The Devil of Light

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  “How long were you here?” Mitch asked.

  “I don’t know,” Blackie answered, walking close to the river, shivering in spite of the warm afternoon. “I came out about six o’clock. Sat on the hood, took a few sips and,” she shrugged, “that was it until I woke up in the mud.”

  Cass snapped a few photos of the tire tracks and circled the clearing, finding brushy undergrowth damaged in one small area. “You went this way?”

  Blackie nodded hesitantly. “I expect so,” she answered. “Should I go in?”

  “I’ll go first. You follow and make sure I’m going the right way.” Blackie’s eyes bounced to Jerome. “He’ll be behind you and Mitch behind him. Ready?”

  “Do you think he’s still here? The killer?”

  “No, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

  Cass moved into the gap between two trees, pushing brush from her path. Three startled deer lunged from the dense tangle where they were bedded down for the day, leaping gracefully away from the intruders. The small quartet jumped with fright, laughing nervously at their reaction. Cass stopped several times to look ahead for damage to the undergrowth before moving on. The path Blackie had forged last night followed a shallow angle toward the river’s bank. In spite of their attempts to move quietly, Cass imagined that they sounded like a herd of buffalo. If anyone was nearby, no doubt they thought an army was approaching.

  After no more than fifty yards, her skin prickled and she glimpsed another clearing through the trees. She continued to follow Blackie’s path toward the muddy bank near the river, a dank, loamy smell growing with each step. Cass stopped near an area of recently churned muck. Snaking knee and handprints were visible for some distance along the water’s edge. She turned to the other woman. “Familiar?”

  Blackie’s eyes were wide as she pointed toward the clearing. “That’s where he was.”

  “Show me.”

  Trembling, Blackie followed her to the edge of the clearing, where Cass took several photographs. Barring a fire pit at its center, the entire area had been brushed smooth. Cass supposed pine branches had been used to weave the feathery marks sweeping across the soil. The sharp scent of a campfire hung in the air, providing confirmation that someone had used the clearing recently. Branches from several large trees swung heavy over the area and as Cass’s eyes roamed along their length, she swallowed a gasp. Each bore evidence that it had been used to hold heavy burdens in the past, bark rubbed away from the surfaces and weathered gray over time, scraps of rotting rope dangling from their smooth scars. One thick limb, however, showed fresh marks, pale wood shining through an older wound. Her gaze dropped to the ground, finding a darkened patch of soil directly beneath the freshly damaged branch and her stomach contracted at the thought of Garrett’s blood soaking that small patch of earth.

  “No footprints or tire tracks,” she said to Mitch as he joined them. She led his gaze to the damaged limb with her eyes. He blinked once before quickly looking away. Jerome stood behind Blackie; a tall, silent sentinel from which she seemed to draw strength.

  Mitch turned to Blackie. “Tell us again what you remember, no matter how strange it seems.”

  She cleared her throat. “There was a fire,” she said, gesturing with her chin. Her eyes jumped to the edge of the clearing. “I think there was a truck parked over there, but I’m not sure. A man was moving between me and the fire, a white man, but he looked skinnier than a man ought to be. He knelt and there was a loud sound, a cry, or a whine.” She frowned. “And there was the man on the cross.”

  “Do you remember where he was?”

  “He was –,” she began, mind straining to fit her hazy vision into the reality of the clearing. “He was upside down. On a cross, head pointing toward the ground. I think –,” she stopped briefly. “He might’ve been hanging.” Her eyes raced along the branches spreading above the open area and flew wide as she found the fresh marks. “Oh my God,” she whispered, swaying into Jerome’s strong embrace. “It was real.”

  Mitch flipped open his phone and dialed Kado. He described the scene, asked for instructions from the forensics examiner before they disturbed anything, then snapped the phone shut and looked to Cass. “Kado said to keep out of the clearing. He’ll see if he can find Bernie and they’ll be here as quick as they can.”

  “Is this where he was killed? That Officer Garrett?” Blackie asked.

