Death Du Jour tb-2

by Reichs, Kathy

  “I don’t want anyone going near the pond,” Sam said to Joey.

  “Alice get another monkey?”

  “No.” Sam didn’t elaborate. “Where’s that chow going?”

  “Feeder seven.”

  “Leave it and come right back.”

  “What about water?”

  “Fill the tanks and get back to camp. If you see Jane, send her in.”

  Joey’s shades moved to my face and rested there for what seemed a long time. Then he got into the pickup and pulled away, the tank clanking behind.

  Sam and I walked in silence. I dreaded the scene about to take place, and resolved not to let him bully me. I recalled his words, saw his face as he uncovered the grave. Then something else. Just before Sam joined me, I thought I’d heard a motor. Had it been the pickup? I wondered how long Joey had been parked on the trail. And why right there?

  “When did Joey start working for you?” I asked.

  “Joey?” He thought a moment. “Almost two years ago.”

  “He’s reliable?”

  “Let’s just say Joey’s compassion exceeds his common sense. He’s one of these bleeding-heart types, always talking about animal rights and worrying about disturbing the monkeys. He doesn’t know jackshit about animals, but he’s a good worker.”

  When we got to camp I found a note from Katy. She’d finished her observation and gone to the dock to read. While Sam got out the phone, I walked down to the water. My daughter sat in one of the boats, shoes off, legs stretched in front of her, her sleeves and pants legs rolled as high as they would go. I waved and she returned the gesture, then pointed at the boat. I wagged my head and held up both hands, indicating it wasn’t time to leave. She smiled and resumed reading.

  When I entered the field station Sam was at the kitchen table, talking on a cell phone. I slid onto the bench opposite him.

  “When will he be back?” he asked into the mouthpiece. He looked more agitated than I’d ever seen him.

  Pause. He tapped a pencil against the table, reversing from tip, to end, to tip as he slid it lengthwise through his fingers.

  “Ivy Lee, I need to talk to him now. Can’t you raise him somehow?”

  Pause. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “No, a deputy will not do. I need Sheriff Baker.”

  Long pause. Tap. Ta—The lead snapped and Sam threw the pencil into a trash basket on the far side of the kitchen.

  “I don’t care what he said, keep trying. Have him call me here at the island. I’ll wait.”

  He slammed down the receiver.

  “How can both the sheriff and the coroner be out of contact?” He ran two hands through his hair.

  I turned sideways on the bench, brought my feet up, and leaned against the wall. Through the years I’d learned that the best way to deal with Sam’s temper was to ignore it. It came and went like a flash fire.

  He got up and paced the kitchen, punching one hand into the palm of the other. “Where the hell is Harley?”

  He looked at his watch.

  “Four-ten. Terrific. In twenty minutes everyone will be here, wanting to get back to town. Hell, they’re not even supposed to be here on Saturday. This is a make-up day for bad weather.”

  He kicked a piece of chalk across the room.

  “I can’t make them stay here. Or maybe I should? Maybe I should tell them about the body, say ‘nobody leaves the island,’ then take each suspect into the back room and grill him, like Hercule fucking Poirot!”

  More pacing. Watch checking. Pacing. Finally he dropped onto the opposite bench and rested his forehead on his fists.

  “Are you finished with your tantrum?”

  No response.

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  He didn’t look up.

  “Here it is anyway. The body is on the island because someone doesn’t want it found. Obviously they didn’t count on J-7.”

  I spoke to the top of his head.

  “I see several possibilities. One. It was brought here by one of your employees. Two. An outsider dropped in by boat, possibly a local who knows your routine. The island is unguarded after the crews leave, right?”

  He nodded without raising his head.

  “Three. It could be one of the drug traffickers who cruise around these waters.”

  No response.

  “Aren’t you a deputy wildlife officer?”

  He looked up. His forehead glistened with sweat.

  “Yes.”

  “If you can’t raise the coroner or Sheriff Baker, and you won’t trust a deputy, call your wildlife buddies. They have jurisdiction offshore, right? Calling them won’t arouse suspicion and they can get someone out here to seal off the site until you talk to the sheriff.”

