Buried Secrets_A dark Romantic Suspense

by Vella Day

  “You said the lab didn’t do tours.” Rules were rules. At least that’s what the Navy Seals had drilled into him.

  “I invited him.”

  Worked for him. A tall, athletic man, around his own age, stepped into the lab and smiled. “Remember me?” The jovial guy swung out his arms in a big embrace.

  “Chance Taveres?” He was a blast from the past. Freshly cut blond hair and well groomed in expensive clothes had never been his friend’s style, but the new look fit him. “You son of a bitch. How the hell are you?”

  “Good. Real good.” His friend stepped forward and encased Sam in a bear hug.

  Not used to demonstrative overtures, Sam moved away after a second. “It’s been what?” He did the quick math. “Fourteen years? What have you been up to?”

  Phil propelled his wheelchair forward. “I just hired him to join our forensic pathology team.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “No shit. You’re a doctor? I’ll be damned.” Sam couldn’t decipher the look that crossed Chance’s face.

  “Watch it. I know I was Mr. Party when we hung together, but those days are in the past.” He turned to Phil. “If it’s okay with you guys, I’d like to watch the master at work.” He nodded toward Sam. “Perhaps my old buddy can finish showing me around when he has a minute.”

  Sam nodded. “I have no problem with that as long as you’re willing to suit up and help me with my new project.”

  Chance glanced over at the corpse. “I’d love to.”

  Phil shook his head. “Knock yourself out.” He spun around, his wheelchair tires squeaking on the tiled floor.

  Sam pulled out a fresh pair of plastic scrubs, along with booties to cover Chance’s polished loafers. “Here.”

  Shit. Chance knew everything about Sam’s background, both the good and the bad. Sam didn’t need his major fuck up to be exposed. “Did you tell Phil how we met?”

  Chance clasped a hand on his shoulder. “You would have been proud, my man. I told him the truth. Explained how we rowed on the same team together in Ohio. And to answer your unasked question, I didn’t mention your family—or your wife. I’ll keep that info to myself.”

  “Thanks.” Sam’s wife had died because he’d been too damn self-absorbed drinking with his buddies to help her. “Do you ever see Carl Rodriguez?” Only three of the four-man crew team were still alive. Bill Butler had died in a car wreck two years after he’d graduated.

  “Carl and I keep in touch every once in a while. He’s a firefighter in Chicago now and has a wife and three kids.”

  “Wow. That’s great. And you. Ever marry?”

  “Tried it. Failed. I’m here to move on.”

  “I hear ya.”

  His friend ran a gloved finger over the dead man’s chest. “So what do you know about this guy?”

  Glad to be back on solid ground, Sam straightened. “Police found the body about fifteen miles south of here on Davis Island. The vic was crammed into a storage compartment in the hull of a forty-foot sailboat.”

  “Did the police talk to the owner?”

  “They couldn’t find the guy. A neighbor said he was in Colorado skiing.”

  “That’ll be a shock when he comes home. His boat will never smell the same again.”

  Sam chuckled. “Amen.”

  “What’s your next move?” Chance asked.

  “I want to X-ray this guy.” Sam pulled the portable X-ray over to the body.

  Chance whistled. “You have two machines?”

  The larger X-ray sat in the corner. “We have everything here. The portal X-ray comes in handy, especially when I can’t get the body to the big machine.”

  “Impressive.” Chance smiled. “Now I know I made the right move to come here.”

  Together they lined up the contraption over the body. Before they could examine the results, Eric Markowitz came in waving a brown evidence bag, which he placed on the counter. “Dr. Tavares, Sam. I thought you might like to see what was in the victim’s pocket when I prepared him for autopsy.”

  Apparently, the two had met. He wouldn’t be surprised if Eric would be Chance’s mentor. Eric opened the bag with gloved hands and pulled out the contents. “The vic was wearing a University of Florida ring. I didn’t find a wallet or any other kind of identification, unfortunately, but I sent his clothes over to the Trace lab. His shirt, and what was left of his pants, were well-made, but other than the victim’s blood, I don’t think the lab will find anything useful to point us to his killer.”

