Collecting the Dead: A Novel

by Spencer Kope

  “What?” Jimmy whispers forcefully after I drag him into the hall.

  I tip my head to the front left leg of the hall table. He doesn’t see it at first, so I crouch and draw a circle in the air around it. He crouches beside me, still looking, and then his eyes go wide.

  “His?”

  I nod.

  We’re like an old married couple that way: one-word conversations, gestures, the occasional grunt, and constantly finishing each other’s sentences.

  “We’re going to need—”

  “CSI,” I say, pushing myself upright. “I’ll get Palmer.”

  Terry Palmer is a twelve-year veteran of the sheriff’s office and a certified CSI for the last five of those years. Like in a lot of jurisdictions, he’s a deputy first. The CSI part of his job is a collateral duty, like a pair of fancy shoes you only wear on special occasions.

  “I’ve already taken a dozen blood samples from around the body,” he’s saying as I lead him into the hall. “I don’t think another’s going to make much difference.”

  “This one’s different,” I insist.

  “How so?”

  There’s the rub.

  I can’t very well say, Because it has Sad Face’s shine all over it. He would instantly have two questions: What’s shine? followed closely by, What kind of meds are you on?

  It’s the worst part of my job: keeping up the charade. I’m convinced that good lying is something you’re either born with or not. I’m in the not category and it’s usually Jimmy who has to come to the rescue with a good lie.

  Still, I’ve gotten pretty good at the tracking lie because I don’t have to say much, just look at the ground, shine a flashlight, outline a heel print with my finger, and generally pretend that I know what I’m doing. It helps that I’ve gotten better at real tracking skills. I try to incorporate them into each search as much as possible, but it’s still the shine that shows me the way.

  That doesn’t get me any closer to answering Terry Palmer’s question, though.

  Looking down the hall to the front door, then to the kitchen, then down at the single red drop of abundant DNA, I race for the lie … only to be rescued by the truth.

  It just pops into my head.

  I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before.

  “After killing Chas,” I say without missing a beat, “Sad Face went into the kitchen. You found evidence of blood in the sink, right?”

  “We did.”

  “Probably from him cleaning up; he had to have blood on his hands, maybe on his shirt, on his face—”

  “—in his hair,” Jimmy adds.

  “He made a bloody mess of Chas and some of that had to transfer.” I rest my hands on my hips and nod toward the kitchen. “So he’s at the sink cleaning up, and after he’s done he wipes everything down so there’s no DNA to work with, no evidence of blood.”

  “He used bleach to wash everything down,” Terry confirms. “You can smell it when you get close. It’s everywhere.”

  I know.

  “And why would he use bleach if all the blood came from Chas?” I press.

  Terry pauses, confounded. After a moment, he says the obvious: “He wouldn’t. He must have cut himself during the struggle.”

  “Or Chas cut him. Either way, he’s now worried about leaving his DNA behind. Which means his DNA profile is already in the system.”

  “Or he thinks it’s in the system,” Jimmy adds.

  I give Jimmy a nod and continue. “I’m guessing he didn’t dump bleach on the carpet because it’s one big blood spot and the chance of his DNA being pulled from a random, cross-contaminated sample is almost beyond calculation.” It’s starting to make more sense now. “He was worried about dripping blood across the kitchen floor, though, and in and around the sink, hence the bleach.”

  Taking a step backward, I gesture at the hall table. “Take a look at the blood drop. What side of the leg is it on?”

  Terry frowns. “The side facing the kitchen.”

  “Right. So after cleaning up it only makes sense that he’d leave the kitchen, come down this hall—”

  “—and out the front door,” Terry finishes, “flinging a single drop from his hand, or maybe his forearm, as he passed the table. But that doesn’t mean the blood belongs to the killer,” he adds quickly. “He could have had some of Chas’s blood on a sleeve or elsewhere that he just missed.”

  “He just finished cleaning every speck of blood from the kitchen sink and counter, then wiped it all down with bleach; do you really think he was careless enough to miss wet blood on his sleeve or arm?”

  “It’s possible. He’d be in a hurry, more likely to make a mistake.”

