Dead, Without a Stone to Tell It

by Jen J. Danna

  With one last glance at the cyclist, Leigh fixed her eyes back on the road just as the bridge ended and they were back on dry land. A block further, she took the turn to Route 127, driving east, turning directly into the blinding morning sun. Pushing her visor down to block the glare, she concentrated on the road in front of her.

  Five minutes later, she left Beverly proper and drove into the outskirts of town. Traffic was lighter here, but a steady stream of cars in front and behind her carrying students and teachers made their way to the college for morning classes. Following both the posted signs and Dean Campbell’s instructions, Leigh pulled left to turn at Witch Lane. Suddenly, with a roar, the black motorcycle abruptly swerved out from behind her, nearly grazing her back bumper. As it came even with her passenger window, the driver slowed to look directly into the car.

  Directly at her.

  Leigh’s palms went suddenly damp against the steering wheel as an icy chill ran down her spine, her nerves jangling as she experienced the sensation of being watched for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

  Horror dawned. The sound of the motorcycle from last night.

  The cyclist revved his engine and kicked the bike into high gear, speeding off down the street. Leigh contemplated following her gut and going after him, but she was blocked by the cars around her in the turn lane as well as those streaming after the motorcycle. Craning her neck, Leigh straightened in her seat trying to see the rear license plate of the bike, but the car in front of her blocked her view.

  Helplessly trapped in place, Leigh’s gaze followed him as he disappeared from view.

  When the car behind her honked for her to move forward on the green light, she told herself her pounding heart was from being startled by the car horn, not by the surge of alarm caused by the cyclist.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ICE RAFTING

  Ice Rafting: the transport of materials by moving ice; pieces of ice in the low marsh are broken off by high tides and deposited in other areas of the marsh.

  Saturday, 1:47 A.M.

  Lowell residence

  Brookline, Massachusetts

  Matt gave a low moan as his body jerked in sleep. He tossed restlessly in the darkness, his legs tangling in the sheets as his breathing became ragged.

  The hot sand burning his skin as he fell to his knees beside his comrade. The brutal wind whipping grit into his eyes and scoring his face, a multitude of tiny knives.

  Ripping apart ragged fatigues to find torn flesh beneath. Blood welling thick and dark, pouring out onto dirt and rock.

  The warm flow of his own blood down his cheek, trickling to drip from his jaw and trail down his neck.

  His body flying through the air. Searing heat. Agony.

  His body sliding uncontrollably across the grit, razor sharp gravel scraping off skin like coarse sandpaper.

  Crawling through a trail of his own blood, back to the soldier.

  The stab of shock as he found himself looking down into the sightless, staring eyes of the woman in the clearing, found himself kneeling in those same woods. His blood-soaked desert fatigues, heavy boots, and combat helmet so jarringly out of place in what should have been a peaceful glade. But instead was rife with death.

  Ice-cold blood leaking from dozens of gaping wounds. Harsh bruising even darker under drying blood. Tangled hair matted with blood and gore. Tears of dark decomp fluid leaking sluggishly from the corners of her eyes.

  Turning away so he didn’t have to look. There was nothing for him to do here. She was long gone.

  “You didn’t save me.”

  The staggering shock of her rasping voice, the almost dizzying motion of his head whipping back to stare at her. The air rushing from his lungs, never to return.

  The sightless eyes fixed on his, the blood-red petechiae vibrant against the ghostly paleness of her skin. “You didn’t save me.”

  “I wasn’t there when you died. I couldn’t save you.”

  “You could have saved us.”

  Looking up with a jerk to see the corpse of his fallen comrade feet away from her ruined body.

  “You let us die.” Black fluid starting to trickle from the corner of her bloodless lips.

  “I couldn’t stop it.” Desperate words, tumbling from his mouth. Who was he trying to convince? “I couldn’t save him. He was too badly injured.” He held up his bloody hands for her to see, vibrant trails running down his forearms. “I tried. I couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

  “You could have saved us.” Her voice was growing weaker and weaker. “You let us die.”

