Skin Dancer (5 page)

“I'm…certainly.” She fumbled through the correct response. “Right now?”

“There're some really interesting things here, but I don't want to talk about them on the phone.”

“Thanks, Charlie. I'm on my way.”

“Good. Things are quiet at the courthouse, so this may be the best time for us to talk.”

Rachel caught a glimpse of her shadowy image in the front window. For one brief instant, she thought she saw her mother standing behind her. They were both dressed for a party.

“Rachel, did you hear me? I'll meet you at the sheriff's office.”

She cleared her throat. “I'm on the way.”

Snapping the phone shut, she picked up her purse. She'd get a certain amount of teasing from the night shift who happened to see her, but she didn't have time to change and then come home and change back. She dialed Jake. When she got his voice mail, she left a message.

“Pick me up at the sheriff's office in the courthouse instead of home. Thanks.” She walked to the kitchen, and her hand reached for the clock's plug as it had done a hundred times before. She should toss it, buy something new that didn't have so many memories attached. But she stopped, mesmerized by her reflection in the toaster. No one had ever said it to her, but made–up and with her hair pinned in a French twist, she looked just like her mother.

# # #

The seven people gathered in the room were tense with excitement. Dressed in dark clothing and jittery with nerves, they sat around the darkened room and waited.

Derek Baxter stood by the open window and looked out upon the perfect blackness of a South Dakota night. The stars were incredible, untainted by any other light. The breeze that blew to him from the Black Hills contained the scents of pine and juniper. He thought of the gin and tonics his mother drank and felt a charge of empowerment. He'd decided to use his life for something worthwhile, not to fritter it away.

He turned to address the four women and three men. “The note claiming responsibility for the murders of the two poachers has already been sent to the newspaper. By tomorrow morning, WAR will be on the lips of every South Dakotan.”

A smattering of applause went around the room, but it did nothing to relieve the tension.

One of the men raised his hand. “Derek, they're going to look at us like murderers now.” His voice rose. “I mean, I think this is a great because it gets publicity for our cause, but each one of us should be aware that law officers are going to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Good point.” Derek felt his own stomach flutter. The brutal murders of the poachers had the potential to give Workers for Animal Rights the biggest boost in public awareness since he'd come to the southwest corner of South Dakota to organize a cell of the activist group. “When we agreed to send the note claiming responsibility, we all knew what we were risking.” He paused for effect. “They will shoot you if they catch you.”

“Just like the hunters shoot the wild creatures. Just another thrill for the Neanderthals.” The girl who spoke was pretty.  No more than twenty–two, she sat a slight distance from everyone else. Derek noticed because he noticed everything about Justine Morgan.

“Okay, let's focus on tonight. We'll take the black van almost to the road site. We'll park it in the woods and make the rest of the way on foot. When we get to the heavy equipment, everyone knows what to do, right?”

A murmur of assent spread through the room.

“Good. Get the blow torches.” He moved toward the door.

“Won't they have a guard up there?” Justine asked.

He shook his head. “Not tonight. That's the beauty of it. Not one of those big, macho construction guys wanted to stay up there to guard the equipment while a psycho killer is on the loose.”

“They're the psycho killers.” Justine rose slowly as she spoke. “They're the people who slaughter animals for sport. They're the
sportsmen
with high–powered scopes, radios, automatic weapons and four–wheelers because they're so fat and out of shape they can't even haul their kill out.” Contempt rested in the way she held her lips. “I say let's kill more of them.”

“Yes!” The affirmation spread among the young men and women as they hurried after Derek, out the door and into the night.

 

“Whi–irt–whirl.” The wolf whistle cut through the nearly empty sheriff's department. Marston French stood up and put his hand over his heart as Rachel walked in.

“Cut it out, Marston.” She felt naked, though her dress was conservative by anyone's standards. It was merely the fact that it was a dress that made her so uncomfortable. And a party dress at that. If he didn't quit ogling her she'd be tempted to kick him in the throat with the side of her foot, a very effective Tang Soo Do maneuver. She'd become blindingly fast at the kicks.

