Cameryn understood why her father was asking. From her books she knew a gruesome fact: Pets, especially dogs, sometimes chewed on their master’s remains shortly after the human’s death. Her father sometimes joked that pet owners should learn to die facedown. A dog could have easily done this.
Now Patrick said, “And you’re sure Kyle didn’t fence the dog himself after he got here?”
“Positive. Rudy’s not the cause of this mess. God only knows what is.”
As the two of them spoke, Cameryn leaned closer to the body once again until she was standing just inches away. Her stomach had quieted as she concentrated on the puzzle before her. She saw the remains of her teacher, but she knew she must not think of him as that person—for now, he was evidence in a possible crime scene, the shell left behind, the remains, the victim, the corpse. She couldn’t allow herself to feel what that loss meant, not yet. It was important that she copy her father’s impassive face and Jacobs’s cool manner. If her veneer cracked, they would ask her to leave. Unzipping the death bag, she pulled out her camera and removed the lens cap.
“Good, Cammie, get lots of pictures,” her father said. “I have a feeling we’re going to need them.”
She began at the bottom of the bed, concentrating at first on the feet, snapping one picture after the other in rapid succession as she worked her way up. A down comforter, encased in a navy duvet and leaking feathers, had been tossed to one side. Raised knees made a tent of a pale blue sheet that stopped midway up the corpse’s chest. His right hand clutched a fistful of sheet in a knot so tight the fabric made pleats, accordion style, that rippled all the way to the floor. The left side of his chest still sported three white EKG pads where Del Halbrook had attached the leads. Del had been careful, she knew, to disturb the scene as little as possible. Snap, snap, snap—Cameryn took picture after picture of her teacher’s hands, his face, his ash-blond hair, the empty sockets, recording his remains—the remains of his life, she told herself, not just his death.
Above his head, on the wall, were two black-and-white nature prints, one depicting a snowfield glittering in the sun, the other a mountain waterfall. A white porcelain vase filled with more wildflowers bloomed from his nightstand, the same flowers that she’d seen on the desk in his office. Here, once again, were the lavender petals of the aspen daisy, the orange-red Indian blanket flower, and the delicate sky-blue flax. But there was a difference: These blossoms had withered. Each flower head drooped on a flaccid stem until the heads almost touched the nightstand’s surface.
That’s odd, she thought. In his classroom, Mr. Oakes hadn’t been one to keep any blossom past its prime. Everything there, as in his home, had been neat and shining clean, because, he’d told them, thoughts die in chaos. The only hint of dissention in Mr. Oakes’s ordered universe came from his own dark blond hair, which always fell in his eyes when he read poetry. It had been the one part of him that refused to submit. Against her will, Cameryn’s teacher sprang to life in her memory, breathing and laughing and once again alive in her mind’s eye.
“Remember, kids,” Mr. Oakes had said, propped on the edge of his desk, “it’s your job to drink in life. The poet Richard Wilbur wrote one of my favorite lines of all time. ‘I die of thirst, here at the fountainside.’” He’d paused, then wagged his finger at them, smiling a crooked half-smile. “Think of what it means to live, and never waste a moment of it.”
You didn’t waste it, did you, Mr. Oakes? Cameryn thought now as she snapped pictures of the flowers before moving her lens to capture the top of her teacher’s head. Because it’s gone now. You were right about living, since you never know when your time will come. . . .
“That’s good, Cammie, that’s good,” her father told her.
He’d held the clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other as he busily checked things off, but now he came over to stand beside her. Reaching down, his gloved fingers gently grasped Mr. Oakes’s jaw and moved it from side to side, which caused the gel from the sockets to gleam in the light. “He’s just going into rigor now. When’s the last time someone saw him alive?”
“Last night at some Scout thing. Kyle said Oakes left the group at about ten thirty P.M. That means at the most he’s been dead less than . . .” Jacobs’s eyes searched the ceiling. "Twelve hours.”
Twelve hours, Cameryn thought. Hardly long enough to digest a meal. She took in the room that had now become a time capsule and wondered how it must have looked the night before. No lights were left on in the room; she knew nothing had yet been moved or changed by Sheriff Jacobs. When Mr. Oakes died, darkness must have hidden his dresser, with its display of pewter-colored candles mounted on black onyx.
She took a picture of the framed Indian arrowhead collection, which hung on the wall next to a painting of Red Mountain. All of these, she realized, were clues to her teacher’s inner world, snapshots of a man she couldn’t begin to know. A man who had died alone, in this room, with only the wilted flowers as a witness.
Her father cleared his throat. “All right. I’m going to bag his hands and flip him so we can see what’s on the other side. But before I do, I’d like to ask your opinion, Cammie. What do you see?”
