blow flies, young adults whose wings were still too moist and fragile to allow them to fly. It was a lucky find; they only remain in this transitional state for a few short hours and are seldom photographed. But despite Dr. Ellison’s warning back at NC State, Nick’s mind was no longer on theoretical research—it was on applied science.

He looked up to see Teddy and Kathryn hurrying toward him from the parking lot. He met them in the middle of the meadow, not far from his alabaster beehive.

“You’re late,” Nick said, shoving the camera into his knapsack.

Without a word, Kathryn dropped the shattered valise on the ground before him.

“That was careless,” he said. “Equipment is expensive, you know.”

“Someone tried to kill us,” Kathryn said.

Nick turned to Teddy.

“It is possible.” Teddy nodded. “This damage was done by a bullet, fired from some distance away.”

Nick knelt down and examined the case. “What about the specimens?”

Kathryn’s mouth dropped open. “Did you hear what I said? Someone tried to kill us!”

“No one tried to kill anyone, Mrs. Guilford.”

“How do you know that?”

“Where did the shot come from? How far away were the woods from your location?”

“A good hundred meters,” Teddy said.

“And how far was the case from you when it was hit?”

“Maybe ten feet away,” Kathryn said, “on the ground.”

“So someone fires at you from a hundred meters and misses you by ten feet? That’s pretty bad shooting, Mrs. Guilford. If he wanted to kill you he could have come a lot closer than that. And isn’t it coincidental that the bullet would strike the case? What was he shooting at, your ankles? Someone wanted to frighten you, that’s all. Now what about the specimens?”

“We were able to replace most of them,” Teddy said. “That’s why we were late. We had to—”

“Wait a minute!” Kathryn broke in. “Is that it? Someone fired a gun at us! Whether they were trying to kill us or just scare us, what difference does it make?”

Nick raised his glasses just enough to rub his temples in slow circles. “Mrs. Guilford,” he said, “what do you want us to do? Did you get a license plate number? Did you get a description? Did you see a car, a truck—anything at all?”

Kathryn said nothing.

“Then all we know is that someone doesn’t want us to continue this investigation. Now there’s a surprise. The best thing we can do right now is press ahead with the investigation. Time is critical in our discipline, Mrs. Guilford—so why don’t you tell me what you and Teddy learned today?”

Kathryn glowered in silence. “First of all,” she began slowly, “you were wrong. There was nothing to hold up the leg.”

Even before she finished the sentence Nick began to shake his head. “I didn’t ask what you believe, Mrs. Guilford. Tell me what you know.”

She stopped and reconsidered her choice of words. “We know that there was nothing at the death scene to explain how the leg could have been supported.” She paused. “If there was something that once held the knee erect, it must have been removed at a later time.”

“Very good, Mrs. Guilford. And if there was such an object, who could have moved it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the two boys, when they took away the body to the funeral home.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the object would have been there when the sheriff viewed the body earlier, and he said he found the body flat.”

“Then who else?”

“Think.”

“Wait … how about the hunters who discovered the body?”

“Of course.”

“But why would they move the object?”

“Perhaps to make the body more comfortable.”

Kathryn blinked twice.

“It’s a common phenomenon at death scenes—and a great nuisance to investigators. A passerby finds a body sprawled out on the ground, let’s say with one arm bent behind its back. The passerby says to himself, ‘That’s got to hurt,’ and he helps the poor stiff out by making him more comfortable—and possibly ruins the investigation in the process.”

“So Denny or Ronny or Wayne might have rearranged Jimmy’s body to make him more comfortable?”

“It happens.”

“You’re only telling me what can happen,” Kathryn said, “not what did happen. How can we know if they really did reposition the body?”

“We can’t. That is, unless we ask them.”

“Someone must have moved the body before it was found in the woods. Maybe that someone was responsible for Jimmy’s death. Maybe the murderer.”

“It’s possible,” Nick conceded. “But there is another possibility you’ve overlooked.” He paused. “The sheriff could have moved the body.”

“But he said he didn’t.”

“Yes.” Nick looked directly at her. “That’s what he said.”

They turned at the sound of a car crunching to a stop in the gravel fifty yards behind them. A moment later the dust settled to reveal the sheriff’s black-and-white Crown Victoria. The door opened and the sheriff emerged. The obedient deputy was not far behind, carefully adjusting his hat as he straightened his massive body. The sheriff was out of uniform; he wore blue jeans, boots,
and a tight navy T-shirt that emphasized the leanness of his six-foot-two-inch frame. He slipped on his Ray-Bans, and they started across the meadow.

