In the Belly of Jonah: A Liv Bergen Mystery

by Sandra Brannan

  “Did you bag and tag?”

  “Uh-huh,” Brandt answered.

  “Tell me about the scene,” Streeter pressed.

  “I got there at . . . oh, I’d say about 9:30 to 9:40 am. I’d been out at the quarry talking with the vic’s boss on the missing persons call when I got the call from dispatch. That was at 9:10. The fisherman had found the vic just ten minutes before and had called it in immediately.”

  “And tell me what you saw when you arrived.”

  Brandt took a deep breath. Streeter imagined the detective was leaning back in his chair at his desk, just like he had been doing earlier. The ultimate thinking position. But now Streeter hunched over his desk and wrote as fast as Brandt was speaking.

  “It was awful. Worst crime scene I’d ever been to.” Brandt blew out a breath. Streeter didn’t fill the uncomfortable silence that followed, allowing Brandt time to gather his thoughts and composure. “Okay. The first responders had cordoned off the entire south shore of the reservoir. There were just four officers trying to keep dozens of looky-loos away from the beach. It was kind of crazy because we had some fishermen returning to the nearby dock, unaware they had slipped off in the early morning darkness right next to a gruesome murder scene.”

  “Did you question any of them?”

  “All of them were detained and interviewed at the station. We thought one of them might be the perp,” Brandt explained.

  “And now?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Okay,” Streeter said, sketching a time line at the top of his paper. Predawn, fishermen launch. Nine ten, call taken by Brandt. Nine thirty to nine forty, Brandt arrives at crime scene.

  “Interviewing the fishermen kept us busy. Securing the crime scene tied up a bunch more of our guys’ time. So, I was the one investigating the crime scene. It was a circus out there.”

  Streeter knew Brandt was stalling. Recalling a crime scene as gruesome as this one must have been a strain, to say the least. Streeter felt sorry for the poor guy, knowing he’d need months, even years, to get to the point where the images were blurred from memory. If ever.

  “There were these cabinets near the water’s edge. Two of them.”

  “Cabinets?”This was a detail Streeter had not heard from the coroner’s office.

  “The kind that have two doors in them. One had an empty brown bottle sitting on top. We hauled all that stuff off to the lab right away to dust. Didn’t want any more commotion out there than we already had.”

  “Smart,” Streeter said. “You think the killer put the cabinets out there?”

  “Know he did,” Brandt said. “There was a stream of blood running across the rocks from the girl to the water that pooled around the base of each of the cabinets, like the guy planned it that way.”

  “All right, good eye.” Streeter was impressed. He had also earned Brandt’s trust and therefore was getting more information in a shorter time frame than he would if he pulled jurisdiction from him and took over the case. “What else?”

  “The boats nearby kept rocking around, knocking into each other. Every time I looked that way, I about lost my lunch. Kept it real, if you know what I mean.”

  Streeter knew. It was the girl, the blood, the smells that were making Brandt sick, but the mind has a powerful ability called transference. It was easier for Brandt to blame the rocking boats, which symbolized seasickness, for his urge to throw up.

  “She . . . the girl was sitting up, hands in her lap, legs straight out, facing the reservoir,” Brandt struggled.

  “North? The body was facing north?” Streeter asked, drawing Brandt’s attention to details so his memory would be sharp. Plus, Streeter had sketched the reservoir in relation to Fort Collins and was marking areas as Brandt spoke.

  “Yes, north. It was weird, Pierce. She had a . . . a wooden stick shaped like a T propping her up, stuck under her collar bone. Kind of like where her spine should have been . . . ”

  His words trailed off.

  Streeter was losing him to the world of nightmarish memories. “What kind of stick, Brandt? A tree branch? A walking stick? A pole?”

  “More like a crutch, I’d say. It was a wooden crutch with a T . . . no, more like a U-shaped handle. The shaft was about three feet tall.”

  Streeter ruminated on this image. “One piece or two?”

