by Spencer Kope
My eyes and concentration are on the ground, but I hear Jimmy approaching; I sense him when he stops ten feet behind me. He leaves me alone, lets me finish, allows me to digest the scene and make sense of it.
Eventually I rise and brush the debris from my pants.
“He was here … and not just when he dumped the body. He’s been here a lot, but it’s all old—years old. The only recent track is the one leading out into the swamp.”
“How old are the others?”
“Hard to say for certain: maybe eight to ten years.” I run my hand down the hard bark of the old tree, the rough texture playing at my fingertips. “I don’t think he was alone,” I say.
Jimmy’s head snaps around hard, so I step back and point to the ground at my feet. “This was their spot. Sometimes they’d be facing each other; sometimes they’d be leaning up against the tree, or sitting at its base. It was someone close to him—someone he was intimate with.”
“Have you seen the other shine before?”
I shake my head.
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure; I think I’d remember this one. It’s an amazingly bold bronze with what looks like—I don’t know—maybe acid-green swirled through it.”
Jimmy walks a slow circle around the tree, perhaps imagining he sees what I see. “So, what brought them here again and again—the library?”
“Or the swamp,” I offer. “From this position, it seems like they’re looking out into it. The library is well off to the left, almost behind them.”
“Was she with him on the most recent trip, when he dumped the body?”
“She?”
Jimmy shrugs. “Most serial killers are male; you know that. And most males are heterosexual, so I’m just making the most logical assumption.”
“The odds are in your favor,” I say, “but I wouldn’t rule anything out.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“No. She—or he—wasn’t here when IBK dumped the body.”
“Begs a few questions, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, like why would you dump a corpse at a spot that held fond memories—unless the relationship didn’t end well? And what about the note pinned to the guy’s chest? That message was directed at someone, and we better figure out who and why in a hurry. You don’t write soon on a piece of paper and leave it on a mutilated corpse unless you mean it. This is some type of warning.”
Jimmy has a different idea; I can see it in his face.
Turning to face the swamp, he takes it in. I leave him be; it’s his turn to puzzle things out. When he finally turns back, his eyes are on the tree. The words are soft, but come with all the force and awe of thunder on the mountains.
“It’s a tribute.”
* * *
My spontaneous leap from the SUV when we pulled into the library parking lot broke our normal protocol, which tends to be more about analysis and less about arms waving in the air and running about wildly. In such circumstances, Jimmy can usually be counted on to get me back on course.
I’m better now.
“Right here,” I say, pointing. “It looks like he backed the car in.”
“How do you know that?”
“He got out on the left side, not the right. If he pulled straight in the driver’s door would be to the right. Plus, it looks like he had the body in the trunk, or in the back of a van or truck, because he walks … here.” I stop on the sidewalk directly in front of the parking spot. “This is where Larry’s shine first shows up. He laid him on the ground a moment, then he must have picked him up and carried him, because all I see is ice-blue shine heading that direction.” I point into the swamp.
“What do you think Larry weighed?”
I shrug. “A buck ninety-five, maybe two hundred—minus the feet.”
“So we’re talking someone with a decent amount of physical strength; probably someone younger and fairly active.”
“But old enough to think this through,” I offer. “The crime scenes aren’t sloppy; he’s organized, and disciplined enough to be conscientious about evidence.”
“Agreed,” Jimmy says, nodding. “Do you have a good trail?”
“Yep,” I reply. “It leads straight into the snake-infested swamp.” I slap my neck, then my arm. “Pterodactyls,” I warn.
“Pterodac—what?”
“Pterodactyls,” I repeat, slapping at the other side of my neck.
“You mean mosquitoes?”
“That’s what they want you to believe,” I say slowly. “Take a look at the size of these things next time one comes near.”
Jimmy just shakes his head. “You want to lead the way?”
“Not really.”
