Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (53 page)

“Two bodies in the same grave,” Nick said, “the owner downstairs and a renter in the apartment above. It's pretty clever if you think about it. What better place to hide a body than a graveyard?”

“Then you think the renter was murdered.”

“So do you—you wouldn't have called me if you didn't. This is a rural area, Donovan, there are plenty of places to bury a body—nobody has to double up. In older cities when the graveyards got overcrowded they used to bury people on top of each other, but always in a casket and always in ceremonial fashion—laid out on their backs nice and comfy so they could all ‘rest in peace.' Nobody buried people like this— tucked up in a ball without even a wooden box to call home. This guy was murdered all right—a forensic anthropologist can probably verify that by looking for bullet fragments or cut marks on the bone. The question is, ‘Who is this guy? And who killed him—and why?' What you need is a postmortem interval—you need to establish time of death so you can begin to assemble a list of suspects. I suppose that's why you sent for a bug man—that's why you need me. What I can't figure out is why you're here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why is the FBI involved in this? Why do you guys care?”

Donovan nodded to the remaining graves. “The third grave is just like the first one,” he said. “One grave, one body. But the fourth grave is just like this one—there's a second body buried on top of the original casket. That strongly suggests the same person committed both murders.”

“So?”

“There's a lot of land still to be excavated here—there's no telling how many more graves they might find. They've already found two of these double graves; there could be more. You know how the FBI classifies these things: three or more murders with the same modus constitute a serial killer—that's when we get involved.”

“Okay—but why are
you
here? If I remember correctly, aren't you a counterterrorism agent?”

“That's right.”

“Does the FBI suspect that this has something to do with terrorism?”

“No.”

Nick waited.

“It's a little . . . complicated.”

“I'm listening.”

Donovan paused. “Remember the last time we worked together?”

“In New York, in TriBeCa, a couple of years ago. I remember clearly—you didn't pay me that time either.”

“Well, that turned out to be a big case for me. It seems I stopped a guy who was planning to attack the city with bubonic plague.”

“I remember reading about that—on the cover of the
New York Times
, in fact. Not bad—that must have been a shot in the arm for your career.”

“To say the least. The Bureau takes a lot of heat these days; we get so many complaints and criticisms that when something actually goes right we want to make sure everybody knows about it.”

“So they want everybody to know about
you
.”

“I guess so. They pulled me off the field and brought me down to Washington. The camera seems to be following me right now, and I suppose they want to take advantage of it. It's kind of a PR job, really. I go to a lot of parties; I do a lot of interviews.”

“They pulled you off the field? Is that what you wanted?”

“They didn't ask.”

“I'm asking.”

“Some days I could slash my wrists,” Donovan said, “but that's another story. To answer your question, I'm standing here with you because this is where they want me right now.”

“Here? Why?”

Donovan nodded to the massive excavation site that surrounded them. “
The Patriot Center
—that's what they're planning to call this place. It'll be the largest mall in the eastern U.S., situated right off I-66, the main east-west corridor out of Washington, D.C., just an hour from the city. A thousand acres of Virginia countryside—and one man owns the whole shebang.”

“Who?”

“John Henry Braden.”

“
Senator
Braden?”

“In five months it'll be
President
Braden, according to the buzz in Washington. This is all his land, Nick—not just the Patriot Center, but as far as the eye can see—most of it belongs to him.”

“That was a pretty good investment.”

“Can you imagine what will happen to the value of his land once the Patriot Center is completed? And not just around here—all along the I-66 corridor. Braden owns land all along the way.”

“How can one man afford to buy so much land?”

“He didn't buy it; he inherited it. It's been in his family for decades— centuries, from what I hear. Braden is one of those old Virginia blue bloods. The man has deep roots, and deep roots make deep pockets.”

“I suppose his people all came over on the
Mayflower
.”

“Are you kidding? Braden can trace his family tree all the way back to Jamestown—he looks down his nose at the stragglers who came over on the
Mayflower
.”

“I still don't get it,” Nick said. “What if Braden does have a lot of money on the line here? Why does the FBI care?”

“Politics. Braden sits on some very influential committees—the sort of committees that decide the annual budget for the Department of Justice, which determines the annual budget for the FBI. Get the idea? If Braden wants something from the FBI, all he has to do is ask.”

“And you think he asked for you?”

“That's what I hear.”

“Why you? The FBI has all kinds of people who could handle this. If Braden wants you here, he probably wants the camera that's following you.”

“I agree.”

“But why would Braden want this kind of publicity?”

“Because he's running for president of the United States, and every presidential candidate needs to appear tough on crime. He's got a horse farm in Middleburg—about half an hour east of here. John Henry Braden can't have a serial killer operating in his own backyard; whatever develops here, he wants the American public to see that he's on top of it.”

“Sounds like a risky move to me. What if it turns out worse than he thought? This could backfire on him.”

“It could—but he's betting it won't, and in the meantime he looks like a man of courage and conviction. That's important; Braden wants voters to know that he won't put up with crime in his own state, and he won't put up with it when he's in the Oval Office.”

“You mean
if
.”

