I motion for the EMS personnel to pull their truck off the pavement and onto the gravel pathway. Rick parks the Bronco on the shoulder, on the opposite side of the road, and quickly crosses to where I’m standing. He’s a large man, but he carries himself erect, and has the bearing of the athlete he was, as a standout fullback for the football team at nearby Walton High School, too many years ago to recall. They still have pictures of him plastered on the back wall of the trophy case, but nobody makes the connection. He moves with the grace and agility of a much smaller man, despite tipping the scales at well over two-hundred pounds. He wears his medium-brown hair short, parted, and combed to one side, the right – similar to his political bent.
“Floater, huh?” he says, slightly out of breath from running across the highway. I reflect that Rick’s been watching too many episodes of Law & Order.
“More like a clinger,” I answer. What the hell? May as well go with the flow. “Poor bastard—what’s left of him or her—was wrapped around some rocks. It’s a miracle the bones are still together.”
Rick shakes his head. He’s not totally insensitive, just heavily armored.
“Did you bring lots of yellow tape, like I asked you to?”
“Yeah. I brought four rolls.”
“Good. I don’t want anybody anywhere near this crime scene until we’ve had a chance to climb all over it. Chances are, unless somebody comes out of the woodwork looking for ‘Uncle Bob,’ we’re gonna need to find something. And, the less things get disturbed, the better.”
Harry Wheatley and Charlie Marra are wearing rubber chest waders, their hands encased in thick, waterproof gloves, as they wade carefully into the stream toward the remains. Charlie carries a white body bag over his shoulder, and moves slowly into position below the pile of rocks that holds the human debris in place.
“Alright, Harry. Be real careful, and kinda push the whole thing towards me. I’ll steer it into the bag.”
No one could ever accuse Charlie of being overly considerate of the dead. A former firefighter from the Albany area, he’s seen enough burned and mutilated corpses to last a lifetime. Harry, on the other hand, is still a bit squeamish; he’s only twenty-four, and has mostly tended to the living. He’s been with EMS about two years.
In less than twenty minutes, the bag and its contents are gently placed into the back of the GMC, and a short while later, I watch the vehicle’s taillights disappear, as it moves on up the hill toward the main road. Alone now, Rick and I each take two rolls of crime scene tape, and begin to make a perimeter around the site, about a hundred yards in diameter. It’s impossible to say how far away from the initial scene of discovery we might find something meaningful, but since it’s impossible to tape off the entire mountainside, we settle for a reasonable area to protect.
As we work, we talk.
“So, what do you think, Matt? Fisherman?”
“More likely a hunter,” I reply. “I’m guessing maybe he shot a deer last fall and was tracking it when he fell in; maybe broke his leg, and couldn’t get out. But, that’s just a guess. Besides, where’s the vehicle?”
“Shit, it could be anywhere,” says Rick. “Maybe a mile. Maybe more. Ain’t you ever had to track a—“
“I’m a fisherman, remember? Hunting’s not my thing.”
“Course, it could be a fisherman,” says Rick. He looks at me with a grin, and then shrugs his shoulders.
“My sentiments exactly,” I say. “Judging from the condition of the body, I’d say he was probably…oh, hell… who am I kidding? We don’t even know whether it’s a guy.”
It used to be you might never know—but that was before DNA. Now, with the help of an electron microscope and a couple of tests that can add up all those Xs and Os, not only can they tell who it was, and what gender it was, and probably whether it rooted for the Giants or the Jets. I shake my head. It’s a whole new ballgame, that’s for sure.
Chapter 6
Unlike when I was a homicide detective in New York City, working rotating shifts, my job here in Roscoe, as Chief of Police, is a nine-to-five assignment. Technically, I’m on call twenty-four hours a day, but mostly my two officers split the sixteen hours when I’m not in the office. Only if there’s a true emergency do I get a call.
Headquarters is a small suite of rooms—five, actually—attached to the rear of the town hall. There’s a generous, gravel parking lot, more than sufficient to accommodate about a half-dozen vehicles, with a green dumpster occupying the left rear corner. Visitors are greeted by a small, wallpapered vestibule, which serves as a waiting area, complete with two wicker loveseats, a magazine rack, and a water cooler. The compulsory potted plant – an artificial Ficus that most observers assume is real – resides in the corner to the left of the door; unlike its genuine counterpart, it doesn’t shed, making it far more desirable. A sliding glass window, opposite the entrance door, is manned by my secretary, Nancy Cooper, who controls access to the security door to the right, leading to the office area.
Moving down the narrow hallway, the first office on the right is mine. It’s a modest, wood-paneled area with a large desk and adjoining computer workstation, and a bank of filing cabinets against one wall. Several spindle-back chairs adorn the opposite wall, but are rarely used, except for the occasional coffee klatch. Next, is a second, smaller office, with a desk and computer for each of my two patrolmen, an entrance off the hallway, and an interior door that opens into my office. Opposite the two offices, on the left side of the hallway, is Nancy’s cubicle (nearly as large as mine), followed by a good-sized bathroom. Last on the left, is a combination meeting/interview room, and opposite it, on the right, is a five-foot by ten-foot holding cell, complete with two metal bunks, a stainless-steel latrine, and a matching sink.
