Glenn opened his eyes and nodded at Simpson. “Yes.” He scanned the group. “That,” he said, “is the apparent connection. The figure, John Doe's statue, was taken to the ranger museum for safe-keeping. According to the curator, as reported to Ranger Simpson, when found early this morning, Franklin had a rock in one hand and that figure, John Doe's statue, in the other.” Glenn read pain and confusion in the eyes of those members of his team that had known Frankie. He felt it too, every bit of it, but had to go on. “He was weak, he was dying, likely from blunt force trauma. He may have been punch drunk. He may have been hallucinating from lack of blood and oxygen. But he had that figure clutched to his chest and he was mumbling, over and over again, the words, “Little people.”
Nobody moved, not a word was spoken, but question marks were bouncing off the insides of every skull in the place.
“For whatever it's worth, the curator is looking into this statue as we speak. Beyond that, as Gloria said, we have plenty of questions and, maybe, a connection to an earlier situation.”
“Chief?” Maltby was all nerves now, hesitant and excited, and had to clear his throat. “Sir? I don't know but, uh, there may be more than one connection… to a much bigger situation.”
All eyes were on the rookie. “What is it?” Glenn asked with a hint of annoyance.
“Uh, I got curious about the injuries to the John Doe we found,” Maltby said. “If you'll forgive me, Chief, it's been drilled into me how you want every possibility investigated. I started a search through various databases, uh, on my own time, trying to identify the post mortem injuries to, uh Mr. Doe.”
That got a chuckle.
“He, uh it, was my first body and, well, the condition it was in. As Pence is always kidding me, I'm a city kid. I never imagined so many different animals would, uh, find sustenance… Point is, I got some really interesting hits. But progress was slow, so I brought in an expert of my own, uh, a friend of mine, Chief, to give me a hand. I was hoping you'd have a moment to speak with him after our meeting. But, after some of the things I've heard–”
“You mean he's here?”
“Yes, sir, in the waiting room. I didn't mean to–”
“Bring him in.” Glenn raised a finger. “Quietly, please, without rousing the worst suspicions of the hungry reporters.”
Chapter 17
Maltby returned to the conference room a moment later with a middle aged man in tow. Dressed in a button-down shirt and tie the gentleman looked all the professional.
“Chief,” Maltby said, voice cracking. “This is Timothy Ionescu. He's a forensic technologist.”
“Welcome.” Glenn swept his arm inviting the tech to join their round table. “All right, Ranger Maltby. What do you have for us?”
“The body of John Doe was in terrible shape,” Maltby said, still trying to shake the rookie nerves. “Obviously, it had been feasted upon by a number of different predators and scavengers. That made me curious and started me on a search for what might have caused such damage. I talked to the M.E., Steve gave me an introduction to several of his friends in local law enforcement, and I did some digging. Most of the teeth impressions on the body could be identified by cutting characteristics, size, and shape to specific animals. There were, there are, a few that remain unknown. That led to my calling on Tim, uh, Mr. Ionescu, to our conducting a wider search, including more databases, and to my bringing him here this morning. Our search for what bit John Doe led to several incidents, unrelated to John Doe, but unique and interesting. As a learning exercise, chief, we wanted your take on them. But after what was said this morning about Ranger Franklin's injuries… Well, suddenly these cases feel as if they may be more than educational for a rookie ranger. They may be pertinent to Franklin's death.”
“I'd like to add, Chief,” Ionescu said. “My part in this search has been limited and my review of Ranger Maltby's cases cursory. I've read the reports he had, spoken with each of the M.E.s, and I've helped to secure a number of photographs. My speculations are surmise not conclusions. But I think what we've found warrants further investigation. I'm a scientist and don't believe in coincidence.”
“You have my attention, gentlemen,” Glenn said. “What cases?”
Ionescu opened a file folder. “The first was over at Buffalo Bill State Park.”
Maltby nodded and turned to his notebook. “There was a small herd of pronghorn antelope that were, for lack of a better word, slaughtered. Parts of the animals were missing, carried off from the scene of the kills. Uh, it sounds like nothing new, right, poachers?”
