“I don’t know, sir. But from what I understand about pedophiles, once they get a taste for abusing a child, that desire becomes unquenchable.” He continued once the room remained silent, digesting what he’d said. “If they meet every month, like Angie, Mr. Peavey and Mrs. Shepherd told us, it makes sense that they’d want the girls with them as often as possible.”
“Good Lord,” Sheriff Hoffner mumbled.
“Sir, I know you’re worried about how this could be perceived if –,” Munk began.
“Of course I’m worried about how this will be perceived!” he shouted, leaning into the table. Crimson blotches blossomed on his cheeks. “I’ve got an officer as good as ritually murdered on the courthouse lawn and we have no idea who killed him, but our suspect list includes the president of our biggest bank; reporters are camped out front, sticking a microphone in front of anybody who happens to be breathing; and they’re digging into every move we make on this case, those two open murders, Lenny Scarborough’s death and poor old Iris Glenthorne, God help us all,” he roared, spit flying across the table. A bulging purple vein throbbed at his temple, and his breathing grew labored. “We need something solid, people. Something unquestionable. Or every one of us is out of a job.”
The room was stunned into silence, people thrown back in their chairs by the force of Hoffner’s furious outburst. Mitch cleared his throat. “We have something semi-solid, sir.”
Hoffner frowned.
“The card Cass saw with Salter’s name on it. That’s it. That’s our lead.”
CHAPTER 67
MITCH REACHED FOR A paper towel and patted his face dry as he stood. “Sorry for barging in on you, but Sheriff Hoffner’s a little emotional at the moment.”
“The election?” Grey asked, pulling off a pair of latex gloves.
Kado leaned into the counter, smoothing both hands over his dark, curly hair. “And how Chad Garrett’s murder will impact the outcome.”
In the corner, Porky Rivers looked up from the batch of instruments he was sorting, diamond studs dotting the edge of one ear glittering in the overhead light. “Ain’t no savin’ the sheriff now,” he volunteered. “Not according to my granny and aunties.”
“He doesn’t have the support of the black community?” Cass asked, watching Bernie pull a magnifying lens over his face and lean close to examine a length of bone.
“He did,” Porky corrected, “but all this violence got everybody shook up. They’re worried that if the sheriff can’t protect his own officers and that old lady, not to mention those two other dudes, how safe are they?”
“The election is over a year away, and people have short memories. Even so, I’m afraid a lot of folks around here will think the same thing,” Grey commented. “And while Hoffner’s not perfect, who else would even want the job?”
“Not me,” Mitch said. “What’s up with the bones?”
The medical examiner folded his lanky frame and leaned down next to Bernie. “What do you see?”
“Nothing, which makes my suppositions slightly more fantastic.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’ve little fact to work with, but I’ll share my hypothesis, if that would be of use,” Bernie answered, pulling the magnifying glass from his head and straightening from the table. Grey nodded for him to continue. “These are Humberto Gonzalez’s bones, the man whose skeleton was found last week, whose son reported him missing in Arkansas and who has now gone missing himself. I think the murders are linked, and Mr. Gonzalez’s blood was drained from his body, as was that of Officer Garrett and the buried body we discovered on Monday.”
“Why?” asked Kado.
“I see a progression among the three cases,” Bernie answered, lifting a skull from the table. “Mr. Gonzalez died first – he was placed outside last autumn and his body wasted away to skeleton by the time it was discovered last week. He was shot in the head. Although useful for killing, a bullet wound to the back of the head would not be efficient for draining and collecting blood. However,” he continued, replacing the skull and lifting a long bone, “Mr. Gonzalez’s foot was cut from his leg, and I believe this was done to drain the blood from his body.”
“Why do you think that, Bernie?”
