Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  Joe gave his drink order, a red wine, to the waitress. Then the expected get-to-know-each-other session started. They discussed their jobs and family. Joe avoided talking about Christine. When the topic arose, he simply said she’d died two years ago. He found himself bragging about Melissa. Gillian did the parent thing, too, and told Joe about her daughter and son, both at college. She spoke very little of her ex, though, which made Joe wonder if their breakup was still, in her mind, unsettled. Mickey came over, white towel draped over his forearm, and served warm bread and a Caesar salad. He also took a jab at the president for making Joe tardy. Gillian laughed. When he left, silence fell over the table for the first time.

  Joe reached for his wineglass; his ring finger and pinkie shook. He looked at Gillian. She wasn’t paying attention to his hand. He didn’t feel nervous. Their banter had put him at ease. She’d been easy to talk to. Enjoyable, actually. Was he having the shakes? He couldn’t tell. He wasn’t an alcoholic, was he? At that moment, he didn’t know the answer. He picked up his water glass instead.

  “Did you grow up in Albuquerque?” Gillian asked.

  “Air force brat. Moved around. Born in California. My father was stationed at Edwards. Later we moved to New Jersey, Kansas, Guam, then New Mexico, where he retired.”

  “Wow. All that moving around, experiencing all those new places.” She sighed. “I’ve spent my entire life in Albuquerque.”

  “To be honest, they all seem the same to me now. Just school and regular kid stuff everywhere, except for Guam. A tropical island is pretty exciting to a kid. Lots of poverty, but incredible beaches. We’d go diving and grab a lobster and cook it up right there on the beach.”

  “Sounds like a little piece of paradise.”

  “It was. I really love the ocean. I’m surprised I stayed in New Mexico.”

  “Not me. I saw Jaws when I was a kid. Been afraid of the water ever since. We went to San Diego one year and my father carried me into the ocean and dropped me right into a wave. I screamed so loud, the lifeguard blew his whistle and told my father to take me out. Never been in it since.”

  Before Joe could reply, Mickey returned with their food. He laid out a family-style dish of penne alla vodka, a small bowl of grated Parmesan cheese, and a plate of Italian sausage.

  “You’re both gonna enjoy this. And even if you don’t, you’re both gonna enjoy this,” Mickey said, his voice deep and slow.

  Joe cringed. “Was that supposed to be the Godfather?”

  Mickey lifted his head and rubbed the back of his hand under his chin. “Someday, and that day may never come, I’ll call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day—accept this meal as a gift.”

  “You outdid yourself tonight, Mickey,” Joe said.

  Gillian clapped; Joe followed. “Bravo!” she said.

  “Now, this old man will get outta your hair so you two birds can create some beautiful magic together. Ciao.”

  Their host walked off to tend the bar.

  Joe served the pasta.

  A man’s voice spoke. “And who is this lovely young lady?”

  Joe held the pasta suspended over Gillian’s plate. His jaw tightened, as did his hand holding the serving spoon. Cordelli approached the table, Tenny following like a good puppy. Joe emptied the spoon onto Gillian’s plate before answering.

  Joe introduced Gillian.

  “You never mentioned you were seeing someone,” Cordelli said.

  Joe forced a jovial tone. “Sorry, Dad. I forgot to ask permission to borrow the car.”

  Tenny laughed.

  Cordelli smiled. It actually looked good-natured.

  “I only thought you might have mentioned her in the office.”

  Gillian spoke to Joe. “I’m glad this is our first time out; otherwise, you would’ve hurt my feelings. A woman likes to be thought about and talked about, nicely, of course.”

  “Joe’s the quiet type,” Cordelli said. “Strong and silent, just like in the movies.”

  She looked at Joe and smiled. “Well, he’s not that quiet tonight. He’s rather funny.”

  “We don’t want to intrude on you two. Enjoy your dinner.”

  Cordelli and Tenny walked over to the bar.

  “That seemed … odd,” Gillian said.

  “They are odd.”

  She blushed. “They brought something up that I wasn’t quite sure how to talk about.”