“Except,” Ionescu put in. “We were searching for exotic bite marks and that's why we hit on the incident.”
“Right,” Maltby agreed. “Parts of the pronghorn carcasses were carried away; others were left behind. But many of the parts left behind were covered in strange little bite marks. Now, here's the weird part. There doesn't appear to be any animals indigenous to that area that make teeth impressions of the type found. The local authorities are flummoxed and our attempts haven't found anything in the mammalian or reptilian families anywhere that come close.”
“How can that be?” Pence interrupted.
“That's why I was so curious. And why I veered away from John Doe to follow this. Until the M.E. finds differently, John Doe looks to have just fed the standard forest carnivores. These pronghorns may have fed something else entirely.”
“What are the rest of the facts in the case?”
“The animals were found by three young kids; the children of overnight campers. The two younger boys claimed to have witnessed the end of the slaughter, though they didn't put it that way. They were apparently too far away to clearly see what they were witnessing. The kids reported other children “playing” at the scene.”
Ionescu passed pictures around the table, graphic images of the pronghorn herd.
“Wow,” Pence said. He took a breath to calm his stomach. “Killer children?”
The attempt at humor fell flat. Only Glenn responded, with a scowl, before returning his attention to the tech. “What else?”
“The next report came from south of here, in a rural part of Teton County northeast of Jackson.” Ionescu flipped a couple of pages. “A fellow named Jacob Altobell.”
“Yes,” Maltby said. “Altobell was apparently hunting alone when he was attacked and killed. He was single and lived alone. Nobody noticed his absence until he didn't show for work. He'd been dead a couple of days when his body was discovered.”
“He came up on our radar,” Ionescu said, “because of similar teeth impressions. His arms and legs were missing and his trunk was covered in tiny as-yet-unidentified bite marks.”
“Are there more?” Glenn asked.
“One additional incident, so far.” The forensic tech returned to his notes. “Two deaths in a climbing incident at the Cirque of the Towers.”
“Right,” Maltby said, pointing it out on the map. “In the Wind River Range on a relative straight line between Pinedale and the Wind River Reservation.”
“What similarities are there between a climbing accident and the rest of these cases?”
“This wasn't a climbing accident, Chief, it's a climbing incident. There's a contradiction.”
Glenn frowned. “There is no such thing as a contradiction.”
“Right, Chief,” Maltby said. “Believe me, I've been made aware of your thoughts on that.” A good laugh circled the table. “That's why we're re-examining our facts.”
“There were two eye witnesses. They were a long way off, on the far side of Lonesome Lake, but they claim to have had a clear view and saw both men fall. The first apparently slipped as he was about to make the top. When he fell the other broke his fall with their rope line. They dangled that way for a moment or two then their anchor line broke. Both fell, and bounced, into the scrub pine at the base.”
“The witnesses notified authorities who, uh, arrived on scene expecting to find two victims of blunt force trauma received at the
sudden end of a shared 100-foot fall. What they found instead were, uh, the bodies of two men, a local, Dusty Rennaker, white male, 21, and a transplanted local, Marcus Temme, black male, 23, off trail, partially hidden in the underbrush within shouting distance of the base of Pingora Peak. Investigation showed the bodies had both been moved after death and were partially dismembered.”
Noises circled the table.
“Right. Neither witness saw anyone else atop the cliff. But an examination of their gear showed their anchor line did not malfunction or break; it was clearly cut.” Maltby took a deep breath. “But we hit on the incident because, like the pronghorn herd and the hunter, the climbers' bodies were covered in tiny unidentified bite marks, with clear signs they had been fed upon.”
“What kind of animals are these?” Pence asked.
“We don't know,” Ionescu replied. He passed out more pictures, color close-ups of human flesh mutilated by vicious bites. “The shape is very like a human mouth. But the teeth are incredibly sharp and look to be all fangs.”
Pence eyed the technician in disbelief, then turned to his junior partner. “Are you talking about cannibals?”