Nancy Cooper, a Betty White look-alike who’s been with the department since before the Quickway replaced Old Route 17, is my trusted secretary. She not only occupies the outer office, but also serves as my first line of defense against citizens with time on their hands and a yearning to shoot the breeze with the Chief of Police. She’s good at what she does, and I’m darn lucky to have her. Fortunately, for Nancy – and me – there’s no mandatory retirement age. She’ll deny it, but I’m certain she is well past seventy.
Typically, when I’m not spending my time on patrol, I’m usually surfing various state and local websites, and staying abreast of area crime. I have a Dell PC, complete with a wafer thin, widescreen LCD monitor, and a printer that also serves as a copier and fax machine. The days of the flickering CRP monitors are fast disappearing—and, that suits me fine.
It’s the day after I found the remains by Cathy’s Creek. Nancy is busy at the filing cabinet, over in the corner of her office.
“Nance,” I say, “I’ll be over at Doc Gittlesohn’s—if anybody wants to know.”
“Sure thing, Matt. I’ll put a note on your office door.”
She won’t, of course, because she understands that what I really mean is that I don’t want anybody to know—unless it’s the mayor or maybe one of my two officers. It’s only been a little over a year, but already she and I have a good working relationship.
Isador “Doc” Gittlesohn is a semi-retired MD, out of White Plains, New York, who had a successful surgical practice for years, but decided to pack it in one day when his malpractice premiums went through the roof. Like Nancy, Doc is easily eligible for Medicare, and at five-feet-six and near two-hundred pounds, probably avails himself of its benefits more than the average citizen. Now, he’s Roscoe’s unofficial Medical Examiner, taking a look at “whatever the cat dragged in” (as he likes to call the occasional cases he is called upon to handle). His “office” is a small room in the rear of the firehouse, which has a tiled floor with a drain in the middle of it, beneath a stainless-steel autopsy table. There’s a small desk with a microscope, a cabinet to hold the necessary instruments, and a sink to help him wash away the stink when he’s done. In addition to his duties as coroner, he rotates two
days per week in the ER at the hospital in Harris, about twenty-five miles east of Roscoe. He claims it’s mostly to obtain health care benefits, but we all know he just likes to keep his hand in the profession he chose.
I rap out “shave and a haircut, two bits” on the metal sheathed door to his office, and Doc greets me with a frown on his face.
“Can’t give you much on this one, Matt,” he says.
“Long time in the water, huh?”
“It’s not just that. The body was probably above ground for quite some time. Long enough at least so that every critter that wanted to chew on it probably could—and did.”
“Male or female?”
“That’s about all we know,” he says.
“Which?”
“Female, probably. Judging from the narrowness of the pelvic bones.”
“Age?”
“It’s hard to say. I’d guess fairly young, teenaged maybe—small hips, small skull size, and the length of the arm and leg bones. But that’s no guarantee. We’ll need to send the remains down to the county boys to be certain.”
I look past his shoulder at the collection of bones and cartilage lying on the autopsy table. “Any broken bones?”
“Small fracture of the zygomatic arch, right side; also right temporal process. Looks like blunt trauma to me. Could be from a fall against a rock. Maybe something else. Hard to tell. Otherwise, the skeleton seems pretty intact.”
I stand quietly, pondering what little information I’ve been given.
“What are you thinking?” asks Doc.
“Oh, nothing,” I reply. “I thought it might have been a hunter. You know, shoots a deer, wounds it, but doesn’t kill it. Then starts tracking it, falls in the water, maybe hits his head, and drowns.”
“So, where’re the clothes—the gun?”
“Yeah, you’ve got a point there. I knew it was probably too good to be true. I think I’m slipping. Been away from the city too long.”
“Ah, bullshit. You and I both know that’s crap.”
I smile in appreciation.
“Maybe just a bit lazy, that’s all,” he says with a smile.
I’m crushed.
“Yeah, well, let me know when you hear something back from the county.”
“Will do, Matt.”
We’ve been combing the woods for more than nine hours now, and so far, we’ve found nothing. In addition to Rick and me, we’ve enlisted a half dozen volunteer firemen to help search the area surrounding the crime scene (we call it that, because until we know otherwise, we have to assume that’s what it is). We’re searching for anything that might give us a clue; perhaps a piece of clothing, a wallet, purse—anything. We don’t find a thing. It’s as if the body were dropped out of the sky. I look upward, then at my wristwatch, which tells me it’s nearly five-thirty. It’ll be dark in less than an hour.
“Okay, men,” I shout. “I think that’s enough for today. It’s getting kind of late.”
Some grumbling. Some sighs of relief. It’s lousy work, and I’m lucky to have the men I have.
“If anybody can be here tomorrow, I would really appreciate it,” I say. “Spread the word, okay?”