  Eric set the large, gold ring with the gleaming blue stone, displaying the initials, UF on the counter, the graduation date clearly visible.

  “That puts our vic at about fifty-five.” Sam cleared his throat. The dry room air made him perpetually thirsty. “Did the autopsy reveal cause of death?” Eric had performed miracles before.

  “If the victim’s COD was a direct result of a series of blows or a gunshot wound to the head, it would be difficult to determine on the headless corpse.”

  Smart ass. “But you figured it out, anyway, right?”

  Eric shook his head. “The body was too putrefied to get a good read on him. I did find an enlarged heart, which was probably due to hypertension, but the rest of the organs were too far gone to draw any conclusions. I was hoping for something simple, like a bullet hole through his heart or a stab wound, but no such luck. The tox screen might show if the man was poisoned, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. I had to extract the fluid from unconventional spots on his body since the head was missing.”

  Sam firmed his lips. “That’s good to know.”

  Eric blinked a few times. “I can see you two are busy.” He turned to Chance. “When you’re done, come to autopsy room number four. I’ll show you my world.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Once Eric closed the door, the room returned to tomblike silence. Sam turned to his friend. “I’d like your opinion on the X-rays.”

  He waited as Chance studied the images, curious to see if he’d notice the peculiar oddity.

  Chance ran a finger along the screen. “The cuts around the severed limbs are particularly clean. It doesn’t look as though any of the bones were damaged.”

  “That’s the problem. I was hoping the instrument used would have left a mark on the bones themselves. That would make it easier to figure out the murder weapon.”

  His face transformed from one of question to realization. “Only a very sharp instrument could deliver that level of precision. Maybe it came from a hunter’s knife.”

  “Or a scalpel,” Sam said.

  “Now that’s a scary thought.”

  3

  Balancing the ungraded Scantron sheets, test booklets, and the skull the kids had dubbed, Waldo, against his left side, Sam unlocked his university office door. He set Waldo on the clutter free desk, careful not to bump into either George or Georgiana, his two hanging skeletons that resided against the right hand wall. Tired from an afternoon of watching his students take their forensic anthropology final, he dropped down onto the worn, high backed chair, ready to begin grading.

  The sterile office was devoid of photos or any personal effects for a good reason. He didn’t need a reminder of his wife’s death or how he’d fucked up his life. His dad’s suicide still pissed him off, and while he loved his mom, she was often too drunk to remember his name. All the more reason for no pictures. Chance’s arrival had brought back more than college memories, and not many of them were good.

  Just forget.

  The longer he procrastinated grading, the shorter his winter break would be and the more time he’d be wasting when he could be investigating the identity of the yacht man.

  As he sorted the essays from the multiple-choice section his phone rang. Sam glanced at the screen and groaned. It was his mom. She probably wanted more money to feed her habit, money he didn’t have, especially after buying the much-in-need-of-repair duplex. “Hello, Mom.” He kept his tone upbeat.

  “Sammy, you haven’t called
me in a while.” Same refrain, same whine. At least she sounded sober.

  He’d called last week to tell her he’d mailed her a check to help her through December. Too bad she’d been drunk and obviously forgot the conversation. “Sorry, how are you?”

  Guilt ripped through him. He wanted to find some real help for her, but a rehab center was out of his budget, and she wouldn’t qualify for Medicaid for four more years. Though in all honesty, what she needed was for his father to resurrect from the dead.

  “Okay, I guess, but I miss hearing your voice.” His mom coughed, a dry cigarette laden hack. “I wanted to see how my favorite son was doing.”

  He knew she wasn’t referring to the criminal son who was locked away for armed robbery. “Great. I’m in the process of grading the semester exams as we speak.” He didn’t want to spend an hour on the phone, but if their conversation made her feel better, he’d stay on as long as she needed. His mom seemed to receive a lot of comfort from their weekly chats.

  “That’s wonderful.”

  Not really. A knock sounded on his door and his department chair poked in his head. “Hey, Mom, can I call you back? My boss needs to talk to me.”

  “Sure, Sammy.”

