Collecting the Dead (7 page)
“She has editors, you know. You could at least hear her out. She’s called you every couple weeks since November; I think she deserves a little of your time.”
“I don’t think so,” I mutter, more to myself than to Diane. Turning, I exit the hangar just as quickly as I entered:
step-stump-step-stump-step-stump
. A trip to Bellis Fair Mall suddenly sounds appealing; better than sticking around the office while Diane
peck-peck-pecks
at me in that relentless manner of hers. If I didn’t love her, I’d hate her … okay, I’d strongly dislike her; Diane’s a little hard to hate.
A couple hours should give her time to put this Heather thing out of her head.
Besides, I need shoes.
* * *
Evil exists.
Many dismiss it as a relic of our superstitious past, or view it as a religious phenomenon and don’t buy in to good and evil, heaven and hell. Psychologists explain it away as chemical imbalances, genetics, or nurturing.
I know evil exists—
real
evil—because I see it from time to time.
I’m looking at it right now.
I came to Bellis Fair Mall to buy a new pair of shoes, and instead find the recent shine of my nemesis, the elusive one, the killer I call Leonardo. He’s been here before—just a couple times over the years, but it’s enough. He always parks in the same spot. And not the same general
location
but the exact same parking spot. Maybe he’s OCD or a creature of habit, it really doesn’t matter. It just means that whenever I come to the mall, I check that parking spot.
Sometimes I think he’s taunting me.
But that’s impossible.
Eleven years have come and gone since that cold February morning. Four thousand days, spent and discarded, falling away one by one like leaves from the great tree that measures the weeks, months, and years of our lives. Into great moldering piles they gather, those leaves, surrendering to time and corruption until nothing remains but the memory of the leaf, the memory of the day. Eleven years; so long, yet I still know the shine: a dark oozing pitch, black as the heart that made it. There are no metaphors for darkness that suffice.
It was my sixteenth birthday.
Who goes on a Search and Rescue mission on their birthday? I almost refused but then learned it was Jessica Parker—Jess—who was missing. Cheerleader, Girl Scout troop leader, track star, honor student, Jess Parker. The worst thing she ever did was take a hit off a joint after a football game, and then only once. She was a senior and I a mere sophomore, one step above a maggot freshman, but who didn’t daydream about Jess? It wasn’t possible.
She walked down her hundred-yard driveway to get the mail and never came back. She was there, and then gone; it was that fast. And of all the countless times my special skills served me well, this was not one of them. There was no track to follow; Jess’s trail ended at the mailbox. I could see where she’d landed on the ground, could see a tiny spot of blood on the weeds by the ditch, could see the black tracks exiting the vehicle, scooping her up, and putting her in the back.
I pointed out the blood; it was so minute the deputies hadn’t seen it.
That was the extent of my usefulness; that, and the knowledge that she hadn’t wandered off or run away. This was an abduction; the news hit everyone hard in the gut and immediately changed the tone and urgency of the investigation.
Two days later they found her in a small clump of forest seven miles away. Her partially nude body was laid out on the ground, empty eyes staring at the sky, feet together, arms extending from her sides. His darkness was on her and around her and I saw what he’d done, how he’d posed her, how he’d used her.
She’s burned into my soul, Jess Parker is, seared and smoldering and raw, a hurt that everyone in the community felt and one that I could do nothing about. She’s just gone and the world is unjust and I have to look at the human wreckage floating in the wake of such monsters. Over and over and over I have to look, and I fear the monsters are looking back. They’re with me in the lonely watches of the night, when sleep has fled and all that remains are the images. And Jimmy wonders why I want to quit.
I named the evil Leonardo because he wants to be called that … he left signs.
Jess Parker was posed as Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. The detectives working the crime scene only saw her lying on the ground with her arms outstretched pointing east and west and her feet together pointing south.
I saw the rest.
I saw Jess’s shine where he’d first placed her arms in a raised position and her legs wide before moving them to their final pose. I saw the black circle he’d walked around her body. The only element missing is the square; why it’s not included remains a mystery, as does everything else about this case.
