Splintered Silence

by Susan Furlong

  And, I had to admit, I felt it as well. The downpour of success, like a rush of water cascading over my whole being, the lightness in my half laugh, the warm reassurance of his fur squiggling beneath my hands. Then the outpour of thrill ebbed and washed away, and exhaustion flowed through us as we both released the morning’s tension through our private celebration.

  After he’d had his fill of my attention, I sobered. It was time for me to do the rest of my task now. A task that would not end in any celebration.

  I stood up and brushed off my clothing. I poured Wilco a full container of water and watched as he lapped it up. Pusser had yet to show. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I yelled out again. This time I got a response. After more back and forth shouting, Pusser found us.

  “Female?” he asked, coming our way.

  I pointed to the body. “I think so. I didn’t take a close look.”

  Pusser went in the direction I pointed. I joined him. We approached the vicinity of the body carefully, stopping a few feet away, where we stood shoulder to shoulder. Neither one of us spoke. Out of the shock of finding the body, or out of reverence, I couldn’t be sure. In our silence, I heard the harsh caw of a crow and a rustling sound of rodents disturbing dry leaves. A ray of hot sun broke through the tree branches and warmed the sudden chill that had come over me. I hadn’t prayed for years, yet I found myself remembering my childhood prayer: Our gathra, who cradgies in the manyak-norch . . . Our Father, who art in Heaven . . .

  Decomposition had rendered her an unrecognizable heap of bones and black leathery tissue, which splayed away from her body in long strips. Remnants of faded clothing still clung here and there, but much of it had been ravaged away by the same rodents that had feasted on her tissue. Her chest cavity was exposed, a hollow cage of rib bones jagged and frayed from flesh-picking vulture beaks. One shoe, a synthetic leather flat, lay off to one side. Red, I thought. It was hard to tell because it was caked in mud.

  Pusser’s deeply flushed face did little to mask the combination of anger and sadness that clouded his features. When he spoke, his voice was low and somber. “Suppose you’re used to seeing this type of stuff. All those soldiers dying over there. Probably doesn’t bother you much anymore.”

  I squeezed my eyes tight against the scene before me. When death settles in, it evicts the soul and devours the flesh, and reduces a whole life to nothing but dry bones and a mere smudge of bio matter. Back in the Marines, I liked to pretend it was just a job and that I could handle it. I’d been lying to myself. Each and every one of those recoveries had stuck with me. This one would too.

  “When I go,” Pusser continued, “I don’t want nobody to be puttin’ me in the ground to rot.” He removed his hat and swiped the sweat on his brow. “Nope. Just pop me in the oven and flip the switch. None of this rotting crap for me.”

  I looked on. My throat grew thick. Pusser was right. There was nothing pretty about death. And considering the extent of decomposition involved here, identification might take a while.

  “You see that?” Pusser indicated toward her skull, where a key-shaped hole was evident about five centimeters above the right eye socket. “Could be from a bullet. Exit wound maybe.”

  A connection to my mother’s murder, maybe? “The body’s been here a while.” I scanned the trees. “Any tracks in and out of here would be long gone.” I recalled yesterday’s rain. “Did you find tracks at the last scene?”

  “Just a partial. One of the crime-scene techs found an imprint in the area. Could be from our guy. Though it could be from anybody. Lots of recreational ATVs out on these trails.”

  “True.” But if an arrest were to be made later, the imprint could tie the perp to the scene. “You think this is Sheila Costello?”

  “Probably.”

  If so, that made two now. Both females, and both connected to our clan. “I want to know what you’ve got on my mother’s case. Show me the file. No one has to know about it.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I helped you out here today. You wouldn’t have a body if it weren’t for Wilco.”

  “You’re right. Thanks.”

  “I missed work. Probably ticked off my boss.”

  “I said thank you.”

  “Look, what’s the chance of two females, both shot in the head, both during the same month, and then both dumped within the same five square miles?” Certainly he saw that. “And if this turns out to be Sheila Costello, then you can add another connection. They’re both Pavees.”

  “What are you saying? A hate crime?”

