by Chris Seaton
She stopped laughing and sighed. “No, not really. It's just that I find this entire conversation to be ridiculous.”
“You still didn't answer my question,” he pointed out.
Bernice's humor evaporated. She stopped again. Agent Wyatt watched her features harden. “With a few noble exceptions,” she explained, “most of my interaction with law enforcement has consisted of dealing with the lazy, the intimating, and the blood-thirsty.”
She walked on with an assertive step. Agent Wyatt, unperturbed by her comments, trotted back up next to her. “But I'm not any of those things.”
Bernice concentrated on the terrain ahead of her. “No, Agent Wyatt, you're worse. You're the opportunist.” She looked up at the sky. “Kinda like those turkey vultures circling my back forty.” She turned to him, suspicious. “So there is a body on my land?”
Agent Wyatt continued forward. His good mood was gone as well.
“Why don't you come find out?”
Lollygagger's Acres was originally eighty acres in total. Bernice's grandparents had inherited forty of it from her great grandfather. The rest of his land had been sold off to cover debt incurred during the Great Depression. Jarvis Lutz's father had been the purchaser.
Shortly after the US entered the Second World War, the Lutzes were interned in a German immigrant camp in Texas. Their farm was confiscated by the Federal Government. After the war the Lutzes sued to have their citizenship reinstated and property returned. They won. After Vietnam Jarvis inherited the homestead. By then it had aptly been named the German Farm.
About half of the forty acres in question was found to be rocky and inconsistent, so Jarvis let it go into conservancy and left it as a scrubby cow pasture. Sometime later, Bernice tested the soil and found the acidity to her liking. She immediately took the useless land off of Jarvis' hands and promptly started the berry orchard.
In their third year the berry bushes were just finishing up their blooming with tiny green fruit beginning to sprout. Around the orchard was an eight-foot high electric fence to keep out the large beasts. Inside were the fixings for some netting to cover the fruit and keep out the small flying beasts.
Not far from the fence was a dung pile. It was ripening in the mid-morning sun in all of its smelly splendor.
“This pile is resting,” Bernice explained. “It'll be ready next spring.”
Agent Wyatt picked up a stray twig. He scraped it along the side of the pile and held it up for Bernice. “Donkey dung and pine needles?”
Bernice nodded. “And this is what you found on Bear?”
“Along with some blood,” he answered and walked out toward the woods to the waiting deputy.
Bernice stayed where she was. Her nightmare from the morning was still fresh on her mind.
Agent Wyatt looked back at her and waved her in with a look of impatience.
“Well,” she grumbled. “At least with the head gone there won't be a face.” And she took the short walk to the body.
Well, she was wrong. The corpse did have a face. It just wasn't human.
The huge bloated gut of the coyote stood out in stark contrast to the desiccated head. Everything else was covered in half-inch long black beetles. They were weaving their way in and out of eye sockets, ears and the mouth. Moving in a blurring wave of activity, they caused the dead coyote to ripple in macabre animation.
That was it for Bernice. She could feel her mouth fill up with saliva in conjunction with the rolling heaving of her gut.
Agent Wyatt pointed away from them to a clearing and commanded, “Go puke over there.” As she ran, he yelled after her, “I don't want you compromising my crime scene.”
Her yummy breakfast made a much less appealing comeback when mixed with bile and coffee. Bent over, she spit the offending taste from her mouth and inhaled carefully to stave off the dry heaves.
Bernice heard the grass crunch behind her and saw a hand come into view shaking a clear plastic container of bright red Tic Tacs. Bernice opened her hand to receive a small amount. She tossed them into her mouth and moved them around quickly with her tongue. Soon the strong taste of cinnamon masked everything else.
She looked up at Agent Wyatt but not to thank him. “You could have warned me,” she hissed with open contempt.
“You called me a vulture,” he stated simply. “Now we're even.” He tossed a couple of candies in his mouth, smiled at her and walked away.