  He felt a tingle in his stomach. It wasn’t hunger. He reached for his wineglass, took a sip. A gulp. The first of the night.

  She went on. “Back in June, after nineteen years of marriage, my husband told me he needed to find himself.” She picked up her wine and sipped. Then she placed her glass back on the table and met his gaze. “He left, and now I’m lost. I’m not looking for another relationship. At least not right now.” She lowered her head and spoke to the pasta. “You seem like a really nice guy, but I’m not ready for that yet.”

  He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t.

  “Is that all? I thought it was something serious, like you don’t like vodka sauce.”

  She laughed and looked back up at him.

  He continued, “I’m just glad not to be eating alone. Let’s enjoy the evening. No pressure. No promises. No expectations. Fair enough?”

  “Thank you.” She picked up her fork. “And I love vodka sauce.”

  SEPTEMBER 29

  WEDNESDAY, 9:56 A.M.

  BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  The morning seemed clear to Joe, everything sharp and defined. Feeling a little hokey, he thought of Johnny Nash. The man seemed to know a thing or two about bright sunshiny days.

  After dinner the previous evening, Joe and Gillian had talked over coffee and cannoli—another one of Mickey’s Italian surprises. At nine, Joe offered to drive her home, but she insisted she would be fine. She made it clear they should take things slow, very slow, but she kissed him on the cheek as she left.

  Mickey had cornered him afterward, and Joe felt obligated to share with him her desire to set speed traps. Mickey nodded. “Smart girl,” he said. “Hope she doesn’t wait too long. You’re not getting any younger, and neither am I.” Joe went home soon after, getting to bed by eleven. When he woke this morning, he felt … different. One glass of wine with last night’s meal. Not bad.

  Now he sat in his cubicle, squad chatter the only background noise. In front of him sat several pages of his notes on the Edgerton case. He’d spent the last hour reading through the logs and interviews of the high-profile investigation from twenty years ago. It was starting to make sense. He began to understand why the original investigator felt Edgerton had run off. Jake Adderman, the lobbyist who had been charged in the subsequent federal investigation for congressional bribery, had been linked to several casino-development interests and two Indian tribes. One of his shell companies, Indigenous Peoples Self-Governance Foundation, had been set up to promote Indian gaming. The investigation had uncovered a wire transfer of fifteen thousand dollars from the foundation to an account with Banamex, a large Mexican bank. According to the file, Special Agent Malcolm Tsosie, who had retired soon after Joe came on with the BIA in 1990, had tracked down the transfer and determined that the receiving account had been opened under Arlen Edgerton’s name. The account also listed a Mexico City attorney by the name of Cedro Bartolome as the paymaster. Joe wasn’t sure what that meant, but a report indicated that when Bartolome was contacted by the legal attaché at the U.S. embassy in Mexico City, he refused to discuss the account or Arlen Edgerton. Other wire transfers totaling more than $750,000 from the foundation had been made to two Cayman Islands accounts, neither of which was ever identified. It was apparent that after finding the account linked to Edgerton, the case had shifted from a missing-person investigation to a fugitive hunt.

  Things were different now. Joe had found a body, and if it turned out to be linked to Edgerton’s disappearance, then he was looking at a murder inves
tigation. That might make things easier. It almost always did. Few cases were unsolvable. The absolute stranger crime was rare. When it came to murder, how the victim was killed often reflected the murderer’s emotional state at the time of the crime and sometimes it indicated if the killer knew the victim or if he or she was a stranger. Anger. Revenge. Greed. Jealousy. Emotions help narrow the pool of suspects. If the victim was stabbed twenty-seven times, a likely suspect was a romantic partner—or Squeaky Fromme. When OMI shared their preliminary findings on the body, he might get a better direction for the case—maybe. A skeleton was not nearly as good at ratting out the culprit as a good old-fashioned flesh and blood body.

