The Bones Will Speak

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  “Right,” she said. “In other words, warden, exercise period is over. Back to your cell.” She strolled from the room.

  “I’m telling you, Beth, when my hair turns gray, I’ll have earned every strand.”

  “Mmm.” Beth plucked some dog hair off her sleeve. “I could leave, maybe return those books to the library . . .”

  “Stay. That is, if your sweet husband can spare you?”

  “It’s income tax time and his clients are keeping him busy. I don’t think he even knows I’m gone during the day.”

  “Good. We have things to do. For some reason, there’s a very personal aspect to this killer’s actions. And apparently something bigger he’s planning. Let’s see what else isn’t a coincidence.” A half an hour later, I sat back at my drafting table. “That’s all I can remember. Read what we have so far.”

  “Under ‘Known’ are the exact words he said, then: ‘male, knows the area, at least two other bodies, control, restraint, leaves little evidence, educated, prepared, drives a car, returned to the scene, knows you or about you, mentioned Hudson’s Bay blanket, baited Winston to go to the farm, said hitting your dog was an accident, about five foot ten to six feet tall, around wood chips.’ ” Beth looked up. “That’s a lot.”

  “But not enough. Read on.”

  “Under ‘Unknown’ is: ‘Mattie message, leaving bait for Winston to find? Or grave? Why returned to site? The numbers six and twenty-five. Does not like/admire you? Waited for something or someone? May be thin or weak (bodies near kill site).’ What’s the six and twenty-five mean?”

  “Mattie said it. Maybe she was victim twenty-five, or it’s a time, 6:25. A date, June 25?”

  Beth bent over my computer’s keyboard. After a few minutes she glanced up. “I’ll need more in the way of parameters to run down these numbers.”

  “And she could have reversed them, so twenty-five and six. I don’t even know if it’s connected. We’ll come back to it. What else do we have?”

  “On your yellow tablet you wrote ‘Bundy signature.’ Elaborate.”

  “It has to do with victimology.”

  “But isn’t signature the same as MO?” She reached for a library book.

  “No. People don’t just wake up one morning and say, ‘Today I’m going to become a serial killer.’ It’s a process. They learn what works and what doesn’t work, and what best satisfies their desires. That’s two different things.”

  “Go on.”

  “So the modus operandi are the methods used to commit the crime. Like the location, restraints, weapons, how they left the scene, that kind of thing. That can change, evolve as the killer learns his craft. The signature is why he does it. It’s a message from the offender, meant to be seen and understood, that fulfills their need or fantasy.”

  She looked up from a page she was reading. “Ah. It says here a signature is like tying a special knot.”

  “Sure. Or he could leave notes, engage in necrophilia, and so on.”

  “You wrote ‘Bundy.’ ”

  “Ted Bundy chose his victims based on how they looked. Another signature.”

  “Didn’t Bundy experience a traumatizing incident from a girlfriend and subsequently select and murder women based on their conformity to her appearance?”

  “Possibly, or Bundy was just attracted to certain women.” I tapped my pencil on the desk for a moment.

  “What aren’t you saying?”

  “Huh?”

  “Tapping your pencil. That usually means you’re contemplating something.” Beth looked at the list, then back at me. “Bundy?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but I just keep seeing that poor girl and how I thought it was Aynslee.”

  “So what does Mattie Banks look like?”

  I stood and pulled a pad of Bristol paper from my taboret, then sat at my drawing table. I reached for a pencil, choosing the sharpest one from the lineup.

  “You do know you have two pencils behind your ear?”

  I touched them. “Backup.” I closed my eyes for a moment and pictured Mattie’s face, then opened them and began to draw. Her image emerged under my rapidly moving pencil. As I continued to shade, Beth stood and wandered over.

  “Finished?” she asked.

  “Yup.” I turned the drawing in her direction.

  “Extraordinary. Eyes, nose, mouth, hair . . .”

  “There’s a difference in her face shape.” I taped the sketch to the window next to my drafting table, then pulled a photo of Aynslee out of the taboret drawer and attached it next to the drawing. “But you can see why I was so shocked.”