I’ve seen Leonardo’s track four times since the murder of Jess Parker, and always at Bellis Fair Mall. I beat myself up over it every time, wondering, why this mall? Why haven’t I seen his track elsewhere in the county? Does he only pass through from time to time? Is he heading to a vacation spot, a job, a reunion? Is he Canadian? After all, the border is less than twenty miles away. Is he a student at the university, or a visiting professor?
No answers come.
All that remains is the puzzle of footsteps; footsteps that always start in the same parking spot in the same far corner of the mall parking lot. He visits two or three stores, always pays cash, and leaves as quickly as he came. In the handful of previous sightings, not a single clerk has been able to provide a compelling description of Leonardo.
When I’d ask his height, they’d say, “Average.”
When I’d ask his weight, they’d say, “Average.”
When I’d ask his hair color, they’d say, “Brown,” or “Black,” or “Sandy blond,” or “Average.”
Pointless.
Useless.
Still, I follow Leonardo’s track; I go through the routine. This time it’s just two stores. Then I walk the path from the mall to his parking spot and back again, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There’s nothing.
I find my way to the security office.
“I need surveillance video of the southwest parking lot for the last three days,” I tell the security officer monitoring the cameras. A quick flash of my FBI badge dispels any objections and I wait patiently for forty-five minutes while they look for someone who knows how to copy video from the system.
I can’t see shine in pictures or video, it’s just not something that can be captured, even with the most sensitive equipment. But I
can
see what kind of vehicle Leonardo was driving … maybe. The southwest parking lot gets little use, particularly in the summer, so there’s a good chance I can narrow down the selection to just a few vehicles. After all, I have an advantage: I know exactly where he parked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Craig,” the young security officer says, hurrying up to me. His shine is a pleasing ginger essence mottled with French lilac, I note, with a slow bubbling texture, much like a lava lamp. “We can’t get the DVD burner to work. It tries to copy the file but then gets hung up.”
“I’ve got a thumb drive,” I say, digging in my right front pants pocket.
“It doesn’t work with those,” he insists, eyeing the drive in my hand. “Chet will be in later. He can usually figure out the system.”
I don’t bother arguing.
There are two truths I’ve learned about surveillance video: one, no one ever seems to know how to download the file, and two, the picture quality is usually so bad the offending camera should be considered legally blind—banks and casinos excluded.
Pulling a business card from my wallet, I scribble a word on it and hand it to Ginger-mottled-with-French-lilac. “Give me a call when it’s ready. If I’m not available, ask Diane to come pick it up.” I tap her name where I’ve written it on the card.
“Special Tracking Unit,” Ginger reads off the card. “That sounds cool.”
I make my exit before he can ask me how to join up.
June 21, 5:57
A.M.
Betsy descends from the clouds and banks left as Les lines her up for a landing at Redding Municipal Airport. The early morning sky is clear and blue, promising a beautiful and hot California day.
Sleep eludes me on these short flights, but sleep tends to keep its distance from me anyway, as it did last night; as it did the night before. The only gifts the Sandman chooses to bestow upon me these days are nightmares, and nightmares of nightmares. Jimmy studies the bags under my eyes but doesn’t say anything.
The call came in at 7:35 last night, halfway through a recorded episode of
Jericho
, and just as we were winding down DD5. It was more of the same: a woman’s body found by a hiker at the Whiskeytown National Recreation Area just west of Redding. Foul play suspected. Details are few and sketchy, but the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office had secured the scene overnight pending our arrival, keeping everyone out but the crime scene investigators (CSIs), who, in this case, were not full-time CSIs but cross-trained deputies.
Betsy kisses the runway at 6:05
A.M.
and taxies to the U.S. Forest Service hangar; the USFS has graciously allowed us to use their facilities while here. When the door opens and I start down the ladder to the tarmac, I breathe deep and take in the dawn; it’s crisp, almost tart. The sun has been up less than twenty minutes and night’s chill is still in the air. Broken fragments of dissipating shadow cling to the west side of the hangar, the airport terminal, and the hills to the north. The sounds of morning are everywhere.
I’m already tired and the day has just begun.