  He slapped the tabletop. “Kim.”

  “Whoever. Just ask them to keep it cool until you’ve talked with Baker. I’ve already told you what he’s going to do.”

  “Kim Waggoner works for the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources. She’s helped me out in the past when I’ve had law enforcement problems out here. I can trust Kim.”

  “Will she stay all night?” While I’ve never been a timid woman, holding murderers or drug dealers at bay was not a job I would want.

  “No problem.” He was already dialing. “Kim is an ex-marine.”

  “She can handle intruders?”

  “She eats nails for breakfast.”

  Someone answered and he asked for Officer Waggoner.

  “Wait till you see her,” he said, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

  By the time the staff reconvened everything had been arranged. The crew took Katy in their boat, while Sam and I stayed behind. Kim arrived shortly after five and was everything Sam had promised. She wore jungle fatigues, combat boots, and an Australian bush hat, and packed enough munitions to hunt rhino. The island would be safe.

  On the drive back to the marina, Sam again asked me to do the recovery. I repeated what I’d told him earlier. Sheriff. Coroner. Jaffer.

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said as he pulled up to the walkway. “Thanks for taking us out today. I know Katy loved it.”

  “No problemo.”

  We watched a pelican glide over the water, then fold its wings and dive headlong into a trough. It reappeared with a fish, the afternoon light metallic on its wet scales. Then the pelican tacked and the fish dropped, a silvery missile plummeting to the sea.

  “Jesus Christ. Why did they have to pick my island?” Sam sounded tired and discouraged.

  I opened the car door. “Let me know what Sheriff Baker says.”

  “I will.”

  “You do understand why I can’t do the scene, don’t you?”

  “Scene. Christ.”

  When I slammed the door and leaned in the open window he started with a new argument.

  “Tempe, think about it. Monkey island. Buried corpse. The local mayor. If there’s a leak the press will go crazy with this, and you know how sensitive the animal rights issue is. I don’t need the media discovering Murtry.”

  “That could happen no matter who works the case.”

  “I know. It’s—”

  “Let it go, Sam.”

  As I watched him drive off, the pelican circled back and swooped low above the boat. A new fish glistened in its beak.

  Sam had that same tenacity. I doubted he would let it go, and I was right.

  17

  AFTER DINNER AT STEAMERS OYSTER BAR, KATY AND I VISITED A gallery on Saint Helena. We meandered the rooms of the creaky old inn, inspecting the work of local Gullah artists, appreciating another perspective on a place we thought we knew. But as I critiqued collages, paintings, and photos, I remembered bones and crabs and dancing flies.

  Katy bought a miniature heron carved from bark and painted periwinkle blue. On the way home we stopped for coffee ice cream, then ate it on the bow of the Melanie Tess, talking and listening to the lines and halyards of the surrounding sailboats clicking in the breeze. The m
oon spread a shimmering triangle outward from the marsh. As we chatted I watched the pale yellow light ripple on the undulating blackness.

  My daughter confided her ambition to be a criminal profiler, and shared her misgivings about attaining that goal. She marveled at the beauty of Murtry and described the antics of the monkeys she’d observed. At one point I considered telling her of the day’s discovery, but held back. I didn’t want to sully the memory of her visit to the island.

  I went to bed at eleven and lay for a long time listening to the creak of mooring lines and willing myself to sleep. Eventually I drifted off, taking the day with me and weaving it into the fabric of the last few weeks. I rode in a boat with Mathias and Malachy, desperately trying to keep them on board. I brushed crabs from a corpse, watched the seething mass re-form as fast as I scattered it. The corpse’s skull morphed into Ryan’s face, then into the charred features of Patrice Simonnet. Sam and Harry shouted at me, their words incomprehensible, their faces hard and angry.

  When the phone woke me I felt disoriented, unsure where I was or why. I stumbled to the galley.

