Whispers of the Dead_A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

  “Of course.”

  “But you put them back on?”

  “Obviously.”

  “And what about the Styrofoam ice box?”

  “Destroyed.”

  “Why?”

  “Space and convenience,” Stone replies. When Jimmy just stares at him he begins to fidget and then uncrosses his arms. Words burst from his mouth like so much bad soup. “We’re not exactly swimming in extra storage in the cooler. I’ve got a hundred and thirty-six bodies stacked six high back there. They come in as fast as we can get rid of them. We need all the room we can get.”

  “That’s a bit much for a city like Tucson, isn’t it?” Jimmy’s genuinely curious. “Why so many?” he asks.

  Dr. Stone misinterprets the question as criticism, and the entire left side of his face scrunches up into a squinting smorgasbord of disgust and annoyance.

  “The border, of course,” he snorts. “We’ve got people dying in the desert right and left, and they all end up here.” He pauses, shaking his head like some old codger chastising a petulant child. “It’s always the same with you Feds, isn’t it? You have no clue what’s going on down here … or in the rest of the country, for that matter.”

  Jimmy’s eyes narrow. “We don’t write policy, Dr. Stone. We’re with the Special Tracking Unit and we have a job to do just like you.” He pauses, and then adds, “Your cooperation is appreciated,” pronouncing each word sharply and individually.

  To me, it sounds less like appreciation and more like insistence … but then, I’ve known Jimmy longer than Dr. Stone.

  “Now, would you mind taking the feet out of the shoes?”

  Stone looks at the time on his cell phone again, and then says with a resigned sigh, “We’re out of gloves. I’ll get some from the supply locker.” He pauses in the doorway: “Don’t touch anything.”

  We listen to his shoes as they clump down the hall. For someone who keeps checking the time, he doesn’t appear to be in that big of a hurry.

  “Well, he certainly brings the gloom back to the room,” I say.

  A moment later we hear the clump clump clump of cheap shoes in the hall, heralding the doctor’s return. Stone holds up a new box of gloves as he enters the autopsy suite, perhaps as proof that they really were out.

  After tugging up one set of gloves, followed by a second set required by standard operating procedure, Dr. Stone retrieves a plastic disposable apron from a drawer and fastens it around his neck and waist. Next, he picks up a face mask that looks like the visor from a riot helmet and settles it into place on his head.

  “I’ll forgo the rest of the PPE, if you don’t mind,” he says. “After all, it’s only a pair of feet.”

  “PPE?” I say.

  What he replies is, “Personal protection equipment, Mr. Craig”; what I hear is, Personal protection equipment, you ignorant simpleton.

  It’s all in the delivery.

  Motioning us away with the back of his right hand, Dr. Stone waits until we’re practically at the door before letting out a tiresome sigh and giving us the stop signal. Reaching into the plastic container with both hands, he extracts the feet and places them on the stainless steel table. The laces are untied and hanging loose—apparently he didn’t bother to tie them after he had the shoes off the first time around. The feet slip from their covers with ease. Stone places the empty shoes off to the side.

  Next he peels off the white athletic socks. The left one has a large hole where the big toe pokes out; the right one has a similar-sized hole in the heel. Either the guy didn’t like wasting money on socks, or he didn’t have money to waste on socks. I’m guessing the latter.

  Setting the socks with the shoes, Dr. Stone stands the feet upright and faces them in our direction, a bit like a jeweler would present a watch or a ring for a perspective buyer. He waves us forward to admire his work.

  Feet can be ugly; these are no exception.

  Taking my glasses off, I slip them into my shirt pocket and lean in, as if to get a closer look. I don’t need to, of course. As soon as the glasses slip from my face I see the stunning ice-blue shine—IBK’s shine.

  It contrasts sharply with that of the victim, which is gray mottled with carmine, overlaying a texture similar to that of a peach skin. It’s almost homely by comparison. It’s also flat and still, with none of the usual pulsations. Wherever he is, Gray Foot is already dead.

  “Anything odd about them?” Jimmy asks Dr. Stone.

  “You mean aside from being severed at the ankle and left in an ice box?”

  “Yeah, aside from that,” Jimmy replies patiently.

