Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (64 page)

The dog sat.

She stroked the dog's head and scratched behind his ears. She roughed up his fur and examined it. She lifted his muzzle and looked into his eyes, then lifted one jowl with her thumb and looked at his teeth and gums.

“You there!” Marge shouted as she charged across the field. “May I ask what you think you're doing?”

The witch stepped back from the dog and lowered her head again.

“Take it easy, Marge,” Nick said. “She was only trying to—”

“
Never
touch my dog!” she growled, looking the witch over in disdain. “Do I make myself clear?”

The witch mumbled something under her breath.

“Excuse me? What was that?”

“I said, ‘Your dog is dehydrated.'”

“My dog is in perfect health, thank you very much.”

“Look for yourself. You can tell by his fur.”

She glared at her. “I don't recognize you—where did you get your training? Do you have your FEMA certification? May I see your credentials, please?”

The witch said nothing.

“Now hold on,” Nick said. “This is no time to start comparing pedigrees.”

“
Pedigree?
Is that some kind of joke? That
thing
has no pedigree—it's nothing but a mongrel. And why would anyone allow this pathetic creature to suffer this way? The humane thing would have been to put it down years ago. I can only hope it won't be allowed to pollute the bloodlines further. Has she at least been spayed?”

The witch raised her head and peered out with one burning eye. “Have you?”

She snapped her fingers and ran toward the parking lot with the dog on her heels.

“Alena, wait a minute!” Nick called after her—but she didn't even slow down.

“I plan to confirm each and every one of her supposed ‘findings,'” Marge said, frowning at the field of red flags.

Nick turned on her. “Confirm anything you want,” he said, “but whatever you do,
don't touch those flags
. I consider every one of them a positive identification until excavation proves otherwise—and we'll start digging the minute the crew arrives.”

She sniffed. “That will make my work difficult.”

“Your work isn't difficult, it's impossible—but that's your fault. You'd better get to work, Marge, because the minute my crew confirms Alena's findings, you're out of here—and it won't be soon enough for me.”

Nick looked across the field at the parking lot just in time to see the old red pickup with a white camper shell pull onto I-66 and speed off in the direction of Endor.

As the pickup left the parking lot, a Warren County sheriff 's car pulled in.

11

Donovan looked out over the group of reporters. “That concludes my prepared statement,” he said. “You've all received a copy of our briefing; it contains all the facts I just mentioned. I recognize some of you from the district; I see a few unfamiliar faces too. The FBI would like to thank all of you for making the drive out here today.”

The reporters huddled together in a small, roped-off area situated on a rise overlooking the Patriot Center. The site for this press conference had been carefully selected by the FBI's public liaison officer and approved by Donovan himself. This location afforded members of the media a clear view of the entire excavation, allowed their cameramen to shoot with the sun at their backs, and, most important, kept reporters from wandering off where they didn't belong—which Donovan knew from experience reporters had a habit of doing.

The graveyard was now bustling with activity as forensic tech crews began the excavation of the newly located graves. Even in ordinary circumstances the relocation of an old grave was a delicate procedure, requiring the last foot of soil to be removed by hand to keep from collapsing the rotting casket below. Here every bit of soil had to be removed by hand because there was no telling what the next few inches might reveal—and if another double occupant did turn up, the soil above that body instantly became potentially valuable forensic evidence. That's why the tech crews worked slowly and with extreme care, measuring and cataloging everything removed from each of the excavations under Nick's careful direction.

“I'll take your questions now,” Donovan said. “As always, the FBI is happy to cooperate with the media and to tell you everything we want you to know.”

The younger reporters glanced around the group; the older ones laughed. In the front row, one reporter didn't change expression at all. Paul Decker worked as a stringer for WRTL, a struggling young affiliate trying to hang on to a thin sliver of viewership in the competitive top-ten market of Washington, D.C. WRTL couldn't afford the top talent that stations like WRC-TV could—the really hot-looking anchors working their way up through the smaller markets along the East Coast—and they couldn't afford their own helicopter like FOX 5. WRTL didn't have the deep pockets or the power or the prestige to go toe-to-toe with the larger stations; what they did have was reporters like Decker, hungry and ambitious men working on a pay-per-piece basis who would kill for a regular salary and benefits. WRTL said they wanted local news, but Decker had been around long enough to know that nobody wanted a story about the new Smithsonian exhibit or the latest demonstration on the mall. The stories that sold were sensational— the more sensational the better—and Decker thought that a presidential candidate with his own personal graveyard had definite possibilities.

Decker pressed closer and pointed his microphone in Donovan's face. “Mr. Donovan—Paul Decker, WRTL. How many more of these double graves does the FBI expect to find here?”

“There's no way to tell, Mr. Decker, until we finish the excavations.”

“But two of the first four graves contained additional bodies—doesn't that suggest that you'll find more?”

“If you win the lottery, that doesn't suggest you'll win it again. As I said, there's just no way to tell.”

“Do you have any theories yet about why these people were murdered?”

“We don't know for certain that they were murdered.”

“Can you offer any other explanation for the way they were buried?”

Donovan paused. “No, I can't.”

“So are we talking about a serial killer here?”

