The detective shook his head and wondered where to start.
____________
GOOBER WAS A MYSTERY. He’d appeared one morning about forty years ago, nestled in the gnarled roots of the ancient hanging tree on the courthouse lawn, abandoned in the middle of the night. In spite of announcements on the local radio station and in the newspaper, the toddler’s parents never came forward to claim him. An elderly widow took him in and over time, Goober became a fixture in Arcadia. The odd man was probably closer to forty-five than to forty given the silver that peppered his nearly black hair. People said that Goober wasn’t truly retarded, but Martinez wasn’t so sure. Goober hadn’t finished high school and his ability to read and write was limited. Granted, he was always polite and seemed eager to help, but there was a slowness about the man, almost an innocence, that Martinez thought reflected some sort of mental challenge.
He stiffened as Forney County’s Forensic Examiner, Tom Kado, came through the gas station’s front door. As Martinez had done, he nodded briefly at the officer near the door and stopped to remove the booties covering his shoes. He shoved them in a plastic garbage bag and rubbed his eyes. Kado was new to the force, having joined only a couple of months ago. Martinez found the younger man arrogant and disrespectful of the last forensic examiner, Hank Comfrey, who had held the job for nearly five decades before dropping dead of a heart attack earlier this year. Kado was full of new procedures and science but didn’t seem to trust his gut as old Comfrey had. Martinez wasn’t sure the science was all that reliable. The wariness he felt for Kado was justified when a crucial DNA sample in a recent case was found by the state lab to be contaminated. If Martinez was the detective assigned to this murder, and he surely would be because there were no other detectives in Forney County at the moment, Kado would have to walk the straight and narrow to Martinez’ satisfaction. He met Kado at the tailgate where Goober sat, still torturing the baseball cap.
“You okay, Goob?” Kado asked.
Goober nodded but his gaze was glassy and his face devoid of color. Kado climbed up in the pickup’s bed, opened a cooler and passed a root beer to Martinez, then took one for himself and Goober. He took the cap from Goober’s hands and replaced it with an open can. “Drink.”
Slowly, Goober did. “Thanks,” he said, burping quietly.
“You up for talking?” Martinez asked.
Goober nodded.
“Why did you come to Whitehead’s tonight?”
“I ran out of potato chips.”
Martinez looked at the mower parked by the station’s pumps. “Did you pump gas?”
“I was gonna check her after I got the chips.”
“What time did you get here?”
“Right about five-thirty.”
“You sure?”
He pulled a beat-up Timex from a pocket and held it out. “It was almost five-thirty when I came around Church Bend.”
Martinez compared the little watch to his own. It was two minutes fast. “Did you pass anybody on the road?”
“Naw, my mower don’t go that fast.”
Kado bit back a smile, and the detective’s jaw tightened. He tried again. “Did you see any other vehicles on the road?”
“Just some tail lights.”
“Where?”
“When I was coming around Church Bend.” He turned and pointed into the night. “A car was farther down the road.”
“What kind of car?”
Goober shrugged. “All I saw was red lights.”
“What happened when you got to the store?”
“I went inside to make sure Mr. Whitehead was still open.” He blinked. “There was gas on the floor. And then smoke came out of the door in the back. So I went to see what was burning.”
“Why didn’t you call the fire department right then?”
“I was scared,” he answered in a small voice.
“You were scared but you headed toward the smoke, to the fire?”
Goober nodded, his eyes fixed on some distant, internal point.
Martinez and Kado exchanged a glance. “What happened next?”
“The smoke was bad, but the back door was open. I heard a noise and went outside and saw… the zombie. He was hanging.” He shuddered and root beer sloshed onto his overalls. “And black all over.”
“Did you see flames?”
“He was breathing fire. Like a dragon. I tried to put it out.” Goober’s eyes filled with tears and he drew a deep, stuttering breath. “But the zombie fell off the rope and started to get up. I figured he was coming after me. He fell and I ran away.”
