At the Stroke of Madness (21 page)

M
aggie accepted the Diet Coke Sheriff Watermeier offered. She preferred Diet Pepsi, but knew this was a sort of peace offering. As the others finished their lunches, Watermeier sat down next to her on the boulder.

“When we finish later this afternoon, I need to take a minute and throw a bone to those media piranhas.” He smiled, pleased with his own pun. “Then Stolz says he’ll do the autopsy of the woman we found yesterday. That suit your time schedule?”

“Yes, of course.”

He continued to sit quietly at her side, and she wondered if there was something more he needed to tell her, something more he wanted to share.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”

She glanced at him, surprised. That wasn’t exactly what she expected from the rough-and-tough, ex-NYPD-turned-small-town sheriff.

She followed his eyes, taking it in for the first time since she had arrived. Maggie couldn’t help thinking how quiet it was. The trees were still thick with splashes of orange and yellow with flaming red vines licking up the trunks. And the sky seemed so blue it looked artificial. Even the ankle-high grass was dotted with tiny yellow flowers.

“Yes,” she finally agreed. “It is beautiful.”

“Everybody ready?” Watermeier broke the momentary peace, standing suddenly as though he needed to snap back to attention.

They joined the others where Adam Bonzado and his students had brought down another cracked barrel. This time Maggie pulled her jacket up over her nose. Already the stench was overbearing and the pry bar had only broken the seal. Despite Bonzado’s effort the drum’s lid came undone bit by squeaky bit, reminding Maggie of opening a lid off a vacuum-sealed can of coffee.

“Man, oh man, this one is ripe,” the professor said, and stopped, his hands still clenching the pry bar while he wiped at his face with the bottom of his shirt, revealing for a second or two rock-hard abs. Maggie looked away, realizing that this was the second time in only hours that she had taken notice of his physique.

The rest of them waited. No one offered to take over for the poor professor. Not any of his three students. The one named Joe kept a safe distance, while the woman, Ramona, seemed interested but cautious. The older student Simon, stood quietly, almost rigid with a trowel in one hand and a camera in the other, making no effort to use either. He seemed stunned or perhaps overwhelmed by the sight. Maybe it was the stench.

“Should we be cutting these barrels open?” Watermeier suggested.

“With what?” Stolz swabbed at his forehead, which had been constantly shiny with sweat. “Anything we use could contaminate what’s inside more than it already is. Let’s at least see what’s in these barrels before we go hauling all of them away. I don’t want a dozen barrels of garbage in my lab, Henry. Is that okay? Can we at least see what the hell’s in them before we do that? I know it’s time consuming and I know it’s a pain in the ass.”

“Whatever you want. That’s your call.”

“I never said—” But Stolz stopped as a mass of black flies swarmed out the small opening of the barrel. “What the hell?”

“Son of a bitch.” Watermeier took a step back.

Bonzado hesitated for a second, then slammed the lid back down. “We should probably collect a few of these, right?” He looked to Maggie and then to Carl, who was already searching for a container.

“Ramona and Simon, could you give Carl a hand?”

The woman practically jumped to Carl’s side, but Simon stood there as if he hadn’t heard Bonzado.

“Simon?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Maggie watched him set the trowel and camera down so slowly it seemed as if in slow motion. Perhaps Bonzado was expecting a bit much from his students, who had imagined their careers examining clean, fleshless bones in sterile, warm and dry laboratories.

Bonzado pried at the lid again and this time Carl and Ramona held the opposite corners of a makeshift net and caught several flies. Simon held the wide-mouth container for them to shake the flies into, slapping the lid on quickly. He handed the container back to Carl and returned to his previous stance, trowel back in one hand, camera in the other.

Now Bonzado proceeded, ignoring the rest of the flies. Finally, the lid came loose, thumping to the ground. More flies were freed and so was the smell, a sour pungent odor like rotten-egg gas. Maggie watched Joe and one of Henry’s deputies hurry away. Joe didn’t make it to the trees before he began retching. Even Watermeier and Carl backed away, the sheriff’s hat now over his nose.

“Holy fucking crap,” Watermeier said, his words muffled through his hat.