“Who's the lucky guy?” Marston asked. His gaze lingered on her bare shoulders. “You sure do clean up nice, Deputy.”

It was the “deputy” that saved his ass. “None of your business.” She looked around for the coroner. “Where's Charlie? He said to meet him here.”

“He ducked out to get something to eat. I don't know how he can eat after spending the last few hours over at the hospital with those corpses.”

“Thanks.” Rachel headed back into the hallway but stopped at the door. She heard footsteps in the empty corridor and recognized the tired gait of the coroner. He rounded the corner and signaled her down to his office in the basement.

Rachel had never seen an autopsy, except on television. She could hold her own with wrecks, hunting accidents, drug overdoses. An autopsy was another matter. Lucky for her, such procedures were performed at the hospital or else in Rapid City at the state lab.

“Come on, deputy. The bodies are over at the hospital. You won't have to look at them.” Charlie threw the words over his shoulder as if he could read her mind. He kept his forward momentum going, a burger from the Copper Kettle swinging at his side in a paper bag.

Rachel jogged to catch up, no mean feat in her high heels. She wasn't a sissy, but after the brutality that had been heaped upon the dead men, it seemed a sacrilege to cut them up further. Still, she was eager for the facts.

Every time she walked into Charlie's office, she was surprised at the bare essentials. A desk and lamp, a chair and metal filing cabinets. That was it. Coroner was a part–time job in Criss County, and while Charlie sometimes assisted at procedure, he always had the reports.

She took a chair without being asked.

Charlie got right to the point. “Bobby Franks showed up at the hospital and IDed the big one.”

Rachel leaned forward. “Hank Welford?”

Charlie arched one eyebrow. “Yeah, Hank Welford. Professional poacher, drunk and general bully. The other guy…so far nothing on him. You gotta figure he's not a local.”

“What was the official cause of death?” Rachel asked.

Charlie eased back in his chair, his gaze on the bag of burgers. A grease spot was widening on the brown paper.

“You already know Hank was alive when he started cutting. The state medical examiner said it probably took at least three hours for the blood loss to kill him. Whoever did this was careful. Stayed away from major arteries. Someone with at least basic knowledge of human anatomy.”

“What a way to die.” Rachel tried to squelch the mental image of the two bodies swaying gently in the breeze.

“The heads were severed last. The ME said the instrument used could be something like a bush axe or machete. Something very sharp with enough handle for a good swing.”

Rachel crossed her legs, then realized it wasn't the most refined gesture in the dress and put her feet solidly on the floor. “Were the men drugged by any chance?”

“Nada. They'd been drinking, but not excessively. Looked like they were hunting and took down that moose, which will take a few days to get a tox screen on. The state lab guys were hollering that we asked them to work a moose. I told ‘em to quit whining, that it was just a blood sample.”

“Tough for them.” Rachel picked up the report. “So someone took them by surprise. Hank was a strong man.” She visualized the scene in her mind. Hank and the other man so intent on taking the trophy head before they were caught hunting illegally, they hadn't heard the person, or persons, who slipped up behind them. “How did the doctor figure the men were subdued?”

“He found ligature marks on the stump of the neck on Hank. Looked like he'd been garroted from behind, maybe suffocated a little and brought into submission. From the angle, the killer was above him. So either Hank was on his knees or the killer is a big guy. Off course, Hank could have been shot in the head, a non–fatal wound. Can't tell without the heads.”

“There had to be more than one killer,” Rachel speculated aloud. “I mean those were two strong men. Even if one of them was garroted, the other would have run or tried to fight back unless he was outnumbered. Or shot first.”

The coroner shrugged. “I just pronounce them dead. You're the one who has to figure out all the intricacies of the sicko's mind.” He leaned forward abruptly, grabbed the bag, and opened the waxed paper. The aroma of hamburger filled the room, and Rachel's mouth began to water.