  “No …”

  “You let us die. Our deaths, all our deaths, are on your hands …”

  “No!” With a ragged gasp, Matt sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding frantically and the heavy sweat on his bare skin chilling instantly as the blankets pooled around his hips. He instinctively groped for the lamp on the bedside table, fumbling for the switch, almost frantic for the light to drive away the dark images in his mind.

  Bright light suddenly flooded the room and he turned his face away, closing his eyes against the glare even as his breath rasped raggedly from his lungs. “Not my fault, not my fault,” he chanted in a broken whisper as he dropped his face into his hands. He pulled his knees up, curling into a ball for warmth and comfort.

  For long moments, the only sound in the room was his own harsh breathing. Finally he fell back against the headboard, his legs sprawling out limply as his head tipped back and his eyes closed. His heart rate slowed toward normal.

  He hadn’t dreamed like that in years. He thought he’d moved past it. He’d worked for years to move past it.

  Now the flashbacks were back, dragging the nightmares with them.

  He opened his eyes to fix on the ceiling above his wide bed. The single lamp threw a circle of light on the white plaster. He concentrated on the brightness of that circle.

  Not real. Just a dream.

  But it had felt real. Terrifying and real, and it left him shaken. Empty.

  He raised a trembling hand to run a single finger along the scar at his temple.

  You let us die.

  He swore softly.

  It was a long time before sleep returned that night.

  Saturday, 8:22 A.M.

  The DeWolfe Boathouse, Boston University

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Matt slid on his sunglasses before stepping from the dimness of the boathouse into blinding morning sunlight. His gaze instantly found his father, seated in his wheelchair on the dock, swapping stories with one of the rowing coaches as he waited while Matt and one of the riggers stored the scull after their early morning row.

  Matt’s gaze drifted out over the choppy blue water of the Charles.

  He’d needed the time out on the water. Time to throw off the dream. Time to push himself hard, letting physical exertion drive away some of the darkness. He rolled his shoulders, feeling some of the tension loosen.

  His father laughed, drawing his attention back to the dock.

  The morning’s exercise had been good for the older man as well. Since they’d moved to Boston, they regularly used rowing as part of Mike’s physical therapy and it was one of the reasons his father remained strong despite being trapped in his wheelchair. Mike might not be able to use his legs, but Matt suspected his father could easily overpower him in an arm wrestling match, despite their age difference.

  A shrill ring cut through the still morning air. He fished his phone out of his sweatshirt pocket, glancing at the display. Leigh. “Good morning.”

  “Morning. I know I told you I’d be into the lab later today, but I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans.”

  Instantly, dread swept through Matt. “What happened?” He couldn’t keep the edge out of his tone. “Did we find another one?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Leigh quickly reassured him. “I just have work to do here. We found Tracy Kingston’s car.”

  “Where?”

  “In the
parking lot at the Cummings Center. There’s no overnight parking at the mall but management is pretty lax about it. However, after several nights in the lot, the car was called in to be towed away. Beverly P.D. ran the license plate number and when they saw the name on the registration they called the state police. We impounded it right away.”

  “You’re going over the car for evidence?”

  “Crime Scene Services is. But what I have is even better. The mall’s had problems in the past with car thefts, so they have security cameras covering the parking lot.”

  Matt found her excitement contagious. “And her car was in view of those cameras?”

  There was a smile in her voice, and anticipation. “It was. So I have hours of security camera footage to go through. It’s a pretty wide window to cover when she might have disappeared but if we can see anything in the camera footage, we might get our first real lead in this case. There’s no guarantee I’ll find anything, of course. They may not have taken her from anywhere near her car, so if this doesn’t pan out I’ll try the footage from other security cameras in the vicinity.” She sighed, and he could hear an echo of exhaustion behind the excitement. “I’m supposed to be off today, but no one’s getting time off when there’s a case like this.”