  She nodded.

  “It wasn’t just the idea of Ted Bundy. I worked on a case a couple of years ago where one signature was the appearance of the victims. Come to think of it—”

  The phone rang.

  I jumped.

  Beth picked it up. “Forensic Art Studios, Beth Noble speaking.” She listened for a moment, then held out the receiver. Her cheeks held a faint flush.

  I stood and moved toward the desk. Who is it? I silently asked her.

  Robert, she mouthed back.

  My stomach bunched into a knot. I jerked to a stop.

  Beth impatiently wiggled the receiver.

  The room seemed Africa-hot and sweat broke out on my forehead. I took the phone from her. “Yes?”

  “Gwen?” Robert said.

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “What do you want, Robert?” I finally asked.

  “I . . . I’d like to see you.”

  I clamped the phone harder to my ear. “Your daughter’s been trying to call you. She wants to go to the movies. She left you messages—”

  “I got them. That’s one reason I want to talk to you.”

  “Why?” Another hot flash seared my face and neck.

  “Look. Not over the phone. Can I please come and see you? Alone.”

  My hand ached and I loosened my grip. “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “There. At our house.”

  “I guess so.” Slowly hanging up the phone, I looked at Beth. “Well, that had to be the strangest phone call I’ve gotten in a while. Robert wants to come here.”

  “Rather odd, I agree.”

  “The weird part is he said ‘our house.’ When someone uses the pronoun our, it means he’s unconsciously thinking of togetherness.”

  Beth straightened in her chair. “Someday you’ll need to instruct me on statement analysis. I’d love to interpret people’s real thoughts.” She glanced at the stack of statements Dave sent over for me to look at. “Like those. What are you going to look for?”

  “I’ll give you a quick glimpse if you’ll do me a huge favor.”

  “Agreed.”

  Picking up the stack, I ruffled through them. “Statement analysis takes time and concentration, neither of which I have an abundance of right now.” I pulled out one sheet. “Dave told each person to write what happened, in ink, on the front side only of a piece of paper. This is Ron’s statement, and I’ll use him because I was with him and knew what he did. I’m cheating, but this is fast.” I walked over to where Beth was sitting. “Notice how he goes through the events with great detail.”

  Dispatch told me to go to the McCandless farm, located at 16517 Copper Creek Road, at 1000 hours, and investigate a possible dog or wolf attack. I was the first to arrive . . .

  “Okay.”

  “Now look here.” I pointed.

  . . . Gwen nailed a bottle cap into a tree to mark the north-south line. Later I held the tape measure . . .

  “So?”

  “He used the word later. There’s a gap in his story between the bottle cap and the tape measure. He left out something. His statement jumped forward at that point.”

  “Ron threw Dave’s phone into the bushes! Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “You solved the mystery—”

  “Maybe, but more likely he left out having to go to th
e bathroom in a patch of bushes. Not a lie, just a simple omission to cover a rather embarrassing event. I can pick out more than lies from these.” I fanned the papers. “Now, for that huge favor . . .”

  “I want to know more.”

  “All in good time. For now—”

  “Do you want me to research something? Interview suspects? Go undercover—”

  “Would you take Aynslee into town for a movie tomorrow?”

  Beth stared at me, speechless.

  “Pretty please? I don’t know what Robert wants, but he asked to see me alone. With a killer out there . . .”

  “What’s the movie?”

  “A Disney something.” I picked up a pencil.

  “I don’t know. I still get all teary eyed just thinking about Old Yeller.”

  “That was a long time ago.” I doodled a dog’s head. “I’m sure this is a recent release.”

  “So was Eight Below. Those poor huskies. I cried for hours. And did you ever see Hachiko?”

  “I’m sure there’re no dogs in it!” Too late. Beth dove for a box of tissue.

  Dave stared at the teapot. “Louise, how many times—”

  “It’s one of my special blends.” The older woman beamed at him. “It will have you regular in no time. Chamomile, fennel, cardamom, and with my secret ingredients, it will work wonders on digestion—”

  The phone rang. Dave snatched it up like a lifeline. “Sheriff Moore.” He gently slid the teapot to the other side of the desk.