  “You mean was the handle attached? No, it wasn’t a separate piece. The shaft and the handle were both hewn from one piece of wood.”

  “Same wood as the cabinets?”

  Brandt paused. Streeter heard a clicking noise and imagined Brandt tapping a fingernail or a pen against his tooth or something.

  “No. Different wood. Maybe the same wood as one of the cabinets. I can’t remember. I’ll have to check.”

  “Anything else around? Other furniture, weapons, cigarette butts, clues, anything?” Streeter had diverted Brandt’s attention from the girl for the time being, trying to extract as much as possible before getting back to the emotionally draining images.

  “We’re still combing the area. We’ve picked up boxes and boxes full of crap off that beach. Bottle caps, cigarette butts, candy wrappers, fishing hooks and line, you name it. It’s a really popular spot for locals.”

  “Anything catch your eye that might fit with the murder?”

  Brandt hummed. “Nope. Well, just that . . . nope.”

  “What?” Streeter urged. After a long pause, he added, “Trust your instincts.”

  “Well, the odd thing to me was what wasn’t there,” Brandt offered.

  “How so?”

  “Like, where was her middle? I mean, I know I found bits of bone and gunk in the shallows, but where was the spine? Did he take it home as a trophy or something? There wasn’t anything nearby except a lot of blood, and even that wasn’t as much as I would have expected considering the damage that was done to her.”

  “So you think this wasn’t the spot where he killed her?” Streeter switched the phone to his other ear and shoulder and kept writing.

  “My gut says it was, but not where she sat. The gravel looked wet all around her body and to the water’s edge, like she’d been in the water and dragged up on shore or something. Maybe the water washed away most of the blood. The stream of blood from her body was more like a trickle, and the pooling around the cabinets was minimal considering the wound. Least ways that’s how I figured it.”

  “Maybe he tossed the spine, the bigger chunks into the deeper water.”

  “Maybe.”

  Streeter’s mind imagined the gray rocks on the beach at Horsetooth Reservoir. He had been there before with his late wife. The reservoir was long and narrow, running north and south, with a road encircling the water. It was a stunning, rocky area with pebble beaches, not sandy ones. The pebbles were smooth and round after decades of being polished by whitewater rapids spilling from the peaks of the Rockies and varied in shades of gray, dark brown, and black. If the victim had been in the dark waters and dragged onto the beach, the pebbles around her would be much darker than the surrounding dry areas. Darkened by water, blood, and bodily fluids. And if the killer had carved out a chunk of the girl in the shallow waters, they should have found some remnants, even if the fish had chummed for a few hours before the girl was found. The waters were still and little would have washed away in that short a time.

  “Was she found naked?” Streeter asked.

  “Nope. She was wearing a dress and shoes.”

  “Can you get water samples from her clothes to compare to the reservoir?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. Her hair was damp, but her clothes and shoes were dry.”

  “He dressed her after she was in the water?”

  “Seems so.”

  Streeter’s mind processed all the information he had assimilated. He flipped back through his notebook. “So, he cut her torso after she was out of the water?”

  “Don’t think so. Not based on the area around her. The rocks were pretty clean, like I said, except
for the blood that trickled from her. She had to have been cut while she was in the water,” Brandt concluded.

  Still flipping through his notes, Streeter’s eyes landed on the first note he wrote. “If she was sliced up in the water, dragged back up on shore, and dressed afterward, then how did the fisherman see the window through the girl?”

  Brandt slurped what Streeter imagined was a hot cup of coffee. “That’s the thing. The dress had been cut to mimic the torso. Looks like a carpet knife or something crude.”

  “The killer took the time to drag the victim back on shore, dry her off, dress her, and cut the dress to shape only to leave her propped by the water’s edge?” Streeter summarized. “That’s just weird.”

  “It gets weirder,” Brandt said. “Remember, he moved the cabinets between her and the water, placed a bottle on one of the cabinets, and then wrapped her face in a piece of cloth.”

  “Why? Was her face bruised? Cut?”

  “Nope,” Brandt said. “And as far as the why, you tell me? The perp’s insane.”