  “Why don’t you bring it down to the lab?”

  There was a pause at the end of the line. “Bring the footage to the lab?”

  “Sure. We’re all meeting there at nine-thirty to start examining the remains. But I could lend you at least one of the students to help. Two sets of eyes will be able to scan the footage faster than one. Bring a few copies down; all the students have laptops. We can do it right in the lab so security isn’t an issue. Better than hanging out alone in the office on your day off, right? Besides, I need to bring you up to date on the excavations. The third grave has given us some valuable insight.”

  “That would work. And it would be nicer than working alone at the office. Thanks, Matt.”

  “You’re welcome. See you in an hour.” He hung up and hurried across the dock. “Dad, we’ve got to get going. Leigh needs the team.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: DECOMP CYCLE

  Decomp Cycle: the recycling of organic and inorganic materials within the marsh from dead and decomposing material into living plants and animals.

  Saturday, 9:29 A.M.

  Boston University, School of Medicine

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Matt and Kiko both looked up at the knock on the closed laboratory door. The small window framed Leigh’s face as she peered into the lab through the glass.

  Circling the gurneys, Matt crossed the lab to open the door. “We really need to get you your own key card so that you can have full access to the lab and the case evidence.”

  Leigh stepped into the room and Matt closed the door behind her. “It would certainly make it easier on you every time I stop by to see how you’re doing.” She patted the messenger bag tucked under her arm. “Thanks for the offer to help me review all this material. I admit it was a welcome invitation.”

  Matt sent her a quick flash of a smile. “No problem. There’s enough of us that we can share the work load.”

  “How are the examinations coming?”

  “We got the remains laid out last night, but we’re just getting started on that now.”

  “Good. I’ll start to collect Missing Persons reports for potential victim matching once you can give me some kind of time estimate as to when they died.”

  “That’s all part of the examination—sex, race, age, postmortem interval. The remains will tell me all that.”

  Leigh studied the remains, a slightly puzzled expression on her face. “I understand Rowe’s methodology of time since death—it’s all based on soft tissue biology—but how do you do it? You’ve got nothing left but bone.”

  “Well, in this case, that’s not quite true. I didn’t talk to you yesterday after we excavated the last two sets of remains. They were so fleshed we opted to put them in cold storage at the M.E.’s office because we just don’t have the ventilation system needed for bodies still undergoing decomposition.”

  “They’re that recent?”

  “Well, not as recent as it sounds. Bodies decompose about eight times slower when they’re buried than if they’re left on the surface. These remains aren’t undergoing putrefaction, but they are still in the advanced decomp phase. I called Rowe directly and he agreed that we should examine those bodies together. We’re hoping that will be Monday, but I’m kind of at the mercy of his schedule. It’s high on his list though.”

  “You said those remains gave you some insight?”

  “Yeah, they’re pretty straightforward. We have a male who died of a single gunshot wound to the forehead and we have a female who died of traumatic injuries similar to Tracy Kingston. The male went into the grave dressed; the female, naked.” He caught Leigh’s eye. “The female victim is marked over her left breast. The marks aren’t clear due to decomposition and shrinkage of the skin, but there was clearly a pattern of lines carved there. We can macerate the flesh to remove it from the bones to look for matching kerf marks once a full examination has been done, but I think we’re looking at an identical signature to the one on Tracy Kingston.”

  “Another link between the victims,” Leigh said. “Good work. You’re building a solid case.”

  “We’re trying. The soft tissue degradation on the third set of remains gives me something to work with to estimate time since death. It’s clear these were the last bodies buried. The internal organs are completely liquefied, but there’s skin present, as well as muscle and connective tissue. It’s only the extremities that have progressed to skeletonization.”

  “This extra tissue will help pinpoint how long the remains have been out there?”