  “We need to do some tests, but yes, it might be.” Cass watched as the other woman closed her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  Blackie straightened from Jerome’s arms. “I thought it was just some bad booze. Who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what we’ll try to find out,” Mitch answered. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to come to the station Blackie, but I sure am glad that you did.”

  She looked up at Jerome with a sniff and poked him with her elbow. “When Jerome decides what’s gonna be, that’s what’s gonna be. Some po-lice officers’re just not good to my type. But y’all ain’t so bad.”

  Mitch stifled a proud grin. “We’ll take you back to your car now, but is there anything else you remember?”

  Blackie glanced toward the river and then smiled shyly. “He went to the bathroom out in the woods.”

  Cass started. “Where?”

  “Over there, where I was. I thought he was gonna pee on me.”

  CHAPTER 53

  SHERIFF HOFFNER SLAMMED OPEN his office door, fury coursing through his body. That arrogant reporter. She had no idea what was involved in keeping a community safe. That woman sat on the sidelines, an armchair quarterback. Safe from danger, taking no chances. Happy to sit back and criticize. And how did she find out about Humberto Gonzalez and that mummy from Monday? And old Iris Glenthorne? Good Lord, in all the ruckus about Lenny Scarborough and now Chad Garrett, he’d completely forgotten about her. He ran a hand over his close-cropped white hair, exhaling a slow stream of air. Gossip was their business, those reporters. She must’ve heard something from one of his officers while she waited for the press conference. He’d rip new assholes across the squad room, just to make sure they knew to keep their mouths shut.

  With a glum sigh, Sheriff Hoffner opened his eyes to see a manila folder centered on his desk. He chuckled grimly as he crossed the office and plopped down in his chair. He’d been avoiding this moment, not wanting to know the answer to this particular question. He fidgeted, adjusting the phone to align with the desk, straightening a pencil, opening drawers to look for a fresh pen. Unable to find further reasons for evasion, he jerked the folder open and with a trembling hand, turned the pages toward Officer Hugo Petchard’s medical exam.

  CHAPTER 54

  CASS AND MITCH ITCHED to process the site where a fellow officer had been tortured and murdered. Instead, they obeyed Kado’s instructions and contented themselves to circling the clearing’s perimeter. They found an overgrown camp trail leading deeper into the forest, away from the river. Slender trees to either side of the narrow path had been crushed beneath a heavy vehicle, very recently, confirming Blackie’s belief that she’d seen a pickup the night before. The same feathery pattern in the clearing’s dirt was whisked in the sandy path, eradicating tire tracks. They walked on either side of the trail, shoving spiky honey locust branches and willowy limbs from their faces, relishing the cool space beneath the soaring pine trees.

  “Mitch?”

  “What?”

  “What do you think of Tom Kado?”

  He shrugged. “Seems on the ball. Knows his stuff. In spite of all the grief he’s getting, he’ll be good for the department. Why?”

  “It’s just that,” she began, eyes following the trail that wound away from them, “you’d think that Munk would be glad for someone competent to be here.”

  “Maybe what happened to old Comfrey hit too close to home.” The previous forensic examiner was well known for his love of burgers, booze and cigarettes and it was a shock to no one when he dropped dead of a heart attack while processing
a crime scene. “Munk could afford to go on a diet.”

  “He could,” she agreed. “What do you think it’ll take for him to ease up on Kado?”

  “Munk is a smart guy and he loves forensics. I figure he’ll warm up to Kado when he sees what kind of work the guy can do. He’s just sore right now because he lost a good friend in Comfrey.”

  They fell into a comfortable silence, following the path for a quarter of a mile until it dumped into a slightly larger trail leading to an isolated fire tower. Disused, its graceful angles were marked with graffiti, the most colorful and poetic blazing from the rust-streaked cab that sat at its top, peeking above the trees. Its external ladder crossed back and forth over the structure’s steel frame and at its base rested a blazing red Chevy, driver’s door hanging open.

