Crota

by Goingback, Owl

  “No, it’s not,” Skip coughed. He was reminded of the bodies he’d pulled out of a ‘69 Camaro ten years earlier. The driver of the car had tried to beat an Amtrak train through a crossing, and lost. The driver, along with his two female passengers, had ended up looking like spaghetti. Skip had nightmares for weeks.

  “You got a name to go along with the body?” Skip asked.

  Lloyd pulled a blue spiral notebook from his shirt pocket. “Driver’s license says he’s James P. Hoffman, age forty-three, Route Three, Warrenton. Height, weight, hair and eye color all match up. The truck’s registered in his name.”

  Skip nodded. He looked around. “You said there were two. Where’s the other one?”

  Slipping the notebook back into his pocket, Lloyd directed the sheriff to the opposite side of the road. They crossed another ditch, stopping at the base of a stout hickory tree. Something shiny at the base of the tree caught the light--a pile of gray and pink internal organs. Slippery snakes of intestines, a heart and other parts. Skip felt his throat tighten as Lloyd aimed his flashlight up into the leafy branches above them. Skip’s stomach trembled. He couldn’t stop; he heaved.

  Lloyd stood quietly by while he threw up. When he was finished Skip wiped his face with a white handkerchief and turned back around.

  The second body was that of a young man, sixteen, seventeen years old at the most. The boy was hanging upside down in the tree, fifteen feet off the ground, his back wedged tightly in the fork of a lower limb. The teenager had been gutted as one would gut a steer. His chest was a dark red cavity flanked by a white picket fence of ribs.

  Though his clothes were saturated, the kid’s face was free of blood. His eyes were open, staring; his lips drawn back in an expression of terror.

  Skip shuddered. With the body upside down like it was, it looked like the corpse was grinning at him.

  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered under his breath. He turned and looked at Lloyd.

  “I told you it was bad,” Lloyd said.

  “You didn’t exaggerate,” Skip replied. “Why in the hell would someone do something like this, Lloyd? To kill a person is one thing, but to go through all the trouble of gutting them and hanging them in a tree...it just doesn’t make sense. Why risk it?”

  “Maybe the killer was leaving a message,” Lloyd suggested.

  “You thinking drugs?” Skip asked.

  “Maybe. It’s hard to tell. He must have pissed somebody off real bad to get himself field-dressed like that.”

  Lloyd’s choice of words said it all: the kid had been field-dressed. It was the same thing you did to a deer: hang them upside down so the blood drains, and gut them right there on the spot. Skip had done it lots of times, so had Lloyd. After seeing this, however, it was doubtful if either of them would want venison any time soon.

  “Okay, so let’s say it was drugs,” Skip continued. “Where does the other guy fit in? He doesn't look the type to be involved in drugs. He looks too redneck.”

  “Who knows?” Lloyd shrugged. “Maybe he just picked the wrong place to be at the wrong time.”

  Skip nodded. Lloyd’s theory made as much sense as any he could come up with.

  “We’ll start with the other body first,” he said. “We’re probably going to need a hook-and-ladder to get the kid down.” He looked back up at the body. “Jesus, how in the hell did they get him up there in the first place?”

  “Beats me,” Lloyd answered, glancing up at the body hanging above him. “Are the cases still in your truck?”

  “Yeah...it’s unlocked.”

  The cases Lloyd was referring to were two aluminum cases loaded with everything necessary to carry on a thorough crime scene search. In larger departments the job of crime scene examiner is usually undertaken by a specialist. Hobbs County, however, was still pretty rural, with its biggest town, Logan--also the county seat--having a population of just over fourteen hundred. Fortunately, prior to his moving to Logan, Skip had worked for six years as a crime scene specialist with the St. Charles Police Department.

  Cases in hand, the two men approached the mutilated body in the ditch from a roundabout way. There was always the possibility that evidence could be trampled upon, therefore they avoided the direct path from the gray pickup. Kneeling at the edge of the ditch, Skip opened the larger of the two cases. The smaller one contained a tire and footprint casting kit, which wouldn’t be used until later.

