Dead Poor

by M. K. Coker

  His weighted tone said no, but she said, “Yes. I want a report. Biester is on my ass about it. He’s not as heated up or as socially connected as Alan Digges, but I—”

  “Digges?” With a twinkle of eye and a quick laugh, Adam discarded the mad king for the class clown of Reunion High. “The Boy Toy of the Bayton Babe? What’s he got to do with anything in Eda County? Wouldn’t think he’d step one Italian-shod toe in the muck. No, don’t tell me. His wife’s got property here.”

  Six degrees of separation—or fewer. “You know him?”

  “Digges schmoozed up to me for a while at The Pavilion, when he’d heard I was a big-name star on Broadway. Until someone clued him in that my headliner was decades ago. Then he started making snide comments about has-beens. Don’t worry, boss. I survived New York critics. I can survive Digges.”

  And with a swirl of his fur-lined cape, he flew downstairs to his locker. A quick-change artist, he returned in the role of reserve deputy before Karen got out the door.

  “Sheriff Mehaffey, shall we begin?”

  Karen blinked back to the present. Unfortunately. She pulled on a white surgical mask from the dispenser that Dr. White thoughtfully provided near the door—along with barf bags. “Go ahead.”

  Dr. White gestured to the body. “Detective? Will you give me a hand with the tarp?”

  With obvious reluctance, Marek moved forward. She didn’t blame him. The stench that arose once the tarp was peeled back was enough to make her gag. Even Dr. White, who’d undoubtedly had far more experience with bodies in more decomposed states, rushed over to the far wall, flicked a switch, and turned a knob. Air handlers roared to life, sucking up the odor.

  “That...” Dr. White said after a long pause, “was truly foul.” He grabbed his own mask and slipped it on, dark fingers searching for any gaps. “Your coroner said your victim was a stinker when he brought him in. I laughed at the quaint wording, but he was apparently being quite literal. Where was the body found, a treatment plant?”

  “Vault toilet,” Marek said.

  “Well. That’s one for the books.” Cautiously, the pathologist approached the half-tarped body and grabbed a water nozzle. “Have swabs already been taken from the hands and any other extremity of interest?”

  Karen nodded. “Larson did what he could. He said that Bunting was stabbed in the back.”

  “Then I’ll need help turning Mr. Bunting, when it comes to that. Your vic is a big boy.” The pathologist began to peel off the stained shirt and stopped abruptly. “Who is your vic, again?”

  “Robert Leonard Bunting,” Karen said and saw the pathologist’s chocolate-colored eyes widen. “Yes, the very same Bob Bunting who beat me in the special election... and then lost it again after the recount on Friday night. And before you ask, Marek and I were in New Mexico when it happened. We’re not suspects per DCI.”

  He smiled at her. “That’s very welcome news. On the win, I mean. I wouldn’t have even thought of you and your estimable uncle as suspects. Congratulations. I wasn’t aware of any of this, though I’m sure it’s been in the news. I walked my eldest daughter down the aisle yesterday. It’s been nothing but frills and bonbons at our house for months. Years, it seems.”

  “Congratulations back at you.” As the father of the bride, he’d probably shelled out more than his time. “I hope the wedding didn’t set you back too much.”

  “My job isn’t always fun, but it does pay for some fun, at least for my family.” Dr. White’s expression turned grave. “Your erstwhile opponent, however, had little fun and games growing up. These injuries are old.”

  Karen sucked in a breath as Dr. White exposed the upper torso. Dots and lines. Cigarette burns. And... what? “Whip?”

  “Belt,” Marek murmured. “Dual-track edges.”

  That made her jerk and look at Marek—but he dropped his gaze. Personal knowledge or professional?

  “Yes, Detective Okerlund, you’re right.” Dr. White, his head down, missed the byplay. “Very unusual, and very bad, for this kind of thing to be found on the torso.”

  Off balance, Karen asked, “How so?” Then as she instinctively crossed her arms over her midsection, she got it. “Oh. You curl up when you’re being attacked. So...” She swallowed hard. “He was unconscious?”

  “That or tied down.” He touched a boxed-in cigarette-butt burn. “Noughts and crosses.”

