I noticed Charlie’s duffel bag hanging off the back of his chair and asked him if he was going to be okay. He absolutely refused to have a bellman help him with it. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” he asked indignantly.
Paul then gave us his first directive: “Meet me back in the lobby in an hour. I made an appointment to speak to the sheriff.”
“About what?” I asked.
“About the Memorial Day Rotary Festival. Did you see the poster?”
“So now you’re a comedian,” I countered.
“No, but I figured I’d break the ice with talk about the festival, then move on to the topic of dead children.”
It hit me hard in the gut to hear him talk so callously, but I just figured he had his own way of coping and keeping a level, dispassionate mindset amid the most dreadful facts and circumstances.
I had yet to develop such a mechanism.
The Sheriff’s Department of Cartersville, New York consisted of a one-story tan brick building located on the main drag, Carter Road. Of course, ‘main drag’ for Cartersville meant that it got about the same traffic as any side street on Long Island. It was no secret that Dr. Horace Carter was big in these parts since both the police station, the road it was on, and the town, were named after him. His claim to fame—building a dam across the Seneca River in the mid-1800s that provided a central energy source for the entire area.
Whether any of that energy had made its way into the sheriff’s station had yet to be determined. About forty years old and looking more the brawny fireman type than the pot-bellied elder I expected, George Rifts was quick to clarify that he was the ‘interim sheriff.’ The actual sheriff had passed away a month earlier from sepsis. Paul introduced himself while flashing his private investigator ID and former Secret Service credentials. I questioned the wisdom of displaying the latter until I came to realize the means by which we obtained this meeting (i.e., a secret call from a contact of Paul’s at the FBI—the reason Paul insisted that Charlie remain at hotel).
There is what may be called an ‘investigative underworld,’ the importance of which cannot be discounted as a means to an end. It is a channel of communication among governmental and quasi-governmental agencies that is laced with relationships founded on decades of trust, joint beneficial interests—and even monetary gratuity, when and if necessary. There is also an underworld of untouchables, dangerous by virtue of their ability to get away with murder when cloaked in high-level grants of documented and undocumented immunity.
Paul had worked with the FBI before. On many occasions, his personal connections had proved invaluable to the Bureau. Because of his prior Secret Service clearance, he was a trusted source who provided leads and information on all levels of society—especially the rich corporate elite. As long as he wasn’t betraying his own client’s trust, Paul worked hand in hand with the Bureau, while having no problem backing off when his conscience told him to. In turn, the FBI would help Paul by providing access to law enforcement agencies at every level, even in small-town Cartersville, where Interim Sheriff Rifts seemed more than accommodating.
“We appreciate your assistance, Sheriff.” Paul was polite and direct.
“I’m only the sheriff until the special election in September. Then someone else is taking over. But as long as I’m here, you’ll have the full cooperation of the department.” Sheriff Rifts was refreshingly sincere, and I found it curious that the powers-that-be weren’t running him for the full-time position. On the wall outside Rifts’ office was a photo of the former sheriff. With his button-popping beige shirt and white mustache, he looked more like a turncoat lawman in a backwoods revenge flick than the keeper of the peace. Rifts caught me staring at the gone-but-not-forgotten Sheriff Hall.
“I just hung that photo,” Rifts said, as he stared up at it with a quirky sense of pride. He then turned to Paul. “Funny thing the way he died, though. Went out to dinner, got a stomach attack, and two weeks later he was gone. Other than getting the blues sometimes, he always seemed fine. But he was seventy-five years old, you know. And when your time is up, your time is up, I suppose.”
“Had he confided in you about any of the cases he was handling?” Paul asked.
“He confided in me about a lot of the cases he was handling. I was his highest-ranking deputy.”
“Any case that may have been a particular source of stress for him? That could be why he had the stomach attack.”
“You heard about those boxes of bones found by the construction worker?”
“I think I may have read something about it.” Paul was playing dumb. “Did you say boxes?”
“Yes, there were two boxes. The first box was dug up intact. The second was broken in two by the tractor shovel. We figure that they were buried there quite some time ago by a family who couldn’t afford the proper services.”
“But they were just discovered. Am I right?” Paul asked.
“Yes, just last week. This is the kind of matter that would have gotten the sheriff’s goat but good, I can tell you that.”
“Is forensics examining the bones?” Paul was careful not to push too hard and alert Rifts to our real reason for being in Cartersville.
“I heard something about the County Marshall possibly stepping in, since the boxes were found within a mile of our jurisdictional line, so I’m leaving that to him. That’s our policy here. But there’s also no reason to believe a crime was committed. All that the medical examiner was able to tell was that they were the bones of little boys.”
“I’m only asking because we’re looking for a missing boy ourselves.” Paul was making this up and I thought it clever of him to do so. While keeping our true purpose under wraps, it gave us a plausible reason for being in Cartersville and asking questions.
“You’re looking for a missing boy, you say?” Rifts responded pensively. “Well, talking about Sheriff Hall getting upset…about two months ago, we found the body of a boy who was about five or six years old in another wooden box by the banks of the Seneca River. We suspected it was also a poor family burial. The boy was found fully clothed, but for some reason the sheriff asked for an autopsy and toxicology tests on the remains. We don’t usually do that unless we suspect a crime was committed, and even then, it depends.”