  “It hasn’t crossed your mind?”

  “What about the guys you mentioned seeing out in the woods? Could be that has something to do with all this.”

  “Drugs?”

  “We don’t have enough to rule out anything at this point.”

  I asked again to see my mother’s file. He blew me off again, telling me to stay put and not disturb anything while he radioed in our location and got the ball rolling with the crime-scene unit.

  Frustrated, I watched him pace as he talked. Pusser hadn’t considered the hate crime angle, or maybe he had, but either way he preferred to ignore it and opt for an easier solution, pinning it on one of us Pavees. As far as I knew, that’d always been the local law’s MO for any crimes involving Bone Gap residents. We were easy targets. No presumption of innocence. Just guilt by association and prosecution by the media. This most recent body, especially if it was Sheila, would simply be another nail in the clan’s coffin.

  Pusser finished his call and sat next to me. “Everything’s in motion, but it’s going to be a while before they can get out here.” He leaned in closer. “Look, Callahan. You and your dog did good today. I’m grateful. And I don’t need to tell you that tensions are running high around here. This ain’t going to help things neither.” I agreed, and he continued, “Dealing with you gypsy people is like banging my frickin’ head against the wall. I need your help.”

  I looked away. I sure as hell wasn’t going to be his informant. I didn’t turn on my own. That’s not how I operated.

  When I didn’t respond, Pusser sighed heavily, stood up, and said, “Let me get this area secured, and then we’ll talk about your mother’s case.”

  I shot a glance at him, but he was busy now, determining the crime-scene area to cordon off. And I felt the boundaries of my own loyalties, of my own needs, being redefined and marked with every step he took and with every turn in this case.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was late Sunday afternoon by the time Pusser drove me back home. My body ached, and a gritty coating of sweat-soaked dirt covered my face and hands. I rubbed my palms up and down the sides of my jeans, but the grime stuck. The stale energy bar I’d scrounged from my pack earlier sat like a lump in my gut as my stomach rolled with anxiety over the pending task of telling Doogan his sister was dead.

  Pusser shot me an odd, sort of sad smile. “I’ll break the news to Doogan. It’s my responsibility.”

  “Thanks. But I know him. I should be the one to tell him.” Sheila’s driver’s license was discovered in the back pocket of the victim’s element-eaten jeans along with a small baggie, believed to be some sort of narcotics packaging. Both findings needed further substantiation, and the ID of the victim wasn’t a sure thing until more tests could be run, but Pusser felt it prudent to tell Doogan that the body we found most likely belonged to his sister. Although he already suspected she was dead, I knew Doogan would take the news hard. I dreaded telling him.

  “Fine. But I’m going to need to talk to both of you about what you saw out in the woods yesterday.”

  “There’s not much to tell. Males, foreign, Spanish-speaking, and carrying what looked like semi-automatic rifles. We only saw them at a distance, and they wore full camo and rain ponchos.”

  “Doogan thought they were drug runners?” The ME’s finding of the narcotics-like package on Sheila’s body had swung Pusser’s focus toward the drug angle.

  “That
was his impression.”

  “Based on what?”

  Experience, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. They already knew about Doogan’s stint in prison. Harris had told me as much. He was just playing me, trying to see how much I knew. A part of me wanted to trust Pusser, but he was making it difficult. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  He grunted and moved on. “About two years back, a couple of Sullivan County guys down in the Cherokee National Forest found heroine in drums buried in the woods. A big bust. Feds, DEA . . . you name it, they all got in on it. The stash was part of a drug pipeline that runs from south of the border up through Kentucky and West Virginia. Ended up that the whole operation was tied into a cartel.”

  “So you’re thinking they’ve reestablished themselves here?”

  “Could be.”

  “And you think my mother and Sheila were somehow connected to this pipeline?” I shifted in my seat. “I don’t know. I’m not really buying it. Seems too coincidental.”

  “I think your mother may have been an addict. Toxicology is still outstanding. You know the drill. We have to send it to the state labs. Results could take four to six weeks before we know what was in her system. But the coroner found needle scarring on her arms.” He looked over, checking for my reaction, I supposed. But I didn’t react; I wouldn’t allow myself to, not in front of him.

