The Bear

by Dustin Stevens

  It was exactly seventy-five miles door-to-door from the Mattox home in Warner to the coroner’s office in Tulsa. Unlike Columbus, which had seen such a spike in both violent crime and resident age in recent years that two new branches of the Franklin County Coroner’s office had to be opened, the entirety of the services for the surrounding five counties were all housed within the same facility.

  A rare instance of government streamlining, aligning limited resources with common sense.

  Resembling a single-story high school, the spread was made largely from red brick, vertical windows breaking up the façade. Along the front was a meticulously trimmed hedge framed by a white rock garden, concrete sidewalks outlining clear paths to the various points of entry.

  Given the special requirements of traveling with a K-9, Reed had offered to drive. Leaving Wyatt’s Ranger sitting at his parents’ house, they had pulled out at ten minutes before seven, arriving at the facility two minutes before it was scheduled to open at eight.

  Sliding into one of the visitor stalls lining the front of the facility, Reed shoved the gearshift into park and sat staring at the building, the cooling engine ticking at random intervals.

  “Were you able to call ahead?” Reed asked.

  “I left a message,” Wyatt said. “Told them we’d be coming over, but I don’t know if anybody’s heard it yet.”

  Considering the time that Deke had called him and that Reed, in turn, rang Wyatt, he couldn’t imagine there had been anybody listening to voicemail. Still, it was good to have it saved, a clear timestamp showing that at least some effort had been made to announce their arrival before just showing up.

  Crossing jurisdictional lines was always a millisecond from becoming a nightmare, one side or the other usually looking for some reason to become offended. And that was before adding a K-9 detective team from a different state into the mix.

  Better to do all they could to appear collegial while they had the chance.

  “Ever been here before?” Reed asked, running his gaze along the front of the spread.

  As it was a Friday morning, the place seemed to be a bit slow getting started, only a handful of cars sitting outside in the front lot.

  Lowering his head a few inches to get a clearer view, Wyatt shook his head. “Naw. Had a few bodies show up, but there was never any cause for investigation.”

  Which was what Reed – and his parents – had anticipated when the decision to move was made.

  People in towns like Warner passed on from natural causes, not homicidal kidnappings.

  “Lucky you,” Reed said, watching as a pair of men in chinos and Oxford shirts approached from the far end of the building. Both with messenger bags looped across their torsos, they seemed to be in an animated discussion, heading straight for the SUV before turning at the last moment and going toward the front door.

  A moment later, they were inside, the front entry swinging wide without pause for keys or to motion for somebody to buzz them in.

  “Want to give them a few minutes to check the messages or just head on in?” Wyatt asked, neither making a move to climb out just yet.

  Reed hadn’t yet heard back from his father about setting up the meeting in Muskogee, though he knew his dad well enough to know that it wouldn’t have been mentioned unless he had a pretty good idea that he could deliver. Apparently, the two had already been in contact recently about an impending lunch, so it wasn’t like the request was coming completely from left field.

  Coupling that with the later appointment with Serena Gipson’s professor and the fact that the clock was continuing to run since her disappearance, time was fast becoming a scarcity.

  “Better to get there and point out we tried than to let them listen and say no, right?” Reed asked, resting one hand on the door handle.

  “Got that right,” Wyatt agreed, the two stepping out in unison.

  Heading to the rear door, Reed popped it open and allowed Billie to spill down, the height of the SUV much greater than the sedan they were used to. Taking a couple of extra steps to slow herself, she paused, allowing Reed to clip on her leash, before the three of them headed for the front door.

  Moving at an increased pace, they went in silence, arriving at the front door a moment later and filing inside to find a front lobby that also gave the strong impression of a high school setup. Above them were elongated light fixtures that had started to yellow, their bulbs casting a filmy light over everything. On the ground was white tile that had been buffed and polished so many times it had the same surface friction as a sheet of ice.

  In the air was a faint buzzing sound, the only thing missing being a manual bell to announce that students were due at homeroom shortly.

  “This is the place, right?” Wyatt whispered, apparently picking up on the same vibe.

  On the right was what looked to be a trophy case, wooden shelves behind a glass frame loaded with photographs, certificates, and commendations for various achievements, all made out to a variety of government departments.

  To the left, an oversized bulletin board was littered with everything from the standard memos and safety precautions to handmade advertisements offering car washes or dog walks, strips fluttering from the bottom, each with a phone number scrawled across it.

  Directly before them stood a pair of double doors entering an office, with hallways shooting off to either side.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Reed replied. Slapping lightly at the leg of his jeans, he walked through the open doorway, splitting the gap between Wyatt and Billie.

  Extending a hand, he tapped the bell sitting on the front counter, waiting only a moment before one of the men they had seen enter before them appeared. A wide smile offset his thin blonde hair pushed to the side as he approached.

  “Happy Friday,” he said, his demeanor hinting that he was at least a quart of coffee in on the day already.

  Or just really high on life.

  Not that Reed was sure which was worse, given the building they were currently standing in.

  “Good morning,” Reed replied. “I am Detective Reed Mattox, here with my K-9 partner Billie, and Officer Todd Wyatt, Warner PD.”