  Karen wrinkled her nose. “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, I had a kindergarten teacher from the UK. That’s their version of—”

  “Tic-tac-toe.” That was exactly what it looked like, or a sloppy version thereof. “Noughts. Isn’t that zeros? Really, really sick. I’m guessing his zero of a mother did that, going from the aunt’s report, but...”

  “But Rachel Dutton had lots of men,” Marek finished. “Any or all could’ve contributed. Still, she had to have known.”

  “So that’s how you create a monster, with a belt and a butt,” Karen said under her breath, or so she’d thought, then kicked herself when Marek winced.

  “A monster?” Dr. White paused as he tackled Bunting’s belt buckle. “I thought Bunting was in your business.”

  Karen got herself under control. “We’re looking at him for a cold case. Serial rapist. We need you to take samples for DNA for the FBI to compare against a... a possible child.”

  The pathologist glanced thoughtfully between the two of them, probably noting that they looked nothing alike, and thinking one of them wasn’t a real Okerlund.

  “No, not one of us. It’s a confidential matter, or I’d tell you. And as Marek keeps reminding me, I can’t assume anything until we have the data in hand. But some of the evidence is... damning.”

  The pathologist resumed his work, this time at the feet. “Very well. I can tell you that, based on these shoes, the condition of the clothing, I believe he was dragged—in a wooded area.” He dropped a few pine needles, a yellow-brown leaf, some bark, and mud into an evidence bag.

  Once the body was stripped and all the clothing bagged for transport to DCI, Dr. White hosed down the blue-tinged flesh that showed even more evidence of abuse. “I am rarely shocked anymore by the depravity of man—or woman—but this does. Deeply.”

  Karen thought of Alice Dutton. “His aunt tried to get custody, but the judge turned her down flat. I can’t imagine the man didn’t know about the abuse—unless these all came after.”

  “How old was Bunting when the case went before the judge?”

  “I don’t actually know. But I’m guessing under five.”

  A flicker of relief crossed the pathologist’s face. “Then your judge wasn’t entirely incompetent. I’d say these were inflicted from age five to ten. Oh, a few of these cigarette burns”—he pointed to a series of faint elongated ones along an arm—“may have been there already. But people weren’t as knowledgeable about signs of abuse, or were more likely to overlook it, back then. I will never, ever, understand what compels a person to inflict abuse on a child. When I think of how I was afraid to even hold my daughter after she was born, that I’d somehow damage her... Well.” He blew out a breath and nodded at Marek. “If you would, Detective?” He paused. “Detective Okerlund?”

  Marek, his brooding gaze on the body, started. “Yes?”

  “Your help would be appreciated.” When he got a blank look, Dr. White cleared his throat. “Turning the body. I do lift some weights, believe it or not, but I’m not up to lifting twice my weight.”

  After a second’s immobility, Marek stepped forward, though Karen thought his gloved hands shook a bit as they closed over pale legs tracked with belt marks. If this barrage of bad memories continued, she would lose her detective—mentally, if not physically. She needed him on his A-game.

  Once turned, the body revealed the endgame: a shockingly small entry wound.

  “A single-bladed blow,” Dr. White said with interest. “That would be an unusual cause of death. But... yes, you see this defect? One side with a sharp angle, the other more bl
unt?”

  Karen moved forward to inspect the puckered wound. “What does it tell you?”

  “Pocketknife,” Marek answered, proving he hadn’t checked out quite yet. “You can see the indentation from the locking mechanism, so it’s not a kitchen knife.”

  “Very good. Curiouser and curiouser.” He made a humming sound. “I am not yet convinced that this blow was the cause of death. Very unusual.” He leaned in for a better view. “Looks like the blade was twisted slightly on exit. Or the body fell. Let’s see if we can determine trajectory and depth.”

  He powered up his saw, and Marek moved back, his gaze swinging high. Karen joined him in staring at the cabinetry across the room. Fingernails on chalkboard had nothing on saw on bone.

  “Well. That’s interesting.”

  Karen wondered if her eyes fell at the same time as Marek’s. Puppets on a string. “What’s that?”

  “Mr. Bunting wasn’t long for this world, no matter that stab in the back. Advanced heart disease. A heart attack waiting to happen. Now... yes... yes. The blow appears to have gone mostly straight with a slight downward trajectory and... hmm...”