  This morning, Joe’s analytical skills seemed sharper, and it wasn’t simply because of his reduced alcohol intake. There’d been chunks of time over the last two years that he wouldn’t drink for days or weeks. No. It wasn’t that. Last night, thanks to Mickey and Gillian, he’d let go of something … his stress? No, not stress. Work wasn’t so taxing. He hadn’t performed any heavy lifting in a while. Hell, that’s why they wanted him packed up and sitting in a window seat on the express train to retirement. Perhaps it was the restful sleep he’d had last night. No dreams. No guilt. Or maybe it was that he’d awakened this morning without an overwhelming sense of responsibility. Responsibility for Melissa. For his wife.

  As soon as these thoughts entered his mind, the fog moved in, mucking up the clarity he had so enjoyed the last few hours. Was he forgetting her? In that instant, the papers in front of him dimmed. That sunshiny-day thing winked out.

  “Cordelli said you had a date last night.” Stretch stood at the edge of Joe’s cubicle, his lanky arm resting across the divider. “Heard she was quite a looker.”

  “You wanna swap stories in the locker room?”

  Stretch raised both hands in front of him, palms out. “Whoa there, cowpoke. I’m only asking because I’m happy for you. I’m not trying to pry, but if you want to share, I’m all ears.”

  “Share? What is this, an AA meeting?”

  “Take a breath, Joe. I’m just doing the friend thing here, okay?”

  “Sorry,” Joe said, realizing Stretch would have no idea why he was feeling defensive. “I know you’re not screwing with me. And yes, I did have dinner last night. Her name’s Gillian. She’s very nice, but we’re only friends.”

  “Good for you, buddy.” Stretch gave him the attaboy nod. “I actually came over to ask about your cold case. Dale said you recovered a body yesterday and had a run-in with the press. He was pretty upset about the scene photos in the paper.”

  “He would have gone through the roof if he’d seen the originals. Us digging up the body.” Joe picked up the reporter’s business card from his desk. “Helena Newridge. Washington Post. Ever hear of her?”

  Stretch shook his head.

  “The few articles I could find seem to be D.C. gossip. I don’t know what she’s doing here.” Joe tossed the card back down. “I’m heading over to OMI in an hour. Want to tag along?”

  SEPTEMBER 29

  WEDNESDAY, 11:23 A.M.

  NEW MEXICO OFFICE OF THE MEDICAL INVESTIGATOR, UNIVERSITY OF NEW MEXICO CAMPUS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  If this had been a standard autopsy, Joe, Stretch, and Bluehorse would have been standing behind the observation glass, watching the pathologist cut into the body, but since these were only bones, they were allowed inside the exam room. Everyone wore latex gloves and breathing masks. The masks were probably excellent at filtering bacteria and particles but did little for the smell. The air reeked, an effluvia of putrefaction and disinfectant from that morning’s autopsies.

  On the metal table before them rested the result of the previous day’s cadaver dog search. The bones formed an almost complete human skeleton. Some were missing. Dirt, grime, and age had created a dark patchwork of muted colors that made the remains look more like tree branches than the bleached white bones found in displays or on television. In real life, death and decay were dirty work that marred the body as well as the soul.

  The tattered clothing, which had dressed the bones in the shallow grave, had been separated and was now spread out on a second metal table to their right.

  The pathologist stood on the other side of the bone-covered table wearing a head cover, goggles, mask, and layers of blue and white scrubs. A full-length blue apron covered his torso and legs.

  When the man spoke, his voice had the tone of a high school teacher presenting biology to the football team. “This is the skeleton recovered yesterday. It will be sent down to the University of North Texas, to their Center for Human Identification. They’ll do a complete workup on the bones, so understand that the findings I’m about to share with you are in no way official. Andi asked for a preliminary exam, so that’s all I’m offering, preliminary findings based on my opinion and my opinion alone.” The doctor looked at Joe as though waiting for some sort of acknowledgment.

  Joe obliged. “I understand.”