  Stated to purposely sidestep having to explain his involvement, Reed waited as Wyatt beside him dipped the top of his head in greeting, saying nothing.

  “Good morning,” the man echoed. “Jim Dianason, Deputy Director. Our receptionist is currently out on maternity leave, so for the time being, I’m also the acting greeter.

  “What can I do for you three gentlemen?”

  Appreciating the fact that even though the man had gotten Billie’s gender wrong, he had made a point to include her, Reed opted against correcting him, instead saying, “We were hoping we could speak to the examiner that handled a case you had come in a couple of days ago.”

  “Which case would that be?”

  “Darcy Thornton.”

  The shift that occurred before them wasn’t gradual. It wasn’t a smile gently fading away or the man taking a deep breath, filling his lungs and exhaling slowly.

  It was instantaneous, as if Reed had just insulted him or a close member of his family. His features went flat as he stared across, his shoulders sagging slightly.

  “Oh, my.”

  Feeling his own mouth form into a circle, Reed glanced over to Wyatt. Feeding on the changes around her, Billie moved an inch closer, just grazing Reed’s leg, letting him know she was near.

  “Is that a problem?” Reed asked.

  Flicking his gaze across the three of them, Dianason said, “You say you guys are up from Warner?”

  “We are,” Reed said, Wyatt staying quiet, content to let him handle the talking. “We are currently working a possible kidnapping in which the victim matches the physical description of Ms. Thornton.”

  Again left vague enough to be arguably misleading, Reed watched as the man turned and glanced over a shoulder. Seeing nothing, he bent to the side, peering back to whatever space he had been in upon the
ir arrival.

  Raising his voice, he called, “Fred! I’m running down to the basement for a minute. Can you cover the front?”

  Without waiting for a response, he turned back, most of the color gone from his face. “You folks better come with me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The ride from the first floor to the basement was spent in total silence. Whatever joviality Dianason had upon their arrival was completely extinguished, replaced by a deep frown and the constant hiking up of his pants, a nervous tic that intensified with each passing moment.

  By the time the elevator finally announced their arrival in the subterranean, Reed feared the man was going to permanently injure himself, the inseam of his pants threatening to rise through some truly unmentionable areas.

  Extending a hand for everyone to exit before him, Dianason waited until they were all piled out and walking in a loose cluster before speaking.

  “My apologies for doing that,” he said, leading them through the confines of a wide hallway. Resembling the bowels of a hospital operating suite, the walls were plain white, the floor made of bright tile. Along the left was a series of stainless-steel doors, each with viewing windows inset along the top peering into coroner suites.

  As yet, there didn’t appear to be any in use, Reed reckoning that the early hour and the day of the week had caused the place to be getting a slow start.

  That, or there merely wasn’t near as much need for their services as existed elsewhere.

  Halfway down the hall, Dianason pulled up. Extracting a key ring from his pocket, he jangled through a half-dozen brass implements before finding the one he wanted and inserting it into the knob of the first door they’d encountered along the right side of the hall.

  Stepping aside, he motioned for them to enter, adding, “I just thought it might be better if we discussed the case you mentioned in here.”

  Since getting the call from Deke the night before, Reed had had an uneasy feeling about the finding of Darcy Thornton. Sifting through the notes all morning, he had found nothing beyond some light coincidence that might tie the girl to Serena Gipson, though he could understand why Deke had thought to flag the finding.

  The girl’s resemblance to Gipson was close enough to be startling, certainly enough to warrant following up on.

  Now coupling it with the demeanor of Dianason, he couldn’t help but feel a tingle rising up the back of his neck, every concern he’d had heightened by a factor of five.

  The room they stepped into resembled something Reed would imagine a university professor to use, the place a far cry from the few coroner’s offices he’d been in before. Instead of a small, cramped space loaded with file boxes and a miasma of unusual smells, the spread was wide and spacious. Bookcases lined with various volumes, full without being cluttered, were built into the walls.

  A desk of pale blonde oak sat along the opposite wall, a large rug with a Native American design in the middle of the floor. Around it was a leather sofa and a pair of armchairs, everything done in red and green tones.

  About the only thing that kept the space from being truly inviting was the lack of natural light, the basement location making windows an impossibility.

  “Please, have a seat,” Dianason said, circling around behind them and heading straight to the desk.

  Casting a glance to Wyatt, Reed arched an eyebrow, getting the same in response. The two men settled themselves onto either end of the couch.

  “Down,” Reed said, Billie lowering herself by his feet, remaining raised on her front paws, all three of them sitting and staring as Dianason took up a dark brown folder and carried it forward.

  Flipping it open, he balanced it across both palms, glancing to either side before closing it and extending it their way.

  “I’m sorry,” Dianason said, “but the lead coroner that performed the autopsy on Ms. Thornton is in court this morning. I’m not expecting her in until after lunch, though I’m sure she’d be glad to sit down at that time.

  “Until then, I hope I can help. I myself was the lead here before moving up and have been through the findings with her no less than a dozen times, as you might imagine.”

