Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (54 page)

Still, the construction worker hadn't made Nick's job any easier.

The hide beetles and rove beetles that are attracted to buried remains prefer to dig down through the freshly loosened soil directly above the body; by removing the earth above the skeleton, the worker had inadvertently removed most of the insect evidence that might help Nick determine a postmortem interval. Most of the pupal cases and insect body fragments would be gone; a few might still remain, but finding them wouldn't be easy.

He knew the job would be even tougher for the forensic anthropologist Donovan promised to send. Nick gently swept away the soil from the humerus with a soft bristle brush, gradually exposing more of the bone; sure enough, he found the bone shattered twice before it even connected with the radius and ulna, probably because the nose of a shovel had chopped it in half. He crawled forward on the boards and brushed the dirt away from the side of the skull; he found it crushed flat like an eggshell, forming a delicate mosaic in the shape of a human head.
Good luck determining cause of death with this guy
, Nick thought. The FA would pull his hair out attempting to recover any reliable forensic evidence from this mess.

Nick hoped he'd have better luck with the body in the fourth grave— maybe it would be in better shape. But even if it wasn't, it might not be his last opportunity. There was no telling how many graves they would find in this old graveyard—and how many double occupants might be among them. Somebody had come up with the clever idea of disposing of a body by burying it on top of an existing grave, and whoever it was had used the technique at least twice. Who knows? Maybe the killer had used it three times—or four, or five. With each additional victim there would be more evidence—and more of a chance to find out who the killer was.

“Excuse me, I'm going to need you to leave.”

Nick rocked back onto his heels and straightened; his eyes were now level with the surface of the ground. He cupped his hand over his eyes and looked up to see an imperious-looking woman glaring down at him from the side of the grave. She stood like a pyramid with her trousered legs spread wide and her fists planted firmly on her hips. The image triggered an old memory of the Jolly Green Giant standing astride a valley of Golden Niblets—but there was nothing jolly about this woman. She was dressed in green khaki from head to foot, with a hunter-orange vest draped over her work shirt. Both shoulders were emblazoned with official-looking insignia embroidered in gold and blue, though from his vantage point Nick couldn't read either one of them. Her hands were protected by white surgical gloves, making her long fingers look like a pair of cow's udders after a good milking. Her narrow waist was girded by some sort of combination of fanny pack and accessory holder, and around her neck she wore a gleaming silver whistle dangling from a black lanyard. Her head and face were enveloped by a billow of dark mosquito netting that draped down from a baseball-style cap, completely obscuring her features and expression—except for a condescending scowl, which somehow still managed to show through.

Nick looked up at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, ‘I'm going to need you to leave.'”

“Who are you?”

She twisted and pointed to the shoulder patch on one arm; Nick squinted but still couldn't make out the words. With an impatient huff she twisted farther and bent down a little more.

“We could save a lot of time if you'd just tell me,” Nick said. “Unless you need me to read it to you.”

She straightened. “My name is Marjory Claire Anderson-Forsyth.”

Nick waited. “Is this multiple choice, or do I have to remember the whole thing?”

She didn't smile. “I am principal owner and chief trainer of the Virginia chapter of Fidelis Search and Rescue Dogs—
that
is what it says on my insignia. I have been contracted by the Federal Bureau of Investigation to locate the graves in this cemetery.”

“I already found this one,” Nick said. “You'll have to look someplace else.”

She didn't reply.

Nick got up from his knees and dusted them off; he was almost even with the woman's waist now and the view was not improving. Twenty yards to his right he spotted a large black-and-tan dog darting back and forth, nervously sniffing at the ground. The dog was wearing a hunter-orange vest exactly like the woman's.

“Is that a cadaver dog?” Nick asked.

“That is a
forensic detection
dog,” she corrected, “and I'm afraid your scent is distracting.”

“The label said I'd be irresistible. I'm getting my money back.”

Still no response.

It was quickly becoming apparent that the woman lacked a sense of humor—a human personality defect that Nick found particularly annoying. He hoisted himself out of the hole and stood up beside her. She was even taller than she appeared to be from below, flat-chested, and thin as a wire. She lifted the front of the mosquito netting and pulled it back over her head, exposing her face.
You may now kiss the bride
was the thought that flashed through Nick's mind—and it was not a pleasant thought. Her face matched the rest of her: It was long and thin with high cheekbones that ran down into sinewy sunken hollows like wax dripping over a ledge. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a bundle of tight curls of black and gray, and her dark eyes seemed to be frozen in a permanent glare—and right now they were glaring at Nick.

“Who
are
you?” she asked in exactly the same tone of voice Nick used when he came across an unfamiliar species of dung beetle.

He wiped his hands on his cargo shorts and extended one. “Nick Polchak,” he said. “I'm a forensic entomologist from NC State.”

She raised her gloved hands in front of her like a surgeon. “I need you to leave the area immediately.”

Nick paused. “I'm afraid that's a bit of a problem. See, the FBI hired me too, and my job is to collect insect evidence from the—”

“Mr. Polchak, do you understand how a forensic detection dog operates?”

“I'm an entomologist,” Nick said, “but I imagine it's similar to the way an insect operates. As the human body decomposes, it emits a series of chemical compounds as by-products; so far, about four hundred of these substances have been identified. These chemicals work their way to the surface of the soil where insects can detect them. I suppose a cadaver dog works the same way: Because it possesses far more sensitive olfactory abilities than a human being, the dog is able to detect the same chemical indicators that insects do.”