____________
KADO AND MARTINEZ PULLED fresh booties over their shoes and crossed through the gas station’s neatly organized shop and the chaotic stockroom to the courtyard, each trying not to wince as the smell of burned flesh grew stronger. The odor was thick and sickly, like pork in sweet and sour sauce roasted for too long, tinged with sulfur and melting plastic. It clung to the roof of Kado’s mouth and coated his sinuses.
His first view of the courtyard had been cursory, simply to photograph the scene and, unfortunately, turn off the hose. Now, Kado examined the space more closely. Water lay in silent pools on the uneven slab that formed the courtyard’s floor. Bits of charred matter – skin and clothing, Kado guessed – rested in drifts against the base of a wooden fence. Washed there by the water hose Goober had left running when the body dropped to the ground. A step ladder and wheelbarrow were toppled against the fence, and a smoldering red container was the source of the biting smell of burning plastic. Waves of disgust and despair rolled through Kado in equal measure. He had no idea how long it would take to collect and analyze all the evidence in this case, and he was already stretched thin from a heavy workload. He considered drawing a deep breath to release the tension, but changed his mind and rubbed the back of his neck instead.
Forney County’s Medical Examiner, John Grey, and his assistant Porky Rivers were crouched next to the blackened form. A plastic sheet was spread on a patch of dry concrete. They were discussing the best way to lift the body without jarring flesh loose. The victim had landed on his left side, the arms bent over the chest and fingers curled near his neck. Kado looked closer and saw bits of scorched clothing still in place around parts of the body. In others, delicate layers of the epidermis and dermis had blackened and curled back from the man’s flesh, exposing red muscle or yellowish fat. A heavy gold ring was barely visible on the corpse’s right hand and a lonely tuft of white hair had somehow escaped the flames and clung to the scorched scalp.
“Who would do something like that to Calvin Whitehead?” Martinez asked.
“How do you know that’s Whitehead?” Kado responded.
Martinez crossed his arms over his massive chest and thrust his chin forward. “Who else would it be?”
Grey unfolded his lanky form, balancing carefully until he reached his full height of six feet eight inches. “He’s too badly burned to be sure it’s Whitehead. We’ll check for a wallet when we move him, and use dental records or DNA to confirm.”
Martinez moved his gaze from Kado to Grey. “I’ll find his house next, see if he’s home.”
“Do you know him?” Kado asked.
“I don’t,” Martinez replied. “His store is way off my beaten path. Grey?”
“I’d heard his name but didn’t know where his store was. Porky?”
The thin man looked up from his squatting position and his gaze bounced between Grey, Kado, and Martinez. Fading sunlight glinted on the studs, rings, and barbells that dotted his nose, eyebrows, and ears and provided the source for his full nickname of Porcupine. Most were silver and contrasted sharply with his inky black skin. “This is too far out in the boonies. I’ve never even heard of the place.”
Kado turned to Martinez. “Is he home grown?”
“I said I don’t know him,” Martinez replied with an edge to his voice, and Kado responded with a cool look. “He’s been here as long as I can remember. We’l
l check with the neighbors and court records to see when he opened up.”
“There haven’t been any problems out here?”
“Nothing I’ve heard about,” Martinez answered. “And I would’ve, through roll call and gossip.”
Kado looked to Grey. “Do you know cause of death yet?”
“Looks like barbequing to me,” Martinez said, casting a sidelong glance at Kado.
“It depends,” Grey answered, “on how long he hung before he was set alight, and on whether he was alive when hung. We’ll need to complete the autopsy to confirm COD, but I can tell you a few things now.” Grey motioned to Porky who lifted the corner of a flat, blackened mass from the thigh. “The fire burned long enough to char his clothes and burn through the epidermis and dermis in places. In some areas, it looks like clothing and skin have fused, so he might’ve been wearing a man-made fabric that melted, like nylon. Maybe tracksuit bottoms or trousers with a stretch material.”
“Is there any chance he was alive when the rope broke?” Kado asked.
“I doubt it. Why?”