  Still uncertain what he should be imagining, Reed accepted the file. Pausing a moment, he watched as Dianason lowered himself into one of the armchairs before placing the file on the sofa between himself and Wyatt and flipping it open.

  In an instant he saw exactly what was causing the reaction of the man across from him, making it no further than the thin stack of photographs affixed to the front cover. Feeling some of the air slide from his lungs, his jaw sagged slightly as he stared at the top image.

  The driver’s license photo Deke had sent of Darcy Thornton showed a woman that looked almost identical to Serena Gipson. Listed at five-eight, she weighed one hundred and thirty-five pounds, her features sharp and full. Her date of birth listed her as twenty-six years old.

  The woman in the photo before them looked at least twice that old. Sunken and gaunt, every tendon and muscle striation was visible along her neck, her cheeks protruding from a face that was little more than skin stretched taut across a skull.

  Heavy bruising was visible beneath either eye, her nose a jumbled mess that looked to have been broken and set a handful of times.

  “And that’s just the first image,” Dianason said, seeming to read their expressions, his voice drawing Reed’s attention upward. “Which is why I wanted to have this conversation down here. We are always very cognizant about discussing the departed out in the open, but in this particular young woman’s case...”

  He let his voice trail off, not needing to state the obvious.

  Reaching out beside Reed, Wyatt peeled the stack of images upward. Using his thumb, he allowed them to flip down one at a time, each showing more of the same.

  Heavy bruising. A physical state that went beyond malnourishment, treading steadily toward starvation. Misshapen fingers that hinted at savage breaks that had not healed properly.

  “Our records have that Darcy Thornton was reported missing just eight months ago,” Reed said, lines appearing around his eyes as he tried to square the images before him with the one he’d seen on her driver’s license photo.

  “That’s correct,” Dianason said. “Her family filed an official report with Muskogee PD in November stating that she hadn’t been to work nor heard from in several days. To my understanding, there was no further sighting of her until she turned up in that field outside of Checotah a few days ago.”

  Finishing with the photos, Wyatt moved over to the paperwork on the far side of the file. He raised the top sheet, which was affixed to the folder with a pair of silver clips, and scanned through it.

  As he did so, Reed slid the photos from the binder clip holding them in place. Pulling them to his lap, he moved the top image to the side, going through them one at a time.

  “How long has she been dead?” Wyatt asked.

  “Tough to say exactly,” Dianason replied. “Are you gentlemen familiar with Casper’s Law?”

  Feeling his attention rise, Reed gave a slight shake of the head, sensing Wyatt do the same beside him.

  “Casper’s Law,” Dianason said, “is a basic premise of decomposition that states the less amount of air that accesses the body, the slower it decays. Meaning, a body underwater will deteriorate at half the speed of one resting on the surface. A body underground, one-eighth of the speed.”

  Vaguely in the back of his mind, Reed could feel the information ringing. A year before, he and Billie had worked a case that began with a young woman being fished from the Olentangy River, her state almost pristine after being recovered.

  “In this instance, with the girl both buried and wrapped tight, it’s really difficult to say,” Dianason said. “To look at her state of decomposition, I’d say no more than a few days, but it could be as much as five or six weeks.”

  Scads of questions sprang forward, many of them more appropriate for whoever they might be able to m
eet with in Muskogee, others merely rhetorical, Reed’s mind trying to balance everything that was being shared.

  One at a time he flipped through them, still going through the list as Wyatt asked, “Cause of death?”

  “Officially?” Dianason asked. “Asphyxiation. Markings on her neck show it to be from something about an inch wide and smooth, most likely a belt or leather thong of some sort.”

  Pushing aside the previous thoughts he was having for a moment, Reed considered the new information. “Sexual violence? Some sort of role play?”

  Tilting the top of his head to the side, Dianason said, “A valid conclusion, but in this case doubtful.

  “Markings show she has definitely been bound before, though we found no sign of recent sexual activity. Vaginal scarring was minimal at best, consistent with being inactive for quite a period of time. No semen anywhere in her system.”

  Adding the information to what he already knew, Reed dropped his attention back to the photos. Shuffling through them, he found a picture showing the torso, arms splayed to either side.

  Seeing little in the way of markings around the wrist, he moved on to the lower body, a crease appearing between his brows as he stared at the image before him. Extending it to the side, he placed it between Wyatt and the file, allowing the man to see what he had just found.

  “When you say bindings-” Reed began.

  “Yes,” Dianason agreed, picking up where it was going. “Mainly just around the one leg.”

  Sliding his gaze back to the image, Reed focused on the girl’s left ankle, a band of callused skin standing two inches tall, wrapped clear around.

  Pitched forward at the waist, Wyatt squinted down at the image before raising his attention and saying, “That almost looks like the girl was shackled.”

  “Yes,” Dianason said again. “And for quite a length of time.”

  For a moment, all sound bled away, the air seemingly sucked out of the room. Feeling his eyebrows rise, Reed exhaled slowly, considering what they’d already learned.

  “Mr. Dianason,” Reed began, “Doctor.”