  Karen groaned. “You’re killing me here, Doc.”

  “What? Oh. Sorry. The depth of penetration is about six inches, longer than most pocketknives. I’ve heard about this happening but haven’t seen it as yet. Textbook case.”

  “Of what?” Karen prompted.

  The pathologist straightened, still looking down at Bunting as if he were a fascinating specimen from the far-off Amazon. “Of a wound longer than the knife. Due to the elasticity of the skin, you usually can’t give exact dimensions of a penetrating object. But most pocketknives are no more than four inches. Yes, there are exceptions, but I don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with here.”

  “And that is?” Karen asked.

  He looked up. “Compression. A track or depth longer than the blade. Most often, you’re going to get compression in the abdominal area, but the chest cavity is also collapsible due to the rib cage. Either that was a very lucky strike, or someone had a good grasp of human anatomy. A powerful thrust, I’d say. Lots of muscle or emotion behind it.”

  Karen picked her way through his words. “So... that is the cause of death? He didn’t suffocate or anything?”

  The dark eyebrows winged up. “Suffocate?”

  “His mouth was full of... fecal matter.”

  “Ah. Yes. I noted that earlier. Postmortem. Do I need to take a sample?”

  “No, it’s been done. Larson has it. Though he said fecal material is devilishly difficult to get DNA from. You have to hope the outside layer scrapes off cells from the colon.” Fishing for those cells, thankfully, wasn’t her job. Karen pulled off her mask. “What is your ruling, Mr. Pathologist?”

  “Homicide.” Dr. White stripped off his gloves and dropped them into the trash. “Cause of death is cardiac tamponade from a penetrating blow to the pericardium. Given Mr. Bunting’s physical conditioning and advanced state of heart disease, I suspect he dropped where he was struck, though he may have lived some long minutes beyond that point, most likely unconscious.”

  As Dr. White surveyed the massive body, his professional interest—and tone—faded. “Whether or not your victim was a monster, he lived with one for far too many years. I hope that whoever that is, or was, is tasting the fire of everlasting hell.”

  Amen.

  CHAPTER 20

  Karen felt as if she were still on that rutted road, ripe with muck-sucking gotchas, even though she’d just traveled a well-maintained Interstate-29. She turned down the exit ramp and headed for Grove Park with her brooding passenger more oppressive than the breaking clouds above.

  She and Marek had left the morgue, taken the evidence bags directly to DCI, and logged them in with the clerk there. Karen had been disappointed to find that neither the workaholic Larson nor his long-suffering sidekick were there. They’d been called to a homicide scene up north in the Lake region.

  So she’d called up Biester to show them the homeless encampment. He’d been more than happy to agree. At least one fence mended, she hoped, with the evictions scheduled for later in the day.

  As Karen drove onto a county road that rapped to the beat of the tarred cracks under her wheels, she decided she’d had enough. “Look, Marek, I know it’s been a rough welcome home for you. Some bad memories, from Valeska yesterday to today’s reminder of your mother’s abuse...” She bit her lip as Marek stirred like a waking bear from his slump against the Sub’s worn upholstery.

  “My mother was no Rachel Dutton,” he said tightly. “And I’m no Bunting. One belting does not equal abuse.”

  As far as Karen was concerned, any belting was abuse, but she wasn’t talking about just a swat or two. She’d been home that day, in her attic room across the street from his, with her window open. He’d been only ten years old, on report-card day, and he’d screamed, “I’ll try harder.” Over and over again. “That belting went on and on... and if I hadn’t called Grandpa, you’d still have the scars.”

  When he didn’t respond, she let out a breath. “You do have scars. I wondered. I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. But that’s abuse. I just don’t know how you can defend it. Or her.”

  He kept his eyes straight out the windshield. “Because I know what tripped her. Not hate, love. She was scared spitless that I was going to turn into her father, who did abuse her and Uncle Jim. With many scars, physical and mental. Yes, it was overkill. Yes, it was wrong. I would never condone it, any more than I do with what Val did to Becca, but—”

  “Wait. What?” Karen jerked the wheel along with her head and almost ran off the road. Letting off the gas, she steadied the Sub—and herself. “Your wife hit Becca? When?”