  Skip reached in, removed a leather-bound notebook and handed it to Lloyd. It would be the under-sheriff’s job to take notes as they went along. Lloyd frowned. He knew what a tedious job he was being stuck with. Everything had to be recorded: the exact time of arrival, exact location of the crime scene, light and weather conditions, the names of the officers contacted, along with the names of anybody else on the scene at the time. That was just for starters. In addition you had to jot down a detailed description of the victim and his clothing. You had to list his name, age, height, weight, complexion, color of hair and eyes and, when possible, his social security number and birth date. If you didn’t have writer’s cramp by then, you would by the time you described the victim’s wounds in terms of exact location, type and size. Finish up with a general description of the crime scene and you almost had it.

  Reaching back into the case, Skip pulled out a Pentax 35mm camera and flash assembly. Taking the necessary photos was almost as tedious as the notes. There had to be photos of all approaches to the crime scene, as well as photos of the surrounding area. Shots had to be taken showing the location of the bodies and their position in relation to the areas in which they were found. Close-ups of the bodies showing all wounds were also necessary. In addition, any evidence, stains, or other distinguishable marks had to be photographed. To top it all off, every photo taken had to be described in detail in the notebook, listing such things as the type of camera and film used, the f-stop, shutter speed, distance focused, direction the camera faced and the time the photo was taken.

  Grinning, Skip handed the camera to Lloyd.

  “You’re an asshole,” Lloyd grumbled.

  “Rank hath its privileges.”

  Leaning over the ditch, Lloyd started flashing away, photographing the body from various angles. He paused after four shots to record the photos he’d taken. Then he took three more shots directly over the body, looking down. These shots were close-ups to show the wounds in detail.

  While Lloyd was playing shutterbug Skip walked slowly around the area, searching for anything which might give a clue to the murderer’s identity or the motive behind the killings. Such clues could come from something as obvious as a dropped billfold, or from something as unlikely as a matchbook cover or a pocket comb. Often the clues were microscopic, like fibers or fragments of clothing, paint chips and even human hair.

  He was also on the lookout for footprints and tire tracks, as well as any broken branches or twigs that might indicate which direction the killer came from or fled to.

  About twenty feet from the body in the ditch, Skip found a .30-.30 lever-action rifle lying in the weeds. Slipping on a pair of gloves and being careful not to smear any fingerprints, he picked up the rifle to examine it. There was a round in the chamber but the gun had not been fired. Carrying the rifle back to Lloyd’s patrol car, he wrapped it in a plastic trash bag and carefully placed it in the trunk.

  Skip continued his walkaround for another fifteen minutes or so, but he didn’t find anything else of interest. Rejoining Lloyd, he slipped slowly down into the ditch to begin his search of the body itself.

  He started with the head and worked downward, looking for trace elements: pieces of hair, fiber, or other small materials clinging to the body. Finding such items sometimes made all the difference in whether a suspect went free or fried in an electric chair. Of course, trace elements weren’t worth a damn unless he had a suspect to go with them. It wasn’t like he could send them off to the FBI and get back the name and address of the murderer, no matter what they showed on television. But if
he ever had someone sitting on ice with whom he could compare the items, then there was a chance of making a connection.

  Finding nothing out of the ordinary on the body, he carefully slipped a small paper bag over each of the victim’s hands, holding them in place with rubber bands. It usually wasn’t a good idea to take elimination fingerprints or scrape the fingernails in the field. That job was saved for the environmentally controlled atmosphere of a morgue. The paper bags would protect the hands from contamination. Plastic bags were never used because they caused condensation that could ruin many trace elements.

  Completing the detailed search of the body, Skip and Lloyd placed it in a disposable body bag. The bag would ensure that no physical evidence was lost during the trip to the morgue. Once at the morgue, the body would become the property, and problem, of the county coroner.