“Not from what I hear.”

“So your role here is largely symbolic?”

“Thanks for the kick in the groin. Yes, my role is largely symbolic. I symbolize the full attention and complete resources of the FBI—and John Henry Braden.”

“Impressive,” Nick said. “The Department of Entomology won't even post my photo on their Web site.”

“There might be a reason for that.”

“Thanks. So—how do you want to proceed here?”

“I want us to work it from both sides. I want you here; like you said, I need a postmortem interval—an estimate of how long those two bodies have been dead. I mean, are we talking decades or centuries here? Is this an active serial killer we're talking about, or just ancient history?”

“I'm not sure I can help you,” Nick said. “These bones look pretty old to me. You know how it works, Donovan—the older the body, the less an entomologist will find.”

“Don't be so modest. I've seen you do magic.”

“It all depends on what we find.
Calliphorids
are generally the first insects to colonize a body—the blowflies—sometimes within minutes of death. Suppose a murderer kills a victim, then sets the body aside while he digs a hole; even if he only takes a few minutes, female blowflies have already found the body and laid their eggs on it. So when the killer buries the body, he buries the blowfly eggs along with it. The eggs hatch underground, the maggots mature and pupate, adult flies emerge—but a lot of them can't make it back to the surface again. I might find their bodies left behind.”

“What would that tell us?”

“It depends on the specific species. Suppose I find
Cochliomyia macel-laria
, the secondary screwworm fly. The secondary screwworm fly doesn't like fresh bodies—it prefers to wait a day or two until things dry out a little. That would tell us the victim was left aboveground for a day or two before he was buried. And
Cochliomyia macellaria
is rarely found in buildings, so that would mean the victim was probably killed outdoors.
Macellaria
is a warm-weather fly—but suppose I find
Phormia regina
, the black blowfly—they prefer cold weather. In that case we might be able to narrow the time of death to a specific season. And if we're really lucky, we might even find a species that doesn't belong here—a species that isn't native to this area—and that would tell us the body was transported here from somewhere else. Like I said: It depends on what we find.”

“Fair enough. See what you can find.”

“If you ask me, what you really need here is a forensic anthropologist. He can give you a better PMI than I can—he can test the nitrogen levels in the bone.”

“There could be other bodies buried here, Nick, and they might not be as old as these two. If we find one, I'll have to send for you anyway. I'd rather have you in on this from the beginning; you're good at puzzles, and this looks like a big one to me. You know how to work a crime scene and you get things done—in your own manic, self-destructive way.”

“Well, I'll see what I can do—but until we find a fresher body I could use that anthropologist.”

“You'll have one by tomorrow. You should have everything you need within twenty-four hours; if you don't, call me. Where do you want them to set up the tent?”

Nick looked over the area. “On top of the ridge, near the graves— but tell them not to put it too close. I don't want the shade late in the afternoon—I'll need the sunlight.”

“Anything else?”

“I'd like to know a few details, like—where am I staying?”

“There's a little town called Endor in the foothills just a couple of miles from here. They've got a nice little place up there.”

“Describe it for me.”

“Nice. Little.”

“I passed a Hyatt on the way out.”

“So far away. So inconvenient.”

“This ‘nice little place' has cockroaches, doesn't it?”

“I wanted you to feel at home.”

“Thanks. How do I find it?”

“Ask the sheriff 's deputy. I think he's a local.”

“Yes, I deduced that.”

“Anything else?”

“I'd like to know something: While I'm collecting desiccated insects from corpses and camping out at the No-Tell Motel in Endor, what exactly will you be doing—attending extra parties?”

“No, I'll be checking with the FBI's National Crime Information Center to see if there are any old missing persons reports from this area that might help us identify those two bodies. I'll check the local law enforcement records too—though I expect that to take longer. Between the two of us, I'm hoping we can figure this thing out.”

“And what if there are more than two bodies?”

Donovan shrugged. “We'll worry about that when the time comes.”

The two men started back toward the sheriff 's deputy.

“How long do you think they'll keep you in Washington?” Nick asked.

“Just until the spotlight fades, I suppose. I hope it's soon—we miss New York.”

“You should screw up all the time the way I do. They let me go wherever I want.”

“Thanks for the career tip.” He stopped and turned to Nick. “One more thing: Stay away from the camera, okay? Don't talk to the press. No interviews. We'll have a public liaison officer here and everything will go through him. Got it?”

“Don't you trust me?”

“If I didn't trust you, you wouldn't be here. There's a lot riding on this, Nick. A lot of important people will be watching—the sort of people who care a lot about what other people think.”

“Including a certain U.S. senator?”

“Yeah—especially him.”

3

Nick knelt on two wooden planks he had placed on either side of the skeleton to keep his weight from compacting the soil further and possibly damaging artifacts that might be recovered below.
A fat lot of good it'll do now
, he thought. The construction worker who discovered this skeleton probably stomped all over it in hobnailed boots. But you couldn't really blame him—all the poor guy was expecting to find was the grave's rightful owner resting peacefully in a pine box; he sure wasn't expecting to find a second resident sleeping in the top bunk.