by Spencer Kope
* * *
After recruiting two wide-eyed uniforms to help him, Ben unfolds a body bag and lays it out atop the gurney, smoothing the wrinkles. With some back-and-forth shuffling, he moves the gurney alongside the dental chair so that only the smallest gap separates them, then lowers the gurney height until the two surfaces are on an even plain.
“We’re just going to slide him across,” Ben explains to the uniforms. “No fast movements, just slow and steady.”
The transfer is a four-person job, and with Ben’s team short one person, Jimmy steps up and dons a pair of latex gloves. Taking the empty place near the exposed lungs, he grips Wade’s right arm and shoulder and guides him across the crack between the chair and the gurney.
Something flutters to the ground, the flash catching my eye.
I’m not sure where it came from, but it looks for a moment like an index card, only the shape’s not quite right. Perhaps it was underneath Wade or fell from his shirt or pant pocket. It may have been placed there before Wade. For all I know, it could be a manufacturer’s label that worked its way loose from the underside of the gurney.
I seem to be the only one who notices the fluttering specimen.
The presence of the item at the crime scene—regardless of origin or pedigree—means that it’s evidence. If it fell from the gurney, it’s just a distraction; but if it fell from Wade, it could be important.
It lands facedown on the floor, settling into a pool of blood that’s well under the gurney and the dental chair. It couldn’t have picked a worse spot. Even now, the blood may be soaking into the item, ruining it. There’s no time to lose.
Quickly donning a pair of latex gloves, I squat next to the mangled body, one hand on the edge of the gurney for balance. I lean into the space underneath—not exactly something I’m keen to do. When I can’t reach, I wave a hand at Jimmy, but he and Ross are busy talking to Ben.
Extending my fingers, they play at the edge of the item, touching it but unable to grip. Then, with a desperate thrust, I reach farther, as if my shoulder, elbow, and wrist bones suddenly collaborated and stretched themselves out as far as tendons would allow.
With a grunting gasp, I snatch up the item from its bloody resting place.
It’s not paper, but a Polaroid.
As I set it on a napkin next to the sink and dab away the blood, I already know that only two possible images can be hidden under the gore: it’s either Noah Long or Marco Perez.
It takes but a moment to uncover the truth of it.
“Uh, Jimmy?”
* * *
The image on the Polaroid is a close-up of Noah Long’s face, no doubt much more haggard than when he arrived at Meadows Field Airport last week. After placing the Polaroid in a clear evidence bag and sealing it to maintain the integrity of the evidence and the chain of custody, we lay it on the counter at the reception station where the overhead lights are brightest.
Jimmy points behind Noah’s head. “Is that a mattress he’s lying on?”
“A bare mattress,” I note.
“Better than a coffin,” Ross mutters, then looks apologetic.
The only other item in the picture worth noting is a copy of the Bakersfield Tribune resting next to Noah’s head, and not by accident. The date is too small to read, but the images and articles match Sunday’s paper.
Handing off the packaged and sealed Polaroid to the detective sergeant so it can be booked into evidence, we exit the hellhole that was formerly Nelson Dental and find the welcoming comfort of the Mustang convertible. The rumble of the engine as it fires to life seems a ward against evil deeds and evil men as if nothing can touch us while we’re inside.
I wish it were so.
24
Ross says he doesn’t get carsick. Ever.
But the detective is looking a bit green around the edges by the time we reach the dirt spur running off Round Mountain Road. The long, stretched-out Slinky of twisting road leads us at last to the gutted remains of Marco’s BMW. Most of the mountain roads back home would have been dirt and gravel, accented by an endless string of potholes from the logging trucks.
On Round Mountain, the roads are paved. Thank God for small favors.
The ruined BMW is tucked neatly into a carved-out draw on the north side of the road, the ground around it coated in black as if the fire had cast a permanent shadow upon the land, an umbra fading out from the center.