  Dr. Stone retrieves a clipboard from a shelf under the cart and glances over it quickly. “Mid-twenties Caucasian male. Height and weight impossible to tell for obvious reasons.” He glances over the clipboard in case we don’t grasp the obvious reasons part of his description. “Hmm … yes, this was odd,” he continues. “Cell structure suggests the feet were frozen—shoes and all. They were completely thawed out when we recovered them, though they were still a bit damp.”

  Jimmy looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Just like El Paso,” he says. He turns to Dr. Stone. “Anything to indicate whether the victim was alive or dead when the feet were cut off?”

  Stone thumbs through the report. “The injuries appear to be perimortem.” Glancing over the clipboard, he says, “That means at or near the time of death.”

  “I know what it means.”

  “So he was alive when it started,” Stone confirms. “How long he lasted is impossible to tell without the rest of the body.” He shrugs. “If the bleeding was stopped and the wounds were tended properly, he could still be alive.”

  No, I tell myself. He’s dead.

  The shine never lies.

  Dr. Stone sets the clipboard on the autopsy cart and Jimmy picks it up before the good doctor can object. The information is scant. “Who is this Thomas McAllister, and what is Windhaven?”

  “Mr. McAllister is a defense attorney, and Windhaven is a so-called upscale gated community in the suburbs.”

  “The type of neighborhood that’s not easy to get in and out of without being noticed?”

  “I suppose so; bit snobbish, if you ask me,” Stone replies, scrunching his nose up. The words are almost laughable coming out of this guy’s mouth.

  “How about the wounds?” Jimmy asks. “Any idea what could have taken the feet off so cleanly?”

  “Something sharp.”

  Jimmy drops his shoulders and just stares. His head is cocked to the right, but his eyes are trained squarely on the doctor—you might say he’s burning imaginary holes through his skull.

  “What?” Stone blurts after a long, uncomfortable silence. “You can see for yourself. It was something sharp with a lot of force; took the feet off with one stroke. Beyond that your guess is as good as mine.” He waves a hand at us like some womb-weary mother shushing away her children. “You’re the investigators, go figure it out. Investigate.”

  Jimmy’s absolutely simmering.

  I see it in his face, his posture, his grinding teeth.

  Stone stands cloaked in his own self-importance. From the other side of the autopsy table he looks upon us with arrogance and contempt. Spreading his hands wide with his palms up, he asks, “Are we done?”

  Opening his wallet, Jimmy extracts a business card and tosses it onto the stainless steel table next to the feet. “I want a copy of your report and any photos. Email them to the address on the card—I’m sure you can do that in the next ten or fifteen minutes, right?”

  It’s a rhetorical question, and he doesn’t wait for an answer.

  As Jimmy makes his exit, I look at Stone with a hard eye and make little effort to hide the disgusted curl of my mouth. Without a word I turn and follow in my partner’s wake. At the door I pause and lean back into the room. “We’re done now.”

  Residence of Thomas McAllister—September 4, 6:14 P.M.

  The guard manning the security booth at the opulent
entrance to Windhaven has a contrary visage, like the two-faced Roman god Janus. One of his faces is that of a pubescent lad riddled with acne; the other face is dominated by tired eyes perched above baggy festoons. This second face suggests a severe lack of sleep and an age closer to forty. It’s hard to tell which face is true.

  His name is Kevin; either that or his shirt is stolen.

  When he exits the booth and greets us, his voice is as tired as his face, and it’s not with welcoming words that he receives us, but with the raw challenge of a military sentry. “Name and destination?” He has a clipboard in hand, which no doubt holds today’s list of expected guests and approved visitors.

  Jimmy doesn’t waste words. “We’re not on your list,” he says. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieves his wallet and flips out his badge. “Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he says, holding up the credentials so Kevin can get a good look. “I’m Special Agent Donovan, and this is Operations Specialist Magnus Craig. We’re here to see Thomas McAllister on Southwind Lane.”

  “Mr. McAllister arrived home about an hour ago,” Kevin says, “but I can’t just let you in without approval—”

  “Sure you can,” Jimmy interrupts, pointing at the badge with his free hand. “See, FBI. We just need to talk to him about his little incident back in April.”

