At the Stroke of Madness (16 page)

H
enry shoved his way past the cameras and yelling re porters. The pretty, little one with the thick glasses had been following him everywhere. Earlier she had been at the bookstore, waiting for him as if she knew that he stopped by there every morning. Except now she had a camera guy with her and the camera was rolling. He could tell, because her thick, Coke-bottle glasses came off as soon as the camera went on. He wondered how the hell she had gotten into broadcast journalism with those things.

“Sheriff Watermeier, is it true there may be more than a hundred bodies buried in the quarry?”

“A hundred bodies?” He laughed. Not an appropriate response, but this was ridiculous. “Let’s hope not.”

“What about the rumors that some of the victims have been cannibalized? Can you elaborate on that, Sheriff?”

This time Henry avoided rolling his eyes. “We’ll try to answer some of your questions later today when we know more.”

He kept walking, not looking back, despite the questions that continued and despite the clicks of shutters and the hum of video cameras. He knew he would need to address the media, and soon. Earlier he had gotten a call from Randal Graham, the assistant to the governor, and good ole Randal advised him that he needed to somehow calm things down a notch. According to Randal, the governor was tremendously concerned about the national media calling these the worst serial killings in Connecticut’s history. Henry wanted to tell that weasel Graham that those reports were probably accurate, and if he wanted things toned down a notch maybe he should get his ass down here and tone them down himself. But, instead, he told the governor’s assistant that he had things under control. So, in other words, he had lied.

The tall grass was slick with dew, glittering in the morning sun. Once he got into the mouth of the quarry he couldn’t hear the reporters. The rocks and trees insulated the area. Henry took in the surroundings. The leftover, rusted conveyor system that hovered over Vargus and Hobbs’s shiny yellow earthmover looked out of place in this sanctuary. It really was beautiful, giant stepping stones all the way up the mountain, sheltered by thick evergreens alongside yellow-and-orange-leafed oak and walnut trees. It only now occurred to him that the killer had chosen wisely when he made this his graveyard.

He stayed back from the commotion and watched Bonzado with his students unloading equipment from the shell of his El Camino. The three students—one woman and two men—looked like typical nerds with none of the flamboyance of their professor, who today wore a pink-and-blue Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and brown hiking boots. Henry managed a smile. He actually liked Bonzado. He trusted the kid, which was more than he could say about some of his own men. Most of these guys hadn’t seen a bloodied body outside of a car accident. He knew he could depend on the police lab techs, but his own deputies were another story. As if on cue he saw Truman screaming at a reporter. Shit! Henry recognized the guy from NBC News. Wonderful! That would look great tonight on the
Nightly News
with Tom Brokaw.

This really was a fucking mess. Even Rosie couldn’t put a positive spin on this one. What he needed was someone he could blame if things went south. Some expert that no one would second-guess. That certainly wouldn’t be Dr. Stolz. He watched the medical examiner making his way through the reporters. He was dressed as if for court again in his suit and tie and expensive leather shoes. Shoes that would send him—yup, sure enough, Stolz slipped on the wet grass, almost losing his balance and ending up on his skinny little ass. Henry wiped at his smile, almost breaking out into a laugh when he noticed Bonzado doing the same.

His cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket, and he grabbed it. Beverly had instructions to forward only the important calls. He hoped this wasn’t Graham again. He should have put him on the nonimportant list.

“Watermeier,” he barked into the phone.

“Sheriff Watermeier, this is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell with the FBI.”

“I don’t remember calling the FBI for help, Agent O’Dell.”

“Actually, I think we might be able to help each other, Sheriff Watermeier.”

“How do you figure?”

“I’m a criminal profiler and it sounds like you might have a serial killer on your hands.”

Henry stopped himself from automatically shrugging off this unexpected offer, another in a long list of know-it-alls wanting a piece of the action. Maybe this was exactly what he needed. The local yokels would have a tough time arguing with him about bringing in federal assistance, no matter how uptight they were about outsiders. He did need some help. And this Agent O’Dell might come in handy if he needed a scapegoat.

“You said we could help each other. What is it you want from me, Agent O’Dell?”

“I’m looking for a missing person.”

“I don’t have a whole lot of time for wild-goose chases right now. I’ve got my plate full, if you know what I mean.”

“No, you don’t understand, Sheriff Watermeier. I’m hoping I’m wrong, but I think you may have already found her.”

M
aggie slowed the rental car, wishing she had noticed the squeaky brakes before she left Bradley International Airport. She should have insisted on something other than the freshly washed white Ford Escort. She hated rental cars. They always looked good from the outside, but the insides couldn’t conceal the last occupants. The Escort’s last driver was a smoker with sweaty hands. Easy enough to fix by rolling the windows down, swiping a couple of wet napkins around and introducing some aromatic McDonald’s French fries. But squeaky brakes were a whole other matter, especially since it looked like she would need them.

The winding roads that took her up made her as nervous as on the plunges down. And there seemed to be an abundance of them. A small detail both Watermeier and Tully had forgotten to mention when giving her directions. Although Tully’s directions had sounded more like a lecture. She remembered thinking at the time that he really must miss his daughter, Emma, because he was treating her like a teenager on her first outing alone, certain that she would get lost without his step-by-step road assistance. She had stopped him once, saying she could pick up a map from the AAA. His scowl told her it would be wise to not interrupt him again.

Who would have guessed that, when it came to road-trip instructions, the same R. J. Tully who used scraps of paper—receipts, napkins, the back of a dry cleaning ticket—would become Mr. Anal Retentive? Actually, it made her smile. After two years of working together, he was finally feeling comfortable enough to take off the kid gloves and treat her like a true partner. She liked that.

She glanced at Tully’s homemade map stretched out on the passenger side of the Escort and tried to find the spot according to Watermeier’s instructions. Before she could find it on the map, however, she saw the water around the next turn. A sign identified it as McKenzie Reservoir, and immediately she saw the road, Whippoorwill Drive, that would take her over the water. It took two more climbs and one more plunge before she saw the commotion alongside the two-lane road. One of the lanes was clogged with black and whites, media vans, a mobile crime unit and several unmarked sedans.

A uniformed officer waved for her to continue on, and even as she pulled up and stopped beside him, he continued shaking his head.

“Keep moving, lady. Nothing to see and I’m not answering any of your questions.”

“I’m with the FBI, Special Agent Maggie O’Dell.” She handed her badge out the car window, but he stood with his hands on his gun belt, looking not the least impressed. She tried again. “I just talked to Sheriff Henry Watermeier a few minutes ago.”

The officer pulled a walkie-talkie from his shoulder and took her badge, holding it up to the light as if making sure it was authentic. “Yeah, this is Trotter. I’ve got a woman in a rental, says she’s FBI and that Sheriff Watermeier
just talked
to her.” He spit out the words, as if he didn’t quite believe them.

Through the static came a garbled question. Maggie couldn’t make a word out of it, but Officer Trotter seemed to have no problem interpreting static. Without hesitation, he held up the badge again and answered, “A Margaret O’Dell.”

There was a crackled response, and this time Maggie saw the transformation in Officer Trotter’s face. He handed her badge back through the car window and politely showed her where she could park the car. “You’ll need to walk to the scene,” he told her, pointing to an overgrown dirt road she may not have noticed otherwise. “Sheriff Watermeier will be waiting for you at the perimeter.” Then he was off to wave on the next passersby, tourists in a black Jeep Cherokee with Rhode Island license plates, checking out Connecticut’s latest wonder.

She would have recognized Watermeier even without the uniform. He reminded her of John Wayne—the trimmer version from his earlier movies—with a sheriff’s hat in place of the ten-gallon cowboy hat. No dusty kerchief at his neck. Instead, his collar was open and his necktie gone. His brown shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his hat was pulled low on his brow. When he saw her, he waited patiently, raising the crime-scene tape for her to crawl under. There was no smile, no introduction, no raised eyebrow at her appearance. He simply started in as though the two of them had been working together forever.

“We’re still scouring the scene, so we haven’t started opening any more barrels yet. We’ll need to move some rocks to get to some of them. I don’t want us jumping in and destroying evidence.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“This missing person—” he shot her a look of suspicion “—she’s not someone that’s gonna cause all hell to break loose, is she?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I checked you out, O’Dell.” He waited as if expecting her to protest. When she didn’t, he continued, “My office isn’t exactly in the Stone Age. We can do that pretty quickly.”

“I’m sure you can, Sheriff Watermeier.”

“Well, point being that I know you’re out of Quantico. FBI’s looking for a missing person, and I’m thinking that missing person must be someone important, right?”

“Every missing person we look for is important to someone, Sheriff Watermeier.”

