by Lisa Gardner
“Of course, then there’s Southern California, which is grappling with the Loxosceles laeta, a species of recluse that came from Chile, Peru, and Argentina. If the venom of the reclusa is a cup of tea, then the venom of the laeta is a double shot of espresso.”
“Another reason not to live in California,” Sal murmured. He’d finally spotted the scorpion mounted beside him. He turned to give it his back, only to discover the next mounted specimen—a cockroach of truly incredible size—staring at him nose to nose.
“I don’t get it.” Kimberly was still puzzling it out. “Why would a spider enthusiast collect a specimen as common as the brown recluse, especially given that it’s venomous and thus difficult to manage?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say brown recluses are difficult to manage,” Crawford-Hale corrected immediately. “They’re some of the only spiders that can be raised communally. And there’s not an aggressive instinct among them. Provide a terrarium with plenty of dark places to hide—leaves, stones, tree bark—drop in a few crickets every week, and they’d probably live quite contentedly.”
“So…spider enthusiasts do collect them?”
The arachnologist considered the matter. “Have you ever heard of the Spider Pharm?”
“Umm, no.”
“It’s a facility out in Arizona where they raise spiders to milk for venom—”
“They what?” Sal interrupted, horrified look back on his face.
“Milk them for venom,” Crawford-Hale supplied. “Think about it: The venom from a single spider can contain nearly two hundred compounds, including substances that can dissolve flesh and short-circuit the nervous system. How great would it be to be able to analyze and duplicate some of these compounds for the pharmaceutical industry? It’s cutting-edge science.”
“They milk the spiders?” Sal asked again.
“They have a special machine,” Crawford-Hale stated breezily. “I haven’t gotten to do it myself, but apparently they use tweezers wired with an electrical stimulator. A very low dose of electrical shock is transmitted to the spider, which makes its venom gland contract. A droplet forms on the spider’s fang which is caught in a glass tube. Doesn’t hurt the spider, but does generate lots of venom for study. Now, at a place like the Spider Pharm, believe me, they collect, breed, and house plenty of Loxosceles reclusa.”
“What about a more general enthusiast?” Kimberly asked. “We believe the subject has several tarantula specimens and at least one black widow.”
Crawford-Hale shrugged. “Honestly, collectors are collectors. I went to school with a guy who found a black widow outside the dorms, so he caught it and turned it into a pet. Then, to feed the black widow, he started raising crickets. Next thing he knew, the black widow died and he was the owner of two hundred crickets. So now he farms crickets for various pet stores. Maybe you and I wouldn’t do such a thing, but it works for him.”
“How would a collector get a brown recluse?” Kimberly pressed. “Is that a specimen he would buy online, like the tarantulas, or maybe a specialized market?”
“Around here?” The arachnologist arched a brow. “He could probably just go down to his basement. Or his woodpile. Or check under rocks when hiking in the woods—”
“Hiking?”
“Sure, the brown recluses live outside year round in Georgia.”
“As in the Chattahoochee National Forest?”
“I’m sure you can find them there.”
Kimberly sighed, worried her lower lip. She turned to Sal. “So the spider casting might not have anything to do with his collection at all. Might just be another bit of debris that became stuck to his boot when hiking around the Chattahoochee.”
“He could’ve picked up the spider casting from hiking in the woods,” Crawford-Hale said. She added thoughtfully, “One thing, though: Brown recluses are notoriously shy. They retreat to dark, hidden places at the best of times, let alone when they are molting, which is a time of extreme stress for a spider. Chances are, your suspect didn’t come across this casting walking along a main trail. Much more likely he was bushwhacking, someplace remote, without a lot of people.”
“Someplace you’d hide a body,” Kimberly muttered.
“That would be your expertise, not mine,” the arachnologist said. “Anything else I can do for you?”
Kimberly had to think about it. The conversation had not been as illuminating as she had hoped. Judging by the look on Sal’s face, he felt the same.
She couldn’t come up with any more questions. Instead, she stuck out her hand, thanking Crawford-Hale for her time. Sal followed suit.