Sheriff Jacobs snorted. “Cameryn’s not going to know anything about this.”
“She’s assistant to the coroner, and I’m asking for her thoughts,” her father replied coolly. Patrick turned to Cameryn and asked, “Any theories or observations?” He looked at her with complete seriousness, as though Cameryn would have something of value to say. In Silverton she had a reputation as a reader and researcher in the forensic field, but that was only from studying books and forensic materials posted on the Internet.
This was different. This was real life, without footnotes. She noticed that one of Sheriff Jacobs’s booties had come off his heel, and it puffed around the toe of his shoe like a cupcake. The sheriff crossed his arms over his chest, a move that obscured his badge.
Cameryn lowered her camera and wrapped its plastic strap around her wrist, trying to buy time. “Well, uh, let me see,” she began. “I guess we’ve talked a lot about his eyes—”
“We won’t have an answer to that until the autopsy,” her father said. “Anything else?”
“I have to say I’m kind of surprised by the position of the body.”
“The position. What about it?” asked Jacobs.
“I don’t know—I guess the way he’s got his arms and his legs all drawn up. It looks like what happens to victims when they’re burned, but it’s obvious from the condition of Mr. Oakes’s skin that he hasn’t been. Burned, I mean. See that?” She pointed to where her teacher clutched the sheet in his hand. His fingers had blanched white, except at the tips, which were a deep purple. “There’s nothing that shows scorching on the bed or bedding or anything else. And check out the sheets. They’re pulled into his fist, which means he died in this bed. Whatever happened, it happened here.”
“Well, you sure haven’t lost your powers of observation, ” her father said, looking pleased. He shot the sheriff a look before adding, “And you’re right about the positioning of the body. He’s in a classic pugilistic stance.”
“How’s that?” Sheriff Jacobs asked. One of his eyebrows rose from behind his glasses as he looked from Cameryn to her father.
“Pugilist—it means a fighter’s pose. It’s like Cammie said, when a person dies in a fire they pull their limbs up just like we see Oakes doing here.”
“That’s fine and dandy, except for the obvious fact that this man wasn’t burned in no fire,” Jacobs snapped. “So we’re back to a big fat I-don’t-know.” The sheriff pulled on his long nose and sniffed. “We’re all just chasing our tails here. So I’m thinking I was right to put up the crime-scene tape in the first place. It might not be anything, but for now, I’m gonna treat it like a possible crime’s been committed, least until I know otherwise. Agreed?”
It was at that moment that Cameryn’s cell phone rang, playing the theme of The Lord of the Rin
gs in silvery notes. She ignored it, but her father told her to go ahead and answer since it could be Mammaw, and if it was to tell her that they’d be a while, especially since he was going to take the body straight to Durango. Retrieving the phone from her back pocket, Cameryn flipped it open as she twisted away from Jacobs’s prying eyes. Near her were the withered flowers, petals dry as butterflies’ wings. There was a smell here, too. Indescribable, like burnt grass or popcorn that hadn’t popped. And another odor beneath that, but it was a smell she couldn’t place.
“Hello?” she half-whispered.
“Cammie? It’s me, Lyric.”
“Lyric, this isn’t a good time—”
“Are you sitting down? If you’re not you should, because wait until you hear this! There’s a rumor going around that Mr. Oakes is dead! Dead! It can’t be true, but if it is, I’m going to lie down and die myself. You know he’s my favorite teacher of all time—he’s the whole reason I love to write poetry and my journal a nd . . . Where are you, anyway?”
“How did you hear about Mr. Oakes?” Cameryn whispered fiercely, stepping to the corner of the room while plugging her ear with a latexed finger. “We just got here—I’m processing the scene right now!”
“Then it’s true?” Lyric wailed. “Oh my God, I don’t believe it. What happened? I heard his eyes were blown right out of his face!”
Cameryn felt a sudden pressure on her shoulder. “Is that Lyric?” She whirled around, her nerves jangling, to stare straight into the sheriff’s thin face.
“What I want to know is how in the Sam Hill did this get out to the teenage population? Deputy!” He marched over to the door and yelled again, louder than before, “Deputy Crowley, I’d like you to get in here. Tell Kyle to wait in the kitchen.” Then, to Cameryn, he barked, “Hand me that phone.”
Cameryn had barely placed it into the sheriff’s hand before he whipped it to his ear. “Lyric! Sheriff Jacobs here. I’d like to know how you’re already aware of Mr. Oakes’s death. . . . Adam? How did he find out? . . . You call him and ask who . . . Yes, and then call me back at . . . No, on second thought, changed my mind. I’d like you both to come down to the house. It’s the blue one, 1195 River Street. . . . Good . . . Yeah, bring him with you. . . . Uh-huh, just a few questions and then you’re gone. Hurry now.”