Jimmy’s patience tends to come in small measures when we’re in the field, so he gives me a brief moment, and when I make no movement toward the swamp, he issues a less-than-subtle Ah-hmm. And since it’s pointless to argue with him, I exhale deeply and begin putting one foot in front of the other.
From the parking lot, we follow the ice-blue trail a hundred and eighty feet to the west, through what appears to be a greenbelt, which isn’t so bad. Then we reach the swamp proper. I linger for a moment, eyes casting about for any small movements that might indicate the presence of snakes or alligators or rodents of unusual size attempting to devour wayward princesses, but the swamp doesn’t give up her secrets.
IBK likely dumped the body at night.
Perhaps that’s why he only ventures some forty feet into it before stuffing Larry Wilson’s mutilated corpse under the low-hanging boughs of swamp vegetation.
His steps lead to the dump site, then there are three or four additional steps stacked one over another as he sloughs the body off his shoulder and lets it fall where it may. Repositioning the body against the branches and vegetation, IBK leaves Larry upright but slouched over.
In the darkness that comes to swamps in the night, he may have considered the body well concealed, but Larry Wilson’s bright red shirt was clearly visible by day, a beacon among the greens and browns.
If concealment was his intent, IBK had failed.
Perhaps during the long drive from El Paso he forgot Larry was wearing the shirt. In the shadows of a Louisiana night, all color would have reverted to a thousand shades of black and gray, and the shirt wouldn’t be a factor. That changed with the coming of the bright southern sun. By midmorning the red smear in the swamp was a beacon that easily caught the eye of a library worker on a smoke break.
Bad luck for IBK.
* * *
Our trip to Louisiana generates more questions than answers.
We suspected the body from Bluebonnet Swamp was that of Larry Wilson when we left Bellingham this morning, so finding his shine, and that of IBK, isn’t a big surprise, and there’s no real gain from an investigative standpoint.
On the other hand, the discovery of the bronze shine opened up a new box of puzzle pieces and dumped it right on top of the old puzzle. As we drive away from the library, a host of questions jump out at me, but three in particular are picking at the scab in the corner of my brain:
First: Why drive a thousand miles to dump a body?
Second: Why choose a swamp behind a library?
And third: Why Baton Rouge?
The bronze shine is the key to all of this, I’m certain. But I’m starting to feel the pressure of time, and with bodies and feet starting to stack up, I wonder if the answer will come too late. The note on Larry Wilson’s chest is ever-present in my mind: soon, it read—but what’s soon? The next body, the next victim, the final retribution? The single word provides no answer, only more questions, and the promise: soon.
* * *
We check into the Baton Rouge Reserve, a four-star hotel just off I-10 and near the geographical heart of the city. After dumping my bag in the nondescript room, I wander two rooms down and give three loud raps on the door. Jimmy’s phone is to his ear when he opens the door and waves me in: he’s talking to the lab. Mor
e specifically, he’s talking to Janet Burlingame, our dedicated DNA tech at the FBI lab, and one of the most competent in her profession.
“No, that’s perfect.” Jimmy listens for a long moment. “You’re awesome. I’ll talk to you in a day or two. If for some reason you can’t reach me, just call Diane.” There’s another pause. “No, we’re flying back in the morning. Not much else we can do at the moment; besides, I have a kitchen to finish.”
Some lighthearted banter ensues and then Jimmy disconnects the call and sets his phone on the small table in the corner, where he takes a seat. “Janet got a match on the feet from Tucson,” he says casually as I park myself on the edge of his bed. “Travis Duncan is now—officially—our second victim.” He looks up suddenly. “Not that we didn’t know that,” he adds almost apologetically. “It’s just now we have the DNA to prove it.”
I just nod. “Without evidence there’s no evidence.”
Jimmy shoots me a grin. It’s a joke we came up with years ago. Some would call it a coping mechanism to deal with the fact that, because of shine, we often know who our suspect is, but have no evidence to prove it. Anyone in law enforcement will tell you that knowing something and being able to prove it in court are like lovers trapped on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon.
