“We need to get D.C. police, Krewe, and everyone out on this. Jackson, we need an army to check out every Halloween creature mannequin out there,” Angela murmured.
“This is horrible, and we will get an army out there,” Jackson agreed. “For now,” he added softly, let your nose be your guide.”
She grimaced in return and then asked worriedly. “Jackson, do you think Corby is . . . going to be okay?”
“I think Corby is exceptional, and yes, he’s going to be okay.” He smiled at her. Through the years, since they had met and worked the first Krewe case in New Orleans, they had been through a great deal together. Much of it hard. But Krewe members knew they could make a difference. They could save lives.
“He’s young; we’re going to hope he has a great life. But he is one of us,” Jackson said.
He loved his wife. She had her blond hair queued back and was wearing a simple pantsuit, and she was still a striking woman. More. She could handle their work, their adopted son, and new baby daughter without being overwhelmed.
Of course, Axel Tiger’s Aunt Mary had made life easier for them both.
She smiled. “Yes. I guess we all went through something at one stage or another. And maybe it’s best when we start young.”
She smiled and headed off.
Jackson watched her walk away then made his way up the steps to the porch, keeping a distance to allow Marty and her people and the forensic team to work. He stood next to Barry.
“Emailed you,” Barry said. “You’ll have the poem the papers got.”
“Thanks,” Jackson said. Then he turned to Dr. Lopez, “Marty—”
“Male Caucasian, forty-five to fifty years old. No I.D. that I can find on him, but we’ve got his prints. Cause of death exsanguinations. Method—knife wound straight into the heart. Obviously, I can tell you more after autopsy and when all . . . this!” She paused, indicating the scarecrow costume, the jack-o-lantern headpiece, and the straw. “When all this has been analyzed.”
“Obviously, he wasn’t killed here, right? Knife wound to the heart—where’s the blood?” Jackson asked.
“No, he wasn’t killed here or dressed here,” Marty said. “There’s very little blood on the clothing or the costume.”
“And how long ago was he killed?” Jackson asked.
“Well, we all know there’s decomposition,” Marty said, wincing bleakly as she looked at him. “I’m going to say he’s been dead five to ten days, but again . . . temperature has been on the chilly side, so . . . I will hopefully know more. Barry, Jackson—I’m going to take him in now unless . . .”
She had been down by the body.
Jackson hunkered down by the body himself.
Decomp hadn’t been kind. The man’s face was a strange mottled color, insects still crawled over the face.
And even so . . .
“What is it?” Barry asked Jackson.
“I’ve seen this man. Somewhere.,” Jackson said. He pulled out his cell phone. There would be hundreds of crime scene photos—such was the digital age.
But he wanted one himself of the man’s face.
Because something about it—despite bloating and gnawing and all else that had befallen the man since death—he felt a nagging sensation.
He had seen him before.
“You know him?” Barry asked.
Jackson shook his head. “No, but . . . there is something familiar. I think he’s been in the news or on a magazine cover—or I’ve passed him at the grocery store. Anyway, we’ll hopefully have an I.D. soon enough.”
“That face,” Barry murmured, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, happy Halloween. That face is sure as hell going to be haunting me.”
“We’ve had to work cases with "display" killers before, and, of course, Halloween always bringsout that kind of "crazy." Jackson stood, ready to join Angela in her door-to-door quest for information. Maybe she would recognize the man.
Chapter 2
Angela approached the door of the neighbor’s house while noting the yard display.
There was a hearse in the front yard, driven by a skeleton, carrying a skeleton. It was surrounded by pumpkins.
The good thing was it would have been impossible to hide a human body in the plastic bones, and she had recently seen the exact display at the hardware store when she and Jackson had picked up a new area rug for the baby’s room.
An older man in a soft blue fall sweater answered the door. She smiled and produced her badge, introducing herself. He told her his name was Josh Greenburg, and he had bought the house from his parents thirty years ago.
“Sir, I’m sorry to tell you this, but there was a dead man among the characters in the display next door. People have gone by him for days. We need to know if you saw anything—when the display was put up.”
“A dead man?” He seemed confused at first. “It is almost Halloween. I saw the display when I woke up—I don’t know who did it. I just thought it was cool—someone finally did something with that the property. City owns it. I’ve been at them for years to do something with it. But you’re saying—you mean a real dead man?”
“Yes. The scarecrow with the pumpkin head.”
“Oh, my God.”
“We really need your help. Do you know when the display went up?”
He nodded. “I saw it four mornings ago. I know because I was on the way to my doctor’s appointment. I left the house at eight. I even wondered if the city had done the decorating. I mean it’s an old abandoned haunted house, right? Why not set it up?” He suddenly sagged against the door. “A dead man?” he repeated. “Oh, God, and I’ve had the kids over here—the grandkids.”
“Do you live alone?” Angela asked him.
He nodded. “My wife died two years ago. I intend to leave the place to my daughter, but she refuses to think that . . . she knows the property will be hers. But she and her husband have a nice little townhouse in Alexandria.