  “Scarring. Not fresh tracks?”

  “Hard to be sure, considering . . .” He didn’t finish, and I nodded. The degree of decomposition would make it hard to determine. This new development brought up more questions. I’d been stuck on the premise that Dub had something to do with both crimes. The possibility of a larger narcotics connection just muddied the waters.

  Pusser continued. “It’d help if we could get a history on your mother. We need to know where she’s been, why she came back. I can’t seem to get anything from your family.” I knew what he was asking, but even if I was willing to pump them for information, I wasn’t sure if they knew, or would tell me, much more. They thought I’d gone over to the other side. Maybe I had. Regardless, the trust was gone between us.

  Pusser raised his brows. “There’s also Dublin Costello. The husband. What do you know about him?”

  More than I ever wanted to know. A shudder scrabbled its way up my spine. “He’s got a hot temper and has a history of violence. Rumor has it that Sheila wasn’t happy in the marriage. Doogan told me that she wanted to go home to South Carolina.”

  “Why didn’t she?”

  “Even if Dub was abusive, her family would have encouraged her to stay to try to work things out. Divorce is uncommon in our culture. Women rarely leave their husbands.”

  “Even if the guy’s beating on them?”

  Beating and more. Again I refused to react to the repulsion churning in my gut. I tried to think of a way to explain it to him, then decided against even trying. He probably wouldn’t understand anyway. Most settled folks didn’t, or couldn’t. Our cultures were so different. “That’s just the way it is.”

  “Sounds stupid, if your men—.”

  “Dub is an exception, not the norm.” Irritation crept into my voice. “It’s not like all our men are wife beaters.” I rolled my eyes. Yet another stereotype Pusser probably bought into. “Just like not all backwoods sheriffs are uneducated, doughnut-eating bigots.”

  I heard a few stiffened muscles pop as he rolled his neck and cleared his throat. He switched topics. “Hopefully preliminary ballistics will come in tomorrow. I’m curious to see if the bullet in Sheila matches the one they dug out from your mother. If so, that’ll cinch the connection between these two cases.”

  I wanted to tell Pusser about the stained carpet fibers, the DVDs, and the other stuff Doogan had found in Dub’s mobile home, but doing so would implicate Doogan in a crime. So I kept my mouth shut. We were nearing the entrance to the trailer park, and outside, the number of news vans had doubled since yesterday, and what looked like a small crowd of protesters fanned out near the main entrance. As Pusser’s Tahoe passed by, they waved signs with crude logos, their hateful chants demanding “Evict the gypsies!” One of the protesters noticed me in the passenger seat and snapped a picture. That triggered a massive swarm of reporters, who aimed their cameras my way like firing squad assassins.

  Pusser swerved out of the way. “Damn reporters. They’re like flies to shit.”

  I was more worried about the protesters than the reporters. “Those people with the signs are calling for our eviction.” I remembered Zee saying something about a group organizing against us. Seeing the hate in these peoples’ expressions made me realize just what we might be up against. “Can they do that?”

  Pusser turned down my road. “They’re laying pressure on city council to do something. They want you folks out.”

  “We own the land. Have for a long time.” This area was originally a halting—or a resting spot—chosen by my ancestors for its seclusion. Families temporarily migrated here to winter over or wait and regroup for the next cash job opportunity. Aging Pavees, unable to tolerate the demands of the road, stayed for longer stints. Then, when the government began tracking children’s schooling, demanding inoculations, medical records, paid taxes . . . many of us found it easier to set up base camps. Aging clan members often traded their RVs and campers for roomier mobile homes, like my grandparents’ place. They were still moveable, if push came to shove; it was just not as easy to pull up stakes. But sometime early on, clan elders collected money and bought the deed to the land. We weren’t squatters. We owned the land. Still, what Pusser said made me worry. I’d heard of people losing their land through eminent domain laws and other such things. If these people wanted us out badly enough, they’d find a way, lawful or not.