“Goober thought he saw the zombie getting up to chase him after the body fell. That’s why he ran and called 911.”
“If the hanging didn’t kill our victim, the burning finished the job quickly.” Grey motioned to the slightly bent elbows, hips, and knees. “When a body burns, the muscles draw in and shorten, creating the positioning you see here. It’s called a pugilistic attitude because the body takes on a stance similar to a boxer. Goober might have seen movement as the muscles contracted and with his imagination, thought the man was still alive.”
Kado’s gaze followed the sycamore’s trunk up to the first limb. A length of rope hung there, its end blackened. “Is any rope left around his neck?”
Porky pointed to a narrow section of charring. “I’m not sure it’ll survive when we move him.”
“Suicide or murder?” Kado asked.
“You have got to be kidding,” Martinez stated.
Grey sighed. “You’d be surprised at what people will do when they want to die. This,” he motioned at the tree and the charred form on the ground, “is extreme, but not unbelievable. I haven’t seen a lighter or matches, but they could be under the body. Or melted. Or burned.”
“It’s a possibility we need to consider, Carlos. He could’ve doused himself with gas,” Kado said, motioning to the moldering plastic mass, “and jumped or fallen from that ladder.” He turned to Porky. “Can I get photos now?”
Porky nodded and asked Martinez to help him bring in a stretcher. Looking grateful to leave the corpse and related stench behind, Martinez followed Porky through the stockroom.
Kado’s shoulders loosened as he made his way closer to the body and lifted his camera.
Grey cleared his throat. “Are you and Carlos having problems?”
“We got off on the wrong foot. I was too critical of the last forensics man, Hank Comfrey. When Sheriff Hoffner recruited me, he told me that the last man had died while on the job and that they were looking to bring the forensics department up to date, to use more science to help solve crimes. I didn’t realize Comfrey had almost fifty years on the job and had only been dead a few weeks when I came to Texas. That would’ve been good to know.” He moved to the other side of the body and took several shots. “And then there was the whole mess with the corrupted DNA. Martinez and some of the others want to believe that I screwed up. They’ve been hovering at crime scenes, watching everything I do.” He turned and looked up at the tall medical examiner. Grey’s bushy black hair was bursting straight from his scalp as usual, and his dark eyebrows were lowered over serious eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“The department is so short of people. You need every ounce of cooperation you can get on this one.”
Kado stood, grimacing as his knees popped. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m only half the equation.” He looked up at the dangling piece of rope. John Grey tilted his head back as well, and they stood silently for several moments.
“What does your gut tell you?” Grey asked.
“I tend to agree with Carlos. I don’t like it as a suicide. It’s too much. But,” he added, “I’ll let the science do its job.”
CHAPTER 6
TWILIGHT WAS SETTLING LONG shadows over Forney County as the shooter crept into Deadwood Hollow. The overhanging boughs blanketed the Hollow, creating a murkiness that his eyes could not penetrate. But lack of vision wasn’t a problem. This trek from the county road to his perch in an ancient oak tree was one he had made several times as he sought to first identify, and then possibly understand, the people who were helping him cleanse the world. But tonight, his journey had a radically different intent.
The shooter was unremarkable, a born hunter with a lethal blend of instinct, intuition, and bland good looks that allowed him to blend into his environment. Of average height and slender build, his hair was short and dark, his face chiseled with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. Only his deep brown eyes hinted at the intelligence and cunning within. He moved down the well-used path without hesitation, stopping to listen for sounds from the drug dealers and partying teens that commandeered these woods after dark. His movements were controlled, deliberate, a careful dance executed many times over the years during a hunt, choreographed to avoid noises that would draw attention.
His heart picked up its pace as he neared the dip in the trail where he would step into the brush, and he shifted the rifle to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans. For a moment he stood silently, listening to the breath ease in and out of his body, slowing his heart rate, centering his thoughts. Six kills, that was the goal. Three murders tonight and three more to go would mark the last stop on the trail of punishment he had traveled for so long.
