Be Afraid (3 page)

“Where’re we going?”

“Centennial Park. Skeletonized remains have been found,” Bishop said. “The maintenance crews were tearing out an old fountain and found a bag. Inside the bag was a pink blanket and bones. It appears to be a child. Not more than three or four.”

Rick rubbed the back of his neck and started the car. Hell of a way to start the week. “How long has the body been in the ground?”

A gold signet ring winked from Bishop’s left pinky as he placed hands on his thighs. “Forensics just arrived on scene. They seem to think it’s been in the ground at least a decade.” Ten years in Nashville and Bishop still dragged out his
A
s and dropped his
R
s; still got called Yank and Carpetbagger.

Rick pulled out onto Union Street and drove toward Broadway. No one liked these cases, but everyone would work overtime until it was solved. “Has Missing Persons been called?”

An index finger tapped against a black belt next to his Beretta. “Ten minutes ago. They’re going to start digging back into old files. I asked for all similar cases reported in the last twenty years.”

Rick shifted his weight, swallowing a wince when the nerves in his hip burned suddenly. Nerves were a funny thing. You could pound on them and not feel any pain. Brush of a jacket and it was wildfire shooting down his leg.

Bishop flicked imaginary lint off sharp creases in his pants. “Seems there’s always pain after your kind of shooting.”

“You’ve been shot?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

Bishop eyed him closely, searching for any sign of weakness but Rick would have swallowed nails before saying a word. Say anything you want about him but he was no quitter.

“I know injuries.” The signet ring winked in the sunlight. “Our pace has been slow, but it always heats up sooner or later. It could get rough.”

Deadpan, Rick said, “When it does, stick with me and I’ll see you through.”

Bishop laughed. “Yeah, right.”

Nashville morning traffic was congested with the early commuters scrambling to work. As the crow flies, the drive to the park was mere miles but it took a good twenty minutes to make the trek.

When they arrived at the 132-acre park they were greeted by a collection of squad cars with lights flashing, and a dozen officers standing by a string of yellow crime-scene tape that roped off a pond that had been recently drained.

In the center of the taped area stood Rick’s sister, Georgia Morgan, a senior member of the Nashville Police Department’s forensics team. She’d fastened her red hair into a topknot and wore a hazmat suit that swallowed up her small frame. Her knee-high boots were submerged in the pond’s ankle-deep mud; she snapped pictures of the old fountain and the hole beside it.

Rick and Bishop got out of the car. Rick opened the back door and helped Tracker out. The dog barked and wagged his tail and Rick couldn’t help but smile. He rubbed the Belgian Shepherd between the ears as if to say, “Yeah, I like the work too.”

Bishop eyed the dog.

“Don’t underestimate either one of us.”

Bishop shrugged, touched his gun, a habit he had before they entered a crime scene. As the trio approached the yellow crime-scene tape, Georgia glanced up, nodded, and then dropped her gaze back behind the viewfinder of her camera. She leaned forward and aimed it at a faded, muddy splash of pink peeking out from a tattered plastic bag. She snapped and the camera flashed.

“Who found the body?” Rick asked.

Bishop removed a notebook from his breast pocket and flipped it open. “Maintenance crews were draining a lily pond to fix the plumbing when they spotted the garbage bag. They opened the bag and found the pink blanket and the body, which is only bones now.”

“Any identifying information on the body or blanket?”

“Not at first glance but from what the responding officer said, once Georgia arrived she wouldn’t let anyone near the site until she’d documented every detail. Your sister is a real ballbuster.”

“She wants to get it right.” He bit back a more heated defense of his sister, knowing Georgia would not want big brother fighting her battles. Bishop’s jabs at him rolled off his back like water off a duck, but if it went too far with Georgia, well, he’d learn a lesson about pain.

“We all do, pal,” Bishop said.

“Does my baby sister scare you?”

“Fuck, no.”

“Sure about that?”

“Very. And let me say now,” he said, his voice low. “If you got any physical issues that come up during this case that you think might make you drop the ball, let me know, so I can catch it. I don’t want this case fucked up.”

“Don’t worry about me, Yank.” The reference, a reminder of Bishop’s outlier status, had the other cop shoving a hand in his pocket and rattling change.

