Five Days Post Mortem

by L. T. Vargus

  “Coroner just confirmed the body is male. If you pair that with the belongings we found in the house — the wallet, ID, and whatnot — I think we can say it’s more likely than not that the deceased is Dustin Reynolds. We’ll have to run dental records to be absolutely certain, but I’ll be a son of a gun if we’re wrong.”

  “Fowles still taking samples?”

  The Chief blew a puff of air through his lips.

  “Yeah. I don’t know how he can stand it. I hate even being in a room with a DB like that. Makes my skin crawl. But he’s in there, close enough to give it a kiss on the lips. Taking temperatures, scooping up maggots. And chattering away like he’s giving a lecture the whole time. Got this real amused tone to his voice, too. Kind of creepy, if I’m being honest with ya. Sounds like a little kid playing in a sandbox, ‘cept there’s less sand and more corpse juice or whatever the fuck.”

  Darger did her best to push the images of Fowles elbow-deep in squirming larvae and putrefying flesh from her mind. Instead, she focused on the scientist’s unbridled enthusiasm for his work and smiled.

  “He should be able to pinpoint Dustin Reynolds’ time of death with unbelievable accuracy. That might turn out to be invaluable to the investigation. We’re lucky he’s here.”

  Furbush crossed his arms and shook his head.

  “God bless him.”

  The Chief stepped closer to the downed tree trunk and sat down beside Darger.

  “Well, shoot,” he said, gazing up at the setting sun. “In all the excitement, we skipped lunch.”

  Darger raised an eyebrow. After witnessing the scene in the cabin, the last thing she was thinking about was her next meal.

  Furbush patted his belly and asked, “So what do you think?”

  “Call me crazy, but something about a putrefying corpse gets me hankering for ham salad.”

  Furbush chuckled at her sardonic tone.

  “I mean about Dustin Reynolds… I know this isn’t the most politically correct thing to say, but I’m kind of hoping he offed himself. Sickened with his crimes, feeling remorse and whatnot. Or maybe just scared he was going to get caught.”

  Darger rubbed her knuckles along her jaw. She’d considered it.

  “It’s possible. Killing himself in the bathtub could have been his version of a confession. He’d have to be relying on us to have put the rest of it together, though. And I didn’t see any obvious signs of suicide. No gun, and he obviously didn’t hang himself. Most male suicide victims choose one or the other.”

  “What about an overdose?”

  “That’s possible,” she agreed. “Self-poisoning is a more common method for women than men, but it’s not unheard of. Could have even been an accident, but the bathtub angle seems like a pretty big coincidence.”

  Fowles appeared on the threshold of the cabin entrance, toting one of his specialized toolboxes and having an animated conversation with the coroner, Dr. Kole. Furbush pushed himself to his feet and crossed the overgrown lawn to meet them. Darger followed.

  “My guys are just about finished inside. Should have him packed up and in the van in less than thirty minutes, I’d guess,” Dr. Kole said.

  A seemingly involuntary shudder of revulsion overtook the police chief.

  “I don’t envy you, having to make that ride with our stinky friend in the back of your van,” he said.

  Dr. Kole grinned.

  “That’s why I insist on bringing my personal vehicle to crime scenes. I have my assistant drive the van.”

  “Not to rush you, but how long before the autopsy’s completed? More specifically, what’s the timeline on the toxicology report?” Furbush asked.

  The amusement drained from Dr. Kole’s face, and his mouth drew into a hard line.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t hold out any hope on toxicology. Based on the level of decomp I saw, I’d say he’s been dead for at least a week. I don’t think we’ll find any viable organ or tissue samples.”

  “Damn it all,” Furbush cursed under his breath.

  Fowles stepped forward then, toolkit in hand.

  “I might be able to help with that. With the assistance of gas chromatography and thin-layer chromatography, I can detect toxins in the Diptera larvae, as well as in the shed pupal cases and feces. I’ve made sure to collect samples of all of those.”