No.
Not punishment.
Vengeance.
The taking of lives in payment for the life that was stolen from him all those years ago.
Calmer now, he pushed through the brush and made his way to the old oak in the clearing. The climbing stick was still in place. He scaled it and settled into the sturdy crook of a branch where it met the tree’s trunk. He slipped the shooting glove on his hand, adjusted the homemade brass catcher, and lifted the rifle’s scope to his eye. It was approximately one hundred yards to the house. Although the interior was dark, he knew the layout of these back rooms by heart. A set of gorgeous windows allowed an unfettered view of the tidy kitchen with its clean appliances and the colorful tile backsplash that created a strutting rooster over the stove. He fiddled with the rifle. This was the longest shot he would make tonight. While he preferred the satisfaction of an up-close kill, ending the life of a police officer was worth the compromise. A cosmic justice of sorts.
He took another look through the scope, adjusted his position, and waited.
____________
MARTHA FRANKLIN BREATHED A quiet sigh of relief as her son unlocked the front door and ushered her inside. Her body could do nothing but ache these days. The doctors promised that the tiredness would fade when the treatments were done, and that her strength would return. But lately, it was all she could do to stand for more than a few minutes at a time. Her appointment with the oncologist and this evening’s quilting club meeting had certainly taken it out of her. The meeting had run longer than usual, until seven-thirty, while the ladies twittered over Moses when he arrived to pick her up and helped clear the church hall.
She unwound the scarf covering her head and heard her son removing his tennis shoes. He stood and she caught him watching her in the hallway mirror, worry in his eyes. Martha was tall for a woman. At five feet eleven inches in her stocking feet, she was only three inches shorter than her son. Their body shapes were similar as well. Her mother had always called Martha’s figure ‘proud’, referring to her strong shoulders and erect carriage, the narrow waist that flared gently to slender hips, and her long, firm legs. Reaching up, she turned her son’s head to the left and right, and compared her smoothly dark reflection to his. “With my
bald head, Moses, we look just alike.”
He bent to kiss her cheek. “You’re prettier than I’ll ever be.”
“And ain’t that the truth,” she laughed. “You go get a shower. I need some tea.”
“I’ll make it, Momma.”
She waved him away. “I may have the cancer, but I can still boil water.”
Martha watched as Moses shuffled down the hall, his shoulders rounded forward, hands pushed deep into his pockets. He had moved back home just over two years ago, after his wife of twenty-five years divorced him. It was a bitter affair, that much a mother could sense no matter how hard her child tried to hide his pain. Martha still wasn’t clear on the details, but she suspected that a midlife crises and a younger man were to blame. She only thanked the Lord that no children were involved.
Moses had explained his decision to move home as a desire to help during her cancer treatments and to be available for his twin brother, Joseph, when he was released from prison. That had happened only recently and the three were still finding a way to live together again. Martha had re-mortgaged the house to pay for Joseph’s defense against some computer crime she didn’t understand. Both of her sons had protested loudly, but she wouldn’t have had it any other way. Moses and Joseph were her life.
Although the boys were twins, their different natures were evident from the moment they left the womb. Moses basked in the light; Joseph stayed in the shadows. Moses loved people, while Joseph preferred solitude. Moses expressed his feelings; Joseph was a stoic. Moses was sheer emotion; Joseph followed the path of logic.
Moses had always walked the straight and narrow and had a clear definition of right and wrong, deciding early on that he would become a police officer. Joseph turned away from people, choosing instead to live within the mysterious land of computer languages and databases. Martha never understood the work he did, but she knew he achieved great success for a time. Joseph moved to New York and went to work for a big bank while the ink was still wet on his degree from the local college. When they talked on the weekends, he told her how happy he was to live in a large city and do such important work. And she believed him. Until he called to tell her about the arrest. Looking back, she wondered how she had missed the signs that her son was involved in something illegal, and consoled herself with the thought that of the two boys, Joseph had always been the better actor.
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