The sun has just set behind the mountains as I pull the Jeep onto the gravel, parking pad in front of the detached garage, the tires making a crunching sound as if to signal that I’ve arrived. The yellow-painted bungalow that we now call home is nestled beneath several tall pine trees in a clearing about fifty yards across; the rest of the property (about four acres) is wooded. Val’s Honda Civic sits off to the side, in the far corner of the clearing. To the west, at the rear of the land, is a small brook, barely six feet wide, that meanders from north to south. Although it might contain a brook trout or two, its most valuable asset is the noise it makes, which serves as a welcome tranquilizer at the end of each day.
Originally, the bungalow was intended as a summer getaway for city folks, but it could not have passed muster as a year-round dwelling. So, immediately after I agreed to take the job as Chief of Police, the city council voted unanimously to winterize the place by fully insulating it and installing a brand new, state-of-the-art heating and air conditioning system. They also added a new tin roof – with no gutters or downspouts – that permits snow to slide off, rather than accumulating and causing problems with ice.
If there’s a down side to the whole arrangement, it’s the garage, which is tiny and leaves a lot to be desired as far as storage is concerned. But, nevertheless, it’s big enough to serve its intended purpose of protecting the Jeep from the severe winters—especially the snow. So, all in all, I’d say it’s a pretty sweet deal. And, besides, it sure beats the hell out of our tiny apartment in the city.
Chapter 7
Peggy, December, the previous year – day one
Peggy Lawson is a first-semester sophomore at NYU. She shares a basement dormitory apartment at Washington Square East with two other girls, also sophomores. A tiny girl, barely five feet tall, with straight, strawberry blond hair, worn shoulder-length, with bangs, she is majoring in political science, and has her eye on a career with the State Department. She figures if she can successfully complete her undergrad degree, she will enroll at Georgetown to pursue a Masters.
Today is a Friday, and the last school day of the calendar year, and also the final school day before the long holiday break. She is looking forward to spending time with her family in Cortland, in Upstate New York. To save money, she is considering saving the bus fare her parents sent her, and hitchhiking home instead. The bright, sunny day is like an invitation for adventure.
Bidding her two roommates goodbye, she shoulders her heavy knapsack and heads out the door. She figures she’ll take the subway up to the George Washington Bridge Bus Terminal at 178th Street, grab a bus across the bridge to Fort Lee on the other side of the Hudson River in New Jersey, and begin hitchhiking home from there.
Riding the A train uptown toward her destination, Peggy can barely contain her excitement at the thought of seeing her family and friends again. Her two roommates, Janet and Arlene are nice enough, but they are both “big city” girls, and don’t represent the traditional family values and customs that Peggy is accustomed to, having grown up in Cortland. She longs to hang onto its relative innocence and sense of community for as long as possible, before eventually making a permanent break and adopting the more cosmopolitan lifestyle that her career will necessitate.
The underground ride uptown takes approximately thirty minutes, and she virtually leaps from the plastic seat as the train pulls into the station, deep beneath the bus terminal. As with all young people of college age, Peggy has no sense of fear, and displays a carefree attitude that serves her well. Were she more aware of her surroundings and possessed of a more keenly-honed sense of survival, she would notice the intense stare coming from the dark-skinned Latino man lurking behind the tile-covered column, and watching her every movement.
Chapter 8
Valerie is standing at the small countertop, preparing a salad, as I enter the side door into the kitchen. A lot has changed since we made the move from the city to Roscoe. For one thing, Val is no longer a registered nurse, working a rotating shift, at the beck and call of a hospital. Although she still wears a uniform, she is now a salaried employee of the Delaware County Regional School System, which employs her as the school nurse at Walton High School. She is never home later than four o’clock in the afternoon, has weekends off, and enjoys lengthy holidays during school breaks throughout the year. And, since she has elected to receive her salary in twenty-six equal payments, spread over the entire calendar year, she can enjoy summers off without guilt.
“Baked macaroni?” I ask, inhaling deeply, and catching the aroma of one of my favorite dishes.
“Uh-huh,” she replies, not looking up. “Do you want wine?”
I place my hands around her waist, squeezing gently. “Only if it comes with a serving of you,” I say.
She turns to face me, and we embrace.
It’s been nearly eight years since we were married, and I still get that funny sensation in the pit of my stomach when I look into her eyes. Today’s no different.
“Maybe later,” she smiles, and begins to turn away.
“But, I thought we might…you know…before we eat?”
“I don’t think we have enough time.”
“I don’t need that much time, remember? I’m not exactly ‘Mr. Long Distance Runner’ anymore.”
“In that case,” says Val, “it depends.” She pulls me closer.
“Depends on what?”
“On how fast you can get out of those clothes and—“
“Take a shower? Not a problem. Meet you upstairs in five minutes.”
I push free of her grasp, and sprint for the stairway. “Oh,” I yell over my shoulder, “and bring the wine!”
“Asshole!” shouts Val.
Five minutes later—on the nose—we’re curled around one another between the crisp, cold sheets, beneath the covers. We finish our wine, and in less than a minute, we’re lost in the wonderful rhythm of lovemaking. Ten minutes more and we’re done.
Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery Page 3