She was a little appalled to hear her stomach grumble. She was toughening up. The discussion of two awful murders hadn't even taken the edge off her appetite.

# # #

The soft strains of a cello rose above and then sank beneath the murmur of conversation. Rachel kept step with Jake as he led her through the entrance hall and into the large room that served as parlor and banquet hall. It was a huge house, elegant with an old world style.

Jake had been silent on the ride to Frankie Jackson's. She'd told him what she'd learned from the coroner and saw the satisfied curl of his mouth when he found out he was right about Welford. Jake was competitive to a fault, had always been. Ambition was the primal drive in the Ortiz household, and it was a good thing, too. Had it not been for Mel and Jake prodding and goading her to challenge herself, she might have ended up with a far different life.

Rachel barely had time to look around the entrance hall when Jake propelled her toward a slender woman who bore a striking resemblance to the manifestation of Aphrodite. Dark hair framed her face in a cloud of curls. A neck as delicate and slender as a gazelle's rose from prominent collar bones. Her bright red lips drew into a crooked smile as Jake led her forward.

“Frankie, this is Deputy Rachel Redmond. Rachel, this is Frances Jackson, soother of troubled waters and spin doctor for those with political ambitions. She's heading the road crew for Belker in an attempt to keep down protests from the anti–development segment.”

Rachel held out her hand and was surprised that Frankie's hand, so obviously designed for piano or something equally elegant, had the grip of a rancher.

“I've heard about your first big case,” Frankie said, going right to the heart of the reason Rachel knew she was invited. “Are you excited or appalled?”

Rachel couldn't help but admire that. Frankie wasn't going to pretend to a social interest in a lowly deputy. If Rachel served any purpose at all at this party, it was to provide details about the two murders.  

“Criss County doesn't have a lot of homicides, Ms. Jackson,” Rachel responded, avoiding the question. “Jake told me you were worried about your crew.” She glanced around. The room was too crowded for her to reveal that Hank Welford, one of Frankie's employees, was a victim. “Could we talk privately?”

Frankie took Rachel's arm. “Excuse us, Jake.” She drew Rachel across the room and into the library, closing the thick mahogany doors with determination. All sounds of the party ceased.

Frankie went to a decanter and poured liberal measures of bourbon over ice cubes in crystal highball glasses. She held one out to Rachel. “What a pleasure to see a young woman in a tough job. I'll bet the good ole boys chafe at the sight of you.” She sipped her drink. “Our mothers fought hard so the two of us could stand here, and our generation is going to kick ass in the man's world.” She held up her drink. “To strong women and supine men.” She drank the bourbon in one swallow.

Rachel sipped her drink and felt a smile tug at her lips. Supine men. It was a strange and evocative image. She hadn't expected this side of Frances Jackson—hadn't expected to like her. “Jake told me you want assurances that your road crew won't be targeted by our killer.” She put her glass on the table. “I can't give you those assurances in light of the fact that one of the two dead men worked for you. Hank Welford.”

Frankie lowered her drink slowly. “He missed the last few days of work. I figured he was either drunk or poaching.”

“Both. And now he's dead.”

“Jesus. I heard the victims were skinned.”

“In a manner of speaking.” She debated how much to tell Frankie. “The killer meant for them to suffer.”

Frankie walked quickly to a credenza and picked up the telephone. “I'm going to pull my crews. I don't want them in danger.”

Rachel held up a hand. “Hold on. While the road is controversial, I'm not certain the person who killed those two hunters is worried about the four–lane.” The murders had been so brutal, and Hank Welford had suffered tremendously.

“What makes you so sure? What do you think was the reason?”

She didn't want to reveal additional information. The solution to the murders might rest on specific details, such as the silver ornament jabbed into Hank's chest, that only the killer would know. “I believe Hank was specifically targeted. The killer knew him, or knew what he was. Hank worked on the road, but not in any crucial role.”

Frankie nodded. “What I can tell the men is that the sheriff's department is reasonably certain the road crews won't be targeted. Is that a fair statement?”