“You mean you don’t do autopsies on a regular basis when a child is found dead?” Paul modified his tone to hide his shock and surprise.
“Not always. People are more religious up here than in the city. If we can ID the body, we try to honor the family’s wishes and not have the remains sawed or cut into if they express their disapproval. I figured, because there was no ID on that boy found by the river, that Sheriff Hall ordered the autopsy. But it was only when the autopsy results came back that he then decided to order the toxicology.”
“Why is that?”
“The autopsy didn’t show anything. No sign of any sickness or disease or evidence of any crime…just some indication of malnourishment. I only know what the Sheriff told me, but it was when he got that report that he called forensics.”
“Can I read the report?” Paul asked. “Just to see if this is our missing boy. His parents are torn up not knowing what happened to him. They live in Syracuse.”
“Certainly,” Rifts answered. “It got filed away after the sheriff passed. I haven’t read it myself, but let me get it for you.”
Rifts went down the hall and into another room. After I heard the sound of a filing cabinet drawer open and then close, he returned with the report and handed it to Paul.
“Can I take it with me?” Paul asked.
“I suppose I can trust a member of the FBI with it, so why not?”
Paul just said, “thank you.” No need to correct the interim sheriff.
While I drove Paul’s rented SUV back to The Red Mill Inn, he read the report and jotted notes down on a yellow pad. When we got back to the hotel, we found C
harlie in the lobby, sitting in his wheelchair. He was drinking steaming hot coffee out of a mug and appeared anxious to see us. Paul took one look at him and asked to speak to me alone.
“I didn’t fly up here for the small-town atmosphere,” Charlie squawked. “I got enough of that growing up. If you’ve got information, I want to hear it, too. Do I have to remind you guys that you’re up here because of me?”
“This is pretty rough stuff,” Paul said to Charlie. “You sure you want to hear it?”
“Rougher than losing your legs in fucking Vietnam?” Charlie gulped down the coffee and then slammed his mug on the arm of his chair.
“Charlie’s right, Paul,” I said. “We are here because of him and Mia, and I know he can be trusted.”
With that, Charlie’s expression went from angry to cautiously respectful. It was the kind of look I’d seen in the movies when a soldier, without saying a word, expresses his undying loyalty to his commander. No brave general, I welcomed it nonetheless.
“Okay, if you say so,” Paul said. “Here goes.” I braced myself for the worst. And that’s exactly what I got. “The last child, the one the sheriff spoke of—found about a month ago in a wooden box by the river.” Paul swallowed. “The autopsy report states that urine deposits were found in the box.”
“Well, that’s not so unusual, is it?” I asked. “When the body decomposes it releases fluids.”
“True,” Paul answered. “Your muscles relax. Your brain isn’t controlling anything anymore, and the dead body usually pees and craps itself.”
“So, what’s your point?” I asked.
“The traces of urine were not only found on the bottom of the box, but also on the top of it.”
“How could that be?” I asked.
“Whoever buried him, buried him fully clothed, whereas the other two bodies found at the construction site—or should I say bones from what were once were bodies—had no discernible clothing on them. But what is especially unique and disturbing, is that not only was the body found by the river positively identified as a boy, but when his clothes were examined, the fly to his pants was found wide open.”
“Are you saying––?”
“He’s saying,” Charlie interrupted. “That while the kid was in the box and on his back, he pulled out his pecker and took a straight-up piss.”
“You mean…” I uttered incredulously.
“Yes,” Paul said firmly. “It appears the boy was buried alive.”
I’ve got to get out of this business, I thought to myself, as I looked over at Paul, who appeared stoic, but was nevertheless shaken by the report.
I needed no education on how dangerous this world can be for the weak and the innocent, but this was all too much evil to swallow, even for Paul. Charlie held up better than both of us. I suppose that’s what a tour in jungle warfare gets you.
“There’s one small consolation—or comfort, you might say—in all of this,” Paul said.
“You can’t be serious,” I countered.
“But I am,” Paul said. “The medical examiner found traces of Rohypnol.”
“What the hell is Rohypnol?” I asked.
“Somebody gave the kid a roofie,” Charlie answered.
“That’s right,” Paul said. “The kid was out of it before he died.”
“And there also goes the ‘poor boy burial’ explanation,” Charlie said disdainfully.
“Seriously,” I bellowed. “Can this get much worse?”
“Looks like were going into a black fucking hole if you ask me,” Charlie added.
Paul’s cellphone rang. It was Rifts.
When Paul had explained the medical examiner’s report to us, I had never seen his face go so white. But there was a deeper pale yet to show itself. “Thank you, Sheriff,” Paul said. “I’d like to head right over there, if you don’t mind.”
Paul thanked the sheriff again, ended the call, then turned to Charlie and me. “Another kid has gone missing. He’s a ten-year-old—a neighborhood kid on his way home from a friend’s house after school. His bicycle was found on the side of the road.”