  “Sheriff? This is Dr. Hawkins, the vet. I’m on a farm call. It’s wolves. You need to get out here.”

  Dave let out a deep sigh. “We don’t exactly investigate wolf attacks—”

  “You’ll want to investigate this one.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I found a woman’s body.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE EARLY-AFTERNOON SUN STREAMED through the security bars outside and horizontal blinds within, forming a checkerboard on my studio’s white tile flooring. I gazed at the pattern while Dave outlined what he wanted me to do. “Right. Okay. I’ll be there,” I said.

  Beth leaned forward in her chair.

  I slowly hung up the phone. “That was Dave. He said they just found another body. Looks like you’ll get your wish to work with me on a real case.”

  “Oh my! Was she like the other? Will I have an assignment? Should I bring anything? How did she die?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. Notepaper and pencil. Uh . . . maybe wolves.”

  Beth froze in her gathering of materials. “Wolves?”

  “That’s what Dave said. He told me the veterinarian was on a farm call checking out a sick calf. He found the girl’s body nearby. Wolves killed the calf, and the girl was . . . torn up like the calf.”

  “But that’s implausible. Wolf attacks on humans are extremely rare.”

  “Not anymore.”

  I hesitated to leave Aynslee alone, but taking her to a crime scene with a dead body wouldn’t exactly get me a nomination for mother of the year. Under threat of severe child abuse and promise of a movie with Beth, Aynslee agreed to stay in the house with the doors locked. “Remember,” I had said to her, “only let someone in if they have the password of . . .”

  “How about Winston?”

  “Winston it is.”

  Holding a piece of paper with the directions, Beth pointed out each turn. We passed from paved county roads to graveled Forest Service lanes to a tooth-rattling, dirt driveway. The spring rains had damped down the clouds of dust our passage would kick up in another month. The driveway opened up to a series of fields enclosed by barbed wire strung between uneven cedar posts. We had no trouble spotting the wolf crime scene. Numerous police vehicles huddled together at the end of the last field. We parked behind a marked SUV. “You know, Beth, I think I’ve been here before.”

  “Really?”

  “Remember that series of watercolor landscape paintings I did two years ago? Last Best Places?”

  “Sure. The show was at the library and, uh . . .”

  “City Council.” I pointed. “If there’s a pole barn behind that row of pines, it’s the one I painted. Small world.” I gulped in some air and gave Beth a nod. “On to the scene. Stay close to me. Don’t touch anything. Look interested but slightly bored so they think you’ve been at crime scenes before. And try not to puke. Okay?”

  Beth nodded, eyes shining.

  I pulled my drawing kit out of the back of the car and headed toward Dave with Beth following. We passed through a gate made of wire looped around two poles and into a closely cropped field dotted with cow pies. A row of flowering forsythia and lilac bushes, their scent perfuming the air, separated the field from an ivory-colored farmhouse with peeling paint and fire-blackened streaks above the windows.

  Dave waved me over. Both Dre and Dr. Hawkins wore khaki, short-sleeved coveralls and faced a gray-haired man in stained jeans on the side of the pasture near the bushes. Dr. Hawkins nodded a greeting.

  “Hey, Doctor,” I said. “How did it go with Winston?”

  “So far, so good.” He smiled. “We were able to do a closed reduction—”

  “What’s that?” Dave asked.

  “We were able to manipulate Winston’s dislocation back into place without surgery. ‘Reduction’ means the correction of a dislocation or fracture.” Hawkins looked at me. “He has an Ehmer sling now, but I’d like to keep him another day to make sure his leg doesn’t swell and that all is going well. You can pick him up Sunday. We’re open from four thirty until six.”

  “I’ll be there.” I’d have to ask Robert for the money. That wouldn’t go over well at all.

  Dre’s gaze drifted past me toward my car. “Where’s your daughter?”

  “Home.” I folded my arms. “Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  I chewed my lip and stared at him.