He shrugged, replacing the bone on the table. “All of this is just speculation. But, I can find no other logical explanation as to why the foot would have been removed. If someone wanted to conceal the identity of a victim, he would remove the hands, head and any other unique physical characteristics from the body. But if we think of the three killings as a progression, our murderer’s approach to draining the blood from Mr. Gonzalez would have been awkward and frustrating,” he continued, snapping closed a pocket on his vest. “If Mr. Gonzalez was suspended so that his legs hung downward, tilting the body to try and drain all of the blood through one leg would have been difficult. And think of the blood remaining in the other leg that our killer was most likely unable to recover. Poor planning, very poor. We know the buried man was killed after Mr. Gonzalez, and his wounds show more efficiency in terms of gathering blood. He was strangled and a small hole drilled in the top of his head, meaning less loss of blood through an open wound, and good drainage. Our killer also progresses to using the arms, making an effective vertical slash up the radial arteries. And then there’s Officer Garrett.”
“But with the exception of having his balls cut off,” Mitch said, “Garrett’s wounds were just like the buried man’s, right?”
“Yes, although I believe removal of the testicles was simply theatrical, designed to send a message to someone.” He cut his eyes at Cass. “You perhaps, my dear, given your exchange with Officer Petchard the previous evening. An improvement on efficiency is that we’re fairly certain Officer Garrett was alive when the hole was drilled in his head. Additionally, the killer used a larger drill bit.”
Grey massaged his earlobe. “He wanted Garrett’s heart to do the work of pushing blood from the body for as long as possible.”
“Yes. And I believe he waited until Garrett was dead to cut the forearms, ensuring that no blood was lost through arterial spray.”
“That’s cold,” Mitch breathed, glancing at Porky as the younger man shivered.
“But effective,” Bernie commented. “As I said, this is all speculation on my part. But the timeline of the deaths and the improving efficiency of blood drainage lead me to believe this is an accurate hypothesis.”
“Bernie,” Cass said, “you may have something with all this. Blackie Cochran described the person she saw at Chad Garrett’s murder scene as a devil made of light. Goober said the same thing about whoever started the fire at the hot house Saturday night. And Deacon Cronus talked about Humberto Gonzalez being terrified by a diablo de luz by the river bottom. Could all three of them have seen the same person?”
“You think Humberto Gonzalez saw something he shouldn’t have? A murder or something?” Mitch asked.
“Or maybe just a ritual that The Church enacts. If they operate out of a deer camp, they likely have a campfire. If so, that would explain the motive for his death and link it to Garrett’s and the buried man’s.”
“I hate to say it,” Mitch said, “but is this a serial killer?”
Grey leaned into the counter next to Porky and tugged again at his earlobe. Bernie pulled a rolling stool from beneath a table and sat, twirling gently as he spoke. “Perhaps the term serial killer does fit. His behavior is escalating, but if he’s killing to collect blood for a ceremony, then his activities may simply be opportunistic.”
“Man Bernie, how can you be so… intellectual about all this?”
Bernie fidgeted with a flap on his safari vest, pondering the question. “It’s not that I’m immune to the horror of what has happened to these men, Mitchell. I simply believe that I can best serve them in death by analyzing how they died in an attempt to help you find their killer.”
“I wasn’t criticizing,” Mitch explained. “You’ve just got an ability to see biz
arre little pieces and pull them together.”
“Cheers,” Bernie said as Grey chuckled. “There is one more thing I need to share with you.”
“What’s that?”
Porky handed Bernie two small sections of bone, each in a glass jar with evidence tags and chain of custody paperwork started. They rattled dully when he passed them to Kado. “Our buried man from Monday is a Mongoloid male, approximately thirty-five years of age. Although based only on my instincts, I believe DNA testing will confirm that he is Mr. Gonzalez’s son.”
CHAPTER 68
SHERIFF HOFFNER LOWERED HIMSELF into his chair, completely drained. Instinctively, he adjusted his blotter and straightened the phone to align with the edge of his desk. He’d been up most of the night, responding to complaints about reporters camped out on lawns. They started at Chad Garrett’s house in Mole Hill, realized that nobody was home and moved to his parent’s house. Garrett’s father had the decency to call in and ask whether he was within his rights to shoot the news crews trampling his wife’s flowers, and before Hoffner could get an officer to the house to hustle the press off, the elder Garrett had come out on the porch with a shot gun cradled across his chest. The news vans had cleared off posthaste, cameramen filming through open side doors as they sped away.