  Marek turned his head, and she didn’t think she’d ever seen such a bleak look. “Hit her anytime she drew anything. Because Val didn’t want Becca growing up to be like the mother who abandoned her for the lure of art. Same reason, same fear, same overkill.”

  How many generations would that excuse hold? She didn’t buy it. “Scars?”

  “Nothing that left a mark. Physically. Mentally? Another story.” He cradled his head. “I should have seen the signs. I was trained to see them. But I left all the discipline to Val, because I thought...”

  “That history repeats. Have you ever touched Becca?”

  His voice came out muffled. “Timeouts. That’s all I can manage. Kills me.”

  “Because you’re not your grandfather. And you’re not your mother, who refused to see that you were trying as hard as any kid possibly could to make her happy, to get good grades. She was an educator, for Pete’s sake, and should’ve seen the signs of dyslexia. She’s lucky that you didn’t turn on her, turn into your grandfather, just to spite her. To be honest, I thought you’d gone that way, after you disappeared.”

  He raised his head, rubbed hands down his face, and looked back out. “We’ve just passed the park.”

  “What? Oh.” She stopped on the deserted road, did a Y-turn, and doubled back. “Does my dad know what happened with Val?”

  “No. I didn’t know myself until after we got to Reunion and Becca started talking again.” Marek’s profile looked bleaker, if that was possible. “Arne gave my daughter what I didn’t, didn’t know I had to: permission to draw, to be herself.”

  “Stop beating yourself up, Marek.” Karen drove past the dropbox, past the dumping station, and turned right down the drive to the park residence, almost hidden amongst the trees. “I’m sick about what happened to Becca, to you, to your mother, even to Bunting as a kid, but we have a job to do right now.” She parked the Sub behind the park manager’s truck. “I need you focused.”

  Marek rubbed his face again, nodded, and got out. Jack Biester met them in front of his ranch home. His ruddy, square face was surprisingly cheerful. He seemed... freer... as though some weight had been lifted. And all she’d needed to do was show up and listen. Obviously, what she thought of as a relativ
ely minor problem was, to him, major.

  “Glad you could make it, Sheriff. Detective.” He squinted up at a sky that had shed the downcast gray for a deep blue that presaged the last hurrah before winter. “Up for a hike? We could drive over, but I’d prefer not to alert anyone to our arrival. I want to catch them red-handed.”

  “Why not,” Karen said after getting a shrug from Marek. The park wasn’t all that big, after all. She retrieved her radio from the Sub, wishing she had a shoulder unit instead. One more thing to add to her wish list that Dahl would deep-six. “I could stretch my legs.”

  Though as they ascended the asphalt road that meandered upward to the campground, she wished she’d grabbed some sunscreen. Her nose was undoubtedly turning as red as the sumac beside the road.

  Trying to make nice, Karen asked Biester, “How did you end up here? Didn’t you say you worked for the feds? We’re not exactly on the nation’s top-ten list here. Not even the state’s.”

  With a smile, Biester stopped at the campground entrance, shaded his eyes, and pointed to the loose snarl of gnarly brown-and-yellow-leafed trees on the far side of the road, nipping at the campsites like ill-disciplined, stunted trolls. “That’s what brought me here. Bur oaks. I did my master’s thesis on their adaptations in northern climes. As this park is basically a bur oak forest, it was, you might say, a return to my roots.”

  Karen tilted her head to look at the ugly trees then glanced at the small stand of maples. Tall and symmetrical, they were stunning with their pure-yellow leaves rapidly turning red. “Okay.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “Bur oaks are a very resilient species, if not as pretty as some.” He started walking down the gravel circle of the small campground, waving at Donahue and a few new campers, who were either oblivious to the news or brave. “In southern climes, bur oaks can grow much taller, more symmetrical. But to survive the Dakota winters, the long droughts, they’ve adapted, growing large taproots, and growing more wide than tall.” He gestured at the maples. “Those? Nothing but looks over substance. Have to be pampered. I’d rather see them die off, along with the other non-native species planted here, but people like to come for the fall color, so that’ll never happen.”