by C. J. Lyons
But Madsen nodded. “I’ll know more back in the lab once I get it under the microscope. It’s almost impossible to pinpoint completely without any of the surrounding soft tissues intact enough to examine, but I agree, it’s a peri-mortem injury.”
“So it could have happened right before he died or right after—maybe from the impact of the car?”
“Maybe. Maybe a lot of things. Like I said, all we can do is document our findings. What makes you think it’s a he?”
TK turned her attention to the grisly skull that lay at a strange angle on the collapsed set of ribs, remnants of leather—a belt, maybe?—and vertebrae. With the flesh gone, the only tissue holding the bones together was the greasy adipocere. She’d heard it called corpse wax and now she knew why. It was weird how it clung to the facial bones, creating a wrinkled mask that looked like a kid’s Halloween mask with its stringy dark hair and collapsed eye sockets. Less than human.
Except this was a human. Someone who all evidence pointed to having died a terrible death.
“Not sure. Just looks like a man—jaw’s wide, forehead is kind of thick, the way his eyes are set.”
Madsen nodded her approval. “I agree. Also the shape of the pelvis and a few other skeletal features. Again, once we have him back in the lab, cleaned up, I can give you more specifics. I can tell you that he was shot—years before he died.” She gestured to the large thighbone where there was a dimple with a bit of dull metal at the bottom. “Notice the callous formation of bone over the old wound.”
“But no medical hardware to tell us who he is.”
“Wouldn’t help if there was—they didn’t start keeping registries of that information until fairly recently. Same with DNA databases. But his petrous bones appear intact as do several molars. I might be able to extract DNA to perform familial matching. If we find any family.”
TK didn’t know how to read bones, but the man’s belt and the handcuffs intrigued her. As Madsen carefully lifted the body, piece by piece, into a waiting body bag, a tinny ping rang through the car.
Karlan aimed the camera’s light to follow the noise. “What was that?” he asked. “Another coin?”
The students had been collecting as many coins as possible to help narrow their timeline. So far the most recent one they’d found was a dime dating back to 1953. That combined with the 1953 license plate that expired in June of 1954, meant that whatever happened had happened in 1953 or 1954.
Madsen hopped down from the flatbed and carried her now-contained body over to a waiting exam table for more photographs before she took it back to the lab. That gave TK room to get down, almost eye level with the floorboards.
“Not a coin,” she said, reaching for the camera to document her find before she moved it. “A bullet. And there are two more down here.” She held it up for him. “Unfired, casings intact.”
“Handcuffs, bullets…” His voice trailed off as he glanced at her in dismay. “What’s left of that belt, pretty heavy leather, don’t you think? Designed to do more than just hold up a pair of pants.”
“A duty belt. Except, I don’t see a holster or signs of a weapon.”
The leather seat was slimed with adipocere where the body had sat, and was partially decomposed around those areas, with tangles of springs and horsehair exposed. Karlan aimed the camera with its bright light over the seat as TK slowly, carefully probed each crevice. Her fingers stretched, feeling something shift, it had hard edges and felt metallic.
“Something’s down here.” She gently spread open the slit in the upholstery and finally fished out the object that had fallen between the springs.
A badge. The insignia was obscured by decomposed material, but when she ran her gloved finger over it, she could feel some of the etchings. They’d be able to clean it up and find out where it was from. Except…
“What’s a cop doing handcuffed alone in a car at the bottom of the quarry?” Karlan asked the question foremost in her mind.
“And why the hell did no one ever report him missing?” she added.
“Maybe it was suicide and he used the handcuff so he wouldn’t chicken out?” He backed out of the car and turned off the camera.
“Then wouldn’t he be in the driver’s side?” Her neck and back creaked from being twisted in such an unnatural position for so long; she gladly took his hand as he helped her down from the truck bed.
He stretched his left leg as if measuring the distance across to the wheel and the accelerator. “I guess he could have put the car in gear, then moved across the seat, secured himself, and reached over with his left leg to hit the gas pedal.”
“You’re that desperate to kill yourself, wouldn’t you just put a bullet in your head?”
He frowned. “Maybe he was a prisoner? This definitely isn’t a cop car. Maybe some kind of jail break, he was taken hostage and the actor bailed out at the last minute?”
“Without anyone knowing about it? No one ever reporting it? A cop going missing or being taken hostage would make the headlines.” Knowing the car was built in 1949, they’d both already scoured what news archives there were from the time period. Not that there were a lot of digital records from back then, but Wash hadn’t found any trace of a missing person associated with a car like the Dodge—and if he couldn’t find it, with his Internet magic, it wasn’t there to be found.
“We need to find out who owned this car,” Karlan said.
“Exactly why you have me. My tech guy got nowhere with the plate number. Other than it was registered in DC in 1953. Unfortunately, there was no mandated national vehicle identification number system in place back then, but he’s already amassing a database of all the original serial numbers and factory-issued VINs for 1949 Dodge Wayfarers. He says if we can get him the numbers from this vehicle, he can probably find the original dealer. Hopefully that will lead us in the right direction.”
