Five Days Post Mortem

by L. T. Vargus

  Darger shrugged. “I probably would.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “Maybe. But it’s not the same thing. Not even remotely. If I agreed to marry you, we’d take a road trip to Vegas, go to one of those cheesy little chapels, and then boom, done.”

  “It’s not actually that simple, you know. They show it that way in movies and on TV, but it’s more complicated. First you have to apply at the license bureau, then you have the ceremony, and then you have to get the marriage certificate—”

  Now it was Darger’s turn to stare, looking amused as she did so.

  “What?”

  “You are such a scientist. So precise. So exact. Fine. It’s not quite as simple as popping into McDonald’s to order a Big Mac. It’s also not as complicated as a kidney transplant.”

  They’d reached Darger’s hotel then, and the conversation naturally paused as they crowded into the elevator with an elderly couple. Arguing about a shotgun marriage was a private sort of conversation.

  In her room, Fowles took a seat on the edge of the bed, bouncing a little. Darger grabbed fresh clothes from her suitcase and hurried into the bathroom. She stripped, took a lightning round shower, and dried off. As she was buttoning her blouse, Fowles left his post on the bed and moved closer to the door.

  “OK, what about the legalities? You would legally become my heir.”

  Darger puffed some dry shampoo into her hair and riffled her fingers through her roots a few times.

  “Are you rich or something?”

  “What if I am?”

  “Then I’ll sign a prenup. I don’t care about money.”

  He laughed.

  “You make absolutely no sense.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You just don’t strike me as the type that would jump into marriage with some random person.”

  “That’s because I’m not. You’re not random. You’re special.”

  “Oh.”

  She stepped out of the bathroom.

  “Ready?”

  “To leave or to get married?” he asked.

  Darger tried to suppress a smile. As dubious as he sounded, she knew he was thinking about it now. Considering it.

  She also knew very well what her own motives were. She was a psychologist, after all.

  It was bargaining, pure and simple. The third stage in the Kübler-Ross model of grief.

  Part of her couldn’t let go, was convinced that she could save him.

  “Let’s go, Bug Guy,” she said, and they were off.

  * * *

  Just as they pulled into the lot of the police station, Fowles’ phone rang. He put the car in park and snatched his phone from the cup holder.

  “It’s the lab. You might as well go ahead inside. I’ll catch up and fill you in.”

  A chime sounded as Darger pushed through the glass front door. Marcy glanced up from her post at the front desk and waved.

  Hanging up her jacket, Darger caught a glimpse of Furbush stooped over the table in the conference room. He looked like hell. Bags under his eyes. A few spots of stubble he missed during his morning shave.

  “Good morning,” Darger said.

  “Yeah?” Furbush said with a sigh. “What’s good about it?”

  “Rough night?”

  “I just got off the phone with Dustin Reynolds’ parents.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Oh, about as well as the Hindenburg.”

  “That bad?”

  Furbush pawed at the back of his neck.

  “It was surreal, really. You remember when I talked to his father the other day, and he got a little panicked? Assumed I’d called to deliver bad news?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, since we’d already been through that, this time he interrupts right away and says he knows he doesn’t have to talk to me, and that he talked with a lawyer friend of his that says if I keep calling, that’s harassment.”

  The Chief’s shoulders seemed to deflate as he let out a long sigh.

  “When I told him why I was calling, I don’t think he believed me when I said Dustin was dead. I think he sincerely believed I was jerking him around for the fun of it.”

  “Worst part of the job,” Darger said.

  She’d never been a cop herself, but she’d been around them long enough to know that none of them relished the task of informing someone that a loved one had died.

  “Without a doubt. Finding the DBs is up there, as far as unpleasant tasks go. But a corpse don’t cry.” Furbush shook his head. “Anyway, I asked if Dustin had any troubles of late. Anything that might shed some light on things. He said Dustin was a Freegan.”