  Cautiously, they circled the truck. A key ring was visible on the driver’s seat and a Styrofoam cup bearing Chubby’s logo sat in a console near the dash. The feathery pattern in the dirt continued beyond the fire tower and disappeared as a cracked blacktop road emerged from the soil. Cass sighed in frustration. The small road would become more civilized and better maintained, eventually joining a county highway. Chances were slim that they would find any evidence along that route.

  Mitch flipped open his phone and although the signal was faint, was able to reach Munk. He and Truman were at Chad Garrett’s house searching for evidence linking the officer to The Church. Mitch let them know about the truck, instructed them to finish their search and join them down near Deuce’s Flat.

  “We’re close on this one,” he told Cass.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. We know where Garrett was killed, we’ve got his truck. Munk and Truman are going through the house. We’re bound to turn something up.”

  “I don’t know, Mitch.” Her shoulders sagged. “There are no clear tire tracks to work with, here or at the courthouse. The cross and Garrett were both clean.” She leaned into the truck’s cab for a quick look, careful not to touch anything. “I doubt there’s anything useful in here. Unless we learn something when we talk to Mr. Peavey and Mr. Salter, I don’t know where we go after that.”

  Mitch smiled bleakly. “Keep the faith, girl. You never know where help’ll come from. Who would’ve thought an ex-con and a hooker would’ve gotten us to the spot where Garrett was murdered?”

  CHAPTER 55

  KADO AND BERNIE STOOD with Cass and Mitch on the edge of the clearing. Bernie’s nose was in the air, and he sniffed gently. “Wood smoke, no accelerant, fresh blood. Something heavier. A cooking smell?”

  “That nose is a gift, Bernie,” Mitch teased.

  “And a curse at times Mitchell, believe me,” the Englishman answered, digging in a pocket on his vest for a pair of gloves. “Given the fresh marks on that branch, we should focus our attention on the darkened area directly beneath it, and on the fire pit.”

  “And the urine,” Kado added.

  Mitch glanced toward the disturbed area of mud where Blackie had hidden. “How are you gonna find it?” he asked as Kado circled the clearing, staying near the edges.

  He grimaced. “If he’s like most guys, he’ll have aimed at something.”

  “A tree,” Mitch chuckled. “Of course.”

  Kado moved into a squat and shuffled slowly from tree to tree, examining the bark and surrounding area of each, sniffing reluctantly. “I think this is it.” He swabbed the bark and carefully lifted several trowels of dirt from around the tree’s roots, bagging and tagging each. Pausing, he stooped to examine a leafy fern and hissed with delight.

  “What is it?” asked Mitch

  “Phlegm,” he answered, scraping the sticky substance from the plant into a plastic jar. Holding the evidence out to his side, he made his way back to the others. “For some reason, that’s more disgusting than the stuff I usually do.”

  “What will you do with it?”

  “DNA.”

  “From pee?”

  “And snot.”

  “Jeez, that’s scary.”

  “Kado,” interrupted Bernie. “How do you want us to proceed? There are no footprints or tire tracks, but presumably you wish the scene to remain as undisturbed as possible?”

  “We’ll handle it like we would any other site. Minimum disturbance to process the pit and the area under that branch. Then we’ll decide where to go next. Bernie, you and Cass take the fire pit. Mitch and I will work on the soil.”

  Cass pulled on latex gloves and followed in Bernie’s footsteps across the clearing. The ground was a mixture of silt and heavier compost and it readily formed impressions around their soles. “The perpetrator of this crime was quite cautious,” stated Bernie.

  “How so?”

  “It seems he took the trouble to loosen the soil before he swept it, perhaps with a rake, to ensure that pressure from any objects that might dig into the ground would be eradicated. Clever fellow.”

  Cass knelt beside Bernie. “Looks like he dumped dirt on the fire to put it out.”

  Bernie grunted in acknowledgement, holding a gloved hand near the rocks circling the pit. “A bit of warmth remains in these stones.” Lowering his face over the ashes, he sniffed again. “Definitely no accelerant,” he said, bending further to examine the rocks. Pulling a swab from its protective case, he swiped at a stone and held the tip close to smell it. “Some spatter, possibly cooking oil.”