Logic dictates that the arson was carried out sometime overnight.
Vehicles burn black, filling the sky with the billowing stain of burnt tires, incinerated plastics, and consumed fabrics. Such a fire during daylight hours would have been visible throughout Bakersfield, drawing unwanted attention from those already hypervigilant to the dangers of wildfire.
By night, however, this scar in the sky would be nothing more than a shadow upon a shadow. The night would conceal the spreading plume and tuck it away. Even the smell of it would dissipate with distance and time, its source undetectable.
As for the fire itself, the sharp dip of the draw was chosen well. Here, even twenty-foot flames would be hidden from all but the closest prying eyes.
Parking the Mustang two car lengths from the scorched hulk, Jimmy shuts it down. Kip is already on scene and wanders our way, a piece of charred wood in his hand. He tosses it away before reaching us.
“How are things at the dental office?”
“Ross’s people seem to have it well in hand.” Jimmy hesitates a moment. “I thought we’d see you there?”
“I had to go to Sacramento last night.” Kip glances around—glances at nothing—as if the very act were a distraction. “The ASAC wanted a briefing first thing this morning.”
Jimmy’s face sours. “You told him we’re in the middle of an investigation, right?”
“He’s my superior,” Kip replies stiffly. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of running autonomous units; we take orders.”
“We take orders too,” Jimmy replies defensively. “That’s why we’re here.”
Kip drops his head and raises a consoling hand. “Cheap shot. I didn’t mean it to come off that way.” He meets Jimmy’s eyes, then glances at Ross and me. “For what it’s worth, I told the ASAC your theory on Abel Moya. He … doesn’t agree. He’s still our number one suspect, and I’ve been ordered to continue the hunt.”
“You’re hunting the wrong person,” I say, biting back some of the rebuke in my voice.
“Look, I’ve got no problem going toe-to-toe with the ASAC, but I need something a bit more solid than your analysis. No offense.”
I’m about to reply, but Jimmy shoots me a cautioning look, and I close my lips. The four of us stand in a circle for a half minute. The air seems electric with tension as if a storm cloud had descended and swept its static-filled tentacles around us.
“Well, you FBI types are just loads of fun, aren’t you?” Ross finally says.
That seems to break the static, and even Kip manages a half smile.
* * *
As we make our way around the SUV, I note that the only thing left of the tires is the mess of steel wire once embedded in the rubber: they don’t call them steel-belted radials for nothing. The windows are all gone, and since I don’t see much evidence of shattered glass, I assume most of it melted. There’s nothing left of the vehicle that isn’t metal, and even some of that looks to have barely survived.
Kip throws a thumb at one of the deputies standing by his patrol car. “Andy says the fire marshal is on the way, though considering the circumstances, there’s little doubt this was arson.”
“And we’re sure no one was inside?” Jimmy asks. “It looks like the fire was pretty intense, maybe enough to cremate a body or two.”
“Even cremations leave some bone fragments,” Kip reminds him. “Still, it’s not my area of expertise. We’ll have to let the fire marshal make that call.”
“What’s your theory?”
“On how it ended up here, and why?”
; “Yeah.”
Kip pauses before answering. “I’d say he used the car to transport Wade to the dental office, and when he finished there, he drove straight up the mountain and torched it, destroying any evidence.”
“Why didn’t he hang on to it? He’s still got Noah and Marco to deal with.”
“Maybe he figured the BMW was too much of a liability.” The FBI agent shrugs. “Maybe he arranged other transportation. Or maybe Noah and Marco are already where he wants them.”
“I doubt it,” Jimmy replies quietly.
“Why?”
“Because this guy likes putting on a show.” Jimmy frowns and shakes his head. “He’s got something planned for each of them. He’s telling a story, we just have to figure out the ending before…”
“Before the end,” I say.
“Exactly.”