“That is essentially correct.”

“Some of these graves might date back to colonial times. Can a dog find a body that old?”

“A border collie in the Czech Republic once detected a grave that was two
thousand
years old.”

“Impressive.”

“It's a very delicate process—so I'm sure you can understand that there must be no distracting odors when the detection dog is attempting to do its work.”

“And I'm a distracting odor.”

“How clever of you.”

“Let me get this straight. ‘Bosco' is over there trying to sniff out a grave—”

“His name is
not
Bosco,” she said through clenched teeth. “His pedigree name is Augusta's King Edward of Stanroph. I address him simply as ‘King.'”

“He's got a longer pedigree than you do,” Nick said. “You'd better get yourself a couple more names or pretty soon he'll be tossing biscuits to you.”

Nothing.

Nick was losing patience. “Look. Your dog is over there trying to sniff out a grave, but he's apparently not having any luck—so you think I must be distracting him. Tell me something: Isn't your dog able to distinguish between a living being and a decomposing body? Or is there something you're trying to tell me? Because a friend would let me know.”

She took a slow, deep breath. “Mr. Polchak, I am trying to be patient with you, despite your adolescent attempts at humor. A forensic detection dog is a highly trained, highly sensitive animal, and you are posing a distraction to my dog. I'm sure you will agree that the first priority here is to identify the location of all remaining graves in this graveyard— a task which I will happily undertake just as soon as you—”

“Hey!” Nick shouted. He pointed at the dog, who was raising one leg and urinating on a small clump of grass.

The woman put her whistle to her lips and made two shrill blasts; the dog stopped and hung its head in apparent shame—but not before emptying its bladder.

“Tell your highly trained animal to stop peeing on my crime scene!” Nick said.

She waved off the comment like an annoying gnat. “That is an instinctive canine behavior. He probably detects the scent of a predator and he's ‘overmarking' the spot. It's a normal territorial response.”

“You tell him this is
my
territory,” Nick said, “and that if he doesn't stop, I'm going to ‘overmark'
him
. I'm interested in predators too, lady. Some of them scavenge for human remains—they disarticulate bodies and carry off bones and other body parts. They sometimes leave markings behind—markings that might tell us what kind of predator it was and which season it would have been present here. That information might lead us to the time of year the victim died—unless your dog destroys the evidence first.”

“Mr. Polchak—” she began, but Nick cut her off.

“Look, Marge, I'm going to cut you some slack here—not because you deserve it, but because I'm a really nice guy once you get past my distracting scent. I'm going to back off and give you and Bosco a little space, because even though I hate to admit it I happen to agree with you on one point: The priority here is to locate all the remaining graves. So why don't you and Mr. Sensitive there get started and I'll just move off to the side?”

“Downwind,” she added.

Nick bit his lip. “Of course. We wouldn't want Bosco to get distracted— he might wet his leg.”

Nick turned without further comment and headed back toward the spot where the deputy stood guard—downwind. He sat down and stretched out on a patch of remaining grass and took out his cell phone. He dialed a number from memory.

“Donovan here,” a voice said. “What's up, Nick?”

“There are three bodies in one of the graves,” Nick said.

“Really? Which grave?”

“I haven't decided yet. I have to kill her first.”

A pause. “Okay, what's the problem?”

“Who hired the cadaver-dog lady?”

“Beats me. I requested a dog team through the Bureau. She must be on somebody's Approved Vendor list. Why?”

“I need to know something: Whose crime scene is this?”

“Mine.”

“Okay, what about when you're not here? Whose crime scene is it then?”

“Mine. Would you like to put your sister on the phone so I can tell her that the ball belongs to you?”

“Would you?”

“No. You kids will just have to work this out between the two of you—it's a part of growing up. Now if you don't mind, Dad has some work to do.”

Nick closed the phone.

Three hours later he was still sitting in the same spot. Elgin was sitting beside him now; he had meandered over and taken a seat beside Nick, and the two men were leaning back on their elbows and watching “Marge” and “Bosco” work. Marge carried a bundle of small wire flags in her left hand, each one topped by a rectangle of bright red plastic; Nick assumed that their purpose was to mark the location of each grave as it was identified—but after three hours no red flags were visible on the ground.

“Not makin' much headway,” Elgin observed.

“Not a whole lot,” Nick replied. “Are you a betting man, Deputy?”

“At times. I play the lottery when the numbers get high enough.”

“How many graves would you bet there are in this graveyard?”

The deputy considered. “No way to tell.”

“If you had to bet.”

The deputy looked over the area. “Well—I see four in a row right there. I suppose that could be the end of it, but most likely not—I figure they's at least another one or two on either side. But it don't make sense they'd plant 'em all in one row like peas or pole beans, so I figure they's another row or two behind 'em—maybe more.”

“That's good figuring,” Nick said. “So what's your guess?”

“If I had to bet? I'd say thirty—thereabouts.”

“And how many of those thirty has Bosco found so far?”

“Maybe he's just warmin' up.”

Nick looked at his watch. “What is he, a Crock-Pot?”

The dog wandered back and forth across the open area with its nose to the ground; from time to time Marge would call the dog back, reaching into a pouch at her waist and handing the dog some kind of tasty reward—for what, Nick had no idea. Then she would send the dog off again, sniffing and pawing in his brilliant orange vest. Throughout the whole process the woman would issue piercing commands with the silver whistle, causing the dog to constantly stop and shoot off in a different direction like a fur-covered bumper car.