Bob Feathers still held the state's meth lab takedown record. His knowledge of every remote cabin and mobile home in the surrounding eight counties was formidable. They'd need that to locate the killer's slaughterhouse, along with Feathers' unparalleled familiarity with every deer camp and makeshift tree stand from the Ozarks to the Arkansas River.
Lou accepted a second evidence marker and hunkered down to set it next to the birch that bore the remaining traces of his chew. "Heard tell Feathers got back from visitin' his kids and is already bored stiff with retirement. I'll give him a call." The sheriff stood. Turned.
Relief fled as Kate spotted the request simmering amid her boss' muddy stare. She cut him off before it could reach his lips. "The governor's bound to suggest the state crime lab take point. Might be best if we hand the whole thing off now."
It made sense, damn it, and Lou knew it.
The vet's body, such as it was, was headed to Little Rock. Even if Tonga insisted on autopsying what was left first, they'd need the state lab's specialists to see the investigation through, not to mention access to their array of specialized equipment—toxicological and otherwise.
Given the lack of bruising, it was extremely likely their killer had used drugs to take down his prey. But with the bulk of the victim's blood and internal organs missing, there was an excellent chance toxicology would come up dry. That left the recovery of microscopic evidence in, on and around the remains. This case would hinge on it; she'd stake her former reputation on it. Like it or not, Lou needed the state lab.
And she needed Lou to need someone else to run point regarding the rest—desperately.
Unfortunately, Lou was Lou. Backwoods sheriff or not, he was still a cop. Unless it undermined the case, Lou would fight to keep the lead within his department. Especially with the biggest case of his career. And with her credentials under the department's collective belt, there was no way Lou would believe another detective—state level or not—could oversee this investigation better.
Kate could see that too, swirling around amid the indecision in those muddy pools, and it was getting to her. Even if state took over, they'd still need a liaison within the Braxton PD and, unfortunately, she knew that too.
It was what she didn't know—make that, what she couldn't remember—that scared the shit out of her. If a handful of arguments with Grant were enough to stir up the rot in her gut, what would working this case do to her sanity?
She crossed her fingers—hell, her soul—and pushed it. "I really do think it's best if Feathers—"
Lou shook his head. "The vic's Army, Kato. You've already established that. That's somethin' Feathers and the other deputies just won't get. Nor will the folks at the state crime lab. Yeah, I know. They got a couple Air Force and a Marine vet over there. But you done told me about the subtle differences between the branches. We cain't afford to miss the smallest thing on this." He jabbed a finger toward the parts lining the road. "Not with the twisted fuck that done that out there."
Duty warred with panic.
If she pushed harder—confessed all—Lou would let her off the hook. He'd probably even understand.
The dive watch on her wrist grew heavy as Kate stared at that collection of coldly packaged flesh. She forced herself to weigh the remnants of her own mutilated psyche against the snuffed-out life of a fellow soldier.
A fellow combat vet.
The watch grew heavier as the inevitable sank in. She managed to stave off the urge to twist it as she nodded stiffly and led the way back to the road. "Let's see if we can't get an ID so you have something positive to give the governor. I'd also like to get someone's eyes on Old Man Miller's property asap, including his shed and barn. I doubt the killer's set up shop so close to his chosen dump, but it needs excluding."
Lou's relief at her acquiescence to taking point was unmistakable, along with the resurgence of that suffocating sympathy. He was studying the shredded side of her face, too. Something he hadn't done in over a year. For the first time since she'd crawled home from that hellhole, Kate wondered just how much Lou knew about what'd happened over there. And how he'd discovered it.
Grant?
Now was not the time to probe for answers...had she even possessed the courage.
Kate reached the gravel lane and that still-bagged head. She knelt down beside it as Lou continued on toward the cruisers to order the search of Old Man Miller's property and retrieve the MorphoIDent. One good thing about vets: their fingerprints were in the system. If she could get a clear capture through the plastic shrink-wrapped around their victim's fingers, they'd have an ID within seconds. If not, she'd have to give Tonga first crack at the victim after all—at least his hands.