  “Talk soon.”

  He disconnected and pushed away the grief that grabbed him every time he spoke with her.

  “Can I have a word with you, Dr. Bonita?” Rolf Hoffman tugged on his bowtie before smoothing the five gray hairs on his head.

  Rolf never called him Dr. Bonita unless the conversation was serious. Sam didn’t need this. “Sure, Rolf, come in.” Sam refused to address him as Dr. Hoffman. He knew what his egotistical boss wanted.

  Sam motioned to the one chair in the closet-sized office before straightening the stack of tests on his desk. He dropped his hands on his lap to give Rolf his undivided attention. “What’s up?”

  Rolf sat straight-backed in the chair. “You know the tenure committee will be meeting in March.”

  “Of course.” Not a day had passed that he hadn’t been aware of the impending deadline.

  “I understand Tammy and you had a study going, but since I never saw the report before she left, you’ll have to come up with something soon or there’s no way the committee can grant you tenure.”

  Sam flinched at the pointed comment. The thought of opening up Tammy’s betrayal would be like rolling in a swarming anthill. She’d published the work as her own like the good little backstabber she was. “I’ll have something to you soon.” Or so he hoped.

  Rolf’s eye’s widened. “You’re working on a paper?”

  The man didn’t have to sound so surprised. “No, I’m developing a handheld device that will enable scientists to scan a person’s remains and tell the age of the skeleton.”

  “That’s excellent, but I understand the last two patents you received took you years.” Rolf’s brows pinched.

  “True.”

  “You haven’t been doing any other research? I thought you were consulting on a project for York University in England.”

  “I was invited to work on the forty-four bodies they’d unearthed, but I had to cancel my trip. I had a family emergency.” Mom had fallen after being drunk. Her broken hip required him to fly up to Ohio to see to her care.

  He guessed it didn’t matter that he’d already published ten articles before he came to work here, won numerous awards for his contributions to forensic anthropology, or had been given a commendation from Stanford for his work in the field.

  Rolf stood, looking uncomfortable. “Well, good luck on your new invention.” He swiped a hand across his jacketed arms as if he’d gotten dirty while in Sam’s office. “I know how much the students like you as a professor. We’d hate to lose you. Give me a draft of your findings as soon as you can. And Merry Christmas.”

  Sam swallowed. “You too.”

  As if Rolf could walk through walls, the man disappeared down the empty corridor, his steps making no noise. Sam leaned back in his chair and refused to let the claw of despair get to him. He would get tenure. He had to if he planned to pay back his loans in the next century. HOPEFAL paid well for the time he was able to work there, but it wasn’t enough.

  Sam patted Waldo on the head, took a deep breath, and began the tedious chore of seeing how much his students didn’t know about the human body. He was on his first essay when his cell rang again.

  Christ. Sam dropped his pen. It clanked on the wooden desk and rolled to the floor. He’d never get these papers graded if the interruptions didn’t stop. He grabbed his cell without looking at the display. “Yeah?”

  “Hey, Doc, it’s Phil.”

  Sam’s muscles relaxed. “What’s up?”

  “Do you have a moment to stop by the lab?”

  “Sure.” He checked the small alarm clock on his desk. The time had sped by. “I have to run over to my duplex first. I’m renting the other half to an elderly lady, and she’s wheelchair bound and is all alone. I shop for her once a week.”

  “Good for you. I’ll be here for a few more hours. Stop by anytime.”

  Sam packed his papers and straightened his desk before locking his door. At the store, he purchased the few items Mrs. Delansky had requested. Since she basically asked for the same items every week, her list was easy to remember. He tried to add some variety to her diet by sneaking in some fresh vegetables or an extra helping of fruit with every purchase. Nutrition was so important at her age.

  In less than thirty minutes, he arrived at her side of the duplex. He knocked, even though she always left the door unlocked at one p.m. every Thursday. He went in. “Hey, Mrs. Delansky.”

  She wheeled over to him. “Hi, Sam. Just leave everything on the table. I’ll put it away. I know you’re busy.”

