by L. T. Vargus
“Based on the insect evidence alone, how long would you have guessed she was out there?”
“Six or seven days, at least.”
“That’s impossible. She was only missing for five. That’s how we know he’s killing them soon after he abducts them.”
He shrugged.
“I’m just telling you what the bugs are telling me.”
“Are you saying the bugs talk to you?”
He smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”
Darger sighed, trying to take it all in. But it didn’t make sense.
The medical examiner’s time of death matched up with when the women had been abducted. There wasn’t room for the women to be dead longer than they’d been missing.
“So what you’re saying is, something’s rotten in the state of Denmark?”
“Denmark?”
“Not a big Shakespeare buff, eh, Bug Guy?”
“I guess not.”
Fowles cleared his throat.
“There is another thing.”
“What?”
“I’ll show you.”
* * *
The trees loomed overhead as the car wove through the isolated Oregon wilderness. The sky had gone overcast, and the gloom beneath the canopy was even heavier now. The scenery Darger could discern on either side of the road was an endless sea of deep green boxing her in.
After some time, they broke through into open terrain again. They passed a large man-made dam, an incongruous thing of metal and concrete amongst the wildness of the trees. And then the sparkling, crystal clear water of a reservoir beyond.
Fowles pulled to the shoulder and parked the car near a rocky little beach. Darger recognized the place from the file.
“This is where they found Maribeth Holtz,” she said, so quietly she seemed to be talking to herself.
Nodding, Fowles climbed out of the car. Darger followed. He continued some distance from the stretch of beach where Maribeth was found.
A large piece of driftwood blocked the path, and Darger scrambled over it. She wondered, as she did with Shannon Mead, what Maribeth saw when the killer dragged her out here. What she felt. Did she know she was going to die? Did she scream for help? Beg for mercy?
They pushed through a patch of wild huckleberry, and then Fowles stopped.
Something odd sat on the shoreline — what looked like a plastic laundry basket with a cement block on top. It seemed wrong here in this pristine wilderness. Too ugly, too artificial.
“Is that a laundry basket?”
“Yes.”
She noticed something else. There was an object inside the basket, and whatever it was, the surface of it was swarming with flies.
“Ted?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s in the basket?”
“A hog leg.”
Fowles removed the brick, explaining as he did, “To keep the carrion animals from running off with my experiment. We usually use heavy iron cages in a more scientific setting, but I was improvising.”
He lifted the basket, revealing the rotting piece of meat covered with a mass of flies, buzzing and twitching and rubbing their disgusting little legs together.
“Aha!” he said, jubilantly. “I knew you’d be here!”
“Are you talking to the pig leg or…?”
“I’m talking to him,” he said, pointing at a large beetle among the smaller bugs.
Darger bent closer to get a better look, holding her breath against the smell of rotting pork. It was a little under an inch long, with a shiny black head. Its elongated lower body was covered in tiny hairs that looked almost like velvet in an elaborate black-and-grey pattern.
“He’s kind of fancy-looking,” she said.
“Creophilus maxillosus. The hairy rove beetle.”
Pulling another plastic vial from his pocket, he collected the insect.
“And he eats dead things, too?”
“Actually, no. She’s a predator. Her favorite food is the larvae and eggs of the various flies.”
“Yum.”
“We don’t typically use the adults for estimated PMI, but they’ll generally start to show up around the bloat stage, 2-3 days after death.”
“OK. How long has Porky been out here?”
“One and a half days,” he said, obviously excited to reveal this nugget of information. “That was one of the startling things I found in my study. In moist, wooded areas — near swamps, rivers, lakes — the adult hairy rove beetles showed up to the cadavers earlier than in open fields. As early as 24-36 hours sometimes. So that was what I expected to find with Maribeth. In fact, I expected to find some potential larval activity. It's the perfect environment. Damp. Food source nearby. This is their jam.”
"Their jam?"
Fowles nodded.
“So? Did you find any hairy beetle larvae on Maribeth?”
“None.”
Darger crossed her arms over her chest.
“So now you’re telling me that the beetle evidence suggests Maribeth Holtz was dead less than we originally thought?”
“Not exactly. I think it means that perhaps Maribeth Holtz’s body was… somewhere else for part of the time she was missing.”
“Where?”
“That I can’t say. Just not here. And not in the water.”
“It doesn’t make sense. Why would he drown her here, drag her somewhere else for a few days or whatever, and then bring her back to dump the body?”
Fowles’ eyebrows drifted up in slow motion.
“I’m afraid that’s more your wheelhouse than mine, Violet.”
Chapter 7
The ride to the home of Shannon Mead’s parents was relatively quiet.
Darger mulled over what Fowles had explained about the entomological evidence, but couldn’t make sense of it.
“What about weird weather patterns? A microclimate or something. Or some other variable that might have screwed up the life cycle of the bugs?” she’d asked.