A dark blue Ford Expedition pulls up as our hiking boots touch the runway. While it’s unmarked, it’s clearly a law enforcement vehicle, evidenced by the collection of antennas on the roof and the hidden lights in the grille and windshield. As the driver swings the door wide and steps out, I see the uniform of the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office, complete with four stars on the shoulder boards. He’s a large man, at least six-four, in his fifties, with shoulders like a linebacker and size-fifteen shoes that actually look small under him.
“Sheriff Gant, I presume,” Jimmy says as we meet halfway between the plane and the SUV. Jimmy’s hand is dwarfed by the sheriff’s bear paw as they shake.
“Call me Walt,” the sheriff says in a strong, rumbling voice.
We do the whole small-talk thing for about five minutes and I learn that Walt has a deep, genuine laugh and a love for his job and the people he serves. It’s refreshing and I find myself wanting to help this guy as much as I can … if I can.
That depends on the body and the crime scene.
Two identical folders are waiting on the front and rear passenger seats. Sheriff Gant’s people are nothing if not efficient. Each folder contains a complete case synopsis, maps, a half dozen eight-by-ten glossies, and a one-page directory of hotels and restaurants in the Redding area. They even marked the hotels that offered a law enforcement discount. I climb in the back and let Jimmy ride shotgun.
“A nice couple named Jim and Valerie Bartowski found her,” Walt says as we turn off Muni Boulevard onto Knighton Road, heading for I-5. “I’ve never met them until last night, but I recognized the name when I heard it. Valerie trains dogs and has quite a reputation; very well respected.”
“Dogs?” I say.
“Cadaver dogs,” Walt clarifies. “They happened to have one of their pups with them on the hike and he led them off-trail to the body.”
“How far off-trail?” Jimmy asks.
“Maybe thirty feet, but it’s pretty overgrown in that area. Doubtful anyone would have found her anytime soon if it wasn’t for the dog.”
“If she’s been dead two or three months,” I say, “how come no one smelled decomp and reported it?”
“I’m sure plenty of people smelled it, but most would have likely written it off as a dead deer or squirrel. If time-of-death is accurate, she’s been there since sometime between mid-March and mid-April. Not as many hikers out there that time of year.” Leaning over, he taps at one of the eight-by-tens in Jimmy’s lap. “Not much left, I’m afraid; mostly skeletal. We couldn’t find the skull. Probably some animal ran off with it.”
“Is there an incline where the body was found?” I ask without looking up, my eyes busy dissecting the photos one by one.
Walt breathes a long drawn-out
hmmm
. “I believe there is,” he says at length. “Hard to be certain with the trees and underbrush, but the whole area has its ups and downs, so I’m guessing it does.”
“Skulls tend to roll downhill after detaching,” I say in a matter-of-fact voice. “We should be able to find it, provided the killer didn’t take it as a souvenir.” Walt chuckles, and then realizes I’m serious.
“You’re sure this is female?” Jimmy says.
“Pretty sure.”
“How do you know?”
Walt hesitates. “There’s one photo I didn’t include in your folder.”
“Why?”
He just shakes his head. “Better you see it with your own eyes.”
* * *
Buck Hollow Trail is a pleasant stroll through hell; an oppressive chaparral thick with mossy oaks, rotting logs, and pollen. Jimmy loves it. The trail follows an old logging road north, passing streams, belching frogs, and a forest floor untidy from deciduous decay. A musty wet flavor taints the air; I taste it on my tongue, smell it in my sinuses, feel it in my throat.
Dead leaves.
Dead earth.
Worms.
Three hundred yards up the trail we come across an armada of deputies, detectives, and U.S. forest rangers corralled by yellow crime-scene tape. Two small generators and a dozen portable lights sit idly to the side, no longer needed with the coming of dawn. A trail, now well worn, has been hacked through the thick scrub to the west, leading some thirty feet to where a man in slacks, dress shoes, shirt, and tie stands juxtaposed against the wild.
“Steps, Jimmy, I’d like you to meet Dr. Noble Wallace, our coroner.”
“Call me Nob,” the doctor says without emotion. “Noble is too regal and Dr. Wallace makes me think you’re talking to my father.”