  She had a hard time moving around the kitchen so Sam stashed the frozen food, milk, and eggs in her pint-sized refrigerator. “How are you feeling today?” She’d been suffering from gout and a bad cold for the last week.

  “I still have a little cough, but otherwise I’m doing fine.” She moved over to her desk. “Here’s the rent check. It’s still two hundred, right?”

  He didn’t know why she asked since he never changed the price. “Sure is.” He could have charged some college student five hundred, but she reminded him of his grandmother, and Mrs. Delansky’s only source of income came from social security. “Listen, I hate to drop these off and run, but my boss at the lab wants to talk to me about something.”

  “Go. Go. I appreciate all you do for me.”

  He gave her hug and hurried off. He was at the lab in less than an hour after Phil’s call. With a quick greeting to the guard on duty, Sam took the elevator to Phil’s office on the third floor. When he knocked and entered, Gina, his assistant, was hovered over his boss like a mother hen. She looked up and smiled. “Hey, Sam.” She tapped Phil on the shoulder. “I’ll get that report you want.” In a flash, she was gone.

  Phil leaned back in his chair. “I’ll get right to the point. I’d like you to consider working here full time.”

  Stunned, Sam let the success wash over him. “I thought you said you didn’t have enough work for me to be full-time. You admitted that bones weren’t discovered on a regular basis.”

  “Times are a changin’.”

  He couldn’t believe his good luck. “Where do I sign?”

  Phil held up a hand. “Take you time to think about the offer first. I know you like to teach, so I thought maybe we can set you up as a mentor to one of our new recruits.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll let you know for sure tomorrow.” Though he didn’t need any time to decide.

  “Then get going. And find who that yacht man is.”

  Sam nearly skipped down the hallway and slipped to his lab. The gurney with the headless man had been resting over the lip of the sink to allow any remaining fluids to fully drain from his body. He ignored the rancid smell and gowned up. After he dragged the sink’s sprayer over the corpse, he turned the temperature to hot in or
der to melt the waxy covering off the body. While the remaining soft tissue had turned dark from putrification, what looked like a once colorful tattoo on the man’s hip materialized.

  Taking a hint from his predecessor and fellow Braham University professor, Kerry Markum, he dabbed a mixture of bleach and water on the skin’s surface to bring out the tattoo. After he rubbed the skin in a series of slow circles, an anchor appeared, and his pulse quickened. This tattoo might provide a means to identification.

  He grabbed his digital camera and snapped a picture. Needing a hard copy for identification purposes and for the police report, he plugged the camera into the computer. A minute later, he had what he hoped would be his corroborative proof of the man’s identification.

  Once he finished washing the body, he began the tedious chore of scrapping the skin off the yacht man’s bones, careful not to leave any damaging marks. Two hours later, he carried the pile of bones over to the maceration station and placed them in the simmering water. He added a little Adolph’s Meat Tenderizer and bit of Biz Laundry detergent to quicken the cleaning process, and immediately shut the clear hood to prevent the stench from knocking him out.

  His sense of smell had deteriorated over the years, but simmering human meat still eroded his nasal passages and set off the gag reflex. Unless this man was one tough cookie, the cleaning process would take about two days on low. In the mean time, he wanted to collect some information from Creighton Jackson, the owner of the yacht.

  Sam stuffed his outer coveralls, gloves and footies in the biohazard trash and washed his hands. Praying he didn’t smell too bad from the dead man’s vapors, he headed to Davis Island in the midst of rush hour traffic. Phil informed him that a Detective Giombetti was in charge of the murder investigation, but sometimes a non-uniformed officer was able to extract more information from a civilian than a cop.

  The bumper-to-bumper traffic gave him time to think through Phil’s offer. Sam’s mother had wrapped her pride in the idea that the good son was a professor. Why she didn’t think researcher held the same esteem, he didn’t know.

  Forty minutes after he left, Sam pulled up to Creighton Jackson’s townhouse, the back of which faced Sedan Channel. It had an impressive view and was way out-of-his-league expensive. The report said Jackson was on vacation during December, but perhaps news of the murder had reached him, and he’d flown home early.