Ross is looking around as we speak, a perplexed look on his face, as if trying to work something out in his head that just doesn’t make sense. Pretty soon it gets serious, and he starts rubbing his belly in a slow, contemplative revolution. “Any chance this guy has a partner?” he finally asks.
Kip and Jimmy exchange a look, leaving it to me to ask the obvious.
“Why?”
“Well, it’s eight or nine miles back to civilization as the crow flies, which means it might be closer to fifteen or twenty miles if you go by road. He either had a partner come pick him up or he walked out of here in the dark.”
Continuing to knead his belly, Ross waits for an answer that doesn’t come.
“I’m guessing Uber doesn’t pick up from dark, remote mountain sites?” I say with intentional sarcasm. Kip doesn’t pick up on my tone and whips out his cell phone. After clicking the Uber app and punching some keys, he shakes his head.
“They don’t come out this far.” He points south, his eyes still on the screen. “They do pick up at the base of the mountain, though.”
“I guess we can cross Uber off our list,” I say.
“Why don’t you have a look around,” Jimmy tells me, probably sensing that I’m about to say something I might regret. He’s intuitive that way. In any case, it’s a good idea. I haven’t had my glasses off in a while and I can feel the edge of a headache coming on.
Starting at the burned wreck that used to be Marco’s SUV, I pull the glasses from my face and examine the ground as Jimmy distracts Ross and Kip. The familiar malachite green immediately pops from the scorched dust, and I see where he walked to the back of the rig and likely accessed the liftgate. He then walked a slow circle around the vehicle accessing every door and popping the hood. I assume from the encompassing pattern that he retrieved a container of gasoline from the back and was dousing the entire vehicle, inside and out.
A discolored ten-foot trail leads away from the vehicle, marked by the scorched earth of burnt gasoline: here is the wick of this giant Molotov cocktail. I see where he stood to light the match.
I wait for Jimmy to join me so he can collect the spent match, then I continue. The malachite footsteps lead away from the burn site and up a ridge to the west, where I make a most unusual discovery.
It’s the answer to the enigma.
Raising my voice so it can be heard below, I say, “It looks like our guy didn’t walk down the mountain, after all.” I gesture at tread marks on the ground. They can’t see the patterns from their vantage point in the draw, but that doesn’t matter at the moment.
“He stashed a mountain bike up here and rode out,” I shout. “It’s all downhill.” As if to emphasize this, I rake the air with the back of my hand, sweeping across the long and lonely miles between here and Bakersfield.
It would have been a dark ride on the heels of dark deeds.
When the killer finally lit his match and put foot to pedal, the ritual butcher of Wade Winchell would have been recent enough to leave a slight stench of death on his clothes and in his hair, and the many images and sounds of the man’s dying still fresh in the killer’s head.
As he rode, did he delight in these? Or did such thoughts haunt him; did they chase him down the mountain and push his feet faster and faster in their orbit around the spindle?
With monsters, it’s hard to tell.
25
Tuesday, March 10
It’s just after seven when we arrive at BoBo’s Pizza on Niles Street.
The eclectic establishment is just minutes from the coroner’s office and has considerably better décor—unless, of course, you’re looking for that whole Dawn of the Dead vibe that comes with autopsy tables and body coolers. Ben is waiting in a booth when we file through the front door. Ross spots the pathologist immediately, veering off to the left and weaving expertly through the clutter of tables and chairs between us.
After we agree on a large pepperoni pan pizza and a large four-meat pizza, I ask the waitress if they have any actual orange juice. She points out the carbonated orange drink in the soda dispenser, hands me a glass, and disappears before I can inform her that orange soda is not orange juice.
I settle for water.
Ben waits until we’re all settled in our seats before giving us the rundown on Wade. As he begins, his voice is low, so as not to disturb the customers at nearby tables. The particulars of an autopsy can be upsetting to the uninitiated, especially while they’re eating.
After running through all the knowns, the things seen with our own eyes and smelled with our own noses, he gets to the “anomaly” he mentioned during an earlier phone call—the reason for our dinner party.
