Fortunes of the Dead

by Lynn Hightower

  “That her?” the man asked.

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll get a van out, sir.”

  “Thanks,” Joel said.

  Dusk was falling by the time Cheryl was brought up from the pond and loaded into a mortuary van. The duct tape had been slit, the rug unrolled, and the body identified. Cheryl could not be lifted from the rug due to skin slippage. It surprised me that the body had stayed down on the bottom of the pond, but Joel said that a corpse wrapped and taped in a rug would be so heavy with water that it would sink and stay put.

  And so we found Cheryl Dunkirk at last, Joel and I, as well as a measure of peace to calm the upheaval in our relationship. As it turned out, Joel and I were a little more human than we’d realized, and neither of us held the moral high ground.

  It strikes me, sometimes, that Cheryl and Miranda shared a temporary burial spot there at the pond on the mountain. Sometimes I wonder if a certain restlessness of spirit remains, or if the older spirit forgave the younger, and somehow helped her along.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The ATF office in Nashville was starting to feel too familiar, I Wilson thought. It was past time for him to go home. Sel had sensed a change in him, though he did not think he acted any differently. Now she was entirely upbeat, full of good news and reassuring tidbits, and comforting reassurances that she missed him and would welcome him back whenever he got home. No guilt, no pressure, no worries. A part of him was gratified by the kid gloves and supersensitivity, but the rest of him felt sidelined.

  He had gone through all the motions of wrapping the case, filling out the paperwork, answering question after question from the investigative team. Nothing was like he thought it would be, not the least of which was the way he felt, which was so detached that he had the sensation he was watching a movie of himself rather than being himself.

  He checked his watch. In fifteen minutes there would be a forensic post mortem of Janis Winters’s life and motivations. Wilson would be there, as well as the assistant S.A., the local forensic psychologist, and the forensic autopsy tech. The post mortem was officially a committee, and would generate an official report, based on their findings and conclusions. The report would be disseminated to appropriate parties throughout the agency and considering the nature of the case, read again and again through the years. The rumor mill had it that someone from Winters’s family would be making an appearance but Wilson hoped the rumor was crap. Most families of serial killers liked to be left alone.

  Just the remote possibility that someone from the family would be there made Wilson dread going into that conference room. But he was interested in meeting the forensic psychologist, as they had had many conversations on the phone. The man with the voice, Wilson called him. In Wilson’s imagination he was short and cuddly like a teddy bear, with a thick mop of curly brown hair.

  He heard footsteps outside the little cubicle the Nashville office had hospitably made available for his use, and the S.A. of the entire Tennessee and Kentucky office wandered through the door.

  Wilson finally felt something. He felt nervous. But the S.A., tall and slender and confident, was also as friendly as hell.

  “Wilson McCoy, good, I was hoping to catch you before the meeting. Thought I’d let you know that the evaluation of the shoot came through okay. I’m sure you had no doubt that it would turn out, but it always feels better when it’s confirmed. They’ll get to you in writing on this pretty quick here.” The man winked. “I’ve got enough pull to get the word early, so I thought I’d pass it along to you.”

  Wilson stood up and shook the man’s hand. “Thank you, sir. Much appreciated. Will you be sitting in on the meeting?”

  “Nope, I wish I could, but I have a flight to catch, so I’ll have to wait for the report. And I’ve been briefed already.”

  Of course, Wilson thought. Nothing would go on in that committee today that this man didn’t already know.

  “Just wanted to make sure everything was cleared up on your account before I hit the road.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Good job, McCoy,” the man said, slapping Wilson’s shoulder. He nodded, then headed at a good clip down the hall.

  Wilson looked at his watch. Plenty of time, except he was pretty slow on his feet right now, so he might as well go. The ATF conclusion that the shooting of Janis Winters was justified was a relief for a lot of reasons.

  Wilson was early to the conference room, but not the first to arrive.

  “You’re Wilson?” the man said, standing up to shake hands. “I’m’ Mark Christian. We’ve talked?”