  Cass popped the top from an evidence bucket and placed a sieve over the opening. “Should I start digging?”

  “Small amounts at a time.”

  “Bernie,” Cass asked. “Did you finish with those bones from the other fire pit?”

  “Ahh yes,” he answered, watching as she scooped ash and spread it over the sieve. He stopped to pluck a hardened glob from the pit with his tweezers, shaking his head as he dropped it into an evidence bag. “I’ve no idea what that was, but it’s silverish and has melted. Yes, I finished with the bones last night. Complete skeletons for two birds, chickens most likely, were in that pit, along with the shattered remains of one human foot.”

  “Is it from our skeleton?”

  “I am reasonably confident, eighty-six percent so if pushed, that the foot came from our elderly gentleman from Arkansas, Mr. Humberto Gonzalez.”

  Cass chuckled. “Why just eighty-six percent?”

  “To allow for error. The bones are from the left foot of an adult, which matches our skeleton. But they were banged up, as if someone had smashed them. Also, I was unable to locate the bones of the small toe, which would either mean that someone snapped the toe off and it wasn’t placed into the fire pit, or again, it could provide further confirmation that this foot belonged to our victim.”

  “Eighty-six percent sounds pretty good to me. Mitch, what do you think?”

  “I’ll take it. Guess we need to figure out why somebody bothered to saw Humberto Gonzalez’s foot off last autumn, keep it all this time, then toss it in a fire along with two whole chickens. Gotta be voodoo.”

  “You should also be aware that the foot bones had charred flesh on them,” Bernie added as he sealed a bucket of ash.

  “That means it hadn’t decomposed?” Cass asked.

  “Correct. The foot has been stored somewhere cool to retard the decomposition process.”

  “How cool?”

  Bernie considered her question. “Fairly cool. A cellar might suffice, but if I were to save a foot for future disposal, I would choose to freeze it.”

  Mitch and Kado straightened from their kneeling position under the damaged oak branch, brushing dirt from their knees and snapping lids on the buckets of soil. “Most of this is old,” Kado said, eyes wandering around the clearing and over the trees. “Hunters probably used this place. They might still.”

  “Any human blood?”

  Kado examined the ground. “If we assume that Garrett hung upside down from this branch, blood from the hole in his head would’ve drained directly underneath, but there’s nothing fresh here.” His eyes moved along the circu
mference of an imaginary circle. “And since his wrists were sliced while he was nailed to that cross, blood from those cuts should’ve dripped a couple of feet out from where his head hung. But again, there’s no sign of blood.” Kado knelt near the closest tree, examining its bark and running a swab over its craggy surface. “There’s no spray from the wounds, confirming that he was dead when his wrists were cut.” His face grew somber as he realized the implications of what he had observed. “Guess you were right, Bernie.”

  “Yes? About what?”

  “That Garrett’s blood was collected. There’s no spatter here, no –,” he shrugged, “– waste.”

  Bernie nodded, tightening the lid on the last container of ash. “If that’s the case, then the buried gentleman found on Monday also had his blood collected. Now that we are reasonably certain that we know how and where Garrett died, we can suppose similar circumstances of death for our buried man. But that raises another question – where was the buried man killed?”

  “We don’t even know who the guy is to begin tracing his movements before death. I don’t know how we’d figure out where he died,” Mitch said, pulling his gloves off and rubbing his sweaty hands on his jeans.

  “Then let’s begin at the beginning. How sure can we be that Officer Garrett was killed here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is no physical evidence that he was actually in this clearing, is there?”

  Cass heaved a tired sigh as the weight of Bernie’s comment settled in. “We’ve got loads of circumstantial evidence – his truck is nearby, the fresh marks on the branch, what Blackie saw, someone’s urine and phlegm, the swept ground. But you’re right, we have nothing of Garrett’s that places him here.”

  “Given the head wounds and cut wrists, chances are that the same person killed both men. If we believe that Garrett was here, it could also be possible that our buried man was killed, or at least his blood was collected, here.”