it.
“They’ve never had any trouble,” he replied. “If the system is tampered with in any way, the private security firm is out here in ten minutes.”
“Any tampering recently?”
“Negative. Sometimes the local kids stick chewing gum in the card slot for kicks. The Point’s one of their after-dark hangouts. They like to get high out here. I periodically chase them away. But it’s been quiet lately.”
“Anyone besides the residents have an I.D. card?”
“Just Tuck Weems, the caretaker. No one else, Lieutenant. Not even the postman-they pick up their mail at the post office. Although I should point out the tidal situation to you. Right now it’s in, and the water’s plenty deep and treacherous, as you can see…”
She glanced over the wooden railing at the water. It was swirling and foaming on the rocks. Treacherous was right.
“But at low tide,” he continued, “it’s possible to walk out to Big Sister. If someone’s on foot there’s no stopping him. Except there’s been no trouble with prowlers for quite a few years. For one thing, whatever they steal they have to lug all the way back to shore with them, on foot, over very slippery rocks. For another, those houses have an awful lot of big windows. You can’t exactly sneak up on the place.”
“You’re saying an outsider didn’t do this, correct?”
Bliss glanced at her uneasily. “In my opinion, it’s highly unlikely we are dealing with a career criminal here. I’d say he was killed by someone he knew. Either someone he buzzed in or a fellow islander-although I must tell you I find the latter possibility extremely hard to imagine. I’ve known these folks my whole life.”
They started their way across the causeway toward the island. It got damper and colder the farther out they got. Des was sorry she had not thought to bring a sweater. Power lines straddled the narrow wooden bridge, she observed. Connecticut Light and Power did not string lines out to private islands for just anyone.
“You’d better tell me about them,” she said, shivering.
“Dolly Seymour is a Peck,” he said with obvious pride. “As in Peck Point. We are talking about the bluest of the bluebloods, Lieutenant. A true lady. Although I suppose that’s considered something of a pejorative term nowadays.”
“Not by me it isn’t,” Des said, wondering how long it would be before she felt the hot breath of Captain Polito down the back of her neck. Not long at all.
“The word around town,” Bliss continued, “was that Niles left Dolly a Dear John letter, cleaned out their accounts and took off for the Virgin Islands-leaving a whole lot of bad feelings behind.”
“The other woman’s name?”
“No one seems to have any idea. She wasn’t a local girl.”
“Who found his body?”
“The tenant of Dolly’s carriage house, Mitch Berger. He and Dolly’s sister-in-law, Bitsy Peck. They were digging up the garden when they encountered it. She was able to recognize him.”
“I’ll be needing a complete list of who lives out here,” Des said to Bliss.
“I can give you that right now. Bitsy and Dolly’s brother, Redfield, live in the summer cottage. Dolly’s ex- husband, Bud Havenhurst, lives in the guest cottage with his new wife, Mandy. He got the house as a settlement after Dolly left him for Niles. And their son, Evan, lives in the lighthouse-keeper’s house with his companion, Jamie Devers. Jamie’s one of our local celebrities, but he keeps a pretty low profile.”
She frowned at him. “Jamie Devers?”
“He was a big television star back in the fifties-Just Blame Bucky.” On her blank stare he said, “Before your time, I guess… God, I’m getting old.”
“It doesn’t show one bit,” she assured him. “You are still a fine-looking gentleman.”
“Forget it,” he snapped, instantly on alert. “I won’t take another one.”
“But they’re so much happier when they have company.”
“Dirty Harry is plenty happy,” he insisted, smiling at her faintly. “In fact, given the choice, I’d trade places with him in a second.”
They had crossed the bridge and were out on the island now. It was perfectly, incredibly lovely-Des could imagine someone like Martha Stewart belonging here. She could not imagine herself or anyone she had ever known living in such a place.
A trio of blue and white Major Crime Squad cube vans were parked in the gravel driveway outside of the big yellow house. A dozen crime scene technicians in dark blue windbreakers and light blue latex gloves were already on the job. They were top-shelf people. And prepared for anything-each cube van came fully equipped with all fifty- two items of gear recommended in the guidelines drawn up by the National Medicolegal Review Panel in the wake of the O.J. case. Prior to that, unbelievably, no unified system of on-site death investigation had existed among the nation’s three thousand jurisdictions. Some of the items, like bodybags, were obvious. Others, like insect repellant, were less so.
The vegetable patch was behind an old barn. Soave was there, muscles bulging inside his shiny black suit. The technicians were there. And the body of Niles Seymour was there. It was not a pretty sight or smell. Saponification had begun, his fatty tissues reacting with the salts in the soil and turning to a soapy consistency. Bloating had caused the pressure points in the skin to split open, his eyes and tongue to bulge. His clothing was rotting away from his flesh.
Crime scene photos were being taken. Des would need extra copies of these. She would need to sketch this.
“He was shot twice, loot,” Soave informed her, carefully smoothing his see-through moustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Chest and neck.”
“The slugs still in him?” she asked, feeling her stomach muscles tighten involuntarily. She had a hot, bilious taste in the back of her throat.
“The one in his chest is.”
“This the primary scene?”
Soave shook his head. “There’s not enough blood under him. Man was already dead when he was buried here.”
“Do we have a line on the primary scene?”
“Not yet,” Soave grunted. “And this one’s a mess-the gardeners tromped all over it.”
Nonetheless, a forensic archaeologist was launching a dig. He and his assistants skimming off thin layers of moist dirt. Carefully sifting it for evidence. Depositing it on drop cloths. It was no different from a historic dig. Except that in this case the history was very recent. And living.
Meanwhile, a forensic entomologist was collecting samples of the insects and egg masses that had colonized Niles Seymour’s decaying corpse. The body could not be removed until he was done. The extent of insect development-along with the soil temperature, amount of moisture in the soil and the state of the victim’s decomposition-would tell them approximately how long Niles Seymour had been down there. The type of insects might also help them determine the location of the primary crime scene.
Des had seen enough. She motioned for Soave to join her. The two of them and Bliss moved back toward the driveway.
“Tenant also smeared his muddy prints all over the spade and fork he found in the barn,” Soave mentioned sourly. “That don’t look too promising neither.”
“Any of the islanders own guns?” she asked Resident Trooper Bliss.
“Red hunts a little,” he replied, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Jamie keeps a pistol for protection, I believe.”
“Rico, I want uniformed troopers to search every house out here for weapons,” she said, knowing perfectly well that the odds of the murder weapon being around were slim to none. But she had to look. She couldn’t not look. “Make sure you get permission first. If you don’t get permission, then-”
“We have to get a warrant,” he broke in, a defensive edge to his voice. “I know that, loot.”
She knew that he knew it. She also knew that it was her responsibility to remind him anyway. She was the ranking officer on the scene. If she failed to remind him, and the chain of evidence was compromised because of it, it would be her fault. Be accountable. If there was one thing the Deacon had drummed into her, it was this. “Have them search every outbuilding and shed, under every rock. Then meet me back here. We got to take statements
