The Bones Will Speak (15 page)

“Oh, I'm not here on this case,” Wes said, seemingly unaffected by my sarcasm. “I'm still working the Banks case. I was trying to get ahold of you, but you're not getting cell reception here.”

“You could have used the police radio,” I said.

Wes rubbed his nose and cleared his throat, “You're wondering why I didn't use the police radio?”

“Don't bother to answer.” I shook my head. “You're going to lie.”

“No, no, no. I wanted to ask you a question. The vic is awake, but unresponsive to my attempts to draw a composite. She refuses to see anyone.”

“Vic?” Beth asked.

“Victim.” I turned to Wes. “You are referring to Mattie Banks, I assume. Are you asking me to do the sketch?”

Wes's eyes opened wide and his head jerked back. “No! I mean, no. I just wondered if you had a technique that worked on noncooperative vics.”

“Yes, I do, and it starts by thinking of them as people with names, not labels.”

Beth gave me a startled look.

“Wes, there's a chance,” I said, “a really good chance, that Mattie will not talk to you. You're male. You represent what another man did to her. Why don't you just let me do the composite?”
And save me from having to sneak in to do it.

“Sorry. My case.” Wes pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of the girl.

I grabbed for his cell and missed. “Well, this is
my
case, and you're not part of it. Stop taking photos and leave.”

Wes shrugged and wandered toward the dead calf.

I was struck by a thought. “Dave, did anyone find fingerprints on your cell phone?”

“Just mine. What made you ask?”

I thought about Wes and the blue nitrile gloves. Was he enough of a snake to grab Dave's phone and toss it into the bushes to get us thrown off the case? “Did you get statements from everyone regarding your cell phone? I'd like to work some more on the statement analysis.”

“Pretty much,” Dave said.

“What about the press? That reporter lady.”

“I forgot about that. I'll give her a call. Otherwise, I've heard from everyone but Wes over there,” Dave said.

“Why doesn't that surprise me?” I muttered.

A cloud blocked the sun and the temperature dropped. Dave tugged his jacket tighter and stared at the body. “Jezebel.” He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until he felt everyone's gaze.

“Harsh, Dave,” Gwen said.

Beth shook her head. “Not nice at all.”

“Oh, no.” Dave's face burned. “I wasn't referring to her profession. The biblical Jezebel's body was eaten by dogs. The narrative always stuck in my mind.” He waved his hand at the girl. “Unfortunately, now I have a vivid picture to go with the story.”

Another sheriff's vehicle pulled into what now looked like a used car lot, followed by a black, first-call minivan with
Duncan's Funeral Services
stenciled in white letters on the side.

Dave looked at each person in turn. “I'm going to have the deputy coroner transport her body to the medical examiner in Missoula for an autopsy. Dre, until we have some kind of final word on cause of death, I want you to cordon off the area and process the scene as if it's a homicide. Check out that fence line like Gwen said. Also, didn't you tell me you were doing some logging on the weekends?”

Dre nodded. “Mostly just working with small cuts, making firewood from slash piles, that kind of thing.”

“Good,” Dave said. “See what you can find out about any logging or Forest Service roads north of here. Gwen, can you sketch the woman's face here?”

“I could, but it's far more accurate to work off a tracing of the face. For example, the lips are missing . . .”

Beth's face was turning a strange shade of green.

“I'll get you the drawing the second I'm done,” I quickly finished.

Dave shook hands with the farmer and Dr. Hawkins.

Dre started tying yellow crime-scene tape to the nearest fence. Dave hiked over to the calf carcass. Wes stood near the head and was scrawling notes on a small, spiral pad of paper.

“See something interesting?” Dave asked.

“Maybe.” The man didn't look up.

Dave thought about Gwen's comments. When Wes arrived, he had walked past Dave's sedan at the McCandless place. The cell was lying in plain sight on the seat and the windows were down. A quick grab and toss and, presto, Dave and Gwen would have to surrender the case to Missoula. Time to put a bit of pressure on the Missoula police.

Gwen, Dr. Hawkins, and Beth joined them.

