by Ian Smith
Brusco sighed in acknowledgment. He understood the pain, and he also knew what it meant to be a homicide agent. There was something buried deep inside all of them that compelled them to see and learn every grisly detail of the killing. Even if it was family. He gave Sterling his space.
Sterling snapped on the latex gloves. He had done this hundreds of times, in the lab and in the field, but never had he imagined it would be over the dead body of his brother. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and mouthed a small prayer. When he finished, he knelt beside Wilson, then turned him over with considerable effort. Nothing could have prepared him for what he found. He had to reach out to stop from falling.
The word NIGGER had been inscribed across Wilson's chest. The cuts were so deep that Sterling could see large tangled chunks of bone, muscle, and fat. Sterling couldn't get out more than a painful grunt. He scrambled to his feet and looked away.
One of the other officers started heaving. He grabbed his stomach before doubling over to vomit.
“Get him the hell out of here,” Wiley barked. Two other men escorted the sickened officer away from the scene. Even with the buzz of the chopper overhead, they could still hear him retching on the side of the barn.
“What the hell?” one of the other men said. He spoke for everyone staring at Wilson's mutilated body.
Brusco walked behind Sterling and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Let us take it from here,” he said. “You've seen enough.”
Sterling dried his eyes with his hands, then stepped back. He watched quietly as the other men went to work. They began dusting the body for prints, then took samples—tissue, skin, hair, fingernails, and some of the blood that had clotted on his chest. The team worked quickly and expertly, gathering the evidence and sealing it in large plastic bags, then labeling them with black markers. As Sterling watched, he mentally checked off the steps that should be taken during the early collection of evidence. Reflex. This was his area of expertise, and despite the pain in his heart and the fog clouding his mind, the FBI agent in him monitored their movements carefully.
Sterling stepped closer to the body. The more he looked at the word “nigger” carved into Wilson's chest, the angrier he became. Didn't the evils of racism have any boundaries, play by any rules? Sterling was painfully reminded of what Pops had always told them growing up. No matter how high you climb, don't ever forget the color of your skin because they won't. The amount of money you have in the bank or the number of degrees hanging on your wall won't mean a damn thing. To some of them you'll always be a nigger. And that's what Wilson was to them, even after all that he had accomplished. Sterling cursed his father because his words rang so true. He cursed Wilson's killers for senselessly wasting a good and productive life.
Sterling felt a wave of hate surge in his body. He wanted to kill them—all of them—racists, bigots, hate mongers, and anyone else who had spewed the venomous ideology of racism. If they could kill someone like Wilson who rarely, if ever, even whispered a harsh word about anybody else, then no one was safe.
His jaws tightened as he examined the carved letters. If this was the work of a hand knife, it must have taken the killer a long time to complete the disfigurement. The letters were well formed and in a strange sort of way they were neat. Most troubling, however, was the depth of penetration. Spicules of bone were fixed in the dried, matted blood as if they had been stuck in glue. Sterling prayed that Wilson had been dead long before they mutilated him. The skin along the incised areas remained puckered, the edges uneven and actually frayed in some parts. Sterling knew this had to be the work of a jagged blade. The cuts seemed too deep to be carved by hand. He had cut through bone for years during autopsies, and he knew the effort it would take to accomplish it with a knife.
The men pulled the body so that Wilson's face emerged from underneath the bushes. He wore an expression of terror. His eyes were wide and glassy, his mouth was open. It looked like he had been killed while in the middle of saying something. Sterling peered over the shoulders of the men kneeling beside Wilson's body. There weren't any marks on his face, nor was there blood in his mouth. But that expression. Sterling knew it would haunt him forever.
Sterling found Lieutenant Wiley standing a few feet away deep in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. “Whose property is this?” Sterling asked.
“Potter's farm,” Wiley said.
“Who owns it?”
“It belonged to one of the richest men in the Upper Valley—Ezra Potter.”
“Belonged?”