  He shrugged. “You okay with leaving her alone and all?”

  “She knows not to open the door to strangers. And that’s better than dragging her where there’s a dead body.”

  He nodded. “Makes sense.”

  The farmer bobbed his head at us. “So, I was saying, when the house caught fire four years ago”—the man jerked his chin in the direction of the structure—“the wife and I moved closer to town. Seemed like a good idea, us getting older and all. Sold off a few cows too. Simplify, that’s what we agreed on.”

  “And you returned?” Dave prompted.

  “Oh, yeah. So, this morning I drove out here. Would have been here sooner, but the wife was sick, so I didn’t get out here for a couple of days to check on the calves.” He shook his head. “Doc was already here. Couldn’t believe it when he told me about the calf.” He kept his gaze averted from the dead animal at his feet. “And I saw the carcass. Beefalo. Paid a pretty penny to inseminate my herd.” He kicked a dirt clod. “Anyway, while we were lookin’ at the calf, we heard the buzzin’.”

  “Buzzing?” Dave asked.

  “Flies,” Dre said. “The girl’s been dead for a spell.”

  Beth’s face paled a bit, but she gamely followed us as we strolled away from the road and toward the far edge of the field. The small herd of Herefords, many with chunky beefalo offspring, paused in their grazing to watch.

  “Stay in single file,” Dave said.

  We passed the remains of a shredded plaid coat. Ahead, cottonwoods and alders outlined a small stream, while a steeply pitched hillside, covered with dense pines, formed a backdrop.

  The light wind shifted.

  I flinched and pinched my nose. Beth spun, bent double, and vomited. “Sorry,” she said, still bent over.

  My stomach lurched. Fortunately we were at the end of the line and no one turned or noticed. I stepped over to where Beth stood. “Are you going to be okay?” I whispered. “Do you want to wait by the car?”

  “How can you endure that stench?” Beth croaked and wiped her mouth.

  “I usually don’t work on stink cas
es. I tell the law enforcement agencies to send photographs. Anyway, we’ll move upwind and you should take a couple of deep breaths.”

  Face pea green, Beth did as I suggested, gagging a bit on the first few breaths.

  The sound of a car came above the soft murmuring of the wind through the pines. Wes Bailor’s pickup pulled up next to my vehicle.

  I kicked a clod of dirt. “What’s he doing here?”

  “The Forest Service?”

  “That’s Wes Bailor’s truck.”

  “Ah. The bottom-feeder.”

  “Come on.” I turned my back on Wes, pretending I didn’t see him wave at me. Soon, too soon, we caught up with the men now standing in a semicircle. The girl’s body sprawled in the center. After the wolves were through, the inevitable decay of a body left unburied had made her almost unrecognizable.

  Except for her long, ginger-colored hair.

  I felt as if someone punched me in the stomach. She’d been young and tiny, like Mattie. And Aynslee.

  Coincidence. This girl wasn’t a victim of a serial killer.

  Are you sure?

  I checked her hands, looking for the same signs of torture as Mattie had experienced. Her fingers appeared unbroken on her left hand, but under her right was a hint of white. “Dre, there’s something under her hand.”

  Dre joined me. “I see it.” He pulled on exam gloves, then using tweezers, he picked up a torn piece of paper and placed it in a clear, plastic evidence bag.

  “Can I see that?” I asked.

  He handed me the bag.

  I stared at the paper. “Beth, do you have the map I drew to get us here?”

  “Sure.” She rummaged in her purse for a moment. “Here.”

  I took the map, then held up both so Dave could see them.

  Dave rubbed his mustache, then cleared his throat. “So what’s a dead woman in a cow pasture doing with something you drew?”

  “You remember the one-woman art show I had two years ago? I called it Last Best Places. I had an artist’s statement—”

  “That’s very nice, Gwen,” Dave said. “But—”

  “Don’t interrupt,” I said. “I’m getting there. Anyway, I wrote about the paintings and drew maps showing the location of each site. This”—I raised the evidence bag—“is a copy of that map.”