Bernice stood up and watched him leave. She hated him at that moment. Catching herself admiring his efficiently tight butt in those khakis, she hated herself more.
He waited over by the carcass with a look of amusement that Bernice was just itching to slap right off of him. This time she stayed a step back.
“You 'bout done?” he asked dryly.
She knew from his patronizing tone that he was referring to her abuse upon him rather than the puking. She gave as good as she got, answering, “For now.”
He changed his demeanor when speaking to the deputy. Bernice observed the young officer looked less than thrilled with his morning's duties. “Anything other than beetles yet?”
The deputy wore a deadpan expression. “Nope,” was his short reply.
Agent Wyatt nodded to the young man as a signal to depart. The deputy did so addressing Bernice. “Have a nice day, Ma'am.”
Bernice nodded and smiled at him.
When he was out of earshot, Agent Wyatt commented, “So which is he, lazy-ass, bully, or killer?”
Bernice knew better than to continue the mental fencing. She changed the subject instead. “What's the significance of the beetles?”
After a beat of silence to accept his small victory Agent Wyatt answered her question. “It's called Forensic Entomology,” he explained. “The time line when different insects invade a decomposing body is so fixed, it can accurately determine the time of death.” He pointed at the beetles. “In this environment Beetles infest a corpse 24 to 36 hours after it has died.”
“First come the flies a few hours after death and lay their eggs. Maggots show up 12 hours later then the beetles. After the beetles the millipedes and spiders move in and finish up. Given a good few days in the summer sun, a typical corpse is all but turned to compost, just like your dung heap over there.”
“So you're theorizing,” She reasoned, “that Bear was patrolling back here, caught the coyote with the head, and killed him about a day to a day and a half ago?”
“Look at those gashes,” Agent Wyatt pointed to answer. “Those are bite marks. I'm guessing the Mastiff picked the coyote up by the neck and shook him. Then he took off with his trophy.”
“Hmm,” was Bernice's reaction to the hypothesis. She abruptly walked away from the coyote and Agent Wyatt, heading into the woods.
“What?” he asked and followed.
“Be more specific with your 'what!'” she yelled over her shoulder. “Is it about my answer or my destination?”
“Both.” His reply came up swiftly from behind and startled her with its closeness in the quiet woods.
Bernice looked around at the trees in trepidation. Still too much like that bad dream, she secretly wanted to hang onto Agent Wyatt's arm for comfort. Instead, she set her jaw in rigid determination and scolded herself not to be such a pussy.
“These woods border county land," she relayed. “They get logged out every few years so there are access roads back here. A body is not going to be carried very far before it's dumped. Therefore, we find the access road with recent tracks, we find the dumping ground.”
“And the reason for your 'hmm'?” There was still a patronizing tone to his voice that was irritating to Bernice.
She squelched her urge to berate him and took a breath. “The flies come to the body first, right? Then the beetles?”
“Right.”
“Well, Herb was dead before the coyote, and Herb's head was still in the fly process. So I don't get it.”
“Part of the discrepancy is because the head was moved at lea
st twice, limiting the access for specific insects to do their work.” Agent Wyatt watched his feet, careful to mind any fallen logs.
“Okay, I'll buy that,” Bernice countered. She hopped up on an old stump and balanced with a tree branch before making her way back down. “But even so, that would put the death of the coyote and Bear putting the head in the haymow to within just hours of each other. There were flies on the head, but I didn't see any maggots, so explain that.” She flung a branch out of her way.
“That's easy.” Agent Wyatt caught the branch and sent her a dirty look.
She smiled back. “Why is it easy?”
“The head was frozen.” He tossed the absurd explanation out like it was the most logical thing in the world. It threw Bernice off her game, literally.
“What in the hell-”
“Careful,” he interrupted her.
“What?” she repeated.
And that's the last thing she said before falling into the hole.