  “Feces,” Furbush repeated, looking a little green again. “You’re talking about insect feces?”

  “That’s right.”

  The Chief sighed as a gurney bumped out through the front door, handled by two men garbed in crime scene bunny suits.

  “I have to tell you, when I first decided to become a police officer, I did not envision that I would someday be standing in the Oregon wilderness, praying to the Good Lord Almighty that bug shit would be the nail in the coffin of a serial murder case,” he said. “More than one way to skin a cat, I guess.”

  Darger watched the coroner’s assistants struggle through the tangle of weeds with their load, eyes never leaving the black vinyl body bag strapped to the stretcher.

  If this was the end of the road for the investigation, she couldn’t help but feel like it was a bit of an anti-climax.

  Then again, maybe she’d had enough of chasing down bad guys and taking bullets in the process.

  Chapter 38

  A mist falls over the night. Wets the asphalt and concrete. Turns both dark and shiny.

  The faintest rain. Little droplets that seem to hover in the air more than fall. You can see them in the glow of the street lamps, floating everywhere in the yellow light.

  But it’s not enough to wash the city clean. Not even close. It would take a torrential rain for that, you think. Something biblical.

  You walk over the wet terrain, the busted sidewalks, the streets pocked with potholes like acne scars.

  You walk the night. Not even sure where you are just now. Lost among avenues and alleyways that all look alien and evil at this hour.

  With your hood up, you mostly stay dry. You can only hope that lasts. You’ve got a feeling you’ll be out walking a long time tonight. All night.

  It’s been over twelve hours since that thing happened to you. The thing with Callie. You’re still not quite sure how you feel about it.

  Repulsed. Scared. A little excited.

  Confused. Maybe that above all else.

  The images flare in your head. All of that blood spilling onto your hands, onto the sheets. Her mouth and eyes opened so wide they seemed to occupy all of her face.

  It gets your heart thudding to remember. And your hand flutters to the inside pocket of your jacket. Props a cigarette between your lips. Orange flame flickers just beyond your nose to light it.

  You quit smoking long ago, but you bought a pack after you took care of Callie’s body. You didn’t choose this action so far as you can remember. Your body lurched along on autopilot — feet carrying you to the gas station counter, mouth asking for a pack of Marlboro Lights, hands scooting the little white and gold box across the counter, tearing off the cellophane as you stepped away from the building.

  You wanted to breathe smoke in and out. Feel it billow in your lungs. Taste it in your head and neck and chest.

  Vaguely you recall peeling Callie out from under the tarp in the bed of your truck. Plopping her into a drainage pond off the lake. Can still see the body swallowed up by dark water, the ripples moving outward in circles, disturbing the surface, jostling some lily pads. Out in the woods somewhere. A dark patch of firs that blocked out much of the light. The sky going gray as dusk moved in.

  But these fevered memories jumble in your thoughts, occur to you out of order. Already they feel more like a movie you watched than something you did. Already they seem to be fading, tangling, mixing the truth up with fantasies. Pictures in your head. That’s all.

  And you’re thankful, for once, that Callie wanted to keep you a secret, keep your relationship a secret. This could have been bad, could have ruined everything, but you think not. You think now
that nothing will happen to you, just like all the other times.

  Little rivulets of water snake along the gutter, rushing alongside you as you walk. Draining down the grates every block or so. The chiming sound of the water echoes funny from the sewer, throaty and filtered.

  All the scum creeps out at night in this part of town. Prostitutes. Drug dealers. Trashy types filing in and out of the liquor stores with bottles of fuel. Whiskey, gin, beer, and vodka to feed their dark dreams, plant themselves firmly between here and another world, destroy their souls a little at a time.

  It makes you sick to walk among them, to know that you’re one of them. Filth. The dregs of humanity. A person should aspire to something better, shouldn’t they? Something more than this.