  “The dismembered body,” Kevin says solemnly and with a knowing nod. “I wasn’t working here yet, but I heard about it after I got hired. Blood everywhere, they said.”

  “What exactly did you hear?” I ask, suddenly curious how two severed feet in a Styrofoam ice box suddenly morphed into a dismembered body.

  Kevin glances up the street and then over his shoulder, as if talking to the FBI might be construed as gossip, or somehow giving away community secrets. His words come low and fast: “This is just hearsay,” Kevin says, sounding very lawyerly, “but Jones and Peña told me the living room was covered in blood when Mr. McAllister arrived home that night. A dozen cops showed up and closed down the street, and some of the residents were evacuated from their homes. From what I heard, they found a head wrapped in plastic inside Mr. McAllister’s fridge—resting right there on the shelf next to a half-eaten apple pie, if you can believe it. The feet, arms, and legs were scattered around the living room, and the torso was lying in the middle of the garage wearing a button-up shirt and tie. They even found a pair of hands in Mr. McAllister’s mailbox next to a mail-order catalog and his electric bill.”

  “That’s pretty detailed info.”

  “Worst thing that’s ever happened in Windhaven,” Kevin says, giving me a serious look of contemplation. “You don’t forget stuff like that.”

  “I guess not,” I say. “And no one heard a thing, huh?”

  “Not a peep.”

  I can tell Jimmy’s patience is about gone from the way he’s squirming in the driver’s seat. “So can you buzz us through, Kevin? We just need to ask Mr. McAllister a few follow-up questions.”

  Kevin steps over to the booth and reaches for the button, but then thinks better of it and holds up an index finger instead. “Just give me a second. I’ll give him a call. I’m sure he won’t have a problem with it, he’s pretty cool that way.” Without waiting for a response he steps into the booth, picks up the phone, and punches in the number. His back is to us, so all we hear is a mumbled one-sided exchange.

  When Kevin hangs up the phone he gives us a thumbs-up. “You’re good,” he says. “Take the second road on the right and he’s halfway down the block on the left-hand side; can’t miss it.” He presses the control button in the booth and the yellow-striped barrier arm suddenly arches up and to the left, clearing the way ahead.

  “Thanks, Kevin,” I call out, throwing him a wave as Jimmy hits the gas and accelerates through the access point.

  Thomas McAllister is waiting on his front porch when we pull into the driveway at Southwind Lane. The home is a large and stunning adobe-style with a cluster of palm trees rising from the front yard. While I’m not partial to the Southwest, I’ve always loved the earthy Pueblo-inspired homes that are endemic to the region. McAllister’s home is certainly a finer example of these.

  “Mr. McAllister?” Jimmy says as he greets the middle-aged man with an extended hand.

  “Call me Tom, please,” the attorney says with a warm smile.

  “Special Agent Donovan—Jimmy,” my partner says. He extends a hand my way and adds, “This is Operations Specialist Magnus Craig.”

  I take Tom’s hand, saying, “Call me Steps.”

  He just nods. “Please, come inside.” We follow him through the foyer and into the living room, where he motions for us to have a seat on the massive beige couch that dominates the room.

  Tom turns away to take a seat and I use the moment to catch Jimmy’s attention and give him a discreet nod. The ice-blue shine was evident as soon as we walked into the living room. Like Judge Ehrlich’s house, IBK entered through a sliding glass door and stayed just long enough to drop off the Styrofoam ice box before leaving the way he came.

  “Jenny ran to the kitchen to whip up some lemonade,” Tom says with a grin. “We’re both curious what the FBI wants to know about the lost feet that someone decided to leave in our house.” He grins as Jimmy and I exchange a look. “Kevin told me the purpose of your visit: the so-called Windhaven Massacre. I guess a couple feet in a box aren’t exciting enough; people need to embellish the story so they have something interesting to tell their friends. We were the talk of the community for months. Your visit should get some tongues flapping again.”

  “Sorry about that,” Jimmy says earnestly.

  “Don’t be.” Tom laughs. “I think it’s hysterical. Let them squawk all they want. People are funny creatures, don’t you think?” Gesturing toward the kitchen, he adds, “Jenny’s not too happy about the feet, of course.” He just grins and shrugs.