  I shake my head, now confident in my theory. “No. He bloodied his knuckles, or maybe Chas got a few blows in before he was subdued. Maybe a scratch, a torn fingernail, a bite; there are a thousand ways to draw blood in a fight, especially when you’re fighting for your life.”

  Terry’s still skeptical.

  “So he does a big cleanup job to hide his DNA but doesn’t realize he’s still bleeding all over the place?”

  “Not all over the place,” I correct. “It’s just one drop; just one. I’ve checked the rest of the hall, the entry, and the kitchen: nothing. Just the one drop.”

  Terry screws his mouth up, pushing his lips off to the left, then off to the right. After a few seconds he says, “All right.” Retrieving a cotton swab, he dampens it and kneels next to the leg of the table, gently rehydrating the blood and gathering it in the cotton fibers.

  “I’d like to send that sample to the FBI lab, if you don’t mind,” Jimmy says.

  Terry snorts. “Be my guest. The state lab is so overloaded it’d take months to get a response, and that’s if we’re given priority status.”

  “We’re seeing the same thing everywhere,” Jimmy says. “Too much DNA, not enough qualified lab techs.”

  “What makes you think the FBI lab will get it done quicker? I heard you guys are backed up worse than the state labs.”

  “We are,” Jimmy replies. “But the STU gets priority processing.” Jimmy scratches down an address and hands the paper to Terry. “I wrote it down, but make sure you include the words ‘STU Priority’ and send it to the attention of Janet Burlingame.”

  “STU Priority … Burlingame,” Terry says, glancing over the note. “And the results go to this Diane person?”

  “Diane Parker. She’s our intelligence analyst. I’ll have her shoot you the original after she’s finished with it.”

  “Roger that.”

  As Jimmy and I make our way to the front door, Terry calls out, “A hundred bucks says it’s the victim’s blood.”

  Jimmy and I stop instantly, like two bugs smacking the same windshield.

  See, in law enforcement, a statement like that is the same as a double-dog dare. You’re saying the results are going to be this way, the forensic guy is saying it’s going to be that way.

  As one, we turn in our shoes: two slow cogs on the same gear. Terry shoots us a big grin and then winks. The wink just makes it worse. I’m thinking that Jimmy and I are on the same page, which is to accept the bet and take the cocky bastard’s bill.

  Apparently I’m mistaken.

  Instead of hearing, You’re on, or We’ll take that bet, Jimmy simply shrugs and says, “Professional courtesy. I can’t steal your money.”

  Terry chuckles. “Yeah, you know I’m right.”

  Ooooo! Sometimes I could just smack Jimmy. Come to think of it, sometimes I do smack Jimmy.

  * * *

  Redding is wearing on me.

  Don’t get me wrong, the city is fabulous and I’d love to come back under better circumstances. It’s surrounded by mountains and beauty and has wonderful architecture, including the Sundial Bridge, an impressive city hall, and the Market Street Promenade, just to name a few.

  I see it all in passing.

  You get a different view of a city when you’re chasing a serial killer; it
usually involves police stations, morgues, body dumps, and the seedier side of town.

  We’ve only been back in Redding four days, but it feels like forty.

  We’ve learned a lot and seen too much. We’re exhausted, our minds weighed down by the dead. After the scare with Jane and Pete, Jimmy just wants to see them and hold them. To say that we’re unfocused and unsettled and that our mojo’s been stolen by a serial killer who’s as brazen as he is ruthless would be an understatement.

  At five-thirty Jimmy makes the call.

  We’re heading home … but just for a day or two.

  We’re not done with Sad Face.

  Not even close.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  July 2

  The view from Big Perch is magnificent year-round.

  Each season has its own splash of color, but summers are particularly glorious. Today is no exception. By noon the sun starts baking the west-facing deck, and I’m forced to retreat under the awning to avoid an unpleasant case of sunburn. The Pacific Northwest isn’t exactly known for its sunburns, but when you have northern blood, as I do, it doesn’t take much to crisp the skin.