  “A vegan?”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But he repeated it for me. Freegan. Apparently they’re all about rejecting consumerism. They get all their food out of dumpsters. Clothes and stuff that like, too.”

  “Dumpsters?”

  “That’s what he said. This came up because I asked about Dustin’s phone. Whether he had one, you know? We didn’t find one at the cabin. Dad said no. He’d turned his back on the idea of ‘buying stuff.’ If it had to be paid for, Dustin wasn’t interested. He’d barter and trade and was all about some website called Freecycle,” Furbush said, pursing his lips in clear disapproval. “Sounds like a professional mooch, you ask me. But then I suppose I’m a little old-fashioned.”

  Darger snorted and sidled over to the coffee machine to pour herself a cup.

  “I guess that explains why we’ve had a hard time finding anything in his name. Did Dustin’s father mention if they were planning on coming to town?”

  “He said they’d have the funeral here. The Reynolds family has a crypt in Greenbriar Cemetery. I told him to give me a call while they’re here, set up a formal interview.”

  “Did you give any indication that Dustin is a person of interest in our other investigation?”

  “Christ, no. No way Frank Reynolds would give us the time of day if he knew we liked Dustin for the murders, dead or not. We’d be conducting our interview through a lawyer.”

  Darger knew it was the right move, and yet she still felt a twinge of guilt. Not revealing that Dustin was suspected in the recent string of murders so they could wheedle more information out of a pair of grieving parents seemed opportunistic and manipulative. And yet so much of a serial murder case was about opportunity and manipulation.

  “Where are we with everything else?”

  “I’ve got Mantelbaum on the financials. Almost became an accountant before signing up for the force, apparently. Took a few classes at the local community college. He’s working through Dustin’s bank and credit files, hoping something shakes loose there. And I sent Kwan and Portnoy over to talk with the Auntie.”

  “But I thought you so enjoyed Mamie Reynolds’ warm and pleasant disposition?”

  Now it was the Chief’s turn to snort.

  “I thought we could spend the day going through everything we bagged and tagged from the cabin and from Dustin’s truck. Maybe try to find something that ties Dustin to one of our more recent victims.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Darger said.

  Furbush rubbed at his eyes with one hairy-knuckled fist.

  “Hell, I don’t reckon I should be so glum. We might have just sewed up our murder case, nice and tidy. Can’t imagine most of your cases turn out this way, do they?”

  “No,” Darger said. “They don’t.”

  “Not the most dramatic way to close a case, eh?”

  “Maybe not. But my life could probably use a little less excitement, to be honest.”

  When Darger really thought about what she was saying, she felt torn. Confused. It was a shock to find Dustin rotting in that cabin bathroom like that. She’d gone in expecting a gunfight and come out with the suspect already long dead. Possibly by his own hand.

  Suicide didn’t fit with most serial killer profiles. But this one was different. She’d said so herself, noted
that there was a dissociative factor. A killer fighting with two sides of himself. Had the more sane side, the side that still had a moral compass, finally become aware of his crimes? Had he been fighting it all along?

  If so, she supposed she should be relieved. He’d stopped himself from committing any more atrocities. Most of these types of offenders kept going until they were caught. How many women had been spared when Dustin Reynolds took his own life?

  “Now we just need to prove Dustin was our killer,” Darger said.

  “That’s always the hard part, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 42

  She and Furbush were sifting through the evidence photos when Fowles breezed in. He didn’t bother keeping them in suspense for long.

  “The specimens taken from Dustin Reynolds body were negative for illicit substances.”

  Darger sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

  “So we can rule out overdose, whether it was accidental or otherwise.”

  “Damn,” Furbush said, slapping his hand against the table. “I know this sounds callous, but Dustin Reynolds dying of an overdose would have wrapped this whole investigation up with a nice, pretty bow.”

  Darger’s gaze fell on a photo of Dustin Reynolds’ putrefying corpse in the dingy little cabin bathroom, his skin a mottled black and brown. There was nothing nice or pretty about it.