  A voice drifts down the hall: “Severed feet, Tom! Severed feet in my living room!” The voice is followed by an elegant woman in her early forties who bursts from the kitchen and down the hall with a wooden tray of glasses filled with ice, a pitcher of fresh lemonade, a plate of brownies, and a gracious smile that belongs in a toothpaste commercial. “It was disgusting,” she adds, scrunching her nose. “I had the carpet steam-cleaned—twice.”

  Her cleaning efforts may have eliminated any dirt carried in by the killer, but it had no effect on the footsteps I see crossing her living room. That’s the odd thing about shine: it imparts a bit of itself in everything it comes in contact with, as if the shine now belongs to the fibers in the carpet or the particles of wood in the subfloor. The only thing that gets rid of it is erosion and corruption: leaves decompose, sand blows, wood rots, and even stone wears down over time, taking the shine with it.

  The type of contact is also important. A bare foot leaves a much bolder, deeper imprint than a shoed foot.

  Mrs. McAllister sets the tray down and extends a slender hand, saying, “I’m Jenny.”

  Jimmy and I rise from our seats and take turns introducing ourselves and shaking hands. Jenny insists on pouring us each a tall glass of lemonade. “I use a concentrate,” she says, “but then I squeeze in a couple fresh lemons. It gives it a little more bite.”

  “Wow! That’s good,” I say after taking a sip. I’ve never been much of a lemonade guy, but I could get used to this.

  Jenny just beams and holds out the plate of brownies.

  We spend the next ten minutes making small talk, mostly about Tucson. Jenny insists that we visit Saguaro National Park during our stay. Apparently it has the largest cacti in the county, the big ones you see in all the westerns. She’s also a big fan of the Reid Park Zoo

  Tom has his own passion, which is Kitt Peak National Observatory. “It’s an hour west, but worth the drive,” he insists. “People travel here from all over the country because we have the perfect conditions for stargazing. Get out of the city a little ways and there’s zero light pollution. It’s amazing. You’d be surprised how many p
eople retire here—or just move here—so they can watch the night sky.”

  “Are you one of them?” Jimmy asks with a grin.

  “Nah,” he says with a small chuckle. “I moved here when I was eighteen and just never left. I didn’t catch the astronomy bug until much later.”

  Eventually we get back to the purpose of our visit, but reluctantly so. Tom and Jenny are easy to talk to, generous hosts, and decent to their core. With some people you can just tell.

  “Yeah, the feet,” Tom says when Jimmy broaches the subject. “I was running late that night; thought I’d get home after Jenny, but she had some problems with one of her clients in court that day. Good thing, I suppose.”

  “You’re an attorney too?” I ask, turning to Jenny.

  “Divorce and family law,” she replies. “I gave criminal law a go earlier in my career, but it was too much. Divorce court is a breeze in comparison, at least psychologically.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “So, you got home first…” Jimmy prompts Tom.

  “Yeah. Nothing was out of order; no sign of a break-in or anything like that. I saw the ice chest sitting in the middle of the living room and didn’t think much of it. It looked brand-new and I just figured Jenny left it there, though that’s a little out of the ordinary for her.”

  “I’m OCD when it comes to putting things away,” Jenny clarifies.

  “I was in the house about ten minutes,” Tom continues, “before I got around to picking it up. Soon as I did, I realized it wasn’t empty. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when I pulled the lid off. Geez, and the smell! There was some putrid water sloshing around inside, which was a bit odd, until I learned that the feet had been frozen. Whoever placed it here wanted to make sure they were thawed out when we found them, though. I’m sure of that.”

  “Can you think of any reason why someone would do that?” Jimmy asks. “Did anyone make any threats beforehand, or did you have a client that was upset with you? Anything you can remember would help.”

  “Nothing comes to mind. It’s one of the abnormalities of being a defense attorney,” Tom says, “the bad guys tend to like me. These days about half my work is pro bono. The legal system in this country can be a bitch if you don’t have good counsel. Sure, there’s the public defender’s office, but they’re so overworked and understaffed they don’t have the time to properly defend their clients.”