Buried Alive (10 page)

“What’s the next step, Detective?” I asked when we’d put a couple miles between us and the tongue.

“I want to make sure I get everything tight for Bob, I mean Agent Dray. So I’m heading back to Sonny Burton’s crime scene to make sure there’s nothing I missed.”

“Deep in the woods, right?” I didn’t like the idea of Cherry alone in the forest with a psychopath on the loose. There had been cases of law officers being stalked and cut down when the moment presented.

“I’ll be fine. Lee McCoy said he’d go along.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I said.

We arrived at Sonny Burton’s murder scene a half-hour later, back a long fire lane. The nearest house was a mile away, down a long hollow. Hemlocks soared above, filtering the light into a gentle yellow that turned the nearby creek to gold. The upslope on the far side of
the creek was covered with ferns so delicate they seemed more a green mist than rooted plants. The air smelled of pine. I found the beauty of the setting at horrible opposition to what had happened here.

Burton’s case file described a good ol’ boy, as we called them in the South. He worked hard and played harder. He liked to fight and had been a boxer in high school, earning a partial boxing scholarship to a small college. He hunted and fished and owned the best bass boat in Woslee County, the finest shotgun. His Dodge Ram 350 dualie pickup boasted more chrome than any other truck for miles. He loved Vegas. When time was limited, he’d hit the gambling boats on the Ohio River. Burton gave to local charities. Bought ads in high school yearbooks. He drove his snack truck in the county’s Fourth of July parade, the white step-van third in line behind the honor guard, the fire truck and police cars, and ahead of the band, VFW marchers, and the winners of the “Cutest Baby” contest.

Burton had been married four times, each link in the marriage chain under two years in length, with one union lasting all of six weeks. From a psychological standpoint, serial marriage could mean several things, none of them attractive.

Cherry and I inspected the area as she detailed what she’d found upon arrival: Sonny Burton’s body beneath the truck tire, chest almost flattened, innards squeezed out through his mouth and lower opening. Lee McCoy - the first to notice the murder scene’s location on the
geocache website - had been pacing beside the truck when Cherry arrived, frustrated by his helplessness.

I knelt beside a flat chunk of stone, three feet by five or so. Faint but fresh-looking scratches were inscribed in the stone, geometric, like something square had rested on the rock, scarring it.

“What are these, Cherry? The scratches on the rock?”

“I figured they came from the killer moving the truck around. Driving over the rock.”

I scratched at the stone with my fingernail. “It’s dolomite, a dense sandstone. Rubber tires wouldn’t scratch dolomite.”

“My, my, Ryder. You’re a geologist as well as a detective?”

On our hike McCoy had pointed out dolomite layers in the Gorge strata and demonstrated how hard it was for sandstone. I probably should have mentioned that fact. Instead, I patted the stone as if drawing secrets from it with my fingertips.

“Something hard rested here, metal, I suspect. The object would have been a couple feet from Burton’s head. That would place it beneath the forward section of the truck’s frame. Would you know if the frame is—”

“Don’t ask. I didn’t study truck design.”

I paced a circle around the stone, eyes not leaving its surface. “I’ve got a hunch about these scars. But we need to go to the Woslee impound and look inside Burton’s truck.”

“I got another idea.” Cherry pulled out her phone and dialed. Tossed the phone to me. “Tell Caudill what you need.”

The young officer arrived soon after, cradling a black cylinder and a two-foot metal pole beneath his arm. “A twenty-ton bottle jack,” Caudill said. “Bolted behind the driver’s seat in Burton’s step van. The handle was back there, too.”

The hydraulic cylinder was welded to a square steel base. I set the base on the stone. The scratches lined up with the base. Cherry studied the match-up and I saw the pictures enter her imagination.

“Oh lord, Ryder … the truck wasn’t driven on to Burton. It was lowered.”

I nodded and pushed the handle into the jack, marking the jack post with a pencil. I cranked it up, checked the distance traveled. Six or seven cranks moved the post an inch. I stood back and looked between the scene photos and the ground.

“Crank the truck up eighteen or so inches. Put Burton beneath the tire with his hands behind him, helpless. Lower the truck in one-crank increments. With each crank the tire dropped a fraction of an inch. Burton might even have been conscious to hear his ribs break as his chest caved in.”

“Tortured,” Cherry whispered. “Like Tandee Powers. And John Doe with the soldering iron.” She crouched beside the stone. “Why use his truck? There have to be easier ways.”

“The truck was symbolic to the killer. He was probably talking to Burton as he lowered the truck, getting off on the control. Making Burton beg and scream.”

Cherry grimaced. “What the hell would the killer say, Ryder? ‘Here comes the snack truck’?”

We turned to a roar of engines and crunch of gravel. Beale raced up in his SUV. Behind him was a second SUV from the sheriff’s department driven by a fat guy with stained teeth and the weasel-eyed look of a natural sycophant; every department had at least one. I saw outlines of two tall people in the second, figured it was more of Beale’s small force.

Beale skidded so close to my feet that I stepped back. He jumped out and strode to Caudill.

“What the fuck you doing here?” Beale spat.

“R-Ryder needed a jack from Sonny’s truck,” Caudill stammered. “He wanted me to bring it out.”

“Why are you taking orders from some fuckhead with no jurisdiction.” Beale swatted Caudill’s hat from his head. “Who you work for, boy?”

“Y-You, Sheriff.”

Cherry stepped forward. Though I’d seen the flash in her eyes when Beale slapped the hat from his hapless deputy, she was dealing with politics and needed to walk a thin line.

“It was important to get the jack out here, Sheriff. Detective Ryder made the phone call to Officer Caudill, but he made it for me.”

“Cuz you’re in charge of things, right?”

“A combined effort, Roy. We do a better job when we’re united.”

“You like being in charge, don’t you?” Beale sneered. “Makes you feel important.”

His voice was so condescending I was amazed Cherry kept her cool. “It’s a task force, Roy. I’m not specifically in charge.”

Three passengers emerged from the second vehicle. Two were men in dark suits and dark ties, the third a woman in the feminine version of the uniform, black pinstriped pantsuit and navy blouse. She was five eleven, maybe six feet tall, with the kind of blonde hair that doesn’t grow naturally, bright enough to shame a lemon. The hairdo truncated above her shoulders, curling forward into points like horns. She liked makeup, but needed more skill at blending face into neck, giving the impression of a mask with cobalt blue eyes and purple-pink lips. It was not an unattractive mask, the cheekbones high and features even. She looked fit. I put her in her middle forties, but fighting it tooth and nail.

The new arrival inspected the sudden-hushed scene while slowly unwrapping a stick of chewing gum. She popped the gum in her mouth and smiled without a touch of mirth.

“You’re right about not being in charge, Detective Cherry,” she said, displaying a gold shield with an eagle above. “I am.”

The Federal Bureau of Investigation had arrived. It appeared Bob Dray had missed the boat or had a sex change.

The Special Agent in Charge was named Gloria Krenkler. It turned out Dray’s case lingered into extra innings and Ms Krenkler had been placed in his slot.

“I’m happy to meet you, Agent Krenkler,” Cