Flesh and Bone: A Body Farm Novel

Sanctuary or something equally sentimental; not the sort of place you’d ever imagine hearts had been shattered and young psyches scarred. We sat in silence. I was grappling with myself, wondering whether this was really necessary; I was pretty sure Art was, too. After a few minutes, the light in one of the second-floor windows winked out, and soon after, the front-porch bulb snapped on. Just enough of its light carried into the dimness of the car to illuminate Art’s face a bit. It looked sad and drawn. “We could just drive away,” I said. “Leave it alone.”

He was silent for a long time. “We could,” he said. “Don’t think I wouldn’t love to. But if we look the other way this time, what happens next time? And the next? Once you cross a line, it gets easier the next time, and the next and the next. And pretty soon you don’t even remember where the line was. You and I have spent a lot of years playing by the rules. We believe in ’em, even though they don’t always seem fair. You know that. That’s why you called Evers instead of burning those sheets, or tying them around a cinder block and chucking ’em in the river.”

“I know,” I said. “And isn’t that working out swell for me?”

“It ain’t over yet,” he said. “Too soon to give up on the system. You’ve got a shrewd lawyer, and if anybody in this city can get a jury that’s inclined to give the benefit of the doubt, it’s you.”

“Yeah,” I said with more than a trace of irony in my voice. “The greatest legal system in the world. And at its pinnacle there’s my lawyer, Grease DeVriess.”

“Hey, I didn’t say it was perfect,” he said. “But in this case, maybe Grease can actually do a good deed. Bootstrap himself up from the lowest circle of hell to one of those mid-level circles.”

“If clearing my name means making the afterlife easier for Grease, I’m not so sure I want to be acquitted,” I said, and Art laughed quietly. “You’re a good man, Bill,” he said. “You ready?”

“No. But I guess we’d best go do this anyhow.”

We got out of the truck, easing the doors shut quietly. Down the street, a dog barked once, then fell silent. We eased wordlessly up the walk and up the stairs, and I knocked softly on the front door. It opened in seconds, and Susan Scott faced us nervously. Behind her stood her husband Bobby. She had said he was a contractor, and judging by his build, he wasn’t just a foreman, he still did a lot of labor himself. He stood about six-three, with broad shoulders and bulging arms. He had a hint of a beer gut, but underneath it, he still had the body of an athlete. When he shook Art’s hand, I saw Art wince, and when he shook mine, I understood why.

They led us to the sofa, where Art and I had sat when we delivered the news of Craig Willis’s death to Susan Scott the week before. They sat in closely spaced armchairs, holding hands between the chairs.

“I’m not sure where to start,” I said. “You might have seen me in the news lately.” They both nodded, looking embarrassed. “Somebody’s working hard to make it look like I killed Dr. Carter, and they’re doing a pretty good job of it. We’re trying to figure out who, and why.”

Susan looked confused, and I could hardly blame her. “When you called, you said you had some new information about Craig Willis.”

“We do,” said Art. “And we’re thinking there might be some connection between that case and Dr. Carter’s murder.”

“How on earth would those be related?” asked Bobby.

“Not sure,” Art replied. “But Dr. Carter was murdered right after we identified Craig Willis’s body. Willis’s mother was very upset at the news stories about her son’s death. She felt like Dr. Carter had ruined his reputation.”

“Christ, give me a break,” said Bobby Scott. “That guy was a piece of shit.”

“Bobby!” his wife exclaimed.

“I can’t help it, Sue. You know it’s true, and you feel the same way. I’m glad he’s dead, and I wish the papers had printed the rest of his story.”

“A day before she was killed,” I said, “Dr. Carter was in my office at UT. Craig Willis’s mother came in and physically attacked Dr. Carter. We had to call the campus police.”

Susan put a hand to her mouth. “You think maybe she killed Dr. Carter?”

“Don’t know,” Art said, “but we’re concerned that Mrs. Willis might be unstable, and might pose a risk to anyone who’s connected to her son’s case.” He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a photograph. It was a print of one of the photos I’d shot earlier in the day, at Mrs. Willis’s house. “You haven’t seen her in the neighborhood, have you? Or anywhere near Joey’s school?” He handed the photo to Mr. Scott. He took it in his free hand, studied it a moment, and shook his head. Then he handed it to his wife. She looked at it much longer, then shook her head as well, and handed the photo back to Art. Art, too, looked at the photo. He held it under the floor lamp that was at his end of the sofa, and angled the picture back and forth to catch the light. His face took on a look of infinite sorrow, and when he looked up at Bobby Scott, I could see tears gathering in the corner of Art’s eyes. I could feel them welling up in mine, too. “Mr. Scott,” Art said, “how did you cut your thumb? And when?”

Bobby Scott looked startled, and then nervous. “With a utility knife on a job,” he said. “Stripping electrical wire. About a week ago, I’d say.”

“I’d say more like three or four weeks ago,” Art said. “Just before that night you spent away from home? It’s healed up pretty well-just a faint scar by now, I’d say, judging by this thumbprint.” Bobby Scott flushed. “Mind showing me your thumb?” said Art. Scott extricated his hand from his wife’s, but he did not show his thumb to Art; instead, he put both hands on the arms of his chair, leaning forward and looking ready to jump up. The fight-or- flight reflex had clearly kicked in like a turbocharger.

His wife was looking from Art to her husband to me. “What’s going on?” I could see confusion and panic rising in her. “Somebody please tell me what this is about,” she said. Her voice was taut as a guitar string on the verge of snapping.

“When Craig Willis was killed,” I said, “his penis was cut off and shoved in his mouth. There was a bloody thumbprint on the penis. The thumb had a pretty big cut down the center.”

She turned and stared at her husband. The looks that passed between them-her unspoken and frightened questions, his angry and apologetic answers-nearly broke my heart. She began to shake, and to weep. “Oh God, Bobby,” she said, “what have you done? How could you do this to us? Oh God. Every time I think it can’t possibly get any worse…” She clenched a fist and bit into the side of her index finger with enough force that I expected to see the skin tear open. “I can’t take it,” she sobbed. “I can’t. I can’t. I have tried so hard. So fucking hard. But I can’t take any more.”

Bobby Scott dropped to his knees in front of her. Now he was crying, too. “Baby, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I did it for Joey. And I did it for all the other kids I knew would suffer the same thing he did. And I thought I was doing it for you and me, too. I thought it was the only way to get some justice, so I could quit being so furious all the time. I never thought…I never dreamed…Oh, baby, I’m sorry. So sorry.” And he buried his head in her lap and sobbed. She sat there, stunned and unmoving, and I thought, This is when this marriage lives or dies. And finally she laid her hands on his head, and stroked his hair, and leaned forward to cradle him in her arms and her bosom, and they grieved together.

After they were cried out-and it took some time-Bobby raised his head and turned to Art. “So what happens now? Are you here to arrest me?”

“No,” said Art. “I think it’s best if you turn yourself in and confess.” He grimaced, but then slowly nodded. “Things might not be as bad as they seem,” Art said to Susan. “With a good lawyer and a reasonably understanding DA, there’s a shot at a pretty decent plea bargain. Could be out in a year or two. Other possibility, if it goes to trial, is an acquittal. Sometimes juries ignore the letter of the law in favor of a higher form of justice. Even cops and prosecutors sometimes hope for that. No guarantees, but speaking as a cop, that’s what I’d hope for in this case. And speaking as a parent, I know how I’d vote if I were in the jury box.”

“Me too,” I said. “I need to ask you something, Bobby. I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I have to ask anyhow. Did you kill Dr. Carter? To cover your tracks?”

He shook his head. His face looked ravaged, but it looked open and honest. “No, of course not,” he said. “I could never kill an innocent person. I’m sorry she’s been murdered.” He pointed at the photo Art still held, as if from a lifetime ago. The photo we’d used to trick him into giving us a fingerprint. “What about her?”

“She’s maybe mad enough,” I said, “and maybe crazy enough. But the reality is, she’s not strong enough. I found that out today, when she came at me with a pair of pruning shears. Whoever killed Dr. Carter carried her body fifty yards up a hillside. No drag marks. A sixty-year-old woman couldn’t have done that. Hell, I’m not sure I could’ve done that. Gotta be a pretty strong man. Besides, there’s a surveillance video showing a man.”