  “Good morning.” It was Sam, his voice sounding strained and edgy.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost seven.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the sheriff’s office. Your plan isn’t going to work.”

  “Plan?” My brain fought to patch into the conversation.

  “Your guy is in Bosnia.”

  I peeked through the blinds. At the inner dock, a grizzled old man sat on the deck of his sailboat. As I released the slats he tipped back his head and drained a can of Old Milwaukee.

  “Bosnia?”

  “Jaffer. The anthropologist at USC. He’s gone to Bosnia to excavate mass graves for the UN. No one is sure when he’ll be back.”

  “Who’s covering his casework?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Baxter wants you to do the recovery.”

  “Who’s Baxter?”

  “Baxter Colker is the Beaufort County coroner. He wants you to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to do it.”

  That was straightforward enough.

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. Harley’s got a detective and a deputy lined up. Baxter is meeting us here at nine. He has a transport team on call. When we’re ready to leave Murtry, he’ll phone over and they’ll meet us at the Lady’s Island dock to take the body to Beaufort Memorial. But he wants you to do the digging. Just tell us what equipment you need and we’ll get it.”

  “Is Colker a forensic pathologist?”

  “Baxter’s an elected official and has no medical training. He runs a funeral home. But he’s conscientious as hell and wants this thing done right.”

  I thought for a minute.

  “Does Sheriff Baker have any idea who might be buried out there?”

  “There’s a lot of drug shit that goes on down here. He’s going to talk to the folks over at U.S. Customs and the local DEA people. Also the wildlife agents. Harley tells me they were staking out the marshes in the Coosaw River last month. He thinks one of the drug brethren is our best bet, and I agree. These guys value life about as much as a used Q-Tip. You will help us, won’t you?”

  Reluctantly, I agreed. I told him what equipment to gather and he said he’d get right on it. I was to be ready at ten.

  For several minutes I stood there, unsure what to do about Katy. I could explain the situation and leave it up to her. After all, there was no reason she couldn’t go with us to the island. Or, I could simply tell her that something had come up and Sam had asked me for help. Katy could spend the day here, or leave for Hilton Head earlier than planned. I knew the second was a better idea, but decided to tell her anyway.

  I ate a bowl of Raisin Bran and washed the dish and spoon. Unable to sit still, I threw on shorts and a T-shirt, and went outside to check the lines and water tank. While there I realigned the chairs on the bridge. Inside again, I made my bed and straightened the towels in the head. I rearranged the pillows on the salon sofa and picked fluff from the carpet. I wound the clock and checked the time. Only seven-fifteen. Katy wouldn’t be up for hours. Putting on running shoes, I quietly let myself out.

  I drove down Route 21 east across Saint Helena to Harbor Island, then Hunting Island, and turned in at the state park. The narrow blacktop wound through a slough still and dark as an underground lake. Palmetto palms and live oaks rose from the murky bottom. Here and there a shaft of sunlight sliced through the canopy, turning the water a honey gold.

  I parked near the lighthouse and crossed a boardwalk to the beach. The tide was out and the wet sand glistened like a mirror. I watched a sandpiper skitter between tidal pools, its long filament legs disappearing into an inverted image of itself. The morning was cool, and goose bumps formed on my arms and legs as I went through my warm-up.

  I ran east beside the Atlantic Ocean, my feet sinking only slightly into the packed sand. The air was absolutely calm. I passed a formation of pelicans bobbing on the gently rolling water. The broom sedge and sea oats stood motionless on the dunes.

  As I jogged I studied the ocean’s offerings. Driftwood, rippled and smoothed and covered in barnacles. Tangled seaweed. The shiny brown shell of a horseshoe crab. A mullet, its eyes and innards gnawed clean by crabs and gulls.

  I ran until my lungs burned. Then I ran some more. When I got back to the boardwalk, my trembling legs could barely carry me up the stairs. But mentally I felt rejuvenated. Maybe it was the dead fish, or even the horseshoe crab. Maybe I’d simply raised my endorphin level. But I no longer dreaded the day ahead. Death occurred every minute of every day in every place on the globe. It was part of the cycle of life, and that included Murtry Island. I would unearth this corpse and deliver it to those in charge. That was my job.