He stared at her and this time she thought she saw the beginning of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t press the issue.

“You ever have a case like this?” He started walking, slowing down when he realized his long strides were keeping her a step behind him. “I mean, there’s not some crazy bastard who’s been doing this in other states, too, is there?”

“I did check, but nothing registered on VICAP.”

“Dr. Stolz—” he pointed to a small-framed, balding man in a suit “—hasn’t gotten to the autopsy yet of the woman we found yesterday. You can join us for that later, if you’d like. She’s a mess, though. I’m not sure you’ll be able to do a visual ID.”

“I have some of her physical characteristics that might, at the very least, rule her out.”

“Right now, the M.E.’s having a hell of a time. We’re trying to figure out how the hell to contain the barrels that have cracked open. He’s thinking we may need to set up some kind of temporary morgue out here. On the other hand, if we just pull them out…hell, who knows. My quick reference check said you’d been with the bureau for about ten years. Have you come across anything like this before?”

“There was a case in Kansas. I believe 1998 or ’99, John Robinson.”

“I think I remember that one. The Internet wacko, right?”

“Yes, that’s right. He lured women via the Internet to his farm, killed them and stuffed their bodies into fifty-five-gallon drums.” Maggie watched her feet. Rocks protruded out of the ground and were hidden by knee-high grass. “I didn’t work that case, but if I remember correctly, I think the drums were found in a storage shed, so there wasn’t as much risk of jostling things around as you’re dealing with here. Do you have any idea how many barrels there are? And how many are filled with bodies?”

“Could be as many as a dozen barrels. Maybe more. Doesn’t mean they all have dead bodies. But we’ve seen inside several of them. Weird crap, really weird.” He tilted his hat back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “In one, it looks like there’s just a pile of bones, but in the other one…” He shook his head and pointed to the barrel he wanted her to see first. “In the other one, the body looks pretty well preserved. From what we can see. Either way, we’ve got one sick son of a bitch on our hands.”

He stopped in his tracks and Maggie waited. They were about a hundred feet from the commotion. A group was hunched over a barrel that had been brought down from the rock pile. Close by, several crime-scene techs searched the area on their latexed hands and padded knees, working their grid over the rocky surface. Maggie was impressed with the sheriff’s careful handling of the scene. Too often small-town law enforcement officers allowed unnecessary civilians within the perimeter. They couldn’t see the harm in letting the mayor or a local city councilor take a look. What they considered a smart move politically—sheriffs were elected, after all—oftentimes ended up contaminating a crime scene.

Suddenly, Maggie realized Watermeier was waiting, as if weighing what he wanted to ask or tell her before they joined the others.

“I spent over thirty years with the NYPD, so I’m not a rookie to messes, okay?” He met her eyes and held them, waiting for acknowledgment—a brief nod from Maggie—before he went on. “My wife and I moved here about four years ago. She’s part owner in a nice little bookstore in downtown Wallingford. The locals elected me because they wanted somebody with some real experience. We like it here…a lot. This is where we wanna retire in a few years.”

He stopped to watch his men, looking around him as if to take count. Maggie crossed her arms and shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She knew he didn’t need a response from her. And more important, she knew he wasn’t finished. She waited.

Finally he looked at her, his eyes meeting hers again. There was something in them Maggie recognized. There was determination, frustration, a bit of anger, but what Maggie recognized was just enough panic—just a glimpse—to tell her that the experienced Sheriff Henry Watermeier was also scared.

“This is one fucking mess,” he said, pointing to the barrel the group was focused on. “Whoever did this may have been doing it for years. I’m not gonna bullshit you, O’Dell. Even if we don’t find your missing person, I could use your help. I’m going to need it to find this goddamn psycho. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d say he still lives around here. And if I don’t find him and haul his ass in, I can kiss my dream of retiring in this community goodbye.”

Watermeier waited for her response. But this time he avoided her eyes, looking, searching, assessing, all in an effort to downplay the enormous level of trust he had laid at Maggie’s feet. Trust and confidence he had invested in a woman he was meeting for the first time, a woman who had insinuated herself into his investigation. Whether out of desperation or simple strategy, Maggie could tell this was not something a tough, independent sheriff like Watermeier did easily.

She turned toward the group surrounding the barrel, and simply told him, “Then I guess we better get to work.”

Maggie didn’t glance back for his reaction, but soon he was beside her, restraining his long strides so that they walked side by side.