the excitement. He made his way up the winding road, and felt the tension in his back ease. But only a little. He still had things to worry about. Things to take care of. He needed to settle down, calm himself. He couldn’t let the panic return. Couldn’t handle the pain. Not now. Not when he needed to think. That panic, that pain could paralyze him if he let it.
He needed to stop thinking about it. He needed to get to work. How could he work, thinking about this? How could he function? What would he do? What could he do now that he no longer had a safe dumping ground?
CHAPTER 12
Adam Bonzado looked over the bits and pieces the crime-scene tech named Carl had spread out on a plastic tarp. He had already bagged and labeled some according to where they had been found and what he guessed they might be. From his preliminary once-over Adam could already tell the specimens were from at least two different corpses.
“The dog brought this one,” Carl said, pointing to what looked to be a left foot.
Adam picked it up carefully in double-gloved hands and examined it from all angles. Most of the phalanges were gone. The metatarsals and some of the tarsals were held together by what little tissue remained. Even the calcaneus, the heel bone, appeared to be still attached.
“Have you found the rest of the body?”
“Nope. And I doubt if we will. A couple of the barrels look like they rusted through. Coyotes probably helped themselves. There might be pieces scattered all over this county.”
“How much do you need to identify a person?” Sheriff Henry Watermeier asked, looking over the assortment.
“Depends on a lot of things. This has some tissue left,” Adam said, handing the foot back to Carl, who placed it in a brown paper sack. “We probably have enough for DNA testing. But it won’t matter if we don’t have anything to match it to.”
“So let me see if I can remember how this works,” Watermeier said in a tone that Adam thought already sounded exhausted. “If a person is missing, we couldn’t test for DNA to see if this is that missing person unless we already had something from that person, like hair samples, to match?”
“Exactly. You can do reverse DNA when you’re looking for someone in particular. We did it to identify some of the World Trade Center victims.”
“What do you mean, reverse DNA?”
“Say a person is missing, but we have nothing of his to match our DNA sample to. We could do a DNA test on one or both parents, and in some cases siblings, to see if there are enough hits. It can be a bit complicated, but it does work.”
“So in other words,” Watermeier said, “we may never know whose fucking foot that is.”
“If we find more parts and identify them as belonging to the same person I might be able to piecemeal a profile. You know, narrow it down to male or female. Maybe give you a ballpark age. That way you have something to check against the missing persons lists.”
“You know how many people go missing every year, Bonzado?”
Adam shrugged. “Yeah, okay, so you’re right. We might not ever know whose fucking foot that is.”
Carl brought several more pieces, some Adam could tell had been buried, absorbing the soil and turning the bone reddish black. He pointed to a small white one. “I don’t think that one’s a bone.”
“No?” Carl picked it up for a closer look. “You sure? It looks like bone.” He handed the piece to Adam.
“There’s an easy way to tell,” Adam told them, and took the piece, lifting it to his mouth and touching it with the tip of his tongue.
“Jesus Christ, Bonzado. What the hell are you doing?”
“Bone, unlike rock, is porous,” Adam explained. “If it’s bone it sticks to your tongue.” He tossed the piece to the ground. “This one’s just a rock.”
“If it’s okay with everyone else,” Carl said, still wincing from Adam’s demonstration, “I’ll just pick up stuff and let you figure it out.”
“Which reminds me—” Adam looked to Watermeier “—you mind if I bring a few of my students to help me sort through some of this stuff?”
“I can’t have you teaching class out here, Bonzado.”
“No, of course not. Come on, give me a break. Just two or three graduate students. Looks like you could use the help. I mean help, real physical help to dig up and bag what might be out here. We’ll only touch what you tell us we can touch. Look, Henry, if Carl’s already gathered up this much crap just from looking on the surface, think what might be buried in the rubble.”
“You got that right.” Watermeier reached under his hat and scratched at thin wisps of graying hair. Adam could see a slight slump of shoulders in the tall sheriff’s normal rod-straight posture.
“How many barrels are there?” Adam asked.
“Don’t know for sure. Could be almost a dozen. I’m having the crime-scene guys go over the area first, take their pictures and pick up stuff. ’Cause once we start digging out barrels, anything lying around here could get buried or trampled.”
“Makes sense.”
“We’re gonna need one of those fucking earthmovers to get at some of the barrels. And we have to wait for Stolz. He’s testifying up in Hartford, probably won’t be able to get here until tomorrow morning. He had an assistant pick up the first barrel. That was before we realized there were more. Now he says he better be here himself for the rest. I don’t blame him. I’ve asked the state patrol to bring in a few guys to stand guard tonight. That’s all I need, one of these media mongrels sneaking in here. I’m not taking any chances. We’re likely to have the governor up our asses on this one.”
“That bad?”
Watermeier moved in closer to Adam and looked around, making sure the others were out of earshot, “There’re a few barrels with the sides rusted open enough to take a peek inside.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t look good, Bonzado,” Watermeier said in a low voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve seen some pretty freaky shit over the years. This is one fucking mess.”
CHAPTER 13
Luc Racine stared at the TV. He really liked this show. It was on every night at the same time. Syndicated repeats, but each episode seemed new to him. He couldn’t remember the characters’ names, except the old guy, the father, reminded him of himself. Perhaps only because he had a Jack Russell terrier, too. Eddie—that was the dog’s name. Figures he’d remember the dog’s name.
He looked around the living room, thinking he needed to turn on a light, the TV screen the only illumination in the darkening room. When had it started to get dark? It seemed like he had just sat down for lunch. He hated the dark. Sometimes he worried that he might eventually forget how to turn on the lights. What if he honestly couldn’t figure out how they worked? It had already happened with that box in the kitchen. That thing, that box…that food- warmer thing. Shoot! See, he couldn’t even remember what the damned thing was called.
He reached over and switched on two lamps, glancing around, wishing he knew what had happened to the remote control. He was always misplacing it. Oh well, he liked this show. No need to change the channel. He sat back and watched, absently scratching Scrapple behind the ears. The dog was worn out from their day’s adventure. It was still Monday, wasn’t it?
The phone startled Luc. It always did, only because he received few phone calls. Still, for some reason it was