But first, the head.
Kate braced herself as she reached into the sack. She managed to ease the head out without losing her nerve. Her stomach was another matter. Again, nausea threatened as she studied that stark red line. Tactical breathing reigned as she waited for it to ebb. Several rounds later, it did—but an odd, almost painful cramping had supplanted the sloshing.
Why?
More importantly, why did that simple line of red consume her? She'd seen her share of decapitations before. Granted, all of them had been decidedly past their prime. She'd even bagged an obscene number personally. But those heads had been rudely ripped or hacked from their owner's necks.
Was that it, then? Was her fascination rooted in the surreal simplicity of that perfect line? Or did it go deeper?
Her wrist began to itch.
"Kato?"
She flinched—and nearly lost her grip on the head.
"You sure you're okay?"
She stalled for time, carefully positioning the back of the victim's head on the flattened sack and snapping a photo before she stood. Pinning a Go Army; been there, done that and got the tarnished Silver Star to prove it smile to her lips, she faced her boss. "I'm fine. It's just...been a while."
The itching grew worse.
Kate spotted the compassion bleeding into Lou's eyes and snatched the MorphoIDent from his hand.
"Thanks, boss."
Executing an about-face, she headed for the flattened sack bearing the victim's right hand before Lou could argue. They were in luck; the textured side of the plastic was opposite his palm. Less than a minute later, she had a match.
Kate tilted the MorphoIDent's screen toward the sheriff as he joined her so he too could compare the driver's license photo that had registered to the slightly distorted features of their victim's face.
"Yeah, that's him. Poor bastard."
She clicked through the corresponding stats. "Name's Ian Kusić. He lives—lived—in that hodgepodge of trailers out by Jackson Road and Plum Creek."
Lou jerked his chin toward the still-flashing cruisers at the head of the crime scene. "You'd best beat feet and see if there's a spouse or live-in that needs notifyin'. Then start pokin' through his life. We need leads like a skunk needs stink. Take Seth with you. Owen can stay behind to protect the integrity of the scene and assist CSU in processin' while Tonga loads up the vic's parts. You're right, Kato. We might as well have 'em sent straight to the state lab for autopsy. I'll give 'em a holler after I call the governor's office."
Kate nodded. "Sounds good. But Seth should stay. Tonga's more unsettled by this whole thing than he'd like to admit. He could use Seth's assistance in packing the remains for transport."
The ME could use the deputy's moral support too, but that wasn't why she needed to go it alone.
"You sure?"
"Absolutely." Walking through that trailer and picking apart another vet's life was going to be hard enough.
No way in hell was she bringing an audience.
Kate nearly regretted her fellow deputy's absence as Ian Kusić's trailer came into view. The double-wide had been exiled to the western edge of its tree-studded acreage at least thirty years before, and it showed. That said, its wheel-less, sagging belly clung valiantly to stacked cinder blocks far enough away fr
om the other half-dozen trailers, yet close enough to the surprisingly lush, winding creek beyond to be billed as "private, with a view" by some enterprising landlord.
But it was still a depressing pile of crap.
With its pitted exterior so warped and rusted, Kate was half afraid the mild breeze swirling through the dried grass and fallen leaves would send the structure crashing in on itself before she had a chance to gain entrance. She could've used Seth's bulk after all, if only to hold up the roof.
Or not.
The pair of Afghanistan and Iraq Veteran stickers bookending the dented bumper of an equally dilapidated Chevy pickup caused the unease to return. Claustrophobia joined in, knotting tightly as Kate parked her Durango in the rut of dried mud behind the truck. It knotted tighter as she spotted a Bluetick hound bounding out from the cluster of trees to the east. A thirty-something woman sporting a tangle of russet curls and a neon orange hoodie brought up the rear.
Damn. Seth's non-stop banter would've helped deflect the inevitable curiosity.
Too late now.