“If something had been off with just one of the bodies, I could accept that,” he conceded. “But for all of them to be so incongruent with my expectations, not to mention the literature… no. We’re missing something.”
Something was rotten, for certain, and it wasn’t just the leg of pork Fowles had left out for his experiment.
All the entomology jargon swirled around in her head: instars and spiracles and ovipositing. That and trying to straighten out the conflicting timelines was giving her a headache.
They stopped off at Darger’s rental car so she could collect her files and then headed onward to meet with Shannon’s family.
Right. That was Darger’s true mission. She needed to put the entomology questions out of her mind for now. The bug stuff was Fowles’ responsibility. His wheelhouse, as he put it.
It was her job to focus on the victims. On their lives, their families, their day-to-day activities. The bugs weren’t going to tell her who the killer was. But the rest of it just might.
Darger unfolded Shannon’s file, hoping another look would shake something loose. She formulated a list of questions in her head for Shannon’s family. Were there any ex-boyfriends in the area? Had she mentioned anything strange happening in her life recently? Breathy crank phone calls or being followed?
She flipped idly through the files for Maribeth Holtz and Holly Green trying to connect the dots. Different ages, different looks.
When they reached Shannon’s parents’ house, Fowles parked on the street and pulled the key from the ignition. He glanced over at the photograph of Shannon smiling out from the manila folder in Darger’s lap.
“The file said she volunteered at the soup kitchen in Portland most weekends,” he said, a faraway look coming over his features. “It’s a shame, really. She sounded like a kind person. A giver.”
Darger had called ahead to make sure their visit wouldn’t be an inconvenience for the Meads. Mrs. Mead met them at the door, shaking each of their hands in turn and then inviting the
m inside.
“You’ll have to excuse my husband. He hasn’t been… he’s just not up for all the questions, today.” She fiddled with the necklace that hung around her neck, a small gold cross on a simple chain. “He and Shannon were very close.”
“I understand,” Darger said.
She started with the easy questions first, asking about the basics of Shannon’s day-to-day activities.
Mrs. Mead described her daughter as intelligent, outgoing, compassionate.
“She loved reading and learning and art, but she wasn’t shy. I always used to say she was a bookish extrovert.”
Fall through Spring, her time was mainly filled with teaching, though two or three times a week Shannon took a dance fitness class with a couple of her girlfriends. She taught an after-school French class in the spring.
“Just rudimentary, of course. The kids would learn how to introduce themselves in French. A few basic phrases. The lyrics to Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes. Shannon called it ‘Baby French.’”
Mrs. Mead pinched the crucifix pendant between her fingers and ran it back and forth over the chain.
“She usually took some kind of class in summer, when her school year was over. Last year she did pottery, the year before that was Greek and Roman mythology.”
Darger moved into deeper waters, asking about Shannon’s romantic life.
She’d been engaged a few years back, but they’d decided to call it off. It had been an amicable break-up, according to Mrs. Mead.
“He lives outside Eugene now, a couple hours south on I-5. I know the police have spoken to him. Nothing would shock me more than to find out that Michael had anything to do with this.”
Finally, Darger pulled out the photographs of Maribeth and Holly, set them in front of Mrs. Mead.
“I know what you’re going to ask.”
Darger raised an eyebrow.
“You’re going to ask if I know either one of them,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. But the answer is no.”
“Neither one looks familiar?”
A sad smile played at Mrs. Mead’s mouth.
“Now they do. They’re two perfect strangers to me, but because of their connection to Shannon’s case, they somehow feel like… part of the family. And I’ve wracked my brain, trying to think of something they might have had in common.”
She patted the picture of Holly with her hand.
“Like the Green girl. I know she went to Sandy High. Played volleyball. I tried to think of a time Shannon might have mentioned attending a game or maybe some other function there. But I just can’t see it. Shannon was never really into sports. She did student government when she was in school. And Quiz Bowl.”
“Do you know who did Shannon’s taxes, by any chance?” Darger asked, looking for a connection to Maribeth Holtz.
Mrs. Mead’s head bobbed up and down.
“Shannon has been preparing her own taxes since she got her first job in high school. We taught all of our children how to do them. Should be something they teach in school, if you ask me, but….”
“Are your other children nearby?”
“If only,” she said with a patient sigh. “My daughter lives in Hawaii, and my son in London. Can’t imagine they’d be able to provide the connection, but the police have their phone numbers if you want to speak with them.”
She placed her palm over the gold cross and held it to her chest, as if to make sure it was still there.
“I wish I could tell you more. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Mead reached out a hand and brushed her fingertips over the photographs of Maribeth and Holly. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but the silence stretched out for some time. Just as Darger was about to ask if everything was all right, Mrs. Mead found her voice.
“I got a call earlier… from the police. They said… they told me they were releasing her house?”
Her voice went up at the end, like it was a question.
Darger nodded.
“It means they’ve finished processing it. That they’ve gone through and have taken whatever evidence they needed.”