She turned to Madsen, who was measuring areas on the skull. “Professor, okay if we pop the hood and trunk here so we can try to get some identification numbers? It would save us time instead of waiting until we take it to the police garage.”
“No problem. Go ahead.” Her tone was absent—now that she had some bones to play with, it was as if the car that had been their casket for so long was no longer important.
Karlan grabbed a student to take over filming while he and TK worked to get the hood open. The latch mechanism was wedged shut from the dent in the hood, but the tow truck operator had tools to pry it free. While the men worked on the front part of the car, TK took the keys—still dangling from the ignition, appearing in almost pristine condition when she slid them free—and opened the trunk.
Several inches of water sloshed around the bottom of the cavernous area. But that wasn’t what made TK freeze, one hand still on the trunk lid, the other going involuntarily to her throat.
“Dr. Madsen.” Her voice was a mere croak. No one could hear her over the multiple conversations and the tow truck’s engine. “Dr. Madsen! I think we have a problem here.”
“What is it?” Madsen sounded annoyed, not turning away from her examination of the skull.
But Karlan recognized the tone of alert in TK’s voice and joined her. She gestured to the contents of the trunk. He called to Madsen, “You’re going to want to see this, doc.”
Madsen left her worktable and came over. “What?”
“I’m counting three?” TK meant it as a question because she really hoped she was wrong about what she was seeing.
“Dear lord,” Madsen breathed. Then she turned to the student with the camera. “Peter, get over here. We need to document this completely before we touch anything.”
The student crowded onto the narrow platform with them, the camera light playing across the dark space, casting shadows across the collection of bones and their three skulls, their eye sockets all riveted on TK as if pleading for her help.
Chapter Ten
Benji’s mother kept her hand on the door, opening it only far enough to scru
tinize Lucy and Valencia, her expression at once both hopeful and guarded. Her posture was strong, ready to ward off any threat to her remaining family. A family who now milled behind her, all silently watching.
There were two older men and a woman: the surviving grandparents. A man just a few years older than Jennifer Randall’s forty-five but appearing much more worn and haggard: the father. It was a small miracle they’d stayed together through all these years. The odds were against them, Lucy knew from the research. Tragedies like theirs tended to splinter relationships. Beside him was the younger daughter, now in her twenties, standing close to a man, one arm cradling her obviously pregnant belly. All here to learn a little boy’s fate.
“You found him,” Jennifer Randall breathed the words, her lips barely moving.
Lucy kept her focus on the mother—she couldn’t help but think how she’d feel if she was in her place. The thought brought with it the image of Nick and her daughter, Megan, when she’d left them this morning, happy, healthy, whole. As much as she ached for this mother, nothing could prevent a twinge of relief that her own family was safe—followed immediately by a dose of guilt for feeling that way and tempting fate.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lucy answered. Jennifer swayed and Lucy continued, “Maybe we should all sit down?” She took Jennifer’s arm and guided her inside as if it was Jennifer’s idea. Valencia followed, closing the door on the too-bright July sun and the world outside.
Lucy reflexively made note of the room’s obstacles—a sectional sofa and two recliners facing a large screen TV above a fireplace, a glass-topped coffee table in the space between—and the exits—a staircase, French doors off the dining room at the rear of the house, a kitchen beside it, no doubt with a door to the garage. Most of her attention was on the people, watching for their reactions, observing their posture, where their feet were pointed, what their hands were doing. Always the hands.
Unlike Lucy, Valencia didn’t hesitate, sweeping into the room like a maternal force of nature, settling the sister in one of the recliners, Jennifer in the other, letting the others fend for themselves as she made the rounds introducing herself and Lucy, shaking hands and collecting names, making eye contact with each of them. While Lucy’s training kept her at arm’s length—a defensive posture, ready for anything—Valencia breached everyone’s defenses, getting up close and personal.
It was the better way, Lucy saw as she watched from where she stood beside Jennifer’s chair. At least for this particular task. Valencia’s calming etiquette allowed a transition for Benji’s family from frightening unknown to familiar social reflexes.
Lucy tried to see how Valencia worked her magic, but it was lost on her. She made a mental note to ask Nick. He was a psychologist who specialized in trauma; maybe he could break it down into a skill she could learn.
Then, suddenly, everyone’s attention was on Lucy. Valencia moved to the far wall, near the kitchen, allowing her to take the lead. Lucy didn’t want to force Jennifer to look up at her, so she sat down on the coffee table, facing the mother, even though it went against every reflex, putting her back to the others. Benji’s father moved to stand beside his wife, their hands interlinked.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy began. “We found Benji’s body. He’s dead. Has been for a long, long time.”
She paused, feeling as if her words were blunt weapons bludgeoning the mother. Jennifer’s eyes glistened with tears that she blinked back, but she nodded.
“Are you sure?” one of the grandfathers asked from behind Lucy. “We’ve been here before you know.”
One of Smitty’s regrets—almost a decade ago when the case was still relatively fresh, they’d found a boy’s body up in the state game lands. He’d been certain when preliminary dental comparisons were a match that it was Benji, had come to tell the family, prepare them for the final identification. Only to discover a few weeks later when the DNA came in that it wasn’t Benji but another family’s lost son.
