“Why?
“Hold that thought,” Carmichael said, then turned his gaze toward the deputy. “You take the pictures yet?”
“Yeah,” Broderick replied. “Same as last year.”
“And the year before; yeah, I know,” Skip grunted. “Bag the axe?”
The deputy nodded. “Yeah. Bagged and tagged. Whiskey bottle too. Just waiting on Martin to show up for the remains. I’ll take prints and do a DNA swab over there. Called Doc Harper too. She said to let her know if Special Agent Mandalay wants an official autopsy, otherwise just have Martin sign off on the death certificate as usual.”
After a pause the sheriff asked, “Did you check…?”
He purposely left the half-asked question dangling in the air. While not fully spoken, it seemed that between the two of them it was implicitly understood.
“Yeah,” Broderick replied. “Same as always.”
“Good,” the sheriff replied with an approving nod. “Give Constance a glove.”
Broderick dug around in his coat pocket, then produced a latex glove and handed it over to Mandalay.
“You still haven’t answered my question, Skip…” she said.
“I know, but I’m about to,” Skip told her and indicated for her to follow as he started across the basement. “Go ahead and put the glove on. I need to show you something.”
She followed along behind him, stretching the sheath over her hand and working it onto her fingers as they stepped out in front of the arc of halogen work lights. Their shadows fell against the far wall in harsh, misshapen silhouettes. After skirting around the congealed pools of rusting blood, which were already showing the first-stage signs of freezing to the floor, they stopped amid the scattered remains of the butchered victim.
“Have a look,” Skip said, pointing at the severed head a few feet away.
Constance furrowed her brow at the sheriff. She had worked far too many cases involving violent death to be squeamish as a rule, so she wasn’t exactly a lightweight when it came to crime scenes. However, the egg salad sandwich was still lodged sideways in her gut, and her headache wasn’t helping either. Getting up close and personal with a dismembered corpse wasn’t exactly high on her priority list.
Still, after a moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward, then gathered her coat and squatted down in front of the disembodied head. She tilted her gaze, inspecting the grotesque tableau.
“What am I looking for?” she finally asked.
“You can move it,” the sheriff answered. “Get yourself a better look.”
Somewhat reluctantly but with great care, Constance reached out with her gloved hand and carefully rolled the head up to fully reveal the face. The victim’s expression was flaccid, mouth open, eyes half-lidded and staring lifelessly back into hers. Blood bathed the chin and most of the face, as well as the ragged portion of the neck that was still attached. A deep gash ran from the cheekbone just below his left eye, down across the jaw, revealing raw muscle and crushed bone. It had apparently been a wild strike from the blade of the axe-not unexpected given the circumstances.
However, even with the severe marring and excessive blood, the features were intact and distinct. The image of a mug shot filled Constance’s already overtaxed brain.
After a prolonged hush, with the petite federal agent motionless and staring at the severed head, Skip cleared his throat.
“Recognize him at all?” he finally asked.
A heartbeat later Constance replied, her voice flat and soft but clearly audible in the still basement. “It’s John Horace Colson…”
“Yeah,” Skip grunted. “The sonofabitch hasn’t changed a bit. Not bad for a guy that’s been dead for thirty-five years.”
CHAPTER 29
7:53 P.M. – December 25, 2010
Highland County Regional Hospital
Psychiatric Wing
Mais – Northern Missouri
Twinkling lights chased each other in a tightening upward spiral with ever-increasing speed, dancing briefly on the tips of lightly flocked green plastic branches. The miniature glimmers of color reflected wildly from glass ornaments that dangled as shiny obstacles in their paths. Finally, the racing points of brilliance reached an ornate silver-trimmed starburst at the top, and its own hidden cluster of tiny bulbs sprang to life in a radiating display of commercialized holiday cheer.
Constance quietly watched the flickering decorations on the Christmas tree as the strands of lights rolled through a half-dozen differing patterns before going dark for a moment and then starting the sequence from the beginning once again. As the chase began anew, she turned her face away from the animated distraction, lazily uncrossed her legs, and then leaned forward in the molded plastic waiting room chair. She pursed her lips then arched them into a hard frown as she hunched over and rested her forearms atop her knees. Staring downward, she thumbed a button to illuminate the screen of the cell phone she held cradled in her hands. She’d been sitting here waiting for almost twenty-five minutes now. Any other time she would already be well on her way to annoyed, but not this evening. She was willing to wait as long as necessary.
Somewhat more than twelve hours ago, sleep had finally come screaming at her with the throttle wide open and no brakes to speak of. She had seen it coming and her only course of action at that point had been to brace herself and let it happen, so that was exactly what she did. No sooner had she returned to her motel room from the crime scene than the exhaustion struck head on and the pillow came rushing into her face like a deploying airbag. Fortunately, she had just enough time to extract herself from the Kevlar and get undressed before impact.
After that she didn’t remember much of anything. All she knew was that according to the clock, she had spent slightly more than nine hours horizontal and for a change, she’d been blissfully unconscious and devoid of the terrors that had been plaguing her previous attempts at sleep. Beneficial as that was, it still simply wasn’t enough. While the restful slumber had definitely taken the edge off, she needed much more.
Unfortunately, she was well aware that more sleep wouldn’t fix the other problem at hand. She could have sacked out for three days straight and still would have awakened to the realization that none of what had transpired in the early hours of the morning was a dream. It was most definitely a nightmare-of that much she was certain-but it wasn’t the kind that went away when you opened your eyes. That point was driven firmly home when she awoke to find a text message impatiently waiting on her chirping cell phone.
And now, here she was in Mais, hoping to fit a few more pieces of the puzzle into place.
She yawned, then allowed herself a tired sigh and closed her eyes. Even though she kept herself in excellent shape, she had dealt out some serious self-abuse over the past few days. On top of that, no matter how much training you did, you could never truly prepare your body for what a serious dose of adrenalin and a sudden fight would do to cold, stiff muscles. She had felt those effects the moment she rolled out of the bed, and she knew she’d be paying the price for at least another day or so. She didn’t think there was any serious damage, but she was definitely sore, wearing a couple of new bruises, and had aches on top of aches. She was fairly certain that meant the pains were procreating. However, she had dulled them as best she could with a pair of ibuprofen caplets and would take some time to whine about it later. Right now, she was chasing answers-or so she hoped. The way things had been working out since this all started, she wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that she was really chasing yet another impossible question.
Constance fluttered her eyes open and saw that the cell phone screen had timed out, winking itself into dormant darkness. She thumbed a random button to wake it up. She had been waiting almost a full half-hour now. No big deal. She had time.
She scrolled to the text folder then pulled the message back into view and read it for the thousandth time. Then she read it again just for good measure.
It hadn’t disappeared, and it hadn’t changed-not that she expected it would, but in a way she wished it had.