  We pulled up in front of Gran’s mobile home and parked. Doogan was there, outside, sitting on the steps with Gran and Colm.

  “Sure you don’t want me to inform Doogan?” Pusser asked again.

  “No. I’ll tell him.”

  “Fine. I’m going to break the news to the husband. Tell Doogan I’ll be back later with a few questions.”

  I steeled myself before stepping out to open the back door for Wilco. Pusser drove off. When I looked over again, Doogan was coming my way. Gran and Colm were right behind him. “Sheila? Was it Sheila?”

  I swallowed hard and took a tentative step toward him, but before I could say anything, he crumpled into himself and withdrew from my reach.

  “There’ll be an exam and more tests . . . but they found her driver’s license on the clothing . . .” I let my voice trail off. He lowered his face into his hands and quietly sobbed. I looked to Gran for help, but she simply stood there, her arms at her sides, her face pale and drawn. Even Colm seemed at a loss. Everything seemed to grow silent and still, except the heart-rending sound of Doogan’s grief.

  Colm stepped up, his gaze trained on the reporters coming our way. “Let’s go inside. Can you make us some coffee, Anne? Or some hot tea.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  Doogan didn’t answer. Instead, he was looking down the street to Dub Costello’s place. Pusser was there, along with another police officer now, out in the front yard, caught up in a deeply animated conversation with Dub. Doogan looked on, his sadness quickly changing over to anger. His hands rolled into tight, compact fists, and the veins on his neck, taunt with adrenaline, pulsated like plucked guitar strings. A low, guttural sound—an audible mixture of anguish and hostility—emitted from somewhere deep inside him. With a sudden jerk, he took off sprinting toward Dub’s mobile home. We went after him, Colm ahead of me, Wilco on my heels, Gran hurrying the best she could.

  Before we could catch him, Doogan made contact, slamming his palms into Dub’s chest and sending him to the ground. Spit spewed from Doogan’s lips as he leaned over and screamed, “You killed her! You killed my sister!”

  Pusser pulled him back, struggling to subdue him. The other officer joined in, and between the two of them, they slapped cuffs on his
wrists. But Dublin popped up off the ground and crowded in. “I didn’t kill your sister, Doogan. She brought it on herself, the way she was whoring around.”

  Pusser inserted himself. “Back off, Costello.”

  Doogan twisted against the officer’s hold, and even with his hands cuffed, charged after Dub. The officer strained to pull him back. “You lie, Costello! You lie. My sister’s no whore.”

  The two of them butted chests. Wilco barked. Behind me, someone let out a loud whoop, and I turned to see that the crowd of protesters had closed in on us. They chanted something, but their words were muffled by Wilco’s barking. People poured out of their trailers and into the street. Pusser turned to the crowd, waving them all back, but with little effect.

  “You didn’t know nothing about her,” Dub’s voice cut through the chaos. I whipped back around. “She was a druggie and a tramp. You don’t believe me, just ask Rooney. The bitch was sleeping with him and a half dozen other guys.”

  Doogan ripped out of the officer’s grip and rammed his forehead against Dub’s chin. I heard a sickening thunk, then saw Dub crumple to the ground. The next thing I knew, Doogan was standing over him, kicking, each strike harder than the next.

  I lunged forward. “Stop! Stop, Doogan!”

  “Stand clear!”

  I instinctively stopped. The shot came: a loud crack followed by a faint buzzing sound. Doogan arched his back, screamed in pain, and fell to the ground, where he erupted into convulsions. I jerked back, shocked. Horror and confusion followed. He shot Doogan! Then I noticed the barbed electrodes that had sunk into Doogan’s skin, one in his back and the other under his rib cage. Thin wires led back to a Taser devise, not a gun, in Pusser’s hands. A wave of relief washed over me.

  But I didn’t have much time to think about it. The reporters were on us now, cameras clicking, excited voices swirling all around. Protesters waved their signs and clashed with the Pavees in the street. Accusations and insults spewed from the crowd, rising through the air like acrid smoke. A small scuffle broke out, temporarily diverting at least some attention from us.