A Wicked Snow

“Yeah. Do they know who the guy is?”

“Not yet, but there’s more. A lot more, I guess. After the fireman called his buddies over, they found another grave. And another after that. The weirdest thing is that all—presuming there are no others—have been related in some way to the military. A few had some form of identification, and they have been confirmed as missing for some time. A long time. Years. One guy on the list has been AWOL, they thought, for almost seven years.”

“What the hell?” Bauer said. “What do you mean presuming there are no others?”

“They’re up to six. You better get down there. Infrared has already identified four other hot spots. Could be dead animals, of course. Hell, it could be a compost pile rotting under the heavy layer of snow. Who knows? It’s a damn massacre in Rock Point, Spruce County.”

“Got it,” Bauer said, jotting down the phone number of the local sheriff, Bob Howe.

“It gets better. Get this, it’s a goddamn Christmas-tree farm.”

“Great,” Bauer said. “I mean, how appropriate.”

“Hey, Bauer,” the dispatcher said, “some of the bodies are disfigured pretty bad. Better take some Rolaids with you if you got a nervous stomach for that kind of thing.”

“Ah, thanks,” he said.

Bauer threw some clothes into a duffel bag, wishing he’d done the laundry earlier in the week as he’d planned. He yanked the blinds closed and grabbed another Dr Pepper. Rock Point was more than three hours away. He walked to his car and felt the icy fingers of a chill in the air. It looked like snow.

Chapter 13

Rock Point, Oregon, lay under a heavy coating of coarse, granular snow of the type that experienced kids insist make the best, the most lethal snowballs. Twinkly lights cobwebbed naked tree limbs flanking the Kiwanis Club’s WELCOME TO ROCK POINT sign, and a three-quarter-inch plywood Santa and his reindeer were parked atop what locals considered the center of the town, the old Wigwam Discount Store. And on the way through town were row after row of single-story wood-framed homes, built for mill workers and their families in the ’20s. Most were perfectly maintained, with yards of lawn and rhododendrons snuggled under curtained windows. It was Christmas, and those converging there would never forget that particular place, that day, the terrible occurrence that brought them together. Northerly wind gusts shot spiny darts into Jeff Bauer’s handsome face as he stepped from his car and made his way across the Rock Point High School parking lot. It was the home of the Bobcats, and necessity made it the heart, albeit, a broken one, of the community.

He’d been told before leaving Portland to go straight to the high school, which was the staging area for the recovery effort.

Ordinarily—though it was unlikely such a word could be used in conjunction with what was happening in Rock Point—Ressler’s Chapel of Flowers had the county contract to serve as the area’s morgue, but a horrendous traffic accident four days earlier had filled its pair of refrigerator units with a mother, father, and their two children. Only one time before had there been a need for an additional refrigerator, and in that case, another traffic accident, the mortician’s old Kenmore chest freezer was emptied. He lined it with black plastic used to block weeds from growing in the flowerbed, and set it on its warmest “cold” setting. When word got out that multiple bodies were being recovered from a Christmas tree farm outside of town, a decision was made that Ressler’s Chapel of Flowers wasn’t going to do.

Rock Point High’s gymnasium was the only building sizable enough for what police were saying would be needed, given the early reports from the Christmas tree farm. The remains of holiday banners touting the HOLLY DAZE DANCE hung forlornly on dank, masking tape–marked cinderblock walls. GO BOBCATS! and WE’VE GOT SPIRIT! YES WE DO! rested in a heap on the gleaming, blond, wooden floor. A trophy case filled with plaques and faded ribbons commanded a space next to the gym’s entrance. More than three dozen people congregated in the gym—and some of those were dead. Bauer introduced himself to the Spruce County coroner, a bald man with an egg-shaped head and marshmallow middle. His name was Bertram Wilder. Dr. Wilder apologized for his damp hands as they greeted each other.

“Just washed up,” he said.

Bauer surreptitiously wiped his hands on the back of his trousers and looked just beyond the doctor. He counted the row of midnight blue body bags elevated from the floor on army-issued cots.

“Eight?” he asked.

The egghead nodded. “Not counting Claire Logan and her kids.”

“How many kids?” he asked.

“Two boys.”

“Jesus. What about Mr. Logan? Where’s he?”

“An old case of mine,” the coroner said flatly. “Mr. Logan has been dead for years.”

“Is everyone else accounted for?”

“As far as we know. But we don’t know who else is planted out there. If we keep digging, maybe we’ll find some more.”

Bauer followed the coroner over to the first row of bodies and knelt down as though a closer proximity would provide additional clarity. Thick black plastic had been arranged to protect the floor from any seepage. The coroner pulled on the zipper and the cocoon split open. A sharp odor shot forth, like steam from a putrid, foil-wrapped baked potato. Bauer turned away for a split second to catch his breath before turning his attention back to the corpse.

Dr. Wilder’s expressionless face twitched a smile.

“The smell could be worse,” he said. “Ten or twenty times worse if it weren’t for the quick lime.” He opened the body bag more fully and the stench that was nearly intolerable intensified. “Yeah, lime eats the flesh like a flame melts candle wax. Whoever put the bodies in the ground packed them in large quantities of lime first. Wrapped them in the stuff.”

The odor was so intense, it seemed more a solid than a gas to Bauer, pushing into his windpipe like a plug. It nearly choked him. He let out a hacking cough and found his voice, “I don’t follow you. What do you mean?”

The doctor smiled his weird grin and examined a pair of rubber gloves for tears by holding them up to the row of fluorescent lights suspended by cables over the basketball floor. He snapped them on and opened the bag farther, pulling the zipper past the sternum and nearly to the crotch. A piece of metal of some importance caught the light and glinted a golden tone through the murky stench that wafted from fabric and flesh. Bauer bent closer. It appeared that the dead man was wearing some kind of a military uniform and the uniform was intact. Filthy, thick with mud, and stiffened by dried bodily secretions, but the fabric was completely intact. Right down to the buttons, brass ones, Bauer thought to himself.

Dr. Wilder turned the flap of the jacket to reveal a yellow residue. “Lime. See that there.” He pointed with a gloved finger. “Whoever put the bodies in the ground packed them with lime on the inside of their clothes.”

“Why would anyone do that?” Bauer had heard of quick lime being used to dispose of bodies, but not in that manner. Usually the bodies were dredged in lime like drumsticks in flour for Sunday dinner, then buried. Of course, the young agent had heard of the technique—the Nazis used it in Poland during World War II—but the smell and the sight of the putrid corpse

made him lose his train of thought. Derailed it.

“I wondered about that, too. Then it came to me. Out here it rains half the year. Our soil is lime-poor because it’s leeched right out of the dirt by the rain. By packing the bodies with lime on the inside of their clothes, the killer kept the lime right where it would do some good.”