“The old man died years ago. Actually, he was killed somewhere on this property in a hunting accident.” Wiley slightly stressed the word “accident.”
Sterling heard the skepticism. “You didn't buy it?”
“I was only a teenager at the time, but I remember it well. Just too damned strange. He heads out here one afternoon with a couple of buddies and returns in a body bag.”
“But hunting accidents do happen.”
“Not when you're shooting up in the air at fowl and all four men have been hunting since they were kids.”
“So who lives here now?” Wiley took Sterling by the arm and led him a few yards away from the chaos. He pointed at the distant trees. The mountain peaks reached into the sky, piercing the bed of clouds suspended above them.
“The main house is about half a mile on the other side of the property,” Wiley said. “His wife is still knocking around up there. She must be damn near ninety, but she's as sharp as a tack. She's lived by herself all these years since Ezra's death, but someone told me she finally got some live-in help.”
“Has anyone gone up there yet?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then we need to pay Mrs. Potter a visit.”
13
The Potter farmhouse was a great, rambling, faded-red structure that stood alone in the middle of an open field. The weathered wood and drab color were clear indications that the house had seen much happier times. An antique maroon Porsche with a black soft top sat in front of the garage. The polished chrome shone in the sunlight like a mirror. Sterling made a mental note of the car before approaching the front door of the old farmhouse. The massive structure of ancient wood slats screamed out for a fresh coat of paint. Forget a modern contraption like a doorknob. A heavy rusted knocker hung in the middle of the door, looking like it was too tired to announce any more visitors. Wiley cleared away the cobwebs and reached up to give it several firm taps. A few seconds later the door creaked open.
A young woman stood in the doorway. She was wearing jeans and a pink blouse buttoned to her neck, and her blond hair was pulled back in a long ponytail. Sterling got the strange feeling that he had seen her before. He never forgot a pretty face.
“Officer Wiley, ma'am, and this here is Agent Sterling Bledsoe. We were hoping to get a word with you and Mrs. Potter.”
A look of concern spread across her face. “Is there a problem, Officer?” Her accent was hard, maybe German, Sterling thought. She couldn't have been more than twenty-four.
Wiley looked at Sterling before answering. “I'm afraid there is,” he said. “We've found a body on the edge of the property.”
The fair-skinned girl lost what little color she had, covering her mouth with her free hand. “A body? Here?”
“Yes, ma'am, we found it about an hour ago.” The girl shook her head until it settled into a tremble. Her eyes were fixed in disbelief. “May we come in?” Wiley asked.
“Oh yes, please do,” she said. “Mrs. Potter is in the living room. Wait here for a moment.” She disappeared before Wiley could ask her name.
Inside, the house looked much better than one might have expected from the poorly maintained surrounding property. Large oil canvases hung on dark walls, mixed with black-and-white still photographs, the oval kind where the faces had started to turn sepia from age. The backgrounds had completely faded to an ash gray. Two doorways flanked the room, one on the left, the other farther back along the right wall.
Identical deer heads had been mounted above the entrances. In the far corner sat a dusty gun cabinet filled with an assortment of shotguns and rifles. A vast collection of plaid, wool, fur, and bright-orange hunting caps burdened a crooked hat pole. A serious hunter had once lived here.
The young woman returned. She looked much calmer now. “Mrs. Potter will see you.”
Sterling and Lieutenant Wiley followed her through a series of cluttered rooms and a sitting room big enough to seat a family of twenty. They walked down a short hallway and through a door that opened to a spacious living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave the otherwise dark room a jolt of life. An old woman sat propped in a chair, leaning over a small table. She was just finishing a sip of something hot. Her skin sagged in some places but was stretched tight in others. Her eyes were strong. Chestnut brown. The diamonds in her ears were big enough to comfortably send someone into retirement.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, placing the cup back on the tray. “What in God's name is going on?”
“I'm Lieutenant Wiley from the Hanover Police Department,” Wiley said, removing his cap. It was the first time that Sterling had seen him with it off. His dark hair was surprisingly wavy and youthful-looking. “This here is Agent Sterling Bledsoe.”