  “Very meticulous, prepared, organized. Mind if I get the BU involved?”

  “BU?” Brandt asked.

  “Behavioral unit out of D.C. They might be able to help if you’d like,” Streeter suggested.

  “Are you trying to pull rank on me, Pierce?” Streeter was about to protest when Brandt added, “Because I’d welcome the intrusion. Just don’t tell the chief I said so.”

  THEY FOUND JILL.

  The newsboy’s perfect aim at my front door alerted me to the morning paper at precisely 5:50 am, just as I was getting the milk for my cereal.

  The Coloradoan headlines read “CSU Student Found Dead.”

  I almost choked on my Rice Chex.

  Two small pictures of Jill—one taken as a studio portrait, the other in her CSU basketball uniform—underscored the large picture of the crime scene. The photo was of Horsetooth Reservoir as seen from the road that winds along the south side. Crime tape in the foreground blockaded the south beach. Dozens of criminalists, police, and emergency personnel huddled east of the dock area. Dozens more crowded the cars stacked along the roads to the east and west overlooking the gruesome scene. Everyone in the photo was watching a tall form on a gurney being carried to an ambulance.

  A blanket draped the form. No flesh uncovered. No rush.

  The story was even more sickening than the initial shock of Jill’s death. She had been butchered on the south beach sometime during the night. A fisherman had found her around nine o’clock yesterday morning when he returned with his early morning catch. That was about the time the detective had been interviewing Joe and me up at the office. No wonder he had left so abruptly.

  The fisherman had left before dawn, as did three other boaters. None of them had seen anything unusual or suspicious on the beach until returning. All of them noted it had been too dark to see anything at the hour of their departure. The police gave no indication that any of the fisherman were “persons of interest” at this time, meaning those poor bastards were probably all suspects for the moment, even the unlucky guy who found her. He was quoted as saying, “Oh dear God, it was horrible. That poor girl was just sitting there and she had a window sliced out of her body. I’ve never seen anything like it. A perfect rectangle. You could see right through her.”

  I lost it.

  Made it to the bathroom in time, but I lost it. Too much information, Coloradoan.

  I rinsed my face and brushed my teeth, opting not to finish reading the story. Jill was too good for this, too kind. Whatever happened to her, she did not deserve this. What kind of monster would do this to such an innocent young woman? A woman with hopes, dreams, ability; a long life ahead full of promise and purpose.

  Poor Joe.

  He had worked closely with Jill for the past seven weeks, mentoring her, shepherding her, helping her through the unavoidable obstacles of being a new hire at our company. As if mining and mineral processing were not a hard enough industry to work in as a summer temp, Jill had it doubly tough being an attractive college girl. Joe had made sure the uphill battle of acclimation, indoctrination, and acceptance was as painless as possible for the four athletes, particularly for Jill. And Joe had already decided he would invite Jill to return next summer because she was such a strong, reliable worker.

  I dialed the number knowing Joe had likely been at work since at least five and had probably missed the early morning news.

  “Joe, it’s Liv. Are you sitting down?”

  He didn’t respond right away.

  “Sitting?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?” he asked.

  There was no easy way to say it. “It’s Jill. She’s been murdered.”

  “Oh no,” he said, his voice sounding small.

  I wished I could have told him in person, face to face. But the plant is almost forty minutes from my house, and I was afraid someone would get to him before me. I knew he’d need time to recover from the news, and he’d be embarrassed if one of his employees witnessed his reaction.

  “It’s bad, Joe. It’s all over the news. She was butchered by some monster near Horsetooth.”

  He said nothing.

  “I know you’re in the middle of a shift change right now. You’ll need to pull it together quickly and tell the employees. Have them take a minute of silence for Jill and her family. The guys are going to need it. Tell them the authorities are working the crime scene and that we’ll know more later. But for the moment, all we can do is pray and cooperate any way we can with the authorities to help them find the bastard who did this to Jill. Tell them we will have a counselor up at the site from four to eight tonight for anyone needing to talk about it in private.”