“Poor creature,” Beth said. “Wolves are such vicious predators.”

Wes cleared his throat. “Not really. Wolves are nature's balance.”

“That doesn't look too balanced to me.” Gwen nodded at the calf.

“Wolves prevent overpopulation of wildlife,” Wes continued. “They often kill the weak and sickly.”

Dr. Hawkins nodded. “You're saying survival of the fittest? That would apply to this calf. I had been treating it for a bad case of scours. I got worried when I didn't hear from the owner, decided to swing by. Was a seemingly well-bred calf but obviously the immune system wasn't functioning like it should. And as for that.” He jerked his thumb at the carcass. “Wolves don't kill and eat. They eat. See the gouge marks on the ground from the calf's hoofs? This calf was eaten alive.”

Beth turned and vomited again.

“Are you okay?” Dave asked.

“You promised not to puke,” Gwen said to her. Beth shook her head.

Gwen looked at Dr. Hawkins. “How long do you think this wolf pack—”

“I don't think it's a wolf pack,” Dr. Hawkins said. “I think it's a single wolf doing all the killing. Possibly two at the most.”

Dave patted Beth on the back and continued to his car. If he had wolves killing people, he had a nightmare on his hands. But if this were somehow connected to Mattie Banks and the bodies they'd found at the McCandless farm . . . the nightmare was just starting.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO TURN AROUND WITH ALL
the vehicles parked next to the field, so I drove past the burned-out farmhouse to where the road widened. A barn nestled against the hillside, its wood siding weathered to a deep umber.

“That's the barn you painted, isn't it?” Beth asked.

“Yeah.” The wind had blown a few more cedar shakes off the roof, and old hay formed a brown rug in front of the door. “Did you know Wes said he was at my show? I bet he was trying to steal compositions. He's never had an original idea.”

My friend looked at me strangely. “Did you know that your expression changed just now? You didn't even look like yourself.”

I tried to laugh it off. “So what did I look like?”

Beth was silent for a moment. “I don't know. Not very attractive.”

I gripped the steering wheel harder. “I earned the right to be angry. Wes stole my job.” I explained about the gloves and my theory on Wes's involvement.

“But that's criminal. He should be arrested,” Beth said.

“No proof. Yet. But I told Dave. And I think Dave agrees with me.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Me? Nothing. I leave heads-on-a-platter to Dave. I just need to get him my analysis. More importantly, I need to help identify this killer before he can murder someone else.”

I turned the car around. As we drove past, neither of us looked toward the body in the field.

“I'm not sure when Robert's arriving tomorrow,” I said.

“Don't worry. How about I keep your offspring overnight after the movie? That will give you plenty of time with your husband.” She gave me a sideways glance.

“Ex-husband. Forget it, Beth. There's no way I'm getting back together with Robert.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of forgiveness.”

“Ha! That's a laugh. There's no way I'll ever forgive Robert. Not after all he's done to me.”

“Forgiveness isn't for Robert's sake,” Beth said quietly. “It's for yours.”

The hot flash left me breathless for a moment. “That's easy for you to say, Beth. You've never been betrayed by your best friend. You've never sat in your living room, unable to get out of the chair, seeing your life in tatters. We were supposed to grow old together. I poured out my life to him . . . told him everything . . . my whole past.” I made an effort to relax my death grip on the steering wheel. “I didn't mean to say all that. Sorry.”

Neither of us spoke for a while. Finally Beth turned to me. “I'm sorry too. Maybe someday you'll share your past with me.”

“Someday. When I know it's safe.”

She looked at me strangely.

“Forget I said that. So, do you mind a quick detour?”

“Where to?”

“Two of the locations I painted for the show have turned up bodies. Why don't we take a quick peek at the remaining three?”

The first location was an old farmhouse and pole barn next to the county road. “I doubt our killer would want to be so close to traffic. He'd want privacy.” We parked the car anyway, stepped over a chain barrier, and checked out both structures. A number of cars and trucks passed by, and all slowed to see what we were doing.