  You watch a hooker lean over into the open window of a sedan, a scrawny girl with sticks for arms and legs, the tiny blouse more draped over her than worn. Looks maybe eighteen, if that. She smiles. Nods her head. You can see the little girl she must have been not so long ago in these mannerisms. She climbs into the passenger’s seat, and the bile climbs your throat like an elevator car going up. Leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

  And you picture again that knife penetrating Callie. The tip shoved into her gut, disappearing somewhere inside of her. And blood spurting out in watery sheets. Pulsing. Pulsing. Hot. Your hand thrusting it in, moving slow but so powerful, so strong.

  You pitch your cigarette into that flowing stream along the curb. It sizzles when the cherry hits the wet, and you watch the butt surf along a ways before a storm drain swallows it up.

  You walk a while, move out away from the ghetto bustle to a quiet residential neighborhood.

  The dark seems to swell, beating back the light with cloudy tufts of shadow stretched over everything like black cotton. Less streetlights here.

  And the sound dies out. No more mob swarming around the liquor store like wasps. No more traffic to create that endless hiss of wet tires on asphalt and engine noises rising and falling as they passed. It is dead, this part of the city. Lifeless and still.

  That pounding pressure in your head starts to wane as you walk into this emptiness. The acidic feeling in your throat fades away. And a calm settles over you. Something like that.

  Good. It’s always good to be away from people. Always brings peace to your state of mind.

  The night’s chill grips you now. Wraps itself around your torso. Makes your skin pull a little bit taut. Two sizes smaller, or so it seems.

  And maybe the world will be colder without Callie. Maybe so. You lick your lips when you think about it, a gesture that reminds you of a nervous dog somehow.

  But it had to go this way, didn’t it? What happened, it wasn’t anyone’s choice.

  In that flash when the image of Callie’s body appears in your memory, you think you should kill yourself. Know you should. Hurl yourself out a window or swallow a shotgun.

  You’ve stood there on the edge and looked down so many times. But you can’t do it. Too scared.

  Sometimes you think you’ll live forever. Like a gift and a curse. Like you were chosen. Some strange power was bestowed upon you at birth. And these kills are the price you have to pay for that, maybe. The ritual you carry out. The blood sacrifice. It gives you power.

  That would make sense, wouldn’t it? Otherwise, why would you do all these things?

  You act under orders from above, maybe. You like the idea of that. You like it a lot.

  Chapter 39

  While Furbush stayed behind to make sure the scene was properly secured, Darger and Fowles headed back down to where they’d left the car.

  Night had fallen around them. Painted everything black. And it was even darker under the towering trees.

  Fowles went to the trunk to secure his case full of samples and tools, and Darger climbed inside.

  “I have to take these specimens to FedEx so they can be rushed to the lab. I hope it’s OK if I stop there before dropping you off?”

  “That’s fine,” Darger said.

  She was in no hurry to return to her depressingly beige hotel room.

  Because it was lonely, or because she wanted to spend more time with Fowles? Fresh crime scenes — especially those with dead bodies — always seemed to bring out unexpected emotions.

  “Actually, what would you say to grabbing a drink?”

  Fowles reached up and adjusted the frames of his glasses.

  “Sure. If you’re hungry, I know a Thai place that’s supposed to be very good.”

  “I don’t think I can eat after that.” She gestured over her shoulder, figuring Fowles would guess that meant the grisly scene at the cabin. “I learned a while ago that I’m better off sticking to an all-liquid diet on a day like today.”

  She studied Fowles, realizing that he’d been the least rattled of anyone at the crime scene.

  “I guess you’ve spent enough time around bodies in the advanced stages of decomposition that it just doesn’t bother you anymore, huh?”

  His hair brushed against the headliner of the car roof as his head shook from side to side.

  “It took some getting used to. I had an incredibly visceral reaction to the first few corpses at the body farm.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’d just freeze on the spot. Like a deer catching sight of a cougar. My legs would just cease to function, completely involuntarily. It felt almost like a spinal reflex,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “They look especially wrong laid out in the open like that. Even knowing what to expect, it was hard to wrap my head around walking into a picturesque clearing and spotting what were clearly human remains. And they tend to situate them spread-eagled, for some reason. It’s quite unnatural.”