After leaving the Garrett family, they’d found the dead officer’s wife, Charlene, at her mother’s wood frame house. The reporters refused polite requests to leave the grieving widow alone, pulling lights from their vans and cracking open an ice chest full of beer as the evening wore on. The family tried to do the right thing, pulling down window shades and locking doors, ignoring the reporters and their crews. But when one pony tailed, tattooed, and very drunk cameraman had knocked on the door after midnight, belching his request to use the bathroom, Charlene wasn’t so polite as to call the police. She started off by hurling a heavy glass paperweight at the unfortunate cameraman, whose forehead needed three stitches where she’d hit him. Still slightly dopey from another tranquilizer Dr. Ramasubramanian insisted she take before going to bed, she slid right past irritated and moved directly to pissed off when she looked beyond the bleeding cameraman to the troops settled on her mother’s front lawn. She’d grabbed one of her brother’s ancient hickory baseball bats and started down the front porch steps, fierce determination gleaming in her eyes and the porch light streaming through her flimsy nightgown, providing an appealing silhouette as she stormed the biggest man in the group. Thankfully, the neighbors had called the police department fifteen minutes earlier due to the general ruckus and Charlene was stopped in her tracks by one of Chad’s colleagues from patrol, who grabbed the bat mid-swing and tossed the furious woman over his shoulder before carrying her up the porch steps and inside the house.
His partner cleared the press from the front lawn and provided directions to the nearest hospital for the battered cameraman. He also threatened the press with grievous bodily harm if a complaint was filed over the accuracy of Charlene’s throwing arm or if any of the images filmed this evening ended up on television or in the papers. Unfortunately, it was a picture of that snarling officer and his comments, quoted with accuracy thanks to a live microphone, which ended up on the front page of the Alma paper this morning. Followed by a nice shot of Charlene’s scantily clad bottom as the other officer had hoisted her over his shoulder.
A different contingent had shown up at Mayor David Wayne Rusted’s home, looking for an interview. Hoffner had managed to get two patrol cars out quickly to drive them away. He’d heard on the scanner about an upset over on Whiskey Bend involving the press and a few of the locals. But that was somebody else’s county and he had only wished more of the reporters were headed that way. He dug his fingers into his eye sockets, seeking to ease their burning. Lord, but if they didn’t look like a bunch of illiterate rednecks over this whole thing.
In spite of being bruised and hung-over, the reporters had been back on the courthouse lawn first thing this morning, waiting for a statement. He needed something to tell them, anything, to avoid looking like an incompetent buffoon. If only Mitch would get his act together and find something useful –. Hoffner stopped mid-thought and steepled his fingers under his chin. If Mitch was so sure that this card Cass saw was an invitation, maybe he could do something to help. He couldn’t give the press specifics, but just a taste. Maybe nudge the killer or killers, and score a few points with the press.
Sheriff Hoffner reached for his coffee and settled in to think through his press strategy as the phone buzzed. He reached for the handset, grimacing in anticipation. “Yes?”
“Mayor Rusted is calling,” Elaine chirped. “Can I put him through?”
“Go on,” he said, hearing the click of the transfer. “David Wayne, what can I do for you?”
“When are you gonna talk to these reporters, Bill? They keep ringing my office.”
Sheriff Hoffner wondered whether it was wise to carry on with this idea without speaking to his detectives. He squirmed in his chair, letting the needs of his battered ego wrestle against the twinge in his gut that told him to hold off for now.
“Bill?” Mayor Rusted demanded, and Hoffner’s ego won.
“Funny you should call just now. I’ve had some news from the detectives on the case and I’m ready to talk to the press about it. Just a teaser, of course. But this should keep them quiet for a while.”