  “Yes. The biggest question forensically is to determine when the remains were buried. Decomposition takes place much faster during the warmer months. We also know how deeply the bodies were buried and can correct for how much soil was lost in the storm surge. The deeper the burial, the slower the rate of decomposition because of lower ground temperature and protection of the remains from insects.”

  “I know you need to do a more extensive examination, but can you give me a rough initial time frame? I know you haven’t likely had a chance to examine the remains nearly enough for an official opinion for your report. This is just for me and my interest.”

  Matt was silent for a moment as he weighed how comfortable he was with a rough estimate. “I don’t normally do this, but for you and your interest, I would place the most recent burial interval at fourteen to sixteen months. In other words, June to August of last year.”

  “What about these skeletonized remains?”

  He shook his head. “It’s too soon. I haven’t had a chance to examine them because we’ve been focused on the excavations. With only minimal tissue remains at best, I need to look for erosion of the cortical bone due to acidic burial conditions or cracking and warping because of weathering. We can look at the degree of DNA degradation through PCR and there’s soil chemistry that can be run on the soil from beneath the remains. Or there’s microscopic examination or UV fluorescence or—”

  Leigh held up a hand, cutting him off. “Bottom line, what’s your guesstimate on the skeletonized remains?”

  Irritation rose. Scientists don’t guess. “I told you it’s too soon. I gave you an estimate on the other remains. You’ll have to be satisfied with that for now.”

  “I need an estimate on these remains too. I told you I won’t hold you to it.”

  “I can’t just guess, Leigh, and that’s exactly what I’d be doing here. I need to be sure of our results and that takes time.”

  “I’m not asking you to testify to it in court. I just need some sort of window so I can narrow my search.”

  “Unless you want a time frame that will simply waste your time, you need to be patient. This isn’t like working with flesh. There are multiple markers that need to be c
onsidered and we have multiple victims to work with.”

  “I know that. Even just a few to start with would—”

  Matt’s temper started to unravel. “Time-out.” The word came out clipped short and edged with anger.

  “You don’t need to call for a ‘time-out’ here,” Leigh argued, her cheeks flushing with anger. “I’m not asking you to open a vein and write it in blood. But I need this information to start the Missing Persons search. Even if you make the range too wide, it at least gives me a starting point.”

  “With skeletonized remains, sometimes a large range is the best I can do,” Matt grated.

  Leigh closed the distance between them to only inches, standing so close he could see the tiny flecks of forest green that shot through the jade of her eyes. “That’s fine,” she insisted stubbornly. “Give me a range then.”

  His jaw locked and his eyes narrowed. “You’re pushing.” He started to turn away from her.

  Her hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of shirt at his shoulder. She yanked him back toward her. “Don’t turn away from me. I need something to go on. Give me something.”

  Fury flared and before he could stop himself, his hand grasped her wrist where she clutched his shirt. “Time. Out.”

  Leigh opened her mouth to argue, but the words seemed to die on her tongue. She stood stock still, held in his grasp, her eyes searching his face. Then she eased away slightly. “Okay, time-out.”

  “Time … what?” He didn’t shift back, but simply waited her out, allowing her the next move. His grip around her wrist loosened slightly.

  She released his shirt and his fingers immediately dropped from her wrist. “We made a deal,” Leigh stated, all animosity gone from her voice. “You and I can be pissy with each other all we want but that doesn’t help the victims and they’re the only ones that really matter. It’s just that this case is sitting so heavily on me right now and I feel like we don’t have any idea who we’re fighting for yet and—”

  He reached out a hand and then hesitated, not knowing if she’d welcome his touch. His hand hovered in mid-air before finally dropping limply to his side. “I know the pressure you’re under. I’m not oblivious. I can make time since death my first priority and then go back to cataloging injuries if that’s what you need. I can be flexible but I just can’t stick my neck out and give you incorrect information because I’m making a guess rather than an educated assessment.”