“You see?!” Charlie shouted. “You see what we’ve got here?!”
“We don’t know if this latest missing kid has been kidnapped,” Paul said.
“Come on, really?” Charlie insisted. “What’s with all these dead kids anyway, and who knows if this one’s even still alive.” As cold as it was to say, it was even harder to hear, not that Charlie’s presumption wasn’t well-founded.
Paul turned to me. “I say we get over to the crime scene and see what we can find out. And we do it now.” He pointed at Charlie, who appreciated being considered. “Next time, my friend. We’ll be back before you know it.”
Paul stopped his SUV about fifty feet from a string of yellow crime scene tape and an unmanned sheriff’s patrol car parked alongside it.
One look at the bicycle lying on the shoulder of the road told the story.
It was a two-wheeler with shiny red metal fenders that didn’t have a scratch on them. There was a red reflector on the back seat and another on the steering column under the handlebars, where multicolored streamers hung from the grips. The bike was on its side with the front tire turned under it. There’s no way a young boy with pride in his ride would leave it this way. It would have been set down gently, wheels straight and aligned with the road. The boy who claimed this two-wheeler as his own was either pulled from it or knocked off it.
It was just after 7:00 p.m., and the boy had been reported missing only an hour earlier. His name was Billy. When he didn’t arrive home for dinner at five, his stepfather went out looking for him. Billy had been at his friend’s house, and there was only one way home. As his stepfather told it, when he found the downed bicycle, he panicked and ran full speed into the woods alongside the road screaming the boy’s name. A few minutes later, he called the sheriff’s station.
We arrived just before the local detectives, which amounted to two deputies on temporary assignment. Rifts had told them to expect us. Both were in their mid-to-late forties with stocky builds. The one who greeted us had short brown hair and an ID badge that read: TAYLOR. The other seemed a bit perturbed by our presence. He wore a badge that read: CARTER.
“Just don’t disturb the crime scene,” Carter stated curtly.
Paul looked at me as if to say: Disturb what? They haven’t done shit so far. Paul’s answer though was far more polite. “Of course, we’ll be careful, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to take some photos with my cellphone.”
“Knock yourself out,” Carter said.
Paul turned to the friendlier officer, Deputy Taylor, and asked: “Do you have a spot?”
“A spot?” he asked back.
“A spotlight, or a strong flashlight. It’s beginning to get dark,” Paul answered.
“Of course,” Taylor said. He went to his patrol car and returned with a large wide lens flashlight.
Paul took it and began to walk casually along the edge of the asphalt roadway with seemingly no clear intention in mind. But I knew different. As he shined the light at the downward slope of the grass shoulder, I’m sure he was thinking the same thing I was: No way was this boy riding on this unleveled grass when the roadway above it was flat and smooth.
Paul used his cellphone to click off over a dozen photos as he backtracked and circled the area surrounding the bicycle. He then proceeded to walk further down the roadway, flashlight on and cellphone in hand. He stopped at a distance about thirty feet away. Since I had remained standing outside his rented SUV, he turned and waved me over.
“Come, walk with me,” he said quietly. I followed alongside him until he stopped and asked me to hold the light. “I’m going to take some random photos while you shine the flashlight down along the shoulder, but when I tell you to stop, just light up the ground right in front of me. Ok
ay?”
“Sure,” I answered. Evidently something had sparked his interest that he did not want the deputies to catch wind of.
“Taylor seems okay, but I’m not sure what’s going on with Carter,” he whispered. “Is he simply a dick or is there a reason he doesn’t want us here? Either way, I’m not taking any chances.”
“What’s sparking your interest?” I whispered back.
“I’ll show you back at the hotel,” he said.
I continued to walk beside Paul, and when he told me to stop, I pointed the light down in front of him as he asked. He then clicked off several photos. Afterward, we turned and walked back while I kept pointing the light and he kept snapping photos with his phone.
“Mind if we take some close-ups of the bike?” Paul asked Deputy Carter.
“Like I said, knock yourself out.” Carter responded.
Paul took the flashlight from my hand and asked me to wait by the roadway while he walked to the edge of the wooded area and then around the bicycle, taking pictures with his phone.
“Any witnesses? Any cars or trucks pass that may have seen something?” Paul directed his questions to Deputy Taylor.
Carter answered for him. “Thus far, no.”
“We’ll ask around though,” Taylor offered. “Maybe put out a bulletin.”
“Sounds good,” Paul said.
“We know what to do,” Carter added abruptly.
Unfazed, Paul shut the flashlight and handed it back to Taylor. “Good night, Gentlemen. Thanks for letting us look around.”
“No problem,” Taylor answered.
As we walked back to the car, Carter grumbled something under his breath that I couldn’t understand.
During the drive back, I could tell that Paul was mulling over whatever it was he had seen. What I didn’t know was that he was also thinking about what he had heard as well.
Charlie waited for us in the lobby again. This time he was keeping company with an open bag of pretzels. It was 8:15 p.m., and he didn’t waste a second. “So, what did you find?” he asked anxiously.
The Criminal Mind Page 9