“Is this casual day at the sheriff’s office?” Nick called out as he approached.

“Thought I’d dress easy today,” the sheriff called back. “Sometimes the uniform gets in the way.”

“Uniforms often get in the way,” Nick said under his breath.

“Saw the razor wire when I drove in. Nice homey touch.”

“We like it,” Nick said. “It’s mostly symbolic, but we do have a legitimate biohazard here.”

“I know about that. You caused me a bit of paperwork, you know. I had to sign off on your last acquisition—that old man from over Kensington way. I knew that man.”

“You wouldn’t know him now.”

The sheriff gave Kathryn a peck on the cheek. “Pete St. Clair,” he said to Teddy, extending his hand.

“Peter, this is Dr. Tedesco, Dr. Polchak’s research assistant.”

“The team keeps growing,” the sheriff said. “I’d like you all to meet Mr. Benjamin Bohannon, senior deputy of Holcum County.”

“Only deputy!” Beanie grinned. He leaned forward and extended his beefy hand, wrapping it around Teddy’s slender fingers like a huge catcher’s mitt. He took Kathryn’s hand gently between his thumb and fingers as he might pick up a rose.

“Hullo, Aunt Kathryn,” he said, blushing.

“Hello, Beanie dear.” She slipped one arm around his trunklike waist and hugged.

As the deputy reached for Nick’s hand, the sheriff said, “Shake the man’s hand, Benjamin.” The deputy began to tighten his grip, and Nick heard the crack of cartilage and felt a flash of pain shoot up his arm.

“Easy, Barney,” he said through clenched teeth, “I need that hand.”

The deputy relaxed his grip. “Name’s Beanie,” he frowned.

The sheriff ducked as a single bee streaked by, narrowly missing him.

“I wouldn’t stand there if I were you,” Nick said, rubbing the blood back into his hand.

“Too close to that hive?”

“Wrong spot. You’ve heard the expression, make a beeline? Well, you’re standing in one.”

“You’re kidding.”

“There’s clover on the other side of that rise behind you.” Nick pointed with his head. “When a bee finds a good source of pollen, she comes back to the hive and does a little dance. The dance communicates the exact location and distance of the pollen—sort of like a briefing before a bombing run. The bees check it out, determine the most efficient path to the source, and establish a beeline—and they don’t like anyone blocking the way.”

The sheriff shrugged off Nick’s advice and turned instead to Kathryn. “Now what’s all this about someone taking a shot at you this morning?”

“We were in the woods. Teddy and I were investigating the spot where Jimmy was … where Jimmy died.”

“You were investigating?” the sheriff said with an angry glance at Nick.

“The shot was fired from at least a hundred meters away,” Nick said. “Tell me something, Sheriff—could you hit a man from a hundred meters?”

“Firing from a stationary position? With a scope? Anybody could.”

“But they didn’t. They hit this instead.” Nick bent down to the valise and poked his finger into the gaping hole at the exact point where the bullet must have entered. “Could you hit the center of this case from a hundred meters?”

The sheriff estimated the entry point. It was well left of center and near the bottom of the case. “Easy.”

“They were aiming at the case, that’s for sure,” Nick said. “And anyone would naturally aim for the center of the case. But the bullet dropped a good four inches en route. I’d say he fired from more like three hundred yards away.”

The sheriff looked at him. “I thought you were a Bug Man.”

“I took a ballistics course at Quantico,” Nick said. “I’m a big fan of continuing education.”

Now the sheriff turned to Kathryn. “The doc is right. Whoever it was wasn’t aiming at you.”

“Peter, someone wants us to stop this investigation. But who? And why?”

“Now hold on,” the sheriff said. “Let’s not get paranoid here. It might just have been a prank.”

“A prank? I don’t see how—”

“Look, the two of you go crawling around in the middle of an open meadow. What do you suppose you look like to a man with a rifle three hundred yards away?”

“A man with a rifle?” Nick raised one eyebrow. “Why would a man be out there with a rifle this time of year? What’s in season right now, Sheriff?”

“Nothing,” the sheriff admitted. “But a lot of the boys head out that way to work on their deer stands. And while they’re out there, they take a little target practice. They’ll fire at anything: a stump, a limb—”

“A person?”

“That’s why I said it might’ve been a prank. Some good ol’ boy is out taking potshots in the woods; he sees you two, he sees the case … pretty hard to resist. I’ll bet you two just about jumped out of your skins.”