Maggie climbed onto the rocks, putting some space between herself and the smell, while attempting a look down into the barrel. “Anyone have a flashlight?”

Pry bar now tossed aside, Bonzado shuffled through his toolbox, setting metal clanking. Maggie couldn’t help wondering if it was to distract attention from his nervousness. But when he reached up to hand her the penlight, she realized his sudden clumsiness was no disguise. His hand was perfectly still and he had no trouble meeting her eyes.

“How the hell would flies get inside?” Watermeier asked. “That barrel was sealed good and tight. Did they squeeze through the crack?”

“Possibly,” Maggie said. “It’s also possible the body was exposed to the elements for a while before it was stuffed inside the barrel.” Maggie shot the penlight into the black hole and wished she could see more than the spots of lights. The afternoon sun cast shadows that didn’t help matters. Swaying branches overhead created dancing shadows that almost made it look like there was movement down inside the barrel.

“But they couldn’t have lasted that long,” Watermeier insisted.

“They would have laid their larvae,” Maggie said while concentrating on the spots of light showing pieces of torn fabric, a tangle of hair, maybe a shoe.

“Blowflies are pretty quick and efficient,” Bonzado joined in. “They can sense blood from up to three miles away and be on a body before it’s even cooled, sometimes before it’s dead.”

Maggie checked faces, but the pallor from moments ago was gone, no one wincing at the gruesome details the professor described. In fact, now everyone seemed ready.

“This one’s gonna be a mess,” Bonzado said, using another flashlight to take a look for himself into the barrel. “Lots of tissue already gone.”

“Wonderful,” Stolz said, slipping on his jacket against a breeze that suddenly came out of nowhere. Despite his insistence to open the barrels and make certain they did, indeed, contain bodies, he made no attempt to look for himself. “Let’s load it up.”

“This is interesting,” Bonzado said, still examining the contents. “The back is facing up—at least I think it’s the back. There’s a strange pattern on the skin.”

“You mean a tattoo?” Stolz became interested and Maggie came in for a look, too.

Bonzado’s flashlight showed what looked like bright red welts crisscrossed into the corpse’s back, at least what was left of the back. The flies had already devoured patches of tissue, though Maggie guessed the majority of their feeding frenzy was on the other side, starting in the moist areas first.

“It’s just livor mortis,” Stolz said as if it didn’t matter. “She…or he died lying on something that had this pattern. All the blood settles. Jesus! This one smells.” He backed away, disgusted and shaking his head. “Henry, let’s call it a day. I need to get back to start doing some autopsies.”

“What about this other one?” Henry pointed to the dented barrel off to the side. Maggie hadn’t seen the contents of this one. They must have opened it before her arrival.

“Give it to Bonzado.” Stolz waved a hand over his head as he headed for the road. “It’s nothing but bones. Not much I can do with that.”

Maggie buttoned her jacket, also noticing the chill. The sun had begun to sink behind the mountain though it still seemed early. Bonzado and his students were preparing the barrel for transport as Henry gave directions and pointed to the clearing in the trees, the dirt path where the other vehicles had come in. That’s when she noticed something flapping in the breeze, something white sticking out from under the discarded lid.

“Carl,” she said, waving the tech over. “Take a look.”

He squatted down by her side. “I’ll be damned.” He pulled out an evidence bag and forceps. Gently he tugged the torn white paper from under its trap while Maggie lifted the lid.

It was the same white, waxy paper.

Just then Maggie felt a nudge at her elbow. She turned to find a Jack Russell terrier ready to lick her hand.

“Speaking of burying things,” Carl said, “if Watermeier sees that dog here again—”

“Goddamn it, Racine.”

“Too late.”

“What did I tell you, Racine?” Watermeier yelled at the old man hurrying down from a footpath in the trees. “You’ve got to keep that mutt the hell away from here.”

“Sorry, Sheriff. He has a mind of his own sometimes. Come here, Scrapple.”

But the dog was already sitting and leaning against Maggie’s hand as she scratched behind his ears.

“Well, you convince him,” Watermeier continued, “to stay the hell out of here, Racine. We can’t have him dragging off evidence.”