Kate exited the Durango. Dressed in jeans and a department tee, she took the time to don her Braxton PD uniform jacket and ball cap. Grabbing a fresh set of latex gloves and crime scene booties from the case she kept in the back seat, she stuffed them in a pocket as the hound reached her. Though she was within her jurisdiction, she didn't recognize the dog or its mistress. Not surprising. Socializing with the surrounding town and rural folk had been even less of a priority since her return to Braxton three and a half years ago than it had been in high school.
The Bluetick appeared friendly enough. And amusingly enthralled with Ruger's scent. The mutt was still frantically sniffing at the legs of her jeans as the woman approached.
Kate patted the Bluetick's head with one hand as she retrieved her badge with the other. Bracing herself, she turned her face squarely into the woman's view. "Mornin', ma'am. Deputy Holland—I'm with the Braxton PD."
The woman's bright blue stare held Kate's for all of two seconds, then dropped. Not to Kate's credentials. To the four-inch mottled scar that bisected her entire right cheek, along with the complementary smattering of pocks and smaller scars left behind by the molten shrapnel that had once ripped through her face, neck and torso. No surprise there. Four years on, she was almost used to the absolute absorption her reinvented features tended to generate in her fellow man, woman and child. Hell, she preferred it.
Open stares, even the downright rude ones, beat stiff silence and awkward avoidance every time.
Kate waited for the fascination to run its course.
Based on the pink splotches staining the other woman's significantly smoother cheeks as her gaze shifted to accommodate a sudden and intense interest in the door to Kusić's trailer, it had. Unfortunately, Kate had also spotted the tinge of revulsion curdling the woman's features.
It beat pity, right?
Right?
Kate kept her tone cool, clipped. Professional. "Ma'am?"
The woman resumed eye contact—reluctantly. "Sorry. Leena Paquet. My husband Delbert and I own this property. Are you here for our tenant?"
For? Odd choice of prepositions.
Kate pocketed her credentials as the Bluetick resumed its sniffing, this time at the heels of her boots. "Are you referring to Ian Kusić?"
"That's him."
Kate nodded. "Ma'am, I'm afraid Mr. Kusić's dead. I'm here to determine his marital status and to seal off his residence."
The tenuous eye contact strengthened. It was quickly followed up with a frown. "Whatever for? How did Ian die?"
"I'm not at liberty to say. Was Mr. Kusić married?"
"No."
"Do you know if he had a housemate? A significant other?"
"No and no. At least, Del and I ain't seen anyone since he and his latest piece had their final falling out."
Final? "Did Mr. Kusić and his girlfriend argue regularly?"
And had domestic abuse been an element? It would explain the landlady's odd choice of prepositions. Possibly more.
Kate's interest spiked upon the confirming nod. Granted, female lovers tended to not settle their disputes using methods which left behind the coldly partitioned results she'd logged out on that gravel road, but Ian Kusić's penis had been missing—and the plastic used to wrap the remaining pieces of the corpse did appear to be the type used in a food prep appliance.
"Do you know his girlfriend's name?"
Leena shook her head. "Never had the displeasure. All I know is she's a bottle blond who prefers too much makeup on her face and not enough fabric on the hind end of her shorts."
The Bluetick snorted as if it agreed.
Kate had her doubts regarding the hound's master, since Delbert's avid appreciation of said hind end—silent or otherwise—would explain the distaste pinching his wife's lips.
Kate kept the suspicion to herself as the landlady bent to scratch the Bluetick's head. "About that final fight; do you remember when it occurred?"
Finely plucked brows furrowed as Leena straightened. "Nine days ago. I know because Del and I had just returned from his mom's in St. Louis. It was so loud that I almost had Del dial 911. But then Ian's screen door slammed, and that little red convertible the banshee drives tore up the lane as she left, spitting gravel everywhere. Like I said, ain't seen her since."
"Do you know what the fight was about?"
The woman stiffened. "Honey, I don't poke my nose in where it don't belong."