  In homicide cases the area directly under the body is given the greatest attention. While wind may blow away items of trace evidence originally on or around the body, evidence under the body will usually be trapped and protected.

  After removing the body from the ditch Skip studied the ground where it had lain. The vegetation in the ditch was mostly sparse weeds, with no litter to speak of. He still took a soil sample from the area where the victim’s head had been, placing it into a small cardboard box. The box would be mailed to the criminalist's laboratory in St. Louis first thing Monday morning. It was amazing some of the things the boys in the lab could come up with from a handful of dirt.

  By the time they’d finished with the first body the ambulance and additional officers were on the scene. Skip instructed the ambulance driver to sit tight until they finished with the second body. He then assigned deputies Mitchell and Brown the job of scraping a sample of blood from the front bumper of the pickup, threatening instant death should they touch anywhere else on the vehicle before it was dusted for fingerprints.

  As expected, getting the second body down out of the tree proved to be a pain in the ass. With the ditch in the way, they had to scrub the idea of calling for a fire truck. Their only alternative was to climb the tree, search the body where it was, then lower it to the ground with ropes. Skip was greatly relieved when Corporal Murphy volunteered for the job.

  Climbing the tree was only part of the headache. The body was wedged so tightly between two limbs it took Murphy twenty minutes to work it loose. Twice during that time, he slipped, narrowly escaping putting himself on the disabled list. Finally, after an hour of struggling, the body was down. Skip still wondered how someone had managed to get it up there in the first place.

  To reward Murphy for a job well done, the sheriff allowed him to accompany the bodies back to the morgue. It wasn’t as bad a detail as it sounded. Once the bodies were dropped off, Murphy would have to wait at the hospital for a ride. One probably wouldn’t be available for a couple of hours. In the meantime, he would just have to find something to keep himself busy--like talking to the nurses on night shift. Rumor had it several of them were quite fond of men in uniform.

  After the ambulance pulled away, Lloyd and the two deputies started a thorough search of the gray pickup. They began by carefully dusting for fingerprints along the exterior surface of the vehicle. Once they finished the outside, they would sweep and vacuum the interior, carefully labeling anything found in the process. While they were busy with the truck Skip decided to take a walk through the cemetery to see if anything could be found there. He carried the tire and footprint plaster casting kit with him in case it was needed.

  He suspected the killer, or killers, might have been in the cemetery prior to the murders. What tipped him off was the way the large metal cross leaned to the left. He’d driven by the cemetery earlier in the week and the cross had been straight as an arrow. Could the victims have been witnesses to an act of vandalism? His suspicions grew as he approached the monument.

  Halfway up the right side of the ten-foot cross was a basketball-sized dent that might have been made with a sledgehammer. He would have to get a photo of it, and possibly a scraping or two for the lab. Unfortunately, the grass around the monument was too thick for there to be any footprints. He did, however, come across a clear print about fifty yards beyond the cross. Judging by the tread pattern, it looked like it might have been made by the kid in the tree. It still wouldn’t hurt to make a cast. If nothing else, it would verify that the kid had been in the cemetery prior to, or at the time of, his death.

  Squatting down, Skip pulled a tiny notebook from his shirt pocket and jotted down a brief description of the footprint, noting the time and location for the record. He was also supposed to take a photo of it, but he didn’t exactly always do everything by the book.

  Putting the notebook away, he carefully removed a twig from the indentation. He then set about preparing it for casting by spraying it with a light coating of silicone spray. To prevent it from being damaged by the propellant gases in the aerosol can, he used a piece of cardboard to deflect the spray onto the impression. After that he placed a metal casting frame around the print, gently pressing the frame into the surrounding soil.

  While the silicone was drying he prepared the plaster of Paris in a rubber mixing bowl, using a wooden spatula to mix the water and plaster together. He could always tell when he had the combination just right: it looked like pancake batter. It probably tastes like shit. Holding the bowl close to the impression, he let the mixture slowly trickle onto and over the spatula. Pouring the mixture directly on the print could ruin it.