“I don't know what we're talking about. They're tiny. They are incredibly small.”
“Stop,” Glenn said, an iron look in his eyes. “Without a lot more evidence than we have now we're not going there. And don't even think of using the word 'cannibal' outside this room.”
“Nothing said here leaves this room, Chief.” Pence addressed the comment to Glenn but was staring at Maltby. The rookie nodded, message received.
“I'm no scientist, Chief,” Simpson said, flipping one of the photos away. “But if you ignored the setting, just threw a piece of meat in front of me that looked like that.” She pointed at the print. “And asked, what ate that? I'd tell you straight up, it looks like it was attacked by a school of piranha.”
Glenn cleared his throat. “Thanks, Gloria. I appreciate your work thus far, I appreciate everybody's efforts, but I don't think we'll venture any further down the road of cannibals, killer children, or land piranha just yet. We'll move on for the moment.”
Turning back to the tech, Glenn asked in frustration, “Anything you'd like to add?”
“I just want to reiterate, Chief Merrill, that while the connections are speculative I hope you do consider their possible relationships.”
“Thank you for your time and input,” Glenn said. “Unless there are questions, we're through here for now. I'll let you all get back at it.”
The meeting broke up. The chief was in the middle of thanking Lew for her participation when Althea entered, apologized for interrupting, and handed him a note, mouthing the word, “Urgent.” Glenn read it and his frown reappeared.
“More bad news?” Lew asked.
“I don't know,” Glenn said. “Maybe the opposite. Just more to swallow when I'm already full.” He thanked her again and retreated, through the reporters, back to his office.
The message had come from Natasha Balasan. With the museum closed, for who knew how long, she'd had time to finish her research on the Pedro Mountain statue he'd left in her charge. The figure Franklin had died defending. She wanted to see him about it now. It was just as well. He wanted to know all he could know, now more than ever.
Chapter 18
It was the second time they'd met that day. The first time had been at dawn when three robots, a stunned museum curator, a stunned park ranger, and the ranger's stunned chief stood in the wreckage, the shattered displays, broken glass, torn uniforms, ripped photographs, and hurled shards of limestone, shale, iron ore and the like, in what was left of the Museum of the National Park Ranger, staring at Franklin's torn body. All had been shaken to the core and, in a dull monotone, the crying curator told them what she'd found on her arrival that morning. Now, less than ten hours later, with the numbness replaced by hardened determination, Glenn returned to face Natasha again.
The museum was every bit the wreck it had been that morning, surrounded now with yellow 'crime scene' tape. He found Natasha inside, sweeping wood chips and sawdust up from the theater benches and floor. She gave it up when she saw the chief and joined him in the hall. More yellow tape still crisscrossed the door on the opposite side barring entrance to the room where Frankie had met his end.
“He was there…” She pointed to the spot on the floor where Franklin's body had been discovered. “He was there with…” Glenn thought she was going to start crying again but, somehow, she managed to grab the reins and went on. “I've never seen a dying man before.”
Glenn got it. It had been a long time since he'd been able to say the same, but he understood.
“Be careful. It's hot.”
Just ten minutes later, the chief ranger had maneuvered the curator to her office, gotten her seated, and figured out the intricacies of the drip brewer atop her file cabinet. Now he set a cup of coffee in front of Natasha and sat across from her at her desk. “Are you all right?”
“All right?” Natasha took a deep breath. Then she took a sip of coffee. “Yes,” she said, nodding firmly. “I'm all right. Thank you.” She sniffled and looked from Glenn to the old man's box. It lay on the corner of her desk, secured once more in its evidence bag, the idol back inside, the padlock back in place. “I keep seeing him, your man, lying there with the Pedro Mountain mummy clutched to his chest. Holding it tightly, repeating 'Little people. Little people' while he died.”
Glenn thought she was going to flake again. He needed her steady, meaning he needed to get her onto something useful. Hoping to stall the new crying jag, he yelled, “How did he get it!”
It worked. A shocked Natasha stared wide-eyed in alarm. “What?”