  “I know Dr. Kole said we shouldn’t hold out hope for toxicology, but maybe he’ll find something else we can use,” Darger said. “In the meantime, we keep looking.”

  They went back to the photos, searching for a clue. Anything that might tie Dustin to the murders. Something that belonged to one of the women. Or even evidence to prove their hypothesis that he’d killed himself. But there was nothing. No pills, no drug paraphernalia at all. No gun. No knives unless you counted a mismatched and dull set of steak knives in the kitchen area, all of which had been tested for blood residue and had come back negative.

  A photo of the bedroom area showed a high-quality sleeping bag rated for sub-zero temperatures on one of the beds. Evidence that Dustin had been planning to make a go of the winter out in the cabin? An old battered Swiss Army knife lay open on the bedside table, with the small pair of scissors at the ready.

  Darger riffled through a cluster of photos until she found the shots of the kitchen with the two cast iron skillets hanging over the propane range and the burlap curtains framing the window. Her eyes locked on a close-up of the moldy pizza in the kitchen area. If Dustin had killed himself, he hadn’t even left a note. Or finished his pizza.

  Next she paused on a picture of Dustin’s wallet as it was found and another with the contents laid out: his driver’s license, a Fred Meyer rewards card, what looked like a very old, very expired bus pass for the Portland public transit system, a handwritten note on a scrap of paper that said “DRR Custom Paint,” and seven dollars in cash.

  Darger stared at the money for a long time.

  “Where was he getting money?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else.

  Furbush leaned closer.

  “You mean that measly seven bucks?”

  “Not just that,” Darger said, shaking her head. “I mean, his aunt says he didn’t have a job. His dad says he’s a Freegan. But there’s nowhere to dumpster dive near the cabin. And he had a pizza.”

  Furbush picked up the photograph of the wallet contents and flicked his finger against it.

  “Good point. He was miles away from the nearest garbage bin buffet, but he was getting supplies somehow. Food. Toilet paper. Money for gas if he’s doing any driving into town,” he said and set the photo back down. “I’ll make a note to ask the Reynoldses when they come in for questioning. Maybe they were sending him cash.”

  Through the open doorway, they could hear the phone on Marcy’s desk ring.

  Furbush closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

  “God, I hope that’s Dr. Kole with good news. Let’s wrap this up and be done with it.”

  “Chief Furbush?” Marcy called from the doorway

  “Yeah?”

  “Phone call, Line 1.”

  Furbush waggled his eyebrows optimistically. He swung around in his chair and lifted the receiver from the phone on the wall.

  “This is Furbush.”

  The hopeful expression on his face immediately twisted into a frown.

  “Where at?” he grumbled into the phone. “Yeah. Have ‘em hold down the scene until we get there.”

  He hung up the phone, and when he swiveled back to face them, he wiped a hand down the side of his face.

  “We’ve got another body.”

  Chapter 43

  Darger stood in the shade of a stand of cottonwood trees on the shore and watched the men in the water as they worked.

  It was a gorgeous day, clear and sunny with a cooling breeze coming from the west. The wind rustled through the leaves overhead and tugged at the loose strands of Darger’s hair. The movement made her scalp tingle in a way that was mostly pleasant.

  She walked up the hill a little ways to get a better vantage point, planting her feet on the sloped land and turning out toward the lake.

  The crystal clear water sparkled in the late morning light, looking like a scene on a calendar showcasing picturesque landscapes. On a day without the breeze to cause ripples on the surface, it probably appeared like a pool of glass, reflecting the silhouettes of the pine trees and the clouds scuttling across the sky.

  As they’d climbed down from the access road, the lake had shone like a precious stone, shifting from emerald green to sapphire blue. She saw hints of the same effect as she moved back down near the shore.

  The beauty of the scene was incongruous with the task at hand. Bloated body removal.