In other words, she'd been too far away to make out the words. Shame. Kate withdrew a business card from the slot behind her credentials and held it out. "If you or your husband remember anything else, please give me a call."
"Fine." The landlady stuffed the card into the hoodie's kangaroo pocket.
"Ma'am, I don't suppose you or your husband have a key to Mr. Kusić's residence?"
Leena nodded firmly. "Sure do. You'd be surprised what tenants will do to a place if you don't check up on them." She patted that same pocket. "Got it right here."
Kate took a turn scratching the Bluetick's ears, intent on soothing mistress more than hound. At least until she had tacit permission to enter the premises with that key—sans search warrant. "Did Mr. Kusić keep a dog?"
"No."
Nothing to impede her entrance then. If she was lucky.
Leena pursed her lips. "I did see him feeding a stray cat off and on. I made him keep it outside since he was too cheap to fork over a pet deposit. Them things stink, if you ask me—what with their crap boxes and spraying. It gets in the carpet and the walls. Not to mention the fleas, the hair and the dander. Clings to everything. And those claws." The woman shuddered. "Damned things shred everything in sight, including—"
People.
The unspoken word lurched between them, as cold and ungainly as the stare that had dropped to the mutilated side of Kate's face. Scarlet stained the landlady's own flawless cheeks, clashing with the neon orange of her hoodie. Leena's stare hit the ground, where it remained. "Do you, uh, need—"
"Just the key. Please."
The silence returned. Kate left it hanging—ripening—as the landlady retrieved a ring of keys from her pocket and worked one free. Gaze still nailed to the ground, she handed it over.
Kate opened her mouth to thank her, even offer up an inane comment to smooth things over, but it was too late.
Leena had spun around and begun a stiff march across the field. Several shrill whistles and a peeved shout followed before the Bluetick deigned to trail after her.
Though the landlady's rigid spine faced her, Kate still had the westward windows of the remaining cluster of trailers to contend with. Mindful of her potential audience, Kate headed for the rear of Kusić's abode. Like the front of the trailer, it appeared to be a fistful of bolts from condemnable. She stopped beside the set of cracked and weathered two-by-six steps leading up to the back door to don her crime scene booties and gloves.
The board at the top groaned as she key
ed the lock. It didn't budge. Either the lock was frozen or it'd been changed—and recently, given the landlady's confidence in her ability to access the trailer.
Kate twisted the knob on a whim.
It gave.
The killer? Had he abducted Kusić from his own residence and left the door unlocked, accidentally or otherwise?
Or had he returned to the scene?
Kate switched her phone to mute, then slid her 9mm from her shoulder holster, offering it first glance inside.
Astonishment reigned as she followed her weapon into an unoccupied living room. While she hadn't expected Deliverance, neither had she anticipated Lifestyles of the Loaded Bachelor. A wall-mounted plasma flatscreen with massive speakers held center stage, with a dark-chocolate leather couch and sleek coffee table opposite. A floor-to-ceiling display cabinet filled with models of every high-end car known to man anchored the opposite wall. The matching pair of leather recliners rounding out the room would've cost her dad a year's paychecks to park his tush within.
Why would someone who could afford to kit out a place like this live inside a rusted trailer?
The view was nice, but not that nice.
Privacy? If so, for or from what? And was the need for isolation tied to the man's death?
The urban-wannabe remodel was recent too. No doubt while the Paquets had been in St. Louis. The smell of new confirmed it. And there was the landlady. With the woman's admitted penchant for spot snooping and obvious gift for gossip, she'd have undoubtedly mentioned the remodel if it had occurred before then.
The mystery deepened as Kate continued her initial sweep of the trailer. The master bedroom and bath were likewise decorated to the hilt, down to the king-sized waterbed and black satin comforter in the former and the fresh paint and glistening sink and shower fixtures in the latter. The spare bedroom had been converted into a computer station-cum-recording studio of sorts, with an impressive array of guitars and two electric keyboards lining the walls in lieu of a bed.
The Garbage Man Page 3