“How’s he doing?”
“Still a little pale.”
Cork returned to his Bronco, where Schilling sat hunched on the passenger side up front. Cork killed his headlights, and the two men sat for a moment in silence.
“Ever seen someone dead before?” Cork asked.
“Only in a casket. Never like that.”
“Tough, huh?”
“You’ve got that right.”
“You want to smoke, go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Schilling pulled a pack of Marlboros and a silver lighter from the inside pocket of his jacket. He tapped out a cigarette, wedged it into the corner of his mouth, flipped the lid on the lighter, put the flame to the tip of the Marlboro. He shot a cloud of smoke with a grateful sigh.
Cork opened his window a crack.
“Didn’t touch the body, right?”
“Like I said, only to check the pulse.”
“When did you throw up?”
“Right after that. It hit me real sudden.”
“Sure. So you threw up and radioed the call in immediately?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know exactly. A little before three, I’d guess.”
Cork had given up smoking a couple of years earlier, but he still found the smell of the cigarette enticing. “Tell me about your night up to that point.”
“Nothing to tell. Real quiet up till then.”
“Routine check of the park? That’s why you were here?”
“I ran Arlo Knuth out earlier. I just wanted to be sure he didn’t come back.”
Arlo Knuth was an itinerant who spent his nights sleeping in parks or on back roads or wherever he could get away with parking the old pickup that was his home.
“What time?”
“Maybe midnight. Maybe a little before.”
“You always do that after you’ve run Arlo off? Come back later to check?”
“Sometimes, not always.”
“What made tonight different?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
“Why the hard-on for Arlo? He’s harmless.”
“Park closes at sunset. He’s not supposed to be here at night. No one is.”
“Most deputies cut Arlo some slack.”
“I figure it’s the law. Park’s closed, everybody should stay out. Hell, I run kids off all the time who are making out here. Why should Arlo be any different?”
“When you came back, did you check behind the restroom blockhouse down in the lower parking lot?”
“No, sir.”
“Sometimes Arlo uses the blockhouse for cover. That way he can wash up first thing in the morning.”
“I know. And I would have checked it out, but when I got here I found a dead man. Pretty well ended my patrol.”
“Think Arlo could’ve been involved in this?”
The deputy looked down at his cigarette, which hadn’t touched his lips since his first drag. “No, sir, I don’t expect so. Like you say, he’s harmless.”
Headlights flashed through the trees as several vehicles pulled off the main road and came up the winding access.
“All right, tell you what,” Cork said. “Finish that cigarette, then take a hike down the path to the lower lot, check the blockhouse, see if Arlo’s still around.”
Ed Larson pulled up in his Blazer and parked. Cork left Schilling and headed to the Blazer just as Larson got out.
“Early start to your day, Ed.”
“Same for you,” Larson said. “What have we got?”
“Male Caucasian. Multiple stab wounds to the chest. And castrated. That’s it so far.”
“ID?”
“Not yet. I didn’t want to disturb anything until after you’d had a chance to go over the scene. Looks like a rental vehicle. We’re running the plates, so we may get something soon.”
“All right. Who found him?”
“Schilling.”
“Where is he?”
“In my Bronco. He’s pretty shook. When you see the vic, you’ll understand why. Oh, and watch your step as you approach the Lexus.”
Larson looked at the SUV. “I called Simon Rutledge. I figured as long as he was in the neighborhood. He’ll be here in a bit.”
“Good,” Cork said.
Morgan stood beside his cruiser, arms folded, water dripping from the bill of his uniform cap. Cork went over, and together they watched as Larson’s team arrived and set about their work. Morgan had started his engine and left it idling so that the battery wouldn’t wear down while his headlights lit the scene. The exhaust gathered in a ghostly white cloud that crawled around and under the vehicle. A minute later, Schilling left the Bronco and started down the path to the lower parking lot.
“Where’s he going?” Morgan asked.
“I told him to check behind the blockhouse for Arlo Knuth.”
“Think Arlo’s still around?”
“Worth checking out. And gives Nate something to do.”
“Good idea. I still remember the first body I saw on duty.” Morgan’s face was lit from the reflection of all the light in front of him. His mouth was in a grim set. “Traffic accident. Guy went through the windshield, ended up on the other side in pieces. I lost my lunch that day.”
Ed Larson was kneeling under the ground cloth Cork and Schilling had tied above the body. “Cork,” he called.
Cork wasn’t in uniform. He’d thrown on a pair of wrinkled jeans and a green sweatshirt with MACKINAC ISLAND across the front, slapped a stocking cap on his head, and shrugged into his bombardier’s jacket that was so old and worn it looked like the hide of a diseased deer. The jacket was soaked dark from the mist and his face dripped as he walked to Larson.
“What is it?”
“You told me his balls were missing,” Larson said.
“They are.”
Larson held his flashlight out to Cork. “Look in there.”
Cork knelt beside Larson and shined the light into the cavern of the dead man’s mouth, which Larson held open with gloved fingers.
“Jesus.”
“They’re not missing,” Larson said. “They were fed to him as a last meal.” He straightened up. “We’ll move him in a little while to see if we can locate a wallet for an ID.”
Cork had had a good look at the face. He swung the beam of his flashlight down to the dead man’s right hand, where a big gold ring adorned the pinkie-an odd finger, Cork had always thought, for a man to put a ring on.
“No need,” he said quietly. “I know who it is.”