“If we ever encounter a real-live brown recluse,” he asked at the last minute, “what should we do?”
“Hold very still.”
Sal shook his head. “Man, how can you do this, analyze eight-legged insects day in and day out? I’d have the creepy crawlies all of the time.”
“Oh, spiders aren’t insects,” Crawford-Hale corrected him. “Insects have six legs. Spiders have eight. Spiders eat insects. It’s a big difference.”
Not to Sal. “I don’t like spiders,” he stated flatly as he and Kimberly exited the office, then journeyed down the basement corridor, awash in buzzing fluorescent lights.
“Look on the bright side: At least they’re smaller than rattlesnakes.”
“Rattlesnakes? What were you doing with rattlesnakes?”
“Playing hopscotch,” she informed him. “Trust me, it didn’t work.”
They made it to the end, climbing up the stairs, then finally pushing through the glass door into the blinding sunlight. Harold, Quincy, and Rainie were waiting patiently in the parking lot, Harold’s lanky frame folded cross-legged on the hood of Kimberly’s car, Quincy and Rainie standing beside him.
“Good news?” Harold spoke up hopefully.
Kimberly shrugged. “The casting belongs to a brown recluse, which around here isn’t much different than finding a ladybug. Whoop-de-doo.”
Her father arched a brow.
“It’s a technical term,” she assured him.
“What are you going to do?” he asked quietly.
Kimberly looked at Sal. “Still no sign of Ginny Jones?” she asked.
He checked his cell phone for messages. “Nope.”
Kimberly had gone straight to Ginny’s address after receiving Sal’s call. She concurred with his initial assessment: no evidence of breaking and entering, no sign of a violent struggle. The tiny apartment appeared to have been quickly and crudely packed up, dusty imprints indicating where precious items once had been, everything else left behind.
In the bedroom, half under the bed, Kimberly had found a copy of Good Housekeeping’s Guide to Pregnancy. One more little detail to torture her late at night.
A BOLO had been issued for Ginny and her vehicle, while pictures of her and Dinchara were being circulated among the uniformed officers. Eight hours later and still counting, it was a waiting game.
“And still no task force,” Kimberly supplied with a sigh, before adding drily, “Though my supe is encouraging us to cooperate with Alpharetta on the matter of Tommy Mark Evans’s murder.”
“Have you spoken to the lead investigator?” Quincy spoke up.
“Not yet. Been kind of busy, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“It would be interesting to know if they recovered any shoe impressions from the crime scene,” Quincy commented.
“Oh, to be so lucky,” she agreed.
“And in the meanwhile?” her father prodded.
Kimberly shrugged, regarding Sal again with his rumpled suit and sallow, sleep-deprived features. If he found this killer, would that allow him to finally forgive himself for standing by helplessly while his father beat his mother? And if she helped him, would that make it easier for her to visit Arlington and place flowers on her mother’s and sister’s graves?
They were both chasing the impossible. And even knowing it, they couldn’t stop.
“We have another lead,”
she said.
“What?”
“The gold on Dinchara’s boot. According to Harold, it probably came from the Dahlonega area. We could take a little field trip, circulate our composite sketch of Mr. Dinchara. If he’s an avid hiker who spends a lot of time in that area, maybe someone will recognize him.”
Sal brightened immediately. “Let’s do it!”
And her father said, without missing a beat, “Naturally, we’ll join you.”
TWENTY-NINE
“Indoors, these spiders are commonly found in houses and associated outbuildings, boiler houses, schools, churches, stores, hotels and other such buildings.”
FROM Biology of the Brown Recluse Spider
BY JULIA MAXINE HITE, WILLIAM J. GLADNEY, J. L. LANCASTER, JR., AND W. H. WHITCOMB, DEPARTMENT OF ENTOMOLOGY, DIVISION OF AGRICULTURE, UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS, FAYETTEVILLE, MAY 1966
DAHLONEGA FELL UNDER THE JURISDICTION OF THE Lumpkin County Sheriff ’s Department. Unfortunately, the sheriff was out for a week on a D.A.R.E. training seminar. Instead, Sal managed to line up a four o’clock appointment with Sheriff Boyd Duffy of neighboring Union County.
