Bone Box

by Faye Kellerman

  Kneed Loft student Kirk Landry had been nineteen when he disappeared after attending a party eleven years ago. He’d been very drunk and it was theorized that he might have fallen through the ice in one of the many numerous ponds and lakes in the Greenbury woodlands. When springtime came and there was still no sign of the boy, people gave up the search. He had been short with thinning hair: not Decker’s current set of bones.

  “What’s the next step?” McAdams said.

  “I should get dental records of the two boys just to make certain it’s not one of them.” Decker shook his head. “I hate that. It panics the family and then if it’s not him, they crash. I’ll put something over the wire, also. This isn’t going to be a quick resolve. You’re back in school soon. You don’t have to concern yourself with this.”

  McAdams thought a moment. “You know—with the long, long hair and the nail polish—I can call up the LGBT Center in the colleges. I’m not saying our John Doe is gay, but we’ve got to start somewhere.”

  “He doesn’t fit the description of any of our missing boys.” Decker stood up. “What the hey. It’s a ten-minute walk to the colleges. The weather is beautiful. Your idea is worth a shot.”

  After Labor Day, Greenbury started gearing up for the cold weather. No more picnics, parades, or lazy days listening to impromptu acts playing in the park’s bandstand. Instead of swimsuits and shorts, the boutiques’ window displays featured the latest styles in sweaters, parkas, and skiwear. Although autumn was still weeks away, all the local coffee shops and supermarkets featured anything with pumpkin.

  Walking the grounds of the Five Colleges of Upstate, it seemed to Decker that more students were sprawled out on the lawns than learning in the classrooms. The consortium sat on a sizable swath of acreage featuring manicured lawns and wooded land, all of it walking distance from the town of Greenbury. Each institution had its own dean, its own professors, its own campus and dorms, and its own identity. Duxbury was the oldest, a top-tier liberal arts college akin to Amherst or Williams with architecture that would blend into any Ivy League university. Clarion Women’s College was built in the 1920s with scaled-down brick federalist buildings adorned with hints of art deco. Morse McKinley was the government/economics college built after World War II. Students were taught in functional classrooms that sat in functional structures. The residence halls looked more like dingbat apartment buildings than college dorms. Kneed Loft was the smallest and most bunker-like of the five colleges. It specialized in math and sciences and engineering. Littleton, built in the ’60s, was the art and theater college. In its hallowed halls and environs, students grew their own kale, squeezed their own apple cider from the college orchard, and raised sheep for wool.

  The clubs, associations, and student centers were more storefronts than actual buildings, and all of them were located within a mile from one another. Most of them were considered Five C organizations, which meant that anyone from any of the colleges could join. There were dozens of places to find affiliation and camaraderie, and the LGBT Center was just one among many. The sign had been up for ages and someone had added a Q in bold, black marker after the T.

  As they walked into the room, a tiny bell rang. It was stuffy inside because it was still warm outside, and the place didn’t have air-conditioning. Several fans in the corner were blowing tepid air. The space held a large dining room table topped with dozens upon dozens of pamphlets dealing with everything from sexual identity—Was it even necessary to have one?—to safe sex that will rock your world. A moment later, a petite girl wearing shorts and a T-shirt strolled into the area from a back room. She had blue eyes and a pixie haircut. She stuck out a manicured hand, nails coated with pink polish.

  “Arianna Root.” She shook McAdams’s hand first and then Decker’s. “How nice of you to bring your son into the center. It shows a real willingness to be accepting. And I want you both to know that the Five Colleges are among the most liberal and tolerant colleges in the states. You won’t have any problems here, I assure you. How can I help you specifically?”

  Decker looked at McAdams, who said, “He’s not my father, and I’m not gay. But don’t be embarrassed. It isn’t the first time that someone has made either of those mistakes.” He pulled out his identification.

  Arianna’s expression went from cheerful to suspicious in a nanosecond. “You’re the police?”

  “I am,” McAdams answered. “We both are. I’m Detective McAdams. This is Detective Decker—”

  “Wait here a second.” Arianna disappeared and came out with reinforcements. His name was Quentin Lewis. He looked to be around twenty with short hair, brown eyes, and dozens of pieces of ear jewelry—rings, studs, and cuffs. He was slight of build and also wore pink nail polish.

  After introductions were made again, Decker got down to business. “Do either of you know what’s happening up on Bogat Trail?”

  “I’m not even aware of a Bogat Trail,” Quentin said. “I’m not much of a hiker.”

  McAdams explained the situation. “We have no idea if the guy was gay or not but because he had very long hair and an earring and nail polish, we thought we’d talk to someone at the center first. We’re not biased. We don’t need to be woke. But we have to start somewhere.”

  “What was the color of the polish again?” Arianna asked.

  “The nails had a purplish hue that has probably worn off over time.”

  “So it was dark when it was first applied?”

  “Probably.”

  “Our signature color is bubblegum pink so if he wanted to be identified with the center, his nails wouldn’t have been dark. Deep purple nail polish was all the rage about five years ago. It sounds like Vex or Vampire. How old is the body?”