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” she said, waving her wrinkled fingers at an empty sofa. “You too, Heidi, for God's sake.” The young blonde followed the command. “This weather is a real treat, especially after the rain last night,” she said. Sterling had expected this would start the conversation.
“It's a fine one, Mrs. Potter,” Wiley said. “Probably still hovering somewhere in the sixties.” There was a brief pause, and then it was time for business. “Mrs. Potter, we found a body on the edge of your property about an hour ago.”
Mrs. Potter sat back from the table and rested her head against the chair. “I thought Heidi had been mistaken. What's a body doing on my property?” Her voice was still strong for a woman climbing into her nineties. Wiley's statement didn't scare her. Instead, it made her more indignant.
“That's what we're trying to figure out,” Wiley said. “One of our men found him by the old barn not far from the pond.”
“I haven't been down there since Ezra died.” She looked out the window and mumbled something. The sun on her face illuminated the web of tiny blue veins beneath her paper-thin skin. “Do you know who it is?”
“My brother, ma'am,” Sterling said, speaking for the first time. “Professor Wilson Bledsoe.”
Nel Potter let out a shriek, her face twisted in horror. She looked at Heidi, then at Sterling. “My God!” she exclaimed. “Did you say Professor Wilson Bledsoe? The one who lives just over on Deer Run Lane?”
“Yes, ma'am. That's my brother.”
“There must be some mistake,” she said, shaking her head as if someone had just slapped her. “I just saw him a couple of days ago.”
“You knew my brother, ma'am?”
“Did I? I saw him at least once a week. There must be some mistake.” She couldn't stop shaking her head. “No one would want to hurt that lovely man.” The room fell silent as Mrs. Potter struggled with the news. She turned to Heidi. “Child, get these men something cool to drink.” Wiley and Sterling waved away the offer, but it was of no use. Heidi was already through the door. Sterling caught her wiping her eyes. “Wilson was a prince of a man,” Mrs. Potter said. She stopped suddenly and closed her eyes. Her chin dropped to her chest. “I've already referred to him in the past tense.”
“It's tough for all of us,” Sterling said. “This has come as quite a shock. Now we're beginning a murder investigation.”
“It feels so strange even hearing the word murder,” she said. “That just doesn't happen around here. Why in God's name would someone murder Wilson?”
“We don't know who or why,” Sterling said, “but I'm not stopping till I have the answers.”
“And to think that he was killed on my property,” Mrs. Potter sighed.
Heidi returned to the living room carrying a tray of tall glasses and a large pitcher of lemonade. In just the short time since she had left, her eyes had already swollen and reddened. She had been crying hard. She poured drinks for everyone but herself, then took a seat. Sterling still couldn't place her face and it bothered him.
He looked at Mrs. Potter. “How did you come to know my brother?” he asked after a long pull on the sugary liquid. The sweetness followed by the sharp bitter aftertaste made his lips pucker.
“I met the Professor a few years ago, after he and his beautiful wife moved over to the Karlson property on Deer Run. That piece of land had been in the Karlson family for four generations, but the mother was the last one alive and didn't have anyone to leave it to. Poor woman. The Professor and his wife bought it, and there couldn't have been a more perfect couple for that property. They were young and Wilson was crazy about nature.”
Sterling noticed Heidi nodding in agreement. “Heidi, what's your last name?” Sterling asked.
Heidi turned to Mrs. Potter almost as if asking for permission to speak. “Vorscht,” she said. “I'm a graduate student at Thayer, the engineering school.”
“Do you live here?” Sterling asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“She's from Germany,” Mrs. Potter took over. “Just outside of Stuttgart. Every few years I get a new live-in student to help me around the house. I've been quite lucky with the German girls. They're hardworking and good around the house.” Mrs. Potter paused. “And they always do well in school.”
“Did either of you hear anything unusual last night?” Sterling asked.