Harold had to bow out. He already had an afternoon meeting with a couple of bankers helping him trace terrorist money online. His parting advice: “Visit the U.S. Forestry Service fish hatcheries by Suches. Those guys know everything.”
That left Sal, Kimberly, Quincy, and Rainie. With Dahlonega an hour’s ride north on the GA 400, they decided to shoot straight up and back. It would mean a late night, but they’d all worked later.
They formed a small caravan: Sal and Kimberly in the lead car, Rainie and Quincy bringing up the rear. Sal’s mood hadn’t improved since their meeting with the arachnologist. He drove with his swarthy face set in a perpetual scowl, preoccupied with thoughts he apparently didn’t feel like sharing.
Kimberly worked her cell phone. She called Mac first, but he didn’t answer. She left him a message, hoping she didn’t sound as defiant as she felt. She debated touching base with her supe, but decided less was more. No one really cared what she did for one afternoon, as long as she got the paperwork processed and kept her assigned cases moving ahead.
Which she would do. Later tonight. First thing in the morning. Absolutely.
Next, she tried the lead investigator for Alpharetta, Marilyn Watson. Watson picked up, just in time for Kimberly to lose the signal. She tried again, with mixed results.
“No latent prints…air…ber. Projectile…impressions.” Watson reported when Kimberly asked what evidence had been recovered at the Tommy Mark Evans homicide.
“Wait, you got a shoe print?”
“Tire tread…sions.”
“You got tire tread impressions? Do you know what kind of vehicle?”
More static. Fuzz. Then dead silence.
Kimberly glanced at her cell phone. Signal strength had dropped. Sure enough, she heard three beeps, then the call was gone.
She scowled while eyeing the digital display, waiting for signal strength. No such luck.
“She said they got tire tread impressions,” Kimberly reported at last. “Still not sure about shoe print or not, and it sounded like they did recover a projectile. Or maybe not. It was that kind of conversation.”
“What kind of vehicle?”
“Didn’t get that far. But assuming they cast the impression, we should be able to examine it ourselves. If I ever get a signal back, I’ll see if she can e-mail the digital photos. I have some contacts that should be able to tell us fairly quickly if the tire is feasible for a Toyota FourRunner.”
Sal finally looked at her. His eyes were dark, brooding. They called to her in a way even she understood wasn’t healthy.
“You ever do anything other than work?” he asked.
“Never.”
He grunted, eyes returning to the road. “Me, neither.”
She smiled, but it was sadder than she intended.
She gazed out the window, watching the concrete jungle of greater Atlanta give way to flat brown fields. They came to a light, headed north onto Highway 60 and began to climb. The countryside gave way to startling ravines and towering hillsides, all choked with thick green kudzu vines. They passed luxury condos, a pristine golf course, exotic water features.
Kimberly started to connect some dots. If the past thirty minutes had involved hardscrabble chicken farms and trailer parks, then this section of northern Georgia was about money. Lots of it. Harold had been right—there was gold in them thar hills.
“We’re supposed to meet Sheriff Duffy at the Olde Town Grill in the center of Dahlonega,” Sal spoke up.
“You got an address?”
“You’ve never been to Dahlonega, have you?”
She shook her head.
“Trust me, no address is required.”
She figured out what he meant fifteen minutes later, when they blew by a McDonald’s, passed through an intersection, and entered a picture-perfect postcard of nineteenth-century American architecture. Bare broadleaf trees soaring in the middle of a charming public square, dominated by a two-hundred-year-old brick courthouse, now serving as the Dahlonega Gold Museum. Quaint storefronts bore signs declaring general store, gift shop, antiques, homemade fudge. Tourists meandered down quaint red-bricked sidewalks.
“I think we just entered a time warp,” Kimberly said.
“Something like that.” Sal looped around the town square, giving her the nickel tour. The flower beds were decorated with winter greens and interspersed with items such as a stagecoach wheel, or horse drinking trough, or bleached steer’s skull. It was like visiting a movie set of the Old West, except she was still in Georgia, the state she knew best for its stifling hot summers and fresh peaches.