The wisps of hair on either side of Mrs. Mead’s head bounced as she shook her head from side to side.
“I understand all that. I just don’t know what we’re supposed to do now.”
Fresh tears sprang to the woman’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
Fowles plucked a box of tissues from a side table and passed it to Mrs. Mead. She took one and dabbed at her face, murmuring her thanks.
“I mean, what do I do with everything? All of her things? Sell them? Give them to charity?” She sniffed. “I’m trying to imagine having a yard sale, surrounded by what’s left of my daughter’s life. Putting those little round colored stickers and marking the price. A dollar for this. Ten dollars for that. What’s the point?”
Darger frowned.
“I’m sure there are some things you might like to keep. Items that have sentimental value. And then maybe it would be easiest to donate the rest.”
“But that’s just it! All that’s left of my daughter are a bunch of useless… things. Clothes and books and furniture. It seems like there should be more.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and the rest came out small and pinched, as if something inside the woman had been damaged by her anguish. “It’s not enough. It’s not… fair.”
Darger found herself at a loss for words. Mrs. Mead’s grief filled the room, threatened to envelop her.
“You have her memory,” Fowles said. His tone was quiet, calm, almost detached. “Of all the billions of years the universe has existed, she was here only a short time, and you were lucky enough to know her, to be with her. You’ll always have that in here.”
When Darger glanced over at him, his eyes gazed out the living room window, a faraway look on his face, his index finger still tapping at his temple.
“Truly the universe is full of ghosts, not sheeted churchyard specters, but the inextinguishable elements of individual life, which having once been, can never die, though they blend and change, and change again forever.”
A hush came over the room when he’d finished. Mrs. Mead stirred.
“What was that? A poem?”
The entomologist’s eyelids opened and closed a few times in rapid succession, as if he suddenly remembered where he was.
“It’s from one of the Allan Quatermain novels by H. Rider Haggard. King Solomon’s Mines, I believe,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “My grandmother was into poetry. When we were kids, she used to give us a dollar if we could memorize a poem or quotation.”
Mrs. Mead rose to her feet and padded over to a desk against one wall.
“Could you write it down for me? I’m supposed to read something at Shannon’s service, but I haven’t been able to find anything that seems… right. But that — what you just said — I liked that.”
She held out a pad of paper and a pen, which Fowles accepted.
“Of course. I’d be happy to.”
While he scribbled away Darger sat forward and looked the woman in the eye.
“With your permission, Mrs. Mead, I’d like to take a look around Shannon’s house.”
“But the police said they already took anything they thought was relevant.”
“It’s not so much about finding evidence. Seeing where she lived, how she lived, will give me a better sense of the person your daughter was.”
Darger saw how the past tense caught at Mrs. Mead’s grief and instantly regretted it. The woman placed a hand over the necklace and nodded.
“Whatever I can do to help.”
Chapter 8
The interaction with Shannon Mead’s mother played over in Darger’s head as they drove on.
She was beginning to think she’d unfairly pigeon-holed Fowles as a run-of-the-mill science geek. The type that preferred their work and their subjects to be isolated in a sterile laboratory environment, separate from the messy real world.
But that was dead wrong.
Not only had Fowles requested to come along on her visit to the Mead family home, but he’d participated. Gotten his hands dirty.
Fowles braked for a red light, and while his attention was focused on traffic, Darger took the opportunity to study him.
There was a sprinkle of freckles over his cheekbones, just below his eyes. They were very faint, and Darger figured them for the type that only came out after getting a lot of sun.
Two of his long, bony fingers tapped out a little rhythm against the steering wheel as he waited for the light to turn green.
What a strange man, she thought. Bugs, art, and a head full of random quotations. She wondered what idiosyncrasy he’d reveal next.
She played a game in her head, trying to guess what it might be. Maybe he built ships in bottles. Or played the harpsichord. She was still coming up with scenarios as they rolled through a suburban street shaded by mature trees. The car slowed to a crawl.
“Do you see a house number on that one?” Fowles asked, pointing at a small Tudor style cottage.
“No,” Darger said. “I don’t see numbers on the next one either.”
They rolled past a third house, and Fowles pointed at a set of shiny brass numbers over the door.
“3216. Shannon Mead’s house must be one of those two back there.”
Darger looked for other signs that one of the homes belonged to Shannon — mainly, did one look unoccupied? There were no vehicles in either driveway, no lights on visible through the windows.
Fowles pulled to the curb and parked the car. On the opposite side of the street, a group of kids huddled together under a giant elm tree. They stood in a tight circle, each one presenting a fist in the middle.
It was clear to Darger that they were playing some variation of eenie-meenie-miney-moe. When the cluster dispersed, one of the boys ran over to the elm tree, covered his eyes, and practically pressed his face into the bark. They climbed out of the car just as the other children scattered out of sight. She could hear the boy counting down from thirty.
“We could ask one of these kids,” Fowles suggested. “Though I hate to interrupt a game of hide-and-seek.”