It can be maddening.
“She also got a good male profile off the toothbrush from Fiz’s apartment, so once Dr. Kenny gets that sample to her we can list Larry Wilson as victim number one.”
“She should get the blood card tomorrow,” I say. “Provided it went out right away and was shipped overnight delivery.”
“Right, but between the vagaries of overnight delivery and the complexities of in-house mail service at Quantico, Janet may get the package first thing in the morning, or right as she’s turning off the lights tomorrow night. Which means we might not get an answer till—what’s today?”
“Monday—no, Tuesday.”
“So we should have confirmation by Thursday at the latest,” Jimmy says. “That’ll take care of the victims, but we’re still no closer to identifying IBK. In fact, we’ve got nothing. He’s smart, I’ll give him that.”
“They all screw up eventually,” I say. “He will too. Maybe he already has.”
“I don’t know,” Jimmy replies skeptically. “I hope you’re right.”
Me too, I think. And then my own words slap me in the face: Maybe he already has! In that instant, a parade of wretched thoughts marches through my brain, led by the all-eclipsing question: How many bodies are still out there?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Baton Rouge Metropolitan Airport—September 10, 7:32 A.M.
After taking our seats on Betsy, and while Marty completes the preflight check, I lean toward Jimmy and hold out my closed hand.
“What?” He looks at me suspiciously—like I’ve ever given him cause to be suspicious. Well … maybe some cause, but it was all in good fun.
“Open your hand,” I say.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He hesitates, but eventually opens his hand, palm up. Uncurling my fingers, I place a small, folded white piece of paper in his outstretched palm and then lean back in my seat.
Jimmy stares at it. “What’s this?”
“Read it.”
“If it’s your resignation, I think they prefer it on letterhead.”
“Just read it.”
Jimmy peels apart the three folds of the note and reads the message aloud. “George Thorogood. ‘Bad to the Bone.’” He looks at me. “What’s this?”
“My new ringtone.”
“George Thorogood?” he says with a raised eyebrow. “‘Bad to the Bone’?”
I just nod.
“Bad to the Bone.” Uh-huh.
I feel empowered just saying it.
Jimmy doesn’t argue, he just finds the ringtone and downloads it to his phone. Then he plays it—loudly. I can see him getting into the music. After an encore, he bobbles his head and says, “That’s actually a pretty good ringtone.”
We sit and listen a moment as he plays the ringtone a third time, and then a fourth. Finally, he puts the phone back in his pocket, leans back in the seat with his hands behind his head, and says, “I’m gonna miss Judy Garland, though.”
An hour later we’ve exhausted all attempts at Plane Talk, and we still have a long stretch of sky before Bellingham. Jimmy’s going over some updates on a case we worked last month in North Dakota, so I pull out my folder and do some reading and writing of my own. Thirty seconds into it, without looking up, Jimmy says, “Another letter?”
The question is casual, almost rhetorical, as if he’d be just as satisfied without an answer as with. His voice carries the soft edge of a distracted mind. Even as I look up to answer he doesn’t break eye contact with the words before him.
My retrieval of the folder, the shuffling of papers, perhaps even my breathing as I read and correct and take notes, are all things he perceives at the periphery of his senses. He doesn’t have to look to know that I have pen in hand and paper before me.
Jimmy’s senses are well honed … all six of them.
“It’s my will.”
The words take a moment to pierce the wall of concentration, but then I see his eyelashes flutter, his mouth twist, and then he looks up. “Your will?”
“First Pat McCourt, then Sad Face,” I say with a shrug. “Seeing a shotgun rise up on you not just once, but twice, is enough to get you thinking about putting your affairs in order … just in case.”
“That was just bad luck on both counts.”
“Yeah, bad luck.” I nod emphatically. “If I remember correctly, that’s the type of luck that gets you killed.”