Finding nothing but dust, sagging timbers, and knee-high weeds, we moved on to the second site, a rustic log cabin in the woods.

The cabin was gone. In its place stood a brand-new home with labels still on all the windows and a roughed-in deck. The ground was churned-up mud from the bulldozer leveling the earth.

“I suspect if any bodies were around here, they would have shown up by now,” Beth said.

“Um. Two down, one to go.”

The final place looked promising. The road showed evidence of recent use, and the green metal gate was open. We pulled off the county road to the driveway that should have led to a tumbled-down structure next to a small stream.

The structure was still there, but a skid trail to the left ended with a landing of logs waiting to be transported to the mill.

“This won't work either,” I said. “Loggers have been working here every day. Way too much traffic for a killer. So that leaves
just the McCandless place and maybe the burned-out house as murder sites. I want to let that simmer in my brain for a bit.”

“Let me know what you cook up. Cook up. Get it?” Beth grinned.

I rolled my eyes at her and headed home. As we entered the kitchen, a freshly showered Aynslee was sitting at the table, surrounded by crumpled paper from a notepad, her homeschool books, and her laptop. “Some guy called while you were away.”

Beth and I looked at each other. “Did he leave a message?” I asked.

“No. Just said he wanted to talk to you. I finished my math.”

I pulled up a chair next to her and caught a whiff of lilac perfume. The vision of the slaughtered calf lying next to the lilac bushes tainted the moment.

Beth, heading for the coffee pot, must have made the same connection. Her face paled. “Would you—”

“Yes. Aynslee, sweetheart, would you try to wash off the perfume you just put on?”

“I thought you liked it.”

“Usually, but right now it reminds me of the case we just went out on,” I said.

She shrugged and left the room.

“I read that odors trigger the strongest episodic memory,” Beth said.

“Yes. I usually ask about scent in the course of a composite interview.”

Aynslee returned, now smelling of soap, and sat down. “You said you'd look up the stuff on that priest case.” She nodded at the subpoena.

Pulling the subpoena down, I moved to the counter and dialed the listed number.

“Prosecutor's office, how may I direct your call?”

“Hi. This is Gwen Marcey. I have a subpoena on a Jerome William Daly, case number—”

“Oh yeah. I know
that
one.”

“Could you fill me in?” I pulled a small sketchbook and black Sharpie from the junk drawer at the end of the counter.

“You're the forensic artist, right?”

“Yes.” I doodled a woman's face.

“It's a bombing and armed robbery in June, five years ago. You drew three of the suspects.”

“My daughter kept calling it a priest case, but I remember the one you're referring to. I thought you caught someone pretty quickly, though.” I added a blindfold to the sketch.

“Sort of. We caught Jerome Daly pretty quickly. Two others got in a shootout in Kellogg, then crashed while trying to escape. Double fatality. Some people believe there may have been a fourth, but we've never been able to confirm it.”

“Why so long—”

“This has been a real roller coaster to bring to trial. The prosecutor quit and moved away. We had to have a continuance, then the lead investigator's son was murdered by a serial killer. Continuance. Then
he
committed suicide. Yet another continuance.”

“Good grief. Has Jerome been in jail all this time?”

“No. He's been out on bail.”

“Really?”

“He's not much of a threat,” the clerk said. “Has all kinds
of medical problems. Can't even get out of bed. Anyway, we've scheduled the trial for the first week of June. Are you available?”

“Sure. Can I arrange to talk with the prosecutor or will there be a deposition?”

“I'll get back to you on that.”

I gave her my phone number and hung up, then looked at my daughter. “It sounds like this could be interesting, so let me pull the file.”

The three of us trooped into Robert's office where I opened the closet door. White storage boxes were stacked shoulder high.

“This is your filing system?” Beth asked.

“It works. One box per year.” The box I needed was on the bottom. We rearranged everything, and I placed the container on the desk. My filing system was simple: first the year, then month, then numeric order. According to the clerk, I was looking for June of that year. I quickly found the thick, manila envelope and handed it to Aynslee, then returned the box to the closet. “Let me know if you have any questions.”