“Remember the laceration to the lung?” Ben leans in to the table and lowers his voice still further.
“The one that was bubbling?” Ross tries to make an effervescing motion with his fingers, but it looks like he’s casting a spell on his fork.
“Right,” Ben says generously. “I thought the escaping air was from a minor cut, something superficial. Turns out I was wrong.”
I exchange a look with Jimmy.
“When I dissected the lung, tracing the wound, it went deeper than I thought. And then, well, I suppose you could say I found a void, a hole in the center of the lung the size of”—Ben struggles for a comparison and picks up the spice shaker from the table—“about like this; maybe three inches long by an inch and a half in diameter.”
“Is this a natural void,” Jimmy asks, “or something else?”
“It’s not natural.”
“So … something else,” I say.
Ben looks at me, his eyes disturbed, and gives a soft nod. “I believe he cut the chunk out after he pulled the lung from the chest and laid it out on the victim’s back, probably after our unfortunate victim took his last breath. I suspect this missing chunk was the purpose for his elaborate dissection in the first place.”
Our large BoBo’s pepperoni pan pizza and the accompanying four-meat pizza choose this exact moment to arrive at our table, landing with all the grace of a crashing, spinning UFO. The waitress gives us a plastic smile and asks if we need anything else. I contemplate asking about real orange juice again, but what’s the point?
As she walks away, we stare at the bubbling cheese, the bloodred tomato sauce, the misshapen slices, and the random chunks of meat. You’d think our appetites would have fled or at least been dampened, but Ross doesn’t hesitate. “I’m a four-meat kind of guy.” He shovels two slices onto his paper plate and pulls it close.
We eat in silence for several minutes, filling a different kind of void that’s been building in our guts all day. Only when our hunger has partially been satisfied does the discussion continue.
“How much do you think was cut out of the lung?” I ask. “By weight, I mean.”
I notice the father at a nearby table glance my way and realize my voice may have carried farther than intended. He puts a protective arm across the back of his daughter’s chair.
Ben’s eyes turn up and to the right in thought. He finishes chewing as he contemplates. “There are a lot of things that could affect the weight,” he says af
ter finally swallowing, “but I’d say it’s about a pound, give or take.”
“A pound of flesh,” I clarify.
The statement raises every head.
“What are you suggesting?” Jimmy asks.
“It’s Shakespearean. Right out of The Merchant of Venice. Shylock and his demand for a pound of Antonio’s flesh.”
“I’m not a Shakespeare guy.” Ross has a bewildered look as he sucks the tomato sauce from his fingertips and waits for clarification.
“Romeo and Juliet is the extent of my knowledge,” Ben offers. “And that’s mostly because I saw Shakespeare in Love.”
I look at Jimmy, hoping he won’t disappoint.
“I only dog-paddle.” He mimics André the Giant by cupping his hands and making swimming motions.
“That was Princess Bride,” I say as if he doesn’t know that.
He grins and tilts his head back theatrically, eyes to some distant place beyond the ceiling. “‘If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’”
Finishing, he lowers his gaze to meet mine and gives a triumphant smile.
“Bravo.” I clap.
Ross grins and wiggles a finger at Jimmy. “I’ve heard that ‘prick’ part before.”
“I bet you have,” I say with barely suppressed humor.
The whole table bursts into laughter, with Ross leading the pack.
As our party descends into unruly hilarity, the conversation takes a decided nosedive into the gutter, spiraling ever downward, the way a lot of cop banter devolves. This persists for several minutes, until we finally harness our better angels and return to some semblance of good conduct. We take advantage of the ensuing lull to replenish our plates and drinks.
“So, you’re suggesting this was revenge of some sort?” Jimmy asks as the feast eventually continues. “That the tissue was cut from the lung as a message, or as payment for some debt?”
“It’s just a thought until we come up with a better option.”