  The forensic psychologist was a surprise. He looked more GQ than cuddly, though the voice was still the same. He was in the room alone, and looked like he’d been there for a while.

  “Good to put a face with the voice,” Wilson said. He wondered where Christian bought his suits.

  “I wanted to take you aside before the meeting—”

  But whatever Dr. Christian was going to say was cut off by the arrival of the Medical Examiner. Not a mere forensic tech, but a distinguished ME from Minnesota; she looked to be between fifty and sixty-five, had white hair that was cut short and combed carefully back, and a pointed chin. She wore a plum-colored suit and pantyhose and low-heeled black shoes. Wilson thought frumpy until she smiled at him. There was a brightness in her eyes, and kindness in her face, and Wilson, like everyone else who met Marian Windsor, forgot he thought she was frumpy within the first five minutes of knowing her. She had received twelve marriage proposals in the last decade alone, and if she were to keep count, which she did not, her lifetime total so far would be sixty-three. She lived alone with her two cats, Frank and Beans, but was rarely home; she was either working or letting someone take her out to dinner. Marian Windsor had an active social and sexual life.

  Wilson looked over at Christian. “Somebody told me that someone from the family was coming to the meeting. I take it that’s just a rumor.”

  Christian looked panicked. “No, that’s only a rumor. Anything like that would be a really bad idea.”

  Wilson liked it that this man said “really bad idea” instead of stringing together a more technical and jargonized opinion, which would amount to the same thing in words more difficult to spell.

  “Her mother was very willing to help, though. I talked to her at length.” Christian said.

  Wilson imagined that Janis Winters’s mother found Christian’s voice a selling point—the man had the richest, most comforting voice Wilson has ever heard. It would be impossible for a voice like that not to go into counseling.

  The door opened and the assistant S.A., who Wilson now called Denise, walked in smiling, nodding at each and every one of them. She took her place at the head of the table, and picked up the phone. All of them had notepads and a glass of water.

  “Sandy? Oh, Robin. Hon, for God’s sake get us some coffee in here, would you? No, no, that’s great. Thanks.” She looked up at the group. “Coffee’s on the way. Let’s go.”

  Wilson wondered why she was so cheerful. He took three Advil gel capsules, downing three-fourths of his glass of water.

  Christian opened his briefcase and handed each of them a file that was full of pictures. “This one’s off the charts, folks. I’ve never had another one like it.”

  Marian Windsor was nodding. “In case anyone wonders why I’m here, it’s thanks to a federal grant specifically created for the purpose of compiling physical information on level-four killers through physical and psychological forensics. It requires permission of the family, which we do have.”

  “As I said, the mother was very cooperative,” Christian says.

  “Why is that?” Wilson asks.

  Denise looked up. “Good question. What did you make of her, Mark?”

  Christian put his fingertips together. “I liked her. Intelligent woman, Irish, though she’s been a U.S. citizen for the last thirty years. I can’t be an expert on her from the short amount of time we sp
ent together, but my gut says she is well adjusted, and a good mother. Nothing she did would make you change your mind.”

  Wilson opened the file and took the pictures out one by one, laying them in a line on the table. He was careful to keep them straight, edges just touching. As if controlling how they were placed would draw the sting of seeing the three-dimensional life of Janis Winters.

  “Very pretty girl,” he said. He didn’t mean to say anything at all. But his comment had them all opening their files. And the life of Janis Winters began to unfold.

  Her baby picture was ludicrously adorable. She was held by an older boy, Wilson assumed a brother, and she had huge blue eyes, and white-blond curls, and the kind of chubby baby face that made maternal women go weak in the knees. Wilson had never desired a child of his own, but Janis Winters’s baby pictures gave his heart a tug.

  This mother was formidable, Wilson thought. Wise of her to provide the pictures. He understood what she was up to. She would put her daughter in the best light possible, which was not easy with a daughter who nearly decapitated federal agents with a stun gun and wire.