Bernice's fall consisted of a backwards somersault with a very poor landing on her back over a freshly accumulated pile of reddish-brown dirt.
Agent Wyatt walked into her view. “You all right?” he yelled from above.
Bernice blinked and breathed in an effort to gain some perspective. She started laughing at herself as she mentally played the fall back in her head. “Yah,” she managed. “The phrase 'ass over tea kettle' mean anything to you?”
She was waiting for a low manly chuckle. She didn't get it. She looked up inquiring, “Did you hear what I said?”
She was flabbergasted. The unflappable Agent Wyatt was thoroughly flapped. It would have been downright comical if he hadn't looked so freaked out. And if his eyes weren't staring with such concentration at her feet.
She watched his Adam's apple speak to her. “Ms. Hordstrom?” He said her name in that slow careful way a hostage negotiator bargains with a psychopath. “I need you to carefully sit up and put out your hand.” She watched him get down on his knees at the mouth of the hole.
Bernice nodded like a zombie and slowly started to pull her torso up. She stretched out her arms. Underneath her she could feel her butt starting to shift on the dirt pile. She looked from Agent Wyatt's neck to his face to gauge his reaction and she didn't like it. Her eyes grew wide with panic.
He tossed a leg into the hole to increase his reach. Their fingers were almost touching. “Almost there,” he said slowly, reassuringly.
Bernice would have happily suspended all belief that anything was wrong. That she had just fallen into an ordinary hole and the nice man was gallantly helping her out. But her brain temporarily lost focus, and her eyes drifted just past his feet.
And there were the beetles, thousands of them, everywhere. The ground was moving and so was the pile she was sitting on.
And unearthly yowl erupted from deep down in the heebee-geebees of her soul and propelled Bernice out of that hole like her ass was on fire. She barely acknowledged the hand Agent Wyatt held out to her and frantically grabbed at whatever root or branch she could get a hold of to pull herself forward and away.
She knew he was telling her to “Calm down”, but her amygdala, the lizard part of her brain, was not speaking English at the moment. All she understood was “fight or flight” and flight was winning.
“Hang on!” Agent Wyatt demanded testily. She basically crawled right over him with a look that was anything but coherent. “Where are you going? Hey!” He grabbed onto her ankle and inevitably started pulling her back.
“OH SHIT,” went the lizard in her brain. It was her morning's nightmare all over again. Her crawling had turned into clawing; the trees, the hole, the dirt... “OH SHIT,” it went again.
Bernice increased her efforts, grunting and whimpering at the same time. She kicked at Agent Wyatt and pulled with all her might, desperate to get away.
He finally had to tackle her. She cried in horrid defeat. Her hair was covered in leaf mold and her precious clip became lost somewhere in the struggle.
He grunted as her forced her over on her back and snatched her brutally to his chest. He held her tight, more to keep her from hitting him than anything else.
He needn't have bothered. The initial contact with his warm chest brought Bernice the comfort and security she was seeking. She grabbed at his shirt with clenched fists and buried her face in it. Her crying ceased in a painful moan.
“Shh,” he whispered, cradling her head with one hand and rubbing her back with the other. “You're all right. It's okay now. Nothing's going to hurt you.”
They were both breathing heavily from the struggle. Bernice could feel the condensation form on Agent Wyatt's shirt and consequently her face. She started to pull away.
He held her where she was and looked into her eyes. “It's all right,” he repeated again, searching for some sort of acknowledgment. “I'm right here,” he reassured her.
His breath and his sweat radiated heat from his body and filled her nostrils with musk and man. They were having a profound effect on her senses. Her lizard brain shifted the primitive emotions from fear to something much more pleasant.
Agent Wyatt seemed to read her thoughts. He became very still holding her and waited for Bernice to give him a signal as to what would happen next.
Chapter 5
She thought about it. She looked at his mouth parted slightly in anticipation. She could just make out the tip of his tongue hiding in wait; that sharp silver bastard who had been snipping at her all morning. She could kiss the hell out of him right now and give that tongue something new to do.
