it.” She clapped her hands. “C’mon Hansel, c’mon Gretel, do your sniffy thing.”
Judy Kantor led the dogs around the perimeter, then she let them explore. Within moments, each animal was sitting. Ten feet apart. Judy Kantor marked the spots, signaled for them to resume.
Two more tells. This time, the dogs stayed seated.
She said, “That’s it, Lieutenant.”
Milo said, “We suspect as many as eight victims.”
“If there was another grave nearby, they’d tell you,” she said. “Unless it’s super-deep-hey, maybe you’ve got stacked bodies.”
Milo thanked her, she gave the dogs treats, the three of them departed with obvious joy.
No stacking.
A quartet of intact skeletons, interred barely three feet below the surface.
Petra said, “They’re all pretty petite. Don’t need to be an anthropologist to know they’re girls.”
CHAPTER
44
It did take an anthropologist to make sense of the bones. Moe Reed’s girlfriend, Dr. Liz Wilkinson, had the report on Milo’s desk nine days later. The skeletons were consistent with the four most recent victims depicted in James Harrie’s photo stash. Dental records for two victims solidified the I.D.’s and the remaining two girls were differentiated using femur length.
Wilkinson opined that two of the victims had probably given birth, a fact that didn’t emerge during interviews with their parents.
No reason to bring that up. Milo helped facilitate delivery of the bones and has attended every funeral.
A wider, deeper excavation of the field has produced no other bodies, no evidence of any kind.
The burial sites of Dr. Louis Wainright and Nurse Joanne Morton remain unknown.
The eyes left behind in “Bern Shacker’s” Beverly Hills office were too degraded by formaldehyde for DNA analysis. Dr. Clarice Jernigan has opined that they may not belong to any victim, could very well be anatomy specimens sold commercially to optometrists and ophthalmologists.
She’s a tough-minded expert pathologist with a wealth of experience.
Then again, everyone engages in wishful thinking.
The pizza boxes found in the tunnel match those used by only one restaurant between Santa Barbara and Malibu, a stand in Oxnard just off Highway 1, catering to the motor trade. No one working there is aware of any pilferage. A teenage girl on-site during weekend evenings is almost certain a pleasant man resembling James Harrie was an occasional customer.
An A-student taking a full load of advanced placement courses, she’s nearly as confident about his order.
Same thing each time: small plain cheese pie, large pepperoni and mushrooms.
Grant Huggler awaits trial at Starkweather State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He is a model patient and has defied easy diagnosis. His public defender and deputy D.A. John Nguyen have separately indicated their intention to call me as an expert witness should the case go to trial. I’ve communicated my reluctance to both of them. They haven’t pushed. But they’re lawyers, haven’t backed off, either.
I can live with the uncertainty.
Milo has never mentioned what happened in the field. He has asked me-twice, because he’s been more absentminded than usual-if I think Huggler will ever make it into a courtroom or remain stashed in his isolation room.
“Or even shipped off to another loony bin. Maybe Kansas, huh? We owe them.”
Both times I told him I wasn’t feeling like a gambling man.
I’ve been a little edgy, though I think I’ve been handling it pretty well with Robin and Blanche, saying and doing the right things, playacting a normal life.
For the most part, the dreams have stopped. I do think about the eyes, the four girls whose bodies haven’t been found. Louis Wainright, Joanne Morton.
Belle Quigg was offered Louie but she demurred, telling Milo it was all she could do to make it through each day.
Louie and Ned were adopted by a family from Ojai, a Mormon clan with twelve kids and a long, honorable history of caring for old, ill castaway pets. I hear that both dogs have fattened up and once in a while, Ned’s got the energy to play.
I’ve turned down several patient referrals, have increased my running time, spend more time listening to music, everything from Steve Vai to Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 6.
Every day I go into my office, close the door, pretend to work. Mostly I sit at my desk thinking, then trying not to.
I’ve contemplated recapturing my self-hypnosis chops. Or learning some new form of meditation that might succeed at emptying my head.
I think about meeting the parents of the four girls whose bodies haven’t been found. Saying something to Dr. Louis Wainright’s two adult kids.
No one has inquired about Wainright’s nurse, Joanne Morton, and that bothers me more than it should.
I wonder about what created Grant Huggler. James Harrie.
At this point, I’m not sure I want answers.