“I take it he’s been finding scraps?” Maggie smiled up at the old man who seemed embarrassed and agitated, shifting from one foot to the other. Then she remembered what Tully had said about Detective Racine being from this area. “Racine? Do you have daughter named Julia?”

“I don’t know,” the man mumbled, and Maggie stood up, sure she must have misunderstood him.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“Yes, I do. Jules. Her name’s Julia,” he said, his eyes meeting hers though making an effort to do so. His daughter possessed the same blue eyes. He scratched his head, reaching up under the black beret. “That’s right, Detective Julia Racine with the…with the D.C. police force. Yes, ma’am. That’s my daughter, Jules.”

L
uc Racine fumbled with the tangle of keys he found in his pocket. Scrapple waited impatiently, staring at the door as if that might help open it. He knew the terrier was upset with him. He had ducked several attempts Luc had made to pet him.

“I’m not gonna have you eating people, okay?” he told the dog for the third time. “Even if they are dead already.” Only now Scrapple ignored him—not a flinch, not even a perk of an ear, no indication that he was listening—and he continued to stare at the door.

Luc would make it up to him. Surely there was something in the refrigerator besides sour milk. He sorted through the keys again, trying to concentrate, trying to remember. He used to be able to pull out the house key automatically without a second thought. These days it seemed to take all his deductive reasoning, or at least, all that remained.

Then as if in a sudden flash he remembered. He grabbed at the doorknob and smiled when it turned easily. He had stopped locking the door, afraid he would eventually forget to take the keys and lock himself out. Relief washed over him, so much so that he could feel a chill. It was becoming a typical response, his body reacting, first with surprise and disappointment then relief that the mind could still participate.

Losing his memory wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t know it was happening. That was the worst part. Laboring over shoestrings, unsuccessfully looping worthless knots and all the while knowing that tying his shoes was once something he did without a thought, let alone without a struggle. Learning to tie your shoes. How hard could that be? Easy enough for a five-year-old. Easy. Right. Only now Luc Racine wore slip-on loafers.

But forgetting Jules’s name. That was unforgivable. How could he have forgotten? He could hear what Julia would say to that, “You never forget the fucking dog’s name, but you can’t remember your own daughter’s.”

The house was cold, as if a window had been left open. Summer was certainly over. He didn’t need to see the flaming red of the turning oak leaves. He could feel it in the evening chill, hear it after dark in the chirp of crickets.

He stopped in the middle of the living room. He stopped and looked slowly around. Something didn’t feel right. It wasn’t like last night when he couldn’t recognize anything. No, something felt out of place. A clammy shiver swept through him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Coming back from the quarry he had gotten the same chill. He had followed the footpath, watching his feet so he wouldn’t trip over the protruding rocks hidden in the tall grass. All the way back it felt like someone had been watching him. Not just Watermeier or one of the others making sure he left, but someone watching. Watching and following. He had heard twigs snap behind him. Thought it was his imagination, but Scrapple heard it, too, growling once, then putting his tail between his legs, his ears back and hurrying home. He barely waited for Luc, only slowing because the wuss of a dog counted on Luc as his protector. There was something wrong with that. Something backward. Weren’t dogs instinctively supposed to be protective of their masters?

Now Luc checked around his own living room, looking for signs that he wasn’t alone. He looked out the windows, checking for anyone hiding in the trees. His only assurance was that Scrapple seemed content, stretched out on his favorite rug. Luc hurried to the front door, turned the dead bolt, then made sure the kitchen door was bolted, too. It was probably all in his imagination, although he couldn’t remember reading a thing about the disease causing hallucinations or paranoia. But then, how the hell would he remember reading about it when he couldn’t remember his own daughter’s name?

He shook his head, disgusted with himself. He stopped to check the meager possibilities for dinner, opening the refrigerator. There had to be something he and Scrapple could eat. He stared at the top shelf.

A twinge of panic rushed through him again. What the hell? Calm down, he told himself. It was nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing but his own stupid forgetfulness. And he grabbed the TV remote from the top shelf of the refrigerator.

“I’ve been looking all over the place for this.”