Georgia, like many officers, took extra care and caution when she had a murder case involving a child. Rick noted the flat set of her lips and the stiffness of her back. She was pissed and not a woman to be bothered.

Rick glanced toward the maintenance crew. “I want to talk to the guys that found the body.”

“Me too.”

The detectives moved toward two men wearing green coveralls and mud boots. One leaned on a shovel while the other stood back, cigarette dangling from a large sun-weathered calloused hand.

Rick pulled his badge from his pocket and held it up for the two men who straightened when they approached. The smoker dropped his cigarette to the ground and doused it with the twist of a booted foot.

Bishop flicked his badge quickly. “I’m Detective Bishop, Nashville Police Department. Got questions for you about your find.”

The men looked at Bishop. Neither said a word but a subtle narrowing of their eyes said the Boston accent pegged him as an outsider.

The smoker, a tall, lean man with stooped shoulders and graying temples, spoke. “I’m Tate Greene and this is Neville Jones. That dog going to bite me?”

Rick glanced at Tracker who watched the men carefully. The canine hadn’t gotten the memo that he’d been retired and though he didn’t move like he once did, his eyes and brain remained sharper than ever. “No.”

Greene eyed the dog. “You two are the ones shot last year?”

“That’s right,” Rick said. Their story had been all over the news for weeks. The media scrutiny had been stifling and left a distaste for reporters in Rick’s mouth. “I’m Detective Rick Morgan.”

“And that’s Tracker,” Tate said. “I saw you two on the television.”

“Correct.”

Tate studied the canine’s dark gaze. “Reporter said you screwed up.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you got shot.”

“The other guy’s dead.”

Tate nodded. “Right.”

Bishop shifted, never happy with a slow-paced conversation. He fired questions like bullets and though that worked sometimes, often it was better, Rick thought, to toss the questions out easy and slow so when the curveball came no one expected it.

“I don’t like dogs,” said Neville, the younger of the two men. In his late twenties, his build was plumper and his hair darker and thicker. Both men shared the same square-faced bone structure and flat noses.

“He’s my nephew,” Tate said. “Got bitten bad when he was six and hasn’t liked dogs since.”

Tracker eyed both men with keen interest.

“How long you two been working for the parks department?” Rick asked.

“Going on ten years.” Tate shifted his attention from the dog to the detective. “And Neville started last month. Used to work at the hospital but he got laid off.”

Neville glanced at his uncle, seemingly annoyed by the added explanation but he made no comment. He jerked a bandanna out of his pocket and wiped sweat from his brow.

“Why were you draining the lake?”

“Maintenance. One of the fountains hasn’t been working for a while and we have an order to replace the head,” Tate said.

“Walk us through what happened, if you don’t mind.” Rick said.

Tate met Rick’s gaze. “Took a good day to pump the water out of the lake. Neither one of us noticed the bag right off. It was covered in mud.”

Neville nodded agreement. “I was making my way through the mud when my boot got caught. I stumbled and damned near fell forward. Just as I righted myself, I saw the edge of the bag. A bit of plastic sticking up. I tugged and realized pretty quick it was a garbage bag.”

Tate shook his head. “I’ve found all kinds of crap in places like this when we drain away water. A bike. Car tires. Hell, even a shotgun. But never a body. When I saw the pink blanket, I peeled it back and saw the skull. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Rick’s gaze flickered to the bit of pink in the muck. Anger banded around his heart, digging in cold talons. “What’d you do after you realized you’d found bones?”

“We got the hell out of there,” Neville said. “Can’t be good luck to find bones. Never know when the spirits are lingering around.”

Bishop arched a brow but didn’t comment.

Rick nodded as if he understood. “Never can be too careful. What’d you do next?”

“I called the cops,” Tate added.

Bishop’s sunglasses hid his eyes, but his lips flattened into a grim line. “You have any information about the maintenance of this pond?”

Tate glanced toward Bishop and frowned. “Like I said I been here ten years and I haven’t worked on it before.”

“Where can I get maintenance records?” Rick asked.

“Front office,” Tate said. “Marvin Beard runs maintenance. Call him and he can tell you what’s been done in the area.”