“Whoa, let's slow down a minute. The FBI is involved here because of the discovery of two bodies buried in a similar way—and yes, that raises the possibility of a serial killer, but it's only a possibility. The problem is, these bodies are old—we have no idea how old yet. We've brought in both a forensic entomologist and a forensic anthropologist to help us solve that problem, but we don't have an answer yet.”

“Can we interview them?” Decker asked.

“They've been instructed to keep me apprised of any new developments, and I'll be more than happy to pass that information on to you.”

“In other words, no.”

“In other words, no.”

“How do they know where to dig?” a
Washington Times
reporter asked. “Is there a map of this place? A list of the people buried here? Can we get a copy of it?”

“We've been unable to find any record of this graveyard,” Donovan said. “That made it a little difficult to locate the remaining graves.”

“Then how was that accomplished?”

“The FBI has several ways of searching for clandestine graves. Sometimes we find depressions created when the ground settles—these graves were too old for that. We can use thermal imaging to detect the heat from decomposing bodies—but again, these are too old. Sometimes we can use ground-penetrating radar, but the soil around here is just too rocky. In this case we sought the assistance of a forensic detection dog— sometimes referred to as a
cadaver dog
.”

“They can detect graves this old?”

“Fortunately for us, yes. Every little red flag you see behind me marks a grave, and every one of them was found by a cadaver dog just last night.”

Decker looked at the yellow crime scene tape that surrounded the entire graveyard. “Any chance of letting us in to get some close-up shots?”

“What's the matter, Mr. Decker? Can't WRTL afford a telephoto lens? Sorry—the entire area is considered a crime scene until we determine otherwise. That means it's off-limits to all unofficial personnel. We can't have people trampling over possible forensic evidence.”

“Just one quick shot?”

Donovan looked at the group and smiled. “Perhaps I should remind you all that crossing our crime scene tape would be a violation of federal law. I'm sure none of you need that reminder, but you might want to pass it on to some of your less scrupulous colleagues.”

“What does Senator Braden think about all this?” another reporter asked.

“I have no idea. You'll have to ask him that yourself.”

“This land belongs to him. The Patriot Center is his project.”

“Yes, and I'm sure he's thinking what any other developer would be thinking right now: Where did I put that checkbook?”

Decker waited for the laughter to die down. “This land has been in the senator's family for generations—isn't that true?”

“That's my understanding, yes.”

“But you don't believe there's any connection between these bodies and the senator himself.”

“None that I know of.”

Decker paused. “Did he tell you to say that?”

Donovan looked at him; there was no change in his expression, but there was a definite intensity in his gaze. “No one
tells
me to say anything.” He broke eye contact and turned to the rest of the group. “Are there any other questions?”

No one spoke up.

“Look,” Donovan said. “You guys are the reporters and I don't want to put words in your mouths—but when you write your stories I'd encourage you to exercise a little restraint. What we have here so far is an old forgotten graveyard, nothing more. As for the two unexplained bodies, well, that's just what they are—unexplained. We'll let you all know the minute we figure this out—but in the meantime, please try not to concoct any wild conspiracy theories, okay? That doesn't help anybody.” He threw a glance at Decker with his last comment.

The press conference ended here; photographers began to snap caps onto black, barrel-shaped lenses and fold the legs of tripods with dull metallic clicks. Reporters gathered up their belongings and began to work their way back to their cars, escorted by the public liaison officer.

Decker turned to his cameraman. “Did you get anything worthwhile?”

“Oh, yeah,” the cameraman said, “a nice head shot of a talking FBI man telling everybody, ‘Go on home, there's nothing to look at here.' I also got a shot of a big field with people digging in the dirt about a mile away—they'll look like ants even in high-def. Terrific stuff—the station oughta pay us top dollar for this.”

“You're right,” Decker said. “We won't make the 5:00 p.m. with this garbage—we need to find a better angle.” He searched the dwindling group and spotted Donovan collecting his notes at the portable lectern. “Mr. Donovan! Hang on a minute.”

Donovan looked up and recognized him; he didn't smile.

“I have a follow-up question, if you don't mind.”

“Go ahead.”

“What's the real story here?”

“What do you mean, Mr. Decker?”

“I can't go back with a story like this. Help me out here.”

“Sorry,” Donovan said. “I don't write stories; I just relay facts.”

“Then give me some more facts. Does the senator know about all this?”

“Does the senator know that he might lose millions in interest on construction loans because his project has been shut down? Think it over, Paul—of course he knows.”

“Does he have any explanation for the two bodies?”

Donovan shook his head. “You're just dying to bring Senator Braden into this, aren't you?”

“Why are you protecting him?”

“C'mon, Decker, it's an election year and politicians make easy targets. If you don't like Braden then write about his fiscal policy or his stand on global warming. But don't throw this in his face—it's just not fair.”

“I'm just doing my job.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“Telling stories that don't make people fall asleep.”

“Ever hear of a bedtime story? Some stories are supposed to make people sleep.”

“Not the ones I write.”

“Well, that's your business. My business is to conduct a press conference, and I'm finished now—so if you don't have any more questions, I'd like to get back to work.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Decker said.

“Any time. And Mr. Decker—I meant what I said about the crime scene tape. Right?”