He snapped the phone shut and handed it back to Cameryn, his eyes glittering. “There’s nothing so aggravating as living in a small town. I swear to the Lord Almighty that Silverton’s got more leaks than a colander.”
“I don’t know what the big deal is,” Cameryn protested.
“That’s because you might know bodies but you don’t know law. Leaks can compromise a case, and I want to know where they came from.”
“You wanted to see me, Sheriff?” Justin asked. He appeared at the doorway wearing the same outfit he had worn earlier, with the exception of his badge, which hung from a cord around his neck instead of pinned to his shirt like Jacobs’s. “I was just about to let Kyle go home—”
“Keep him!” The sheriff’s reply was brisk. “Take Cameryn to the kitchen and wait there for Lyric and Adam. They’re on their way, and they might open up more if Cameryn’s there. Find out who knew what when. Maybe I can work that thread backwards and get some answers.”
“No problem. Come on, Cammie,” Justin said. He gave a slight bow and waved his hand, palm-up, toward the hallway. Her father was already busy placing paper bags over her teacher’s hands, so she knew she had no choice but to leave. Grudgingly, she stepped into the hallway, following Justin, her feet slipping as she skated along the floor in her booties.
“Do you know Kyle?” he asked her, his voice low.
“This is Silverton, Justin,” she whispered. “Everyone pretty much knows everyone, especially if they go to school together.”
“So I’ll take that as a yes.”
“That would be a good guess.”
“What do you know about him?”
Shrugging, she said, “Straight As, football, outdoorsy, hot-looking, super-smart—your basic perfect guy.”
Justin stopped moving now, so suddenly she almost ran into him. Turning, he looked down at her, his eyes intense, and Cameryn, who was almost a full foot shorter, was forced to look up. From this angle she saw how square Justin’s jaw was, and how his ears looked translucent in the light. She put her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and waited, but Justin watched her, silent.
“What?” she finally said.
“I’ve never heard you talk that way before. Using my deductive powers, I’d say you have a thing for him.”
“Nobody says ‘thing’ anymore, Justin,” she whispered. “Let’s just say every girl would like to go out with Kyle, except he usually hits on girls from Ouray or Durango. We small-towners aren’t quite good enough, I guess.”
Justin signaled her to lean in close; suddenly his voice was low, conspiratorial. He placed his palm on the opposite wall, effectively blocking her off from the rest of the hallway, and when he spoke, his breath was warm on her cheek. “Well now, just so you know, I don’t like the guy.”
“Really? Why not?” Cameryn asked. “Do you think he had something to do with—?”
“No. Nothing to do with the case—at least, nothing I can put my finger on.”
“Then what?”
Justin hesitated. “There’s something off about Silverton’s wunderkind. He answers questions . . . but he doesn’t really. It’s like he’s programmed. You know what I mean?” He’d taken off his jacket, and Cameryn could see a sweat stain beneath his arm. Dark blue with a tiny edge of white, the salt from his sweat, a miniature wave on a shoreline.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” she replied.
“I’ve been talking to him for half an hour, and I feel like I’ve verbally gone in circles. I’m asking for your help. When we’re in the kitchen, I want you to try to get him to open up—you know, just to get the conversational gears moving. I’ll take it from there.”
She waited a beat before answering. “Except I’m assistant to the coroner, not assistant to the deputy. Interviewing witnesses is not in my contract.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “So how much will your help cost the fine citizens of Silverton?”
“That’s the thing—I don’t think they can afford me.”
“Just get him to talk, Cameryn. So far I haven’t been able to get inside his head. I don’t know, maybe he’s got a thing with authority figures.”
“You said ‘thing’ again.”
“So I did.”
He was looking at her, low-lidded, in a way she knew her father wouldn’t have approved, since Justin was twenty-one and Cameryn was still in high school. But her father was in the other room taping Mr. Oakes’s wrists.
“Here’s a thought,” Justin said softly. “Since you’re demanding payment, how about I buy you lunch when we’re done here? We could talk about the case, see what we come up with. You help me and get a lunch in the bargain, thereby killing two birds with one stone. What do you say?”
Cameryn pulled her hands from her pockets. She looked back to see if anyone was watching. No one was, so with her right hand she pushed against Justin’s arm, breaking free. There was no way she could complicate her life any further than it already was, because there was no more room inside her, not for anything.
“Thanks for the offer,” she replied, “but you’re right. I shouldn’t worry about my job description when you need help. I need to be more altruistic than that.”
“Altruistic? Wait—Cammie,” he stammered, “what are you talking about?”
“I mean I’ll try to talk to Kyle, no strings attached. Doubt it will do any good, but I’ll try.”
His eyes widened. “But what about lunch and killing two birds with one stone?”
Angel of Death Page 5