  “To be determined,” McAdams said. “But it could be five years old.”

  “Obviously, I wasn’t here five years ago.”

  Decker said, “Is there anyone who was here five years ago?”

  “No, this is a student-run center,” Lewis said.

  “What about faculty members?”

  “The center is for the students,” Arianna said. “We do have LGBT faculty who are supportive and come to our events as a show of solidarity. But we run the show.”

  “But you might have faculty involved with the center for a long time?”

  Quentin nodded. “Sure.”

  Decker said, “Could you supply us with some names?”

  “I don’t know . . . privacy and all that.” Quentin turned to Arianna. “What do you think?”

  “I think we should contact the professors and ask if they want to help. This is not our decision to make. Sorry.”

  At that moment, a fortyish man in with salt-and-pepper hair walked into the center. He looked at Decker and McAdams and then at Quentin and Arianna. “Is everything okay?”

  “We’re from Greenbury Police Department.” Decker showed the man his badge. “And you are?”

  “Jason Kramer. I’m a professor of psychology at Duxbury. Why are you here?”

  “We found the bony remains of a young man yesterday afternoon near Bogat Trail. We’re trying to identify him. His physical description doesn’t jibe with any of the young men who disappeared from the colleges in the last fifteen years, but he could have been a former college student. We’re at the very early stages of our identification. We’re asking for help.”

  “Is there something that makes you think the man was gay?”

  “Long hair, earrings, nail polish. It’s just one avenue we’re exploring.”

  “If he wasn’t a student at the colleges, why would he be associated with the center?”

  “Students come and go. They transfer to other colleges, some transfer to here. And they graduate and revisit their old haunts.” McAdams smiled. “Like Detective Decker said, we’re at the very early stages and we’re trying to work with whatever information that we have available.”

  Kramer pursed his lips. “Describe him to me again?”

  Decker said, “
Long, thick brown hair, one silver earring. He wore purple nail polish on his fingers and toes.”

  Arianna said, “You mean you have just bones, nails, and hair?”

  “Flesh goes, hair and nails often remain long after.”

  Kramer said, “And how old are the remains?”

  “I don’t know. We suspect within the last ten years, maybe. Or do you mean the age of the person who died?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “The bones are of a man in his early twenties: a tall young man, six one or two. The coroner said he had long fingers. He called them piano fingers.” Decker could see a light behind the man’s eyes. “He sounds familiar to you, Dr. Kramer?”

  “Jason is fine.” He sighed. “There was a student here around six or seven years ago. Lawrence Pettigrew. Brilliant guy. He went to Morse McKinley—PEG major.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Political science, economics, and government,” Quentin answered. “You have to apply to be in the major. Seven years ago was before my time.”

  Kramer said, “He played a concert at the Christopher Street Gay Pride Fete while he was here.”

  “I was a junior in high school,” Arianna said.

  The professor said, “Lawrence was always on. He was exuberant—the proverbial life of the party. He had long, long hair, but it was blond when I knew him. He dressed in costumes rather than clothes: long silk scarves, crazy hats, patterned pants and shirts that purposely clashed. He wore lots of jewelry—rings, earrings, necklaces. I don’t recall the nail polish.”

  Decker wrote down the information on his pad. “Would you know where I could find him? Just to rule him out?”

  “No, but the administration might know.”

  “And would you know where I could get a picture of him?”

  “No idea.”

  “Do you remember anything else about his face? Eye color, the shape of the face? Beard or mustache? Moles? Tattoos?”

  “I didn’t pay much attention because his clothing was so outrageous.” He blew out air. “Long face, but no facial hair. I want to say he had brown eyes, but I’m not sure. I don’t remember tattoos.”

  “Okay. And did anyone ever report him missing?”

  “He didn’t go missing here, Detective. He dropped out at the end of his junior year, which was a real shame. The last I saw of Lawrence, he was alive and well.”

  “And when would that be?”

  “Like I said. Around seven years ago.”

  “Any idea why he dropped out?”

  “I believe he dropped out with the intention of getting hormonal therapy. He told anyone who was listening that he was planning on having a sex reassignment operation.”

  Chapter 5

  Decker switched his cell phone to his other ear. He and McAdams were walking to the Morse McKinley administration building. “I don’t know that he’s missing, Kev, just see if you can find an address for him . . . Lawrence Pettigrew. Do you want me to spell the name?”

  McAdams was on his iPhone. “No listing of him in the immediate area.”

  “Yes, he went to Morse McKinley . . . hold on.” Decker turned to McAdams. “What did you say?”

  “No listing in the immediate area.”

  Back to the cell, Decker said, “Pettigrew supposedly dropped out to have a sex change operation. I’m on my way to see if I can’t access his school file. I’ll try to get a home address and phone number. Anything you can find on him would be helpful, starting with a photograph. . . . Okay . . . thanks, Kevin. Bye.”

  McAdams said, “You know, if he had undergone a sex change operation, he could be listed missing under a woman’s name.”

  “True, but he probably kept his last name. Check the women on our missing persons list and see if any of them match Pettigrew’s physical description.”