  When they reached town, Fowles pulled into the lot of the 24-hour FedEx/Kinkos.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said.

  Darger watched him jog across the concrete and through the glass doors with his box of samples. She wondered if he told the clerk what was inside the box.

  Just a handful or two of maggots I found feeding on a human corpse.

  She must have been smirking to herself when he returned, because he peered over at her with a curious expression on his face.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  They nearly stopped at a place in Sandy billing itself as a saloon, until Darger noticed the marquee announcing the “Live Music - Classic Rock Night.” Not in the mood to shout over a mediocre rendition of “Free Bird,” Darger suggested they keep driving.

  After another fifteen minutes on the road, they found themselves in a random sports bar in the outskirts of Portland.

  It was early, but since it was the weekend, there was still a decent crowd inside. The smell of Pine-Sol, stale beer, and fryer grease wafted through the air as she followed Fowles over to a booth. Moments after she settled into the red vinyl, a barmaid appeared to take their order.

  “I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” Darger said. “When I questioned why you would still be working on your thesis. You’re right. I probably would do the same. Honestly, I think I was projecting a little.”

  “Projecting what?”

  But the waitress returned then, and their conversation was interrupted. She set down the Sam Adams Fowles ordered and Darger’s Moscow Mule. She’d wanted something clean and refreshing and the gingery drink definitely scratched that itch.

  When the waitress had gone again, Fowles raised a quizzical eyebrow at Darger.

  “You were saying?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it makes me angry that you’re…”

  “Going to die?”

  She sighed and rubbed at her eyelids.

  “Yes.”

  Fowles shrugged and took a long pull from his beer.

  “I’ve been meaning to thank you, actually,” Fowles said, adjusting the cocktail napkin under his bottle.

  “For what?”

  “For not trying to solve my imminent death.”

  Darg
er cocked her head to one side, not fully understanding.

  “When most people learn about my diagnosis, it’s only a matter of time before they start bringing up some new miracle cure they’ve heard about. Cuban drug trials. A mystical berry from the Amazon rainforest that brought back their cousin’s mother-in-law’s sister from the brink of death. An Amish faith healer. Marijuana tinctures,” he said. “I’ve heard it all.”

  “Does that mean this would be a bad time to bring up the profound healing properties of certain crystals and gemstones?” Darger asked.

  Fowles stared at her a moment, and though she tried to maintain a straight face, something must have given her away. He broke into a chuckle.

  “You almost had me there for a minute.”

  She grinned and took a drink.

  “I couldn’t resist.”

  “I know they mean well. But sometimes when someone’s going through something like this, advice isn’t what they need or want. I want empathy. Understanding. Someone to just listen.”

  Darger propped an elbow on the table.

  “That’s harder than you think for most people. Just listening, I mean. Especially if the person they’re supposed to be listening to is in pain. Their instinct is to try to fix it.”

  “But pain is a part of life,” Fowles said, leaning forward. “Denying that isn’t healthy for anyone. I’m not saying we should all wallow in it, but not every unfortunate situation can be solved.”

  Darger poked at the lime wedge in her drink with a straw. Chunks of ice clinked against the side of the copper mug.

  “That makes most people very uncomfortable. We like to think we have some semblance of control over how things turn out.”

  “Well, that’s a lie. I’m going to die. I know that’s hard for people to accept. But sometimes they act like the fact that I’ve accepted my diagnosis means I’ve given up. That I could have saved myself if I’d only raced around the world seeking out every kook claiming to have found the cure to cancer. In a twisted way, it ends up feeling like I’m blamed for being sick. Like I could have solved it by now, because no disease is insurmountable. But we all die. And it’s not always when we’re 85. Some people get dealt an unlucky hand. And I’m luckier than many.”