Rick pulled a notebook from his pants pocket and jotted down the name. He also took down contact information for Tate and Neville. “Thanks. Do me a favor and stick around a bit longer.” He tossed a smile that had the two men nodding and retreating back to the shade of a tree.

Rick and Bishop moved back to the pond in time to see Georgia struggling to get out of the muck without dropping her camera.

Georgia shook her head. “Don’t even try. The mud will suck you in and ruin your pants.” Two more steps and then a hard pull on her right foot and she stepped up onto the grassy bank.

“What did you find?” Rick asked.

She huffed out a breath and brushed a curl off her forehead with the back of a gloved hand. “As I told the uniforms, it’s a child. I can’t say for certain about the sex or cause of death. I can tell you the child was very young. Judging by the size of the skull I’d say five years old but in cases like this . . .” Realizing her tone grew increasingly bitter, she paused. “Children who’ve suffered a history of abuse often can be small for their age. Malnutrition.” Again a heavy silence. “I’d say female judging by the pink blanket but that’s just a guess at this point.”

“A pink blanket,” Bishop said more to himself. “Fuck me.”

“It could be a sign of remorse,” Rick theorized, his voice even. “The killer didn’t intend to kill the child and when it came time to dispose of the body, guilt kicked in hard. The pink blanket may’ve been a favorite of the child’s.”

“I’m going to enjoy catching this son of a bitch.” Bishop, for all his jabs and digs, was a good cop with a stellar close rate.

Rick shared his partner’s sentiments but kept his emotions buried well below the surface. “When can you remove the body?” Rick had already made a mental shift. He couldn’t think of the victim as a living, breathing child. Cases like this required a step back. Distance from the victim kept emotions in check and heads clear.

Georgia, like Bishop, wasn’t adept at separating from cases like this. “Any minute. The medical examiner should be here any moment. I’ve all the photos and sketches I need so I’ll wade in now and pull the body free.”

“Can I help?” Rick asked.

“You got boots?”

“Boy Scout’s got enough equipment in those storage bins to supply a small army,” Bishop quipped.

At this point, Rick actually welcomed a verbal jab. It helped put distance between him and what he and Georgia needed to do. “I’ve got waders.”

She looked as if she’d argue against the walk into the pond, which wouldn’t be easy for him. But instead of speaking her mind, she swallowed the comments. “Suit up, Bro. You can get a good view of the scene and I could use your muscle.”

Bishop rested his hands on his hips, tapping his index finger against his belt. “I’ll do it. Better to get the extraction right.”

“No,” Rick cut in. “I got this. I’ll be right back.”

“It’s more important we do this right. You falling isn’t going to help solve this case.”

“I’m not going to fall.” He left Bishop by the pond and he and Tracker made their way back to his car. He put Tracker in the backseat, switched on the car engine and A/C, and promised to return soon.

Rick, like most cops, kept his vehicle stocked with a variety of items. Change of clothes, extra ammo, MREs, and, in his case, boots. No one ever really knew what the day would deliver, so most were ready for all scenarios. And Rick could admit that Bishop was right. Rick had overstocked his supplies.

He removed his tie and folded it carefully before placing it to the side. He removed his shoes and placed them next to the tie. From his trunk he fished out waders, which he slid over his feet and pants. In the growing heat of the day the nasty, smelly muck gained strength as the wind shifted in his direction. He cursed, remembering his trip to the dry cleaners yesterday. He stripped off his dress shirt and put on a faded Titans T-shirt.

When he returned, Georgia greeted him at the edge of the pond and handed him a shovel. She dropped her voice so that only he could hear. “You going to be able to do this? It’s a short walk but a tough one.”

He kept his gaze on the pond, refusing to consider failure. “I’ll be fine.”

“Detective High-and-Mighty can’t hear. I could make up an excuse . . .”

Annoyance snapped like a rubber band against naked skin. “Georgia, even if we were here alone, I’d still do this. Let’s retrieve the body.”

She studied him a beat. “Bishop’s an ass. He wants you to fail.”

He grinned. “Good thing I’m not going to. Let’s go.”

With a shrug of her narrow shoulders, she moved into the mire. She staggered in mud that quickly reached her calf but kept moving. Rick followed. Immediately, he realized this was going to be tougher than he’d imagined. What was that line in the movie about his ego writing a check his body couldn’t cash?