  “Okay, so let’s begin. It looks to be that of an adult male, between the ages of thirty to fifty-five, five five to five ten, one hundred and fifty to two hundred and seventy-five pounds, possibly Caucasian. Looks like it’s been in the ground for more than fifteen years, but I can’t be sure because New Mexico has such a unique climate. The dry conditions and clay soil can preserve bodies and clothing much better than other areas in the country, making it difficult for me to estimate how long it may have stayed underground. The center should be able to give a better time frame. We’re missing three phalanges, the hallux and second toe on the right foot and the—”

  “What’s a hallux?” Stretch asked.

  “Sorry. What’s missing is the big toe and the second toe on the right foot, and the pinkie toe on the left foot. I think the disappearance was due to animals, because there appears to be some gnaw marks on the sesamoid bo—I mean the bones connecting the toe to the foot. The right tibia and fibula are also missing. Don’t know if we have all the vertebrae. I didn’t count them. A few teeth, but I don’t know if they were lost postmortem or perimortem. And the only fingers recovered on the left hand were the thumb and forefinger. About eight ribs are broken, some missing but the breaks look postmortem. One rib is of interest. Fourth rib, right side.” The pathologist lifted three bone fragments from the table and attempted to connect them together. “The second break, here.” He pointed. “The bones don’t fit together. The edges seem shattered, not broken. Possible gunshot.”

  “What makes you think gunshot?” Stretch said.

  “The shattered bone appears to be the result of a projectile. A bullet is my best guess, but it’s only a guess.”

  “I don’t have much more to tell you on the bones.” The pathologist moved to stand behind the table where the clothing lay. He pointed to a piece of dark blue fabric. “Dress pants. Synthetic material, possibly polyester blend, which helps explain why it held up so well. No wallet. No pocket litter.”

  “No pocket litter?” Bluehorse asked. “Is that strange? I mean, that’s one of the things we look for when we try to determine if a ceremonial burial took place. That and the cheap suit makes me think it might be ceremonial.”

  “The grave was shallow,” Joe said, “which isn’t consistent with a family burial.”

  Joe was well aware of ceremonial burials. He’d investigated several suspected body dumps over the years, only to determine the sites were simply noncemetery graves. Native Americans often buried loved ones outside of cemeteries, sometimes without grave markers so no one could come along and dig them up to steal belongings—or body parts. Human bones are still part of Native American witchcraft rituals. Noncemetery burials were more common fifty years ago, but today, to bury someone outside of a cemetery within the Navajo Nation, the family would need the approval of the Navajo Land Board, which maintained records of present-day burial sites as well as known ancient ones.

  The pathologist pointed to the shirt.

  “Eighteen neck, thirty sleeves, manufacturer
tag is unreadable. Most of the shirt is rotted. Some looks like it’s been eaten, or more likely carried off for nesting. The suit jacket protected a lot of it from decay.”

  Joe could make out the collar and shoulders. The left sleeve was missing; the right retained most of its length. The stomach area of the shirt was gone. The chest was tattered with dark stains the color of soot. The back was completely intact, with only a few small holes.

  “The area on the shirt where I suspect the bullet punctured the flesh has been eaten away. Blood draws insects and small animals, so those areas are often attacked first. Overall, your body and clothing are in remarkable condition. If they are part of the Edgerton disappearance, then that would put them underground over twenty years. I’m surprised you were able to recover an almost-intact skeleton. Was the grave covered by stones? That might explain why the animals left it alone.”

  Joe shook his head, “Just dirt, but a neighbor seemed pretty efficient at killing coyotes.”

  The pathologist raised an eyebrow.

  Joe went on. “You said the body was one fifty to two seventy-five. Why such a wide range?”

  “The lower range is based on his height. The upper range I guesstimated from the size of his clothing. If the clothing belonged to this man, he was obese. The center will be able to give you a better weight range.”

  “Edgerton was pretty fit, but I recall the driver was heavy,” Joe said. “I have a report saying that our office sent OMI the dental records of all three people back when they went missing. Are they still on file here?”

  “They were digitized and added to NamUs three years ago. I pulled them this morning.” NamUs was the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System, a database used by medical examiners and investigators to identify remains.

  Joe sensed a break in the case. “And?”