  When I slipped back onto the boat Katy was still asleep. I made coffee, then went to shower, hoping the sound of the pump wouldn’t disturb her. When I’d dressed, I toasted two English muffins, spread them with butter and blackberry jam, and took them to the salon. Friends tell me that physical exertion is an appetite depressant. Not for me. Exercise makes me want to devour my body weight in food.

  I clicked on the TV, surfed the channels, and chose one of the half dozen evangelists offering Sunday morning advice. I was listening to the Reverend Eugene Highwater describe the “endless bounty provided the righteous” when Katy stumbled in and threw herself onto the couch. Her face was creased and puffy from sleep, and her hair looked like one of the seaweed tumbles I’d passed on the beach. She wore a Hornets T-shirt that hung to her knees.

  “Good morning. You’re lovely today.”

  No response from my daughter.

  “Coffee?”

  She nodded, eyes still shut.

  I went to the kitchen, filled a mug, and brought it to her. Katy rolled to a semi-upright position, tentatively raised her lids, and reached for the coffee.

  “I stayed up till two reading.”

  She took a sip, then held the mug out as she stood and folded her feet under her, Indian style. Her newly opened eyes fell on the Reverend Highwater.

  “Why are you listening to that twit?”

  “I’m trying to find out how you get this endless bounty stuff.”

  “Write him a check and he’ll send you a four-pack.”

  Charity was not on the list of my daughter’s early morning virtues.

  “Who was the moron that called at dawn?”

  Nor was delicacy.

  “Sam.”

  “Oh. What did he want?”

  “Katy, something happened yesterday that I didn’t tell you about.”

  Her eyes went to full attention and fixed on mine.

  I hesitated, then launched into an account of the previous day’s discovery. Avoiding details, I described the body, and how J-7 had led us to it, then told her of my phone conversation with Sam.

  “So you’re going back out there today?” She
raised her mug to drink.

  “Yes. With the coroner and a team from the sheriff’s office. Sam is picking me up at ten. I’m sorry about our day. You’re welcome to come along, of course, but I understand if you’d rather not.”

  For a long time she said nothing. The reverend blustered on about Jeee-sus.

  “Do they have any idea who it is?”

  “The sheriff is thinking drugs. Traffickers use the rivers and inlets around here to bring stuff in. He suspects a deal went bad and someone ended up with a body to off-load.”

  “What will you do out there?”

  “We’ll remove the body, collect samples, and take a lot of pictures.”

  “No, no. I mean, tell me exactly what you’ll do. I might be able to use it for a paper or something.”

  “Step by step?”

  She nodded and settled back into the cushions.

  “It looks pretty routine. We’ll clear the vegetation, then set up a grid with a reference point for drawings and measurements.” The St-Jovite basement flashed through my mind. “When we’re done with surface collection I’ll open the grave. Some recovery teams excavate in levels, looking for layering and whatnot. I don’t really think that’s necessary in these situations. When someone digs a hole, drops in a body, and covers it up, there isn’t going to be any stratigraphy. But I’ll keep one side of the trench clean so I’ll have a profile as I go down into the grave. That way I can see if there are tool marks in the soil.”

  “Tool marks?”

  “A shovel, or maybe a spade or a pick that’s left an imprint in the dirt. I’ve never seen one, but some of my colleagues swear they have. They claim you can take impressions then make molds and match them to suspect tools. What I have seen are footwear impressions in the bottom of graves, especially if there’s a lot of clay and silt. I’ll definitely check for those.”

  “From the guy that dug it?”

  “Yeah. When the hole reaches a certain depth the digger may jump in and work from there. If so, he can leave shoe prints. I’ll also take soil samples. Sometimes soil from a grave can be matched to dirt found on a suspect.”

  “Or on his closet floor.”

  “Exactly. And I’ll collect bugs.”