“You got a breakthrough?”
“I hate to do this to you, David Wayne, but you know I can’t talk about the details. Let’s just say that we’ve found a lead that could unlock the case pretty quick.”
“What kind of lead?”
“Just something we’ve picked up in the last few hours, a connection we’ve made based on a piece of paper and a text from another case. There might even be a link between the two investigations. But that’s really all I can say for now,” Hoffner answered, allowing himself a small smile. He genuinely liked the amiable David Wayne Rusted, but he liked having an edge over the man even better. “I’m making an unscheduled appearance just now, to let the press know how serious we think this lead is. Should scare Chad Garrett’s killer once he gets wind of it. Might force him into a mistake.” Hoffner aligned the pen and pencil on his desk, the feeling of control calming his worn nerves. “You want to join me? It’d be good for both of us to be seen on this one.”
Mayor Rusted drew in a sharp breath. “I’ll be right there.”
Hoffner pulled a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the handset before replacing it in the cradle, satisfied.
____________
IN THE SOUTH WING of the courthouse, Mayor Rusted also pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, using it to mop the sickly sheen of sweat from his face as he opened a cell phone.
“Where are you?” he barked when the phone was answered.
“Mayor?” the old man asked, balancing his phone between his jaw and shoulder as he leaned in to look at the old tractor.
“Are you near a television?”
“I’m out in the barn. What’s happening?”
“Hoffner’s making a statement.”
“What about?”
“Some new evidence they’ve just come across. He sounds serious, said it could unlock the whole case.”
“What is it?”
“He wouldn’t tell me,” Mayor Rusted answered, voice nearing a whine. “But he mentioned a text they’d found in another case.”
He wiped his hands with a red rag. “You think he’s talking about Lenny Scarborough’s book?”
“That’s the only text they’ve picked up in the last few days, as far as I know.” He drew a shaky breath. “But there’s no link between The Church and Officer Garrett’s death. I mean, whatever Hoffner thinks he’s come up with, he’s way off base with this.”
The old man sucked his teeth, wondering what the sheriff thought was going on, and whether it was time to intervene. Technically, Mayor Rusted was right: Garrett’s death had nothing to do with The Church. They would use
his blood in the ceremony tonight, along with that from the two wetbacks, but it was only the Deacon who knew they were drawing closer and closer to the purity of Jesus’ symbolism by moving from animal blood to human. And the Deacon didn’t know with certainty where the blood had come from, even though he probably had suspicions.
“When’s this press conference?” the old man grunted into the phone.
“Now. I’ll stall him as long as I can.”
CHAPTER 69
THE THREE OFFICERS GLANCED up as the squad room door swung open. Kado, Mitch and Cass headed for the coffee bar. “No luck on the phones,” Truman informed them as Officer Greg Newton pushed his glasses up on his nose and leaned back from checking Truman’s computer screen. Munk stretched his pudgy arms over the paperwork scattered across his desk.
“Nothing?” Kado asked, straddling a chair at a nearby desk.
“Nope. Probably one of those anonymous pay-as-you-go phones. But guess who the biggest purchasers of those types of phones are?”
Mitch looked up from the cup of coffee he was pouring and shrugged. “Who?”
“Alongside drug dealers, it’s farmers and ranchers.”
“How’d you figure that out?”
Munk looked up from his paperwork, exchanging a grin with Newton as Truman answered. The tips of his ears turned crimson as he cleared his throat. “Newton and I visited the phone shops. One of the girls out on the Loop was chatty. She said that men like Peavey and Craven come in and buy ten or fifteen cheap phones at a time.”
“Why?” Cass asked, stirring her coffee.
“They told her it’s for their crew bosses. They seem to be working several crews at one time, especially when the cows are calving and again when it’s time to get the hay in and the calves to sale. Said those guys can’t seem to hold onto a phone, so they find the cheapest option out there. If a phone gets lost or broken, they haven’t lost much money.”
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