“In late September, early October,” Sal was explaining, “this place is lousy with leaf peepers. Can’t get a parking space to save your life. You and your husband should check it out sometime. I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing.”
Sal’s voice had taken on an edge. It was enough to make her say, “Absolutely. Romantic getaway, cute bed-and-breakfast, tour of the wineries. Mac would love it.”
Sal didn’t speak again, which was just as well.
He found parking in front of a giant wooden stamp wheel that, according to the plaque, had once been used to help extract gold ore. They waited for Rainie and Quincy to park, then followed the tiny arrow to the Olde Town Grill.
Sheriff Boyd Duffy was already there, occupying half of a corner booth. He was a big bear of a man with piercing black eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. Kimberly was guessing former football player, avid hunter. Probably scared the shit out of the local kids. Good for him.
He was also black, which made him a bit of an anomaly for this part of Georgia.
Upon spotting them, he called out in a booming voice, “Special Agent Martignetti!” He heaved his large body from the booth with surprising agility. “And Special Agent Quincy, I presume.” He took her hand, shaking it without crushing it, further moving him up in her esteem. “Please, call me Duff. Like the beer from The Simpsons cartoon. Yeah, it’s a long story. Welcome, welcome. Northern Georgia’s a fair sight prettier than that smoggy ol’ city. You’re in for a treat.”
More handshakes for Rainie and Quincy, then he gestured to a larger table where they could all have a seat. Another wave of his giant arm, and a blonde with bouffant hair appeared, bearing menus and mason jars of sweetened tea. “Food here is excellent,” Duff extolled. “Fried chicken will blow your mind. Then there are the homemade cinnamon rolls and the biscuits and gravy. I recommend one of everything, but then, for a fella like me, that’s ’bout what it takes.”
Kimberly couldn’t pass up a cinnamon roll. Neither could Rainie. Quincy, predictably, ordered black coffee. Sal, at least, made the sheriff proud by going with the fried chicken. A little more small talk, and they got down to business.
“So now four busy folks like you didn’t head all the way up to the Blue Ridge Mountains just to take
in our sights. What can I do for you?”
Sal took the lead: “We’re pursuing a person of interest in the disappearance of approximately ten prostitutes. We have reason to believe that the subject, an avid outdoorsman, might be familiar with this area, so we came to take a look.”
Duff raised a brow. He was no dumb bunny. “In other words, you think he dumped the bodies somewhere in these hills.”
“It’s a possibility.”
The big man sighed, folded his hands on the table. “All right. So who’s your person of interest?”
“We don’t have a name yet, just a picture.” Sal opened up his dark green binder, took out a copy of the composite sketch prepared by Special Agent Sparks and Ginny Jones, and handed it over to the sheriff. “I have extras if you need them,” he offered. “We’d like to get this circulating to as many law enforcement agents as possible.”
“Hold on, hold on. One thing at a time.” The sheriff was fumbling around with his breast pocket. He finally extracted a pair of black-framed reading glasses and perched them on the edge of his nose. He regarded the sketch, grunting softly to himself.
The waitress arrived bearing platters of food. Duff raised his arms, still holding the sketch, and the waitress slid a platter of turkey and gravy in front of him.
“Got any pictures of him without that cap?” the sheriff wanted to know.
Sal shook his head.
Duff regarded the sketch a moment longer, then set it aside, picked up his knife and fork, and cut neatly into his meal.
“Well,” he said brusquely. “First things first. I don’t recognize the fella; then again, you white guys all look alike to me.”
Sal appeared startled. Duff shot him a grin. “That was a joke, son. When you’re peeling a sixteen-year-old you’ve known all of his life off the pavement after he decided to go Evel Knievel with his new motorcycle, you gotta learn to laugh a little. You big-city boys investigate strangers. I handle my own neighbors, day in and day out. If your subject, as you called him, lived around here, I’d probably know him, even with that stupid cap.”