  A tip line call had led them here. An older local man had been walking his dog when he’d spotted the corpse surging along in the current. The body had flowed into the lake from a little outlet stream running off the Clackamas and swept along with the whims of Mother Nature.

  The divers had only been in the water for fifteen minutes before locating the body near the trunk of an old fallen tree, and now Darger watched the neoprene-clad head of the diver bob up and down in the water.

  Two men from the Clackamas County Sheriff’s Search and Rescue Team drifted nearby in a small boat and lowered what looked like a small inflatable raft into the water. The diver grasped the floating stretcher and maneuvered it closer to the dead tree before wrestling the woman’s body onto it. Darger shivered at the sight of the fish-belly-white skin.

  The men in the boat tossed out a sheet the diver used to cover the corpse. Thus far, this case had managed to stay under the radar as far as the national media was concerned, which was fine with Darger. But someone must have started to put things together, because there were already half a dozen news vans lined up along the access road to the lake when they’d arrived.

  The diver attached a tow line from the stretcher to the boat. Even after securing the stretcher, he kept a firm grip on it with one hand. With his other, he held tight to the boat and allowed himself and his gruesome cargo to be slowly hauled to shore.

  Two men in hip waders stood in the knee-deep water at the shoreline. As the boat came to a stop, the diver passed off the stretcher to them, and they began the arduous task of climbing the rocky, muddy slope up to dry land.

  Suddenly the man holding the rear of the stretcher stepped on a loose rock and slipped backward. The stretcher teetered between the two men, threatening to spill the ghastly load, but finally the rear man regained his footing and wiped his brow.

  “Shit!” the man in front cursed. He turned back to face his partner. “You OK, Bobby?”

  “I’m good for now. But my fucking back is going to have something to say about all this tomorrow.”

  When they reached the top of the incline, they headed for a nearby tent where Dr. Kole waited along with his assistants and Fowles. Darger watched one of the underlings whisk away the sheet, and then th
e group huddled together over the corpse, discussing, prodding, inspecting.

  A few yards away, Furbush was shaking hands with the Sheriff. He was a slight man with thinning hair and bushy mustache, and he had to brace himself as Furbush vigorously patted him on the back.

  Darger didn’t need to hear the platitudes out loud. She had them memorized from a hundred other crime scenes.

  Appreciate the assist.

  Just doing our duty.

  Well, it was good work your men did today.

  I’ll tell ‘em you said so. They’re a hell of a team.

  Furbush parted ways with the Sheriff and paused to issue orders to his own men. Having finished what they’d come to do, the Sheriff’s Search and Rescue Team would clear out. It was up to Furbush’s officers to take things from here: securing the scene, interviewing witnesses, and so on.

  The Chief’s demeanor changed as soon as he stepped away from the Sheriff. His shoulders tensed, and the set of his jaw hardened. He’d put on a brave and appreciative face for the Sheriff, but now the weight of the investigation settled firmly on his shoulders once more.

  As Furbush moved to approach the tent, Darger followed.

  “What’s the story, doc?” Furbush asked the diminutive coroner.

  “Thus far, everything I’m seeing is consistent with the other three victims.”

  “So Dustin Reynolds had one last hurrah? Killed this girl and then took care of himself?”

  Both the doctor and Fowles were shaking their heads before Furbush finished speaking.

  “The blow fly larvae I’ve found are first instar,” Fowles said. “Assuming she was drowned elsewhere and then moved here like the others, that would put time of death between five and six days.”

  The coroner’s head bobbed up and down.

  “I concur. I think Dustin Reynolds was dead long before this girl.”

  “Hold on now. The doc said before that Dustin Reynolds had been dead about a week. You’re saying this girl’s been dead up to six days. Now if Dustin’s at seven days, give or take, and she’s at six days, give or take, isn’t that enough wiggle room to say that he maybe could have killed her?”

  “Except that I found pupal cases on Dustin Reynolds,” Fowles said.