  Another picture showed Janis at age six wearing denim overalls and a cowboy hat, holding a toy six-shooter she aimed at the photographer. The overalls were worn at the knee, and delicate as she looked, it was clear that she was strongly influenced by the two boys, brothers, who stood behind her. Even at six, she was no fragile flower afraid to get out and mix it up.

  Wilson went to the next shot. “Who is the woman holding her on the horse?”

  Christian raised an eyebrow. “That’s the mother.”

  Wilson looked across the table at Christian to make sure it wasn’t a joke. He had been expecting a worn-out sort of farm wife, with brave woeful eyes—not this petite, dark-haired creature with the upswept chignon, the outrageous smile, and the radiant pleasure she took in holding her daughter in front of her on the horse. She wore riding pants and high black leather boots, and a white tailored shirt that was open at the throat. You could see the glint of a necklace. The barn in the background cost more than the average house.

  Christian held up a picture of Janis Winters as Sweetheart of the Rodeo. The picture was vintage Texas. Janis wore a glittering cowboy hat over long curly hair, and held a bouquet of tiny pink sweetheart roses. She was astride a massive paint horse, and her smile was toothpaste commercial quality. There was nothing in that young and and exquisite face that hinted of dysfunction or hard times, nature or nurture.

  Denise picked up her copy of this shot and slipped reading glasses on her nose. “This is her? This is Rodeo? She looks like an angel, not a serial killer.”

  “She was,” Marian Windsor said.

  The anger came so hard and quick Wilson felt nauseous. The door to the conference room opened abruptly and a man carried in a tray with coffee cups, cream, and sugar. A woman followed with a huge stainless steel pot. The fragrance of strong coffee permeated the room.

  “You make it yourself?” Denise asked, and the man grinned and admitted he did. He was young and carefully dressed, and had a cowlick that likely caused him agonies of embarrassment every day. Wilson thought that if he had a cowlick like that he would burn it off before he’d be seen in public.

  Christian waved the picture of Janis Winters on a horse. “This is where the trouble began.”

  It is as if he said once upon a time. The attention of everyone in the room was riveted.

  “Agent Wilson McCoy picked this case up four weeks ago. At that point Janis Winters had killed five agents. Two with the ATF, three with the FBI, all of them present at Waco. The first thing our profile indicated, and let’s face it, we’re talking common sense, was a vendetta. Wilson, why don’t you take it from here?”

  Wilson stopped for a minute to gather his thoughts. He had already worked out everything he needed to say, and everything he needed to keep to himself, and he took a sip of water and began.

  “When I was assigned to this investigation, we had two problems. The big one, the vendetta against federal agents present at Waco. The other, a missing intern in the ATF office in Lexington, Kentucky, and a strong indication that a member of local law enforcement, working on task with that office, was involved.”

  Everyone in the room knew the broad outline of the case, and Wilson gave them details. The survivor groups, the dovetail of killings in cities with the appearance of the Markus Bourbon Pro-Am Rodeo, a link established through the killer’s use of baling wire. He took them swiftly and succinctly down the path of the investigation; the confession of Cory Edgers and information of his involvement with Rodeo; making an actual ID of the killer, frustration in the inability to link her to Waco. The discovery of a sister, Emma, involved with the Branch Davidians, and present when the compound erupted in smoke and flames. There was no positive ID of an Emma Winters in the death rolls, but interviews with survivors of Waco confirm the presence of a woman named Emma, who had a child, a son—both fitting the profile of Winters’s sister and nephew.

  At the time of the last three assassinations, Janis Winters lived in a trailer and was employed by the Markus Bourbon Pro-Am as a rodeo clown. She was considered fearless on the job, and flaky out of it. She had few people she was close to, and the ones she did know had all been told the tragic tale of what had happened to Janis’s beloved sister Emma. According to the few witnesses who knew Janis well enough to spend time with her in the trailer, she kept stacks of notebooks along with pictures and newspaper articles concerning David Koresh and the Branch Davidians. She was said to be compulsive about getting her sister’s story down on paper. Her writings were said to be almost solely concerned with her guilt and frustration at not being able to rescue her sister Emma, and her obsession with finding a horse named Dandy.