But...therein lies the pitfall of thinking too much. The brain starts to conjure up “what if” scenarios. Seconds slowed to a crawl as Bernice looked at Agent Wyatt's handsome face, so close and so accessible.
“So I kiss him,” her frontal cortex speculated. “Then what? We make out in the dirt next to a hole full of decomposing Herb parts? Not exactly romantic.”
“But he feels so good,” her amygdala countered. “He's so solid and warm. Just a few more centimeters...He wants to kiss me.”
“Does he?” her frontal cortex returned. “Really? I just had a panic attack. How do I know this isn't just pity?”
But her amygdala was winning. She looked into his eyes. The deep brown irises were close to black in the shaded canopy of the woods. She could just make out the flecks of amber and gold breaking out in slivers behind his pupils. The concern was gone. His lids were hooded. Very unprofessional intentions were swirling behind them. Bernice's lips parted at the thought.
Agent Wyatt buried his hand in her hair. He began to lower his head.
At the last possible moment her frontal cortex reminded her, “Didn't you just throw up?”
Bernice turned her head. Agent Wyatt raised his. They both let out a heavy breath.
Bernice gazed past her feet to survey the damage her little episode had caused. She whistled. “Boy,” she exclaimed, “talk about compromising a crime scene.”
The moment had passed but it was not forgotten. He was still holding her. She wagered a quick glance and realized her mistake. His features were still dark and dangerous.
“We could have done much worse.” The implication of that husky reply hung in the thick air between them like an unfulfilled promise.
She didn't dare look at him again. “You can release me now,” she informed the bush directly beside her. “I'm done having a fit.”
He did as she asked. Bernice rolled onto her knees and rose up in a quick jerky motion. Crossing her arms defensively, she avoided looking at the hole and Agent Wyatt. She heard him shift in the leaves and get up. She could feel his gaze upon her and squelched the shame building up inside.
She made her pronouncement a little more loudly than necessary. “Well, we apparently found the dumping ground.”
“Yep,” was his curt reply.
Bernice carefully kept her line of sight above the beetles and scanned the area around the mouth of the hole. She pointed and observed
, “The brush over there looks pretty matted down. You think that's where the murderer did the dumping?”
He briskly walked toward the area where she was pointing. He looked down then further into the woods. He was all business again.
Bernice breathed in some relief along with a little regret.
“Looks like we need to head this way,” he said. Agent Wyatt looked back at her. His poker face had returned. “You coming?” he asked.
Bernice picked up her clip and used it as a comb to quickly fix her hair. In an attempt to regain her composure, she raised her chin and marched past him. “Try and stop me,” she challenged then cursed herself for such a reckless comment.
“No thanks,” she heard him grumble behind her. She just kept walking.
After a good thirty feet they were able to make out the sandy rutted trail that masqueraded as the lumber truck road.
“Those tire tracks look almost pristine in spots,” Agent Wyatt commented upon their approach. “I'm surprised there was no effort to cover them up.”
“I doubt they figured anyone would be out here until deer season. That's plenty of time for a good rain to wash those tracks all out.” She looked down the road. “See how the tires were spinning out up there? That's a driver who is unfamiliar with this road and was probably in panic mode when they left.”
Agent Wyatt used his considerable height and jumped over the tracks. They walked on opposite sides of the sandy road and concentrated on the tracks instead of each other.
Agent Wyatt pointed down and made his observations. “Small tire width, probably front wheel drive.” He stopped and concentrated on one set really hard like he was trying to decipher hieroglyphs.
Bernice was looking too but she couldn't tell what caught his eye. “Don't tell me you have tire treads memorized?”
Agent Wyatt frowned at her. “It's not the type,” he corrected. “It's the quality.”
When Bernice looked back down, she finally figured it out. “Oh,” she exclaimed with a smile. “Someone got new tires.”