  He poured just enough to fill the impression and create a stand of plaster about a half-inch deep. As the plaster hardened he made reinforcing material by cutting a piece of wire screening into two-inch-wide strips.

  After reinforcing the cast he added the remainder of the plaster, giving the cast an overall thickness of about two inches. The cast would be hard enough to remove in thirty minutes. It would then be allowed to dry for another thirty minutes before brushing away any clinging soil with a soft brush. After brushing, it would be wrapped in clean paper and packaged in a firm container.

  Skip wasn’t sticking around for the cast to harden. He was anxious to get down to the morgue. He had a hot date with a couple of cold bodies.

  Chapter 3

  Skip detested everything about the morgue. He hated its lingering smell of embalming fluid and disinfectants; the stark whiteness of its ceiling, walls and tiled floor; the way the bright fluorescent lighting made colors appear grotesquely too vivid, too real. Most of all he hated the two stainless-steel worktables that sat in the center of the room, a constant reminder that all those who came to the morgue were on a one-way trip. But these things went virtually unnoticed in the presence of Fred Granger.

  The sheriff couldn’t picture Fred as being anything other than a coroner, except maybe a mad scientist. The aging veteran of the cadaver scene was tall and wiry, with a fringe of unruly white hair on each side of an otherwise bald head. The threadbare white smock he wore was as much a part of him as his thick, wire-rim glasses. To top it all off, Fred had a walk like Groucho Marx’s and an endless supply of morbid jokes and war stories. Fred’s bedside manner may have been unusual, but you never heard any of his patients complain.

  When he wasn’t at the medical center Fred could usually be found in the back room of the Pine Hills Funeral Home, which was owned by his younger brother Eric. While Eric took care of the business side of the funeral home, selling mahogany caskets and comforting loved ones in their time of need, Fred tended to the dead. He enjoyed working with the bodies of the recently deceased, considering each a mystery, a giant jigsaw puzzle with arms and legs. He loved to poke around in them, trying to figure out what had led to their state of eternal rest. And he was very good at his work.

  Skip paused in the morgue’s outer office to pour himself a cup of coffee. Fred always kept a pot on hand for live visitors. There was also, Skip knew, a pint of brandy stashed in the bottom desk drawer. Checking his watch--it was almost 7:00 A.M.--he took a deep breath an
d entered the examining room. Fred Granger was just opening the first body bag.

  “We need to double-check the bags and clothing for evidence before you toss them,” Skip said as he stepped into the room.

  Fred looked up, flashed a grin, and nodded toward two paper-lined trash receptacles that had been set up to store the victims’ clothing. As usual, Fred was way ahead of the game. Skip felt like a fool for opening his mouth.

  “And how was your evening, Sheriff?” Fred asked. There was just a trace of sarcasm in the question.

  “To put it mildly, it was a bitch,” he replied. “How’s the funeral business?”

  Fred forced a frown. “It’s been rather dead lately.”

  It was an old joke that Skip had heard a thousand times, but it did bring a smile to his face. Something to relieve some of the nervous tension Skip always felt when first entering the morgue.

  “My, my. You do have your hands full, don’t you?” Fred clicked his tongue as he pulled the bag away from the first cadaver. It was the faceless body of James Hoffman. “What did he do, take a bite out of a grenade?”

  “Something like that. We found him and his buddy out on Cemetery Road.”

  “Oh?” Fred’s eyebrows arched a little, making him look comical.

  “Yeah, they were in front of the cemetery. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you and Eric must have buried a couple out there that didn’t want to be buried.”

  “Now, Skip, you know we’ve never put anything in the ground that looked this bad.” He gave Skip a sober look. “You got the rest of him?”

  “Yeah, it should be in one of the other bags.”

  Fred looked around and spotted the two black plastic bags sitting in the corner of the room. “Which one?”

  “The little one. Here, I’ll get it for you.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

  It was Skip’s turn to fake a frown. “Just don’t let it get around.”