“How did he get it?” Glenn repeated in a perfectly conversational tone. “The Pedro? It was locked up in your office by my order. How did Franklin get hold of it?”
She grabbed her cup with two hands, stared into it not to look at Glenn, pretended to take a sip. “I put it on display. You wouldn't let me tell anyone I had it. A once in a lifetime opportunity and you wouldn't… I put it out for… I put it on display. How could I know vandals were going to strike here in the middle of nowhere on the first night it was shown?”
“You couldn't.”
“Is it my fault the ranger was killed?” she demanded. She stared at the wall, through it, and her eyes misted over. She closed them, as a single tear fell from each, and whispered, “Is it my fault?”
“Of course not. But I need your help now.”
Coffee, the great equalizer, soon had both ready to get somewhere.
“Your message,” Glenn said. “You said you had something urgent for me. Were you able to find out anything about…” He pointed at the box, “the figure?”
“I was. I did. I just didn't know if it mattered anymore.”
“I have nothing. I need something to get started. Everything matters. Tell me all you know about our little Pedro here.”
“I told you about the gold prospectors who found it,” Natasha said. “Their names were Cedric Mann and Fred Carroll. The year was 1933. Using dynamite, they blasted into a hidden cavern roughly fifteen feet long and four feet high. Instead of the more prosperous vein they were looking for they found a rock shelf with…” She pointed at the boxed and bagged icon, “this mummy at its center. They didn't know what they'd found but they were impressed. So impressed they registered a claim in Carbon County naming the site the Tiny Man Mine. It never produced the hoped for gold but the mine still exists. There's a sign in Shirley Basin pointing to the location.”
“Hang on a second,” Glenn said. “Every time you call it a mummy I get a vision of Boris Karloff shambling around in gauze. Pedro doesn't have wrappings. And he's a foot tall. Isn't a mummy a real human body?”
“Mummification is a process that forestalls putrefaction in a dead organism,” the almost-archeologist said, as if instructing a mid-level moron. “Humanity has nothing to do with it. But if your question is, is it real? That'
s the cool thing I'm trying to get across to you, Chief. It's real!”
The statement deserved a new unveiling, a new close-up look at the tiny figure, but neither of them had it in them. Neither wanted to see it again just yet. Still Glenn couldn't help but study the box and wonder. Natasha, meanwhile, was going on.
“It's the real remains of a real body, human or not. It is an unusually well-preserved mummy. It's incredible but true. And the size is what makes it especially important because it's believed to be proof of an ancient race of little people!”
“All right,” he sighed. “Let's say for the moment this is some kind of dwarf species of human. How did it end up in a lean-to, in the backcountry of my park, in the possession of a dead John Doe?”
“I haven't the slightest idea. I don't know who he was or how he got hold of it,” Natasha said. “The mummy changed hands several times after its discovery. It was displayed a number of times over the years in carnivals and traveling freak shows common in that era. When its days in show business were over, it was bought by a Casper businessman. He died in 1951 and Pedro, as you call it, wound up in the hands of a New York businessman. He died in the early 1980's. The Pedro Mountain mummy has not been seen publicly since. And its whereabouts, until now, have been unknown.”
“I don't get it.”
“And you probably never will. I mean, we'll probably never know how, whoever your man was, got his hands on it.”
“But you say it's real?”
“The experts said it was real. After registering their claim, the prospectors took their find to Casper, Wyoming. Scientists came from all corners of the country to see the mummy and call it a hoax. Tests were performed, probably in hopes of proving it was a pieced-together work of taxidermy. But the anthropologists were soon blown away. X-rays showed a perfectly formed skeleton inside the figure.”
“It's a real body, a tiny corpse?”
“What language do you speak?” Natasha demanded. “I'll meet you halfway! That's what I've been trying to tell you. Not only was it a living creature, a small human being or something very like it, but the tests showed that it, Pedro, died violently. The spine is damaged, a collarbone broken, and the skull has been smashed by a heavy blow. You saw the damaged 'flattish' head?”
Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2) Page 9