“We’re sure. The forensic pathologist confirmed both his DNA and dental records.” Usually it would be the local coroner who examined the body along with the detective working the case who made the next of kin notification, but this case was anything but usual, having out-lived the lead investigator.
“When can he come home?” Jennifer asked. Her husband leaned forward, his face creased with concern, whispering something in her ear. She jerked away. “I understand that. I know he’s dead. I’ve known it for a long, long time. Here.” She pounded her free fist against her breastbone. “But I still want him home. He deserves that at least. And so do we.”
“Yes, you do,” Lucy answered. “The pathologist is finishing up their examination. If you let us know the name of the funeral home you prefer, we can arrange for him to be transported back.” She glanced at Valencia, who’d spoken with the morgue administrator about the logistics. “They said they’d release him tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.”
“We don’t have to see him?” the father asked, his voice trembling. “To make any identification?”
“No, sir. It’s all taken care of.”
He blew his breath out. “McKinley Brothers. That’s who we want to take care of him.”
“I can call them, if you like. Start the arrangements,” Valencia offered.
The father shook his head, seemed relieved to have something to do. “No. I know Ted McKinley. Went to school with him. I’ll call.” He separated himself from his wife and headed toward the kitchen.
“Tell me everything,” Jennifer Randall said.
Her husband missed a step, stumbling and catching himself against the fireplace before fleeing out of sight. Valencia left her position to go after him, leaving Lucy to answer Jennifer’s questions.
Questions there were no adequate answers to. Questions no mother should ever have to ask about her child.
Lucy leaned forward toward Benji’s mother. “Ask me anything. I’ll tell you what I know.”
There was much of the story she didn’t know for certain, only had theories. Those she wouldn’t share. Only what she was absolutely certain of.
“Where he was he? Not near here, not for all these years?” Jennifer’s voice was tainted with anguish at the thought that her son had been near and somehow she hadn’t found him in time. Lucy was grateful it was a question she could answer and provide some slight comfort to the woman.
“No. The man who took him, his name was Darren Wilson, he took him into the mountains near Cumberland, Maryland.”
“He took him, who?” She looked around at her family. “I’ve never heard of any Darren Wilson.” They all shook their heads. “Why did he do this? Why my son?”
This Lucy was less certain of, although Wilson’s suicide note and other evidence they’d found at his cabin filled in some of the blanks. Nothing specific to Benji’s case, but it was clear Wilson had had a type. “Benji wasn’t the only boy he tried to take. Wilson attempted to abduct two others, both of whom looked just like Benji and his own son.”
A look of horror filled Jennifer’s face. Beside her, the pregnant woman, Benji’s sister, made a gagging noise. Her husband helped her to her feet and led her out to the kitchen, her sobs trailing in the air behind her.
“Did he kill them, too?” This came from one of the grandfathers behind her.
Lucy turned to meet his gaze. He was in his late sixties, maybe even early seventies, but his expression was one of lethal intensity. “We found two other bodies near Benji’s. One a boy about his age, Wilson’s son. The other a woman, his mother. We’ve identified her as Wilson’s wife. According to the tests, they both had been dead years longer than Benji.”
“Did he suffer?” Jennifer asked the question Lucy had been dreading. “Did my boy suffer?”
Jennifer grasped both of Lucy’s hands in hers as if fearing Lucy would try to escape. She hauled in a breath and answered. “Yes. I’m afraid he did.”
“How long? How long was he still alive, how long was he hurting? What did tha
t monster do to him?” Her voice trembled and dipped low as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear either the questions or the answers. Her grip on Lucy’s hands tightened, her knuckles pale, unyielding pebbles.
“I’m afraid we don’t have all the answers. It’s been too long, and Wilson didn’t leave anything to help us.” Unlike many pedophiles, Wilson hadn’t been interested in recording his activities to relive and re-experience. “I can tell you that Darren Wilson is dead. Killed himself.”
“All this time, and the only way you found him was because he killed himself?” The grandmother’s voice was chiseled with hatred.
“He killed himself because we’d found him. We found him through the work Detective Smith did before he died and the work of the National Center of Missing and Exploited Children, as well as the Beacon Group.”
Lucy didn’t bother to mention her own work on the case even before she’d joined the Beacon Group. It was her painstakingly built geographic profile, teasing information from every report of a child abduction or assault that remotely fit the signature of Benji’s abduction, following up on every lead, no matter how unlikely, that had finally led them to Wilson. He’d chosen to take the easy way out with his shotgun rather than facing justice.
“Why did it take so long?” the grandmother asked. “Was it because we’re black? I see you all finding lost white girls all the time—sometimes even still alive, even after years.”
“Was this Darren fellow black?” one of the grandfathers, the one who’d been silent until now, broke in.
“No. He was white. His wife was African-American.”
“But he was white. Of course he was. Maybe that’s why it took you so long to find him.” He made a disgusted noise behind her and stomped off.
Lucy felt their anger heating up behind her, but she kept her focus on the mother. She didn’t take it personally—it was an unbearable situation, leaving them powerless. Of course they were angry, lashing out at anyone they could.