  I’m about halfway through Full Black, a thriller by Brad Thor, and I’m determined to finish it by the end of the day. I’ve followed Thor for a number of years and have a signed first edition, first printing of his debut novel, The Lions of Lucerne. I’m a big Vince Flynn fan as well, and I was upset when cancer took him at such a young age. I have a few of his books stacked up and ready to read and have sworn to read his entire works out of respect for the man: my own personal tribute.

  There’s just never enough time.

  Today’s the exception. I read and read and read some more, pausing only long enough to grab a glass of iced tea. The phone only rings once and I don’t answer it. They don’t call back, so I know it’s not important.

  By 4:15 P.M. Full Black is fully read, and I start in on Vince Flynn’s Extreme Measures. I don’t get very far before Ellis wanders over and suggests a barbecue. He has some two-inch steaks he’s been wanting to cook but says it’s a shame to enjoy such a treat alone. When I’m home, Ellis, Jens, and I tend to eat about half our meals together. It’s good for all of us. We’re like our own little three-man family unit, and Jens likes reminding Ellis that he’s the grandpa of the group.

  I make a run into town in Gus, my Mini Cooper, and pick up three decent-sized lobster tails so we can make it surf and turf. I also grab two dozen oysters, which are great on the barbecue with butter and garlic in the half shell.

  Dinner’s ready by 7:30, and at 9:16 we’re still at the table talking and playing cards as the sun sets beyond the San Juan Islands, painting the sky a thousand shades of red and purple. It’s beyond words; the afterglow of heaven.

  As the night cools, we retreat to the hot tub with a six-pack of beer and melt into the soothing, caressing water. I’ll sleep well tonight. There won’t be any nightmares or the long parade of dead faces. The trailing shadow of a perfect day will carry me through the night.

  Tomorrow evening we head back to Redding, but for now I sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  July 3, 10:37 P.M.

  There are certain situations in life where it’s just not smart to take chances. A very public marriage proposal would be a good example. Before you propose on the Jumbotron during halftime at the football game, you’d better be certain she’s going to say yes. And the more life-threatening the situation, the fewer chances you want to take. That’s why you double-check parachutes, climbing ropes, scuba tanks, and landing gear. Some things you simply don’t gamble on.

  Serial killers: another good example.

  Throw the dice all you want when you’re in Vegas and it’s just money on the line, but when a serial killer knows your name and isn’t very happy with you, that’s not the time to live loose and free. If said serial killer has sent you a nicely wrapped gift containing a pair of wet eyes and a severed finger, well, that ups the ante a bit. Now it’s time to hold your cards close to the chest.

  That’s what Jimmy and I are doing.

  Gulfstream jets are not an uncommon sight at smaller airports in northern California, but we decide not to take any chances and, instead, land Betsy seventy miles to the south, at Chico Municipal Airport. Even though FBI isn’t splayed across her fuselage, and she looks like any other corporate jet on the tarmac, Sad Face is probably clever enough to get a tail number. Better to keep our distance so that our return goes unnoticed.

  We rent a nondescript sedan at the airport—a Ford with tinted windows—and drop Les and Marty at a hotel a half mile from the control tower. They need to be ready at a moment’s notice, if needed. There won’t be any jaunts to San Francisco or Monterey this time around. The stakes have changed and the whole team is now at risk.

  Les and Marty understand this; they’ve been through this drill before.

  Before we pull out of the hotel parking lot, Jimmy slips Les a .40-caliber Glock and a black gun case. “It’s loaded,” he says, “same with the extra magazines in the case. Make sure you keep it close.”

  “No worries, boss,” Les says, sliding the Glock into his waistband gangster-style. He takes the gun case and hands it to Marty.

  “Let’s hope not,” Jimmy replies. “I’m just starting to like you two.” He grins and rolls the window up as the Ford glides away from the smirking, waving flight crew and merges into the stream of taillights on the parkway.

  The pavement stretches forty-two miles from Chico to Red Bluff along Highway 99, also known as the Golden State Highway. I imagine it’s a pleasant enough drive during the day, but there’s not much to see by night and the drive seems to drag on and on; the end is out there somewhere, but it seems forever stuck just beyond the glow of the headlights.