  McAdams said, “The tallest missing woman we have is five nine. Caroline McGee. Blond hair, blue eyes. She’s from the greater Boston area.” He did an image search and then showed it to Decker.

  She was a plain-looking woman in a drab uniform with shoulder-length brown hair. She was older—around thirty-five. Decker shook his head. “The hair can be grown out, but the age doesn’t match.”

  “This is an aside, but what should we call the remains? He, she, or it?”

  “Let’s go with he until we find out that he was officially a she.”

  “Right. We didn’t find tons of jewelry with him. If he was wearing a lot of flashy stuff when he was murdered, it seems reasonable that whoever buried him might have taken the stuff off his body. The earring was small. He might not have noticed it.”

  “Agreed.” Decker sighed. “Why would Pettigrew even be here if he had dropped out of the colleges?”

  “Like I said, maybe he was visiting friends.” McAdams paused. “Assuming that he came just to say hi to old buddies, what could he have done to get himself murder and buried?”

  “First thing that comes to mind is a hate crime.”

  “Someone from the colleges or someone local?”

  “Don’t know, of course. The colleges make a big show of being supertolerant, but that doesn’t mean individual students don’t have their prejudices. It also could have been a townie.”

  “Greenbury’s filled with retirees.”

  “True, but Hamilton, which is only ten miles away, is strictly blue collar and has a high unemployment rate since the Elwood air-conditioning plant closed down.”

  Decker thought a moment.

  “I’ve been here through two winters. I don’t see many kids from Hamilton drink in Greenbury. They would stick out. Then again, I only get called in to the college watering holes if there’s a problem. And despite what happened last weekend, that’s really not too often.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. It’s not often. I do remember getting called down to the College Grill to break up a drunken brawl right when I came here. No weapons but a lot of punches were thrown. There were lots of bloody faces. The college boys claim the townies came in to cause problems. The townies claim they were just passing through and the college kids started the whole thing. We told them to walk it off and go home, no official arrests.”

  “So you wouldn’t have names of the participants.”

  “Nope. Mostly it was Kevin and Ben who handled everything. I was new—inexperienced and very obnoxious—so no one talked to me much.”

  “Some things never change.”

  “Har-de-har-har.”

  “You came on three years ago, right?”

  “About.”

  “Do you remember . . . hold on.” Decker consulted his notes. “Delilah Occum’s disappearance?”

  “It was about six months before I arrived. Besides, we’re not looking for Occum, we’re looking for a dude. I’m just saying that it is possible that a bunch of drunk kids did a number on Pettigrew and after they realized what they did, they all got shovels and dug the hole.”

  “Maybe. First we have to find out if Pettigrew is even missing. For all we know, he may be alive and well and living happily as a woman.”

  “That assumes that women are happy.”

  Decker laughed. “Lots and lots of women are very happy, Tyler.”

  “True enough, boss. Maybe women are just not happy with me.”

  It took them awhile to muck through the red-tape bureaucracy, but eventually they found a person willing to talk to them, and even he was making their life difficult. Leo Riggins was about thirty-five, clean cut, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and had a small nose and big ears. He had been working for Morse McKinley for ten years.

  “I don’t see why I should divulge this information if the former student hasn’t even been reported missing.”

  Decker said, “If the bones are his, he probably has been reported missing. We just don’t know where the report was filed. That’s why we’d like to know where he’s from. If we can rule him out, we can move on.”

  “I will not give out his number without his permission.”

&n
bsp; McAdams said, “Well, if you get his permission, then we won’t need the number.”

  Decker said, “If his cell number is listed in his files, just call him up and talk to him. It won’t violate his privacy and it’ll confirm to Greenbury Police that we should concentrate our efforts elsewhere.”

  “By the way, he could be a she by now,” McAdams said. “Apparently he left school to undergo sex reassignment surgery. So if a woman answers, ask him if he was the former Lawrence Pettigrew. ”

  “I probably should go to my boss about this.”

  “It’s a phone call, Mr. Riggins,” Decker said. “Please?”

  “Hold on. Let me see first if I can find him in the files.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You really should bring in proper warrants or whatever you people need to search through files.”

  “If Pettigrew turns out to be our bones in the woods, we’ll do just that.”

  Riggins licked his lips. “How awful! I’ve hiked Bogat Trail before. That’s really creepy. It makes you wonder what else is out there. Did you find any other sinister things?”

  “Not so far,” Decker said. “You say you’ve worked here for around ten years?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t remember Lawrence Pettigrew?” Decker said. “From what we’ve gathered, he was an out-there kind of guy, dressed in lots of colors and played piano all the time.”

  “I don’t deal with students directly. If something is amiss in the files, I shoot them an e-mail and ask them to rectify the problem. It usually involves updating their personal information. Everything is done electronically.”

  “Not a lot of face-to-face contact,” Decker said.

  “Exactly.” Riggins blew out small puffs of air as he scrolled through the files on his computer. “Okay, here we go. He does list a cell phone.” He muttered some numbers to himself. After he punched in the numbers on the desk phone, Decker took the handset from him.

  Riggins furrowed his brow. “Excuse me?”