Heidi and Mrs. Potter looked at each other. Mrs. Potter went first. “I had dinner at seven in the kitchen, as always. I watch Jeopardy every night. I get most of the answers right when these young people with all their fancy degrees can't even answer the easy ones. Just goes to show you the old way of schooling wasn't that bad after all. After the final Jeopardy question, Heidi sets me up in the family room for my dessert. That's where I watch Wheel of Fortune. That Vanna White is just the loveliest.” Sterling indulged the old woman's rambling. “When that's over, it's a little shot of whiskey for the heart, and then I'm off to bed.”
“Did you hear anything strange during that time?” Sterling asked.
“Nothing at all,” she said. “But that's not surprising, since I sleep like a log.”
“What time did you get up this morning?”
“I get up the same time every morning, five thirty.”
“What about you, Heidi?” Sterling asked.
“After I put Mrs. Potter to bed, I went downstairs in the den to study,” she said. Her English was perfect, but still weighed down by her heavy German accent. Sterling looked at her carefully. She was even prettier than he first thought—the way her eyes turned up at the corners, high cheekbones and long, slender nose. Her turtleneck sweater clung across her ample chest. She was in excellent shape. “I like the den, because at night the house gets cold and the fireplace in there works the best.”
“What time did you go to sleep last night?”
“About one o'clock this morning.”
“And when did you get up?”
“About eight.”
Sterling looked intently at Heidi's delicate hands. They were trembling. He couldn't help but think how ironic it was that Wilson's body was found on the property of friendly neighbors who would have done anything they could to help him. He motioned to Wiley, then stood up. Lieutenant Wiley grabbed his hat off the sofa and stood beside him.
“Thanks for all of your help, Mrs. Potter. You too, Heidi,” Sterling said. “Sorry we had to meet like this.”
“The Professor was a wonderful human being,” Mrs. Potter said. “I can't imagine why anyone with a sane mind would want to take his life.” She stood with great effort, ignoring Heidi's outstretched hand. She reached for an old wooden cane leaning against her chair and started walking slowly, but after a few warm-up strides she picked
up her pace.
“We might come back for a few more questions, if that's all right,” Wiley informed the two women.
“I'm always here,” Mrs. Potter said. “I don't get out much. Come and have a cool drink anytime you'd like.”
Heidi opened the door for them to leave. “By the way, Mr. Bledsoe, what will ever come of his blackbirds?”
“Blackbirds?” Sterling asked.
“They were his passion,” she said. “That's how we first came to meet. I'd see him taking what he called his night scouts. He'd be out walking on the property before the sun was even awake, gathering information about all kinds of animals, didn't matter how small or how big. And he was such a . . . such a . . .” She struggled for the word. “Such a crusader for those blackbirds.”
He made a note in his black book. Why the hell was Wilson studying blackbirds so early in the morning, and where had Sterling seen this beautiful girl before?
Kay stood at the counter putting away dishes when Sterling entered the kitchen. He watched her for a few moments, then looked over at the table. Wilson's plate of salmon was still there, covered in Saran Wrap. Seeing it only worsened the pain gnawing at his stomach. Sterling had never been a religious man, and the last twelve hours had done very little to put the Bible at the top of his reading list. At this moment he had a lot more questions than he did faith. He walked farther into the kitchen and hung his coat on the back of a chair. “Kay,” he finally said.
She turned and faced him. The stress of uncertainty had not been kind to her. Her mental fragility had unmasked age's creeping effects around her eyes. He looked at her desperately, then nodded and turned away.
Her woeful scream filled the air, a scream of bottomless anguish. She sagged to the ground and lay there in a fetal position, her sobs causing her to heave uncontrollably. She kept repeating Wilson's name and asking God for his mercy.
Sterling knelt beside her, pulling her to his chest and spilling his own tears into the flood pouring out of her eyes. “It's gonna be okay,” was all that he could say, trying to console himself as much as her. “Even if it takes me to my death, I'll find whoever has done this.”