  “Red Bluff,” Jimmy finally says in the darkness. The dim light from the dash highlights his cheeks, his nose, his eyes, and his chin as he stares into the dark tunnel of pavement before him. Beyond the tunnel of night, beyond the pavement, the glow of a city rises like yellow mist from the desert.

  “Red Bluff,” I say to myself.

  With little talk and less enthusiasm, we check into a motel at the ragged edge of town. It’s not a dirty motel, nor an unfriendly motel, it’s just a worn-out motel. The tile in the lobby is faded and battered like so much wind-scarred granite. A million footfalls have coursed through the lobby over the years; ten million footfalls. The counter is retro-seventies Formica; the paint, the wallpaper, and the fixtures are all dated, and I suspect the last makeover was sometime in the mid-eighties … and it wasn’t much of a makeover.

  We have reservations tomorrow at the Hampton Inn, but they were full-up tonight, so we’re slumming at Hotel California. That’s not really the name of the dilapidated inn, but as we make our way to the sketchy elevator, Jimmy begins to hum “Hotel California.”

  “Nice,” I hiss at him.

  It’s the perfect song for hunting serial killers.

  * * *

  Night … the woods.…

  Cold shadow and black mist seep through the forest, filling every empty space, pushing out the light, the warmth, the hope. Somewhere above the canopy of leaves and pine needles the full moon is paused in space, lost to sight. Trees press close, leaning over me in a menacing, foreboding manner that suggests hatred and loathing. Gnarled and twisted branches jut from every trunk, clinging, reaching, grasping.

  How did I get here?

  I can’t think straight; I open my mouth to call Jimmy’s name, but a sound stops me. Just a twig snapping behind me, I think, but there’s something else, some background noise, low and familiar. I press myself hard into the nearest tree and turn to stone, my ears pricking at the silence, poking it, but the thick night air reveals nothing.

  A chill sweeps over me, a cold breath exhaled; I try to control the shiver. Raising my right hand, I rub my arm, but it’s wet and sticky, so I stop. My hand hurts—a dull ache. Where’s Jimmy? He can’t be far. I don’t r
emember how we got here or even where we are. Did I hit my head? Did someone else hit my head? I feel for bumps, but my hair is sticky and wet, so I stop.

  The sound; it’s closer now by a few feet: a low hiss, then a pause, then a slightly different hiss, then it repeats. It’s right in front of me, maybe ten feet away, but the trees and the consuming darkness hide it. I don’t like the sound; I know what it is, I recognize it, but I can’t remember it. My thinking is fuddled. None of this makes sense; it’s surreal.

  Where’s Jimmy?

  Where’s my gun?

  Cursing myself for a coward, I push away from the tree and take a hesitant step toward the sound. My left hand is outstretched before me, feeling the way … guarding against … something. Another step, and then another. I see it now, a white mist in the darkness, hissed out in a small cloud, then dissolving, like steam ushered forth from the night.

  Beyond is a shadow … a man-shadow.

  I freeze—I’m no coward—and watch the blackness within the black. Realization comes to me slowly as I watch, unmoving. I recognize it now—the hiss, the mist—the sound that is so familiar: breathing, unnatural breathing; something not human. The sound of it chills my blood more than the cold mountain air.

  I shrink back, raising both hands in front of me as he steps from the gloom. His head and face are hideous beyond words, featureless and devoid of hair, with rocks for his eyes and nose and a mass of wriggling worms for his downturned mouth. He extends a hand as I stumble back and something drops to the ground from his gloved fingers. My eyes follow and I scratch furiously at my right hand as the dull persistent ache swells in the bone. The object bounces off the ground, scattering leaves.

  I scream when I see it.

  I scream at the pain in my hand.

  I scream at the severed index finger lying on the forest floor—my index finger.

  I’m sitting upright in bed when the scream wakes me—my scream. I’m clutching my hand and my eyes quickly scan the fingers, immediately feeling silly for doing so. My body is slick with a light sheen of sweat.

  The clock reads 4:15 A.M.