  “I didn’t know about the writings,” Marian Windsor said. “But it’s a common manifestation.”

  “Manifestation of what? “Wilson asked.

  Christian leaned forward. “Let me get back to that,” he told Wilson. “At this point the ATF has a slam dunk in court. We’ve matched Janis Winters’s DNA to several samples taken from three kill sites. We have witness statements that Winters was often seen with baling wire, and although we have not been able to recover the Taser, a rodeo veterinarian has confirmed in a deposition under oath that he helped Janis Winters take an ordinary Taser and increase the voltage. At the time he was under the impression that she needed the Taser for self-protection. The man, who goes by the nickname Bones Jones, is a long-term alcoholic; however, his deposition is rated highly credible. The physical evidence is there, the motive is there, we’ve got a sworn statement from a law enforcement witness that Janis Winters is the assassin Rodeo; however this witness is dead and his statements are compromised. To date we have six witnesses from various fringe survivalist groups who will swear that Janis Winters approached their group under the guise of Rodeo’s girlfriend, and delivered the information on the next target. Future prosecutions are planned in regard to the survivalist groups.” Christian frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s only one thing wrong with the whole scenario.”

  “Which is what?” Wilson said.

  “Janis Winters didn’t have a sister.”

  Janis Winters had won the Sweetheart of the Rodeo pageant, Christian told them. He paced across the small room, then stopped, back to the wall, folded his arms, and told them the story in that soothing, mesmerizing voice.

  The accident happened on the final day of Janis’s reign. And her name wasn’t Janis Winters. Her name was Laura Bass. And though she had enjoyed being a rodeo queen for a year, Laura was more than happy to hand over her rhinestone studded cowboy hat to the next girl in line. She had earned scholarship money for college, still planned to be a vet, and had enough purse money from barrel racing with Dandy to see her way through and then some. It had been a great year, a fun year; she had traveled and met a lot of good-looking young men, but she was bored with it and ready to give one hundred percent to school. She hadn’t
had much time to ride Dandy, and she was tired of explaining to certain people she invariably met that being a rodeo queen might be a joke as far as they were concerned, but that it did involve the ability to control two thousand pounds of horse and perform all-around skills such as calf roping, trick riding, and barrel racing. It also required a certain charm and beauty and brains that was said to be found almost exclusively in a woman from Texas. The benefits included a generous college fund, numerous business contacts, a new Mustang convertible, and a hellacious wardrobe. And how many other girls of nineteen could say they’d ridden a horse in Amsterdam, Singapore, and Montreal?

  Laura was all smiles now that it was over. She waved to her mom, who sat in the stands eating a hot dog and drinking a beer, and it was hard to tell, but she was sure that her mother winked. As usual, Mama was ignoring the attentions of some man who was trying to steal a moment of her time. Mama was not unkind, but she did have a tendency to be crushing when she was bored.

  According to tradition, the pageant ended with a parade—all the contestants on horseback, led by the incoming and outgoing sweethearts, who rode their horses side by side. Every year the parade got bigger, including more and more cowboys, on horseback of course, a handful of male and female trick riders, always popular with the crowd, clowns, little kids on recalcitrant ponies, and Olieka men on their little bikes. Pageantry, Texas-style, and a hell of a lot of fun, and pretty much anybody who wanted to make a reasonable donation could advertise their products with a float.

  There was never a consensus on what started the wreck and spooked the horses, even after the videotapes had been studied frame to frame. Theory and speculation were thick and unrelenting, and stories ranged from a cherry bomb thrown at the legs of the horse ridden by the new winner by the unsportsmanlike boyfriend of one of the runners-up, to a clown waving a pitchfork, with each story alternating between favor and scorn. The only thing agreed on was that it started a chain reaction that is not uncommon in horses, who react to the panic of other horses with as much enthusiasm as they’d have for a fear they’d found on their own. Horses are, after all, herd animals, and their survival depends on a mutual tribal agreement that all members can cry wolf, and that when one of the herd takes off hell-for-leather, the rest of them are going to run as well.