  I waited for his response. Nothing.

  “Joe?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” he croaked.

  “You okay?”

  “Hell no.”

  That took me aback. It was the first time I had ever heard Joe swear. Ever. “I’m leaving now. I’ll be there by six forty and I’ll cover for you with the quarry and maintenance employees when they come to work at seven. Are you okay to talk with the plant employees right now or do you want me to do it via speaker phone?”

  I heard him clear his throat. “I’ve got it. I can handle it.”

  “I know you can. See you soon.”

  After fielding some questions from the quarry and maintenance employees, which it turned out I had no answers for, I cornered Joe.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Not so good, Liv,” Joe said, sporting a sickly shade of green.

  “I’m so sorry, Joe. I know how close you two were these past few weeks.”Did I see him blush? “Do you need a little time for yourself? I can cover here.”

  “No, I’ll be okay. Besides, I want to be here for Detective Brandt.”

  “He’ll let us know when he’s coming back,”I added. “He has his hands full with this one and it might be a while. His missing persons case just turned into a homicide.”

  I saw him wring his hands, something else I had never known him to do before. It reminded me of the odd expression on his face when he had looked at me yesterday during Brandt’s interview with us. “Joe, what was different about Jill last Saturday night at shift change?”

  “What do you mean?” His eyes gave him away.

  “When Brandt asked you if you noticed anything last Saturday night at shift change, the last time you saw Jill, you had that look in your eyes,”I explained.

  “What look?”

  I pointed at him. “That look. The one you have right now. You’re not a good liar. Something’s up. Give.”

  He shook his head and wrung his big, callused hands, which sounded more like sandpaper blocks rubbing against each other. I knew he wouldn’t lie to me, so I waited until he was ready to tell me whatever it was he thought I didn’t need to know.

  “It’s just that ...”

  Still I waited. He stopped wringing his hands and sat up in his chair, looking me st
raight in the eye. “I got there a little late on Saturday night. Cathy and I had been quarreling and I lost track of time. It was almost six when I got to the plant. The team leaders had already started the walkthrough inspection, and the assistants were grabbing pre-shift and post-shift samples together. The loader operators were doing the equipment inspections, and the material handlers were off looking at truck arrival schedules.”

  There was more to this, but I knew Joe well enough to know he would tell me in good time. We were in his office near the quarry shop, away from the constant bustle of the scalehouse activity and out of earshot of any other employees. This would be the only way Joe would tell me the story he was so desperately trying to avoid.

  “I was alone with Jill. No fifth man on nights to bag,” he stammered.

  I nodded. “And?”

  “I was asking her what she had accomplished for the day and for the week. Her numbers were great. Better than any other worker’s bag-perhour ratio in the past year. I was just trying to build her confidence.”

  Was that an apology in his voice? Justification? He was taking way too long to spit this out. My patience was spent and I blurted, “What the hell happened, Joe?”

  His expression hardened. “She kissed me. On the cheek.”

  That I hadn’t expected. Jill had just turned twenty this spring and Joe had grandkids. Knowing Jill, she had been genuinely grateful for the compliment Joe had paid her and probably had shown her appreciation with an innocent kiss. She was probably more like me than I thought. A hugger. Nothing meant by that quick kiss other than showing another human being that he was worth it, worth a hug. An attitude of gratitude.

  “I swear I didn’t kiss her back,” Joe protested. “Cathy and I may have been quarreling, but it wasn’t what you think. I told Cathy all about it.”

  The beads of sweat popped out on Joe’s brow and his cheeks burned red. He was not a touchy-feely kinda guy, to say the least, and very much appreciated at least two feet of buffer area around his body as his personal space. When someone had invaded that space, it was obvious by the way Joe’s body stiffened and his lips tightened. Much like he looked at this moment. I knew firsthand; on several occasions my celebratory gratitude had catapulted into a hug, making my operations manager uncomfortable. I learned to refrain from what was otherwise natural for me.