“Not exactly what I meant,” Jimmy replies. I can tell he’s got his psychology hat on, because he’s suddenly studying my face and body language, looking for tells, and trying to read my feelings. He does it in a casual way that most wouldn’t catch, but he and I have been through too much together.
We know each other’s moves.
“I know what you meant,” I reply, letting a little gratitude coat the words. “It’s good. Don’t worry about me. This isn’t some fatalistic meltdown; I’m just trying to be practical. We don’t exactly have desk jobs, after all.”
“No, we don’t,” he replies. Then he grins and says, “So what are you leaving me? Anything that might encourage me to push you out of the plane?”
I clear my throat and in a very stoic, lawyerly voice, say, “I’m leaving you one of my most prized possessions; I’m leaving you Gus. That way you won’t have to ride around in that shameful, beat-up heap you call a car.”
“Nice,” Jimmy says, grinning.
“Keep in mind that I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, so it may be an antique by the time you get it.”
“All the better,” Jimmy says. “I’m assuming you’re leaving the house to Jens … or maybe Heather?”
“I’m kind of stuck on that one. If—when—I marry Heather, the house would obviously go to her, but I want Jens to always have a home as well, so that’s where I’m hung up.”
“Why not leave Little Perch to Jens and Big Perch to Heather?”
“No, that doesn’t work. I’m leaving Little Perch to Ellis.”
“Really?”
“He’s like family,” I reply with a shrug.
“Yeah, but Jens is family.”
“I know.” I strum my fingers on the folder. “Who would have thought it would be so complicated to die? Maybe I should leave Little Perch to Jens with the stipulation that Ellis gets to stay there as long as he likes. They get along like brothers anyway, so I doubt there’d be any problems.”
“So Jens would inherit Little Perch and Ellis.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“What about your books?”
“Heather loves them, always has. I think she should have them.”
“How many do you have now?”
“Five hundred an
d eighty-seven; all first editions, and most are first printings.”
“Good grief. I’m surprised you have shelving for them all.”
“I don’t. At some point I need—”
Jimmy’s phone rattles, interrupting my words.
I follow the one-sided conversation, deducing what I can from the distilled words. It’s Tony, of that I’m certain. The other words tell me that something has happened, something significant. Jimmy’s questions contain the basic ingredients of a criminal investigation; words like “where,” “when,” and “how.”
When he hangs up, he simply says, “Death and dismemberment,” and then makes his way to the cockpit. “Slight change of plans, guys,” he says as he pokes his head between Les and Marty. “We need to divert to El Paso.”
“El Paso. Roger that,” Les says, always the professional. He immediately starts recalculating their flight path and adjusting the flight plan.
“Sweeet,” Marty says from the copilot’s seat. “River Belmont, here we come.” He does an exaggerated arm pump, and then raises both hands to an imaginary cheering crowd. I’m starting to think we need to drug-test him more frequently.
“We’re not staying,” Jimmy advises. “We’re picking up Detective Alvarado, renting a smaller plane, and flying to Fort Stockton. One of you will have to fly. You can flip a coin or something.”
“I’ll do it,” Les says dryly and without hesitation. “Marty has some kind of love affair going on with that hotel. I wouldn’t want to come between them.”
Marty just grins like an idiot.
Back in his seat, Jimmy breaks out a map of Texas and quickly finds Fort Stockton, which is some 230 miles east of El Paso as the crow flies. “Pecos County Sheriff’s Office called Tony about ten minutes ago,” he explains. “It seems they found a freshly dumped body that’s missing its feet. Some trucker spotted it lying in a ditch just a couple miles west of town.”
“How fresh?”
“They think it was dumped last night or early this morning. Not a lot of details, but it sounds like the same MO. Pecos County has the scene secured and is leaving the body in place until we get there. Tony called ahead to the airport to see about renting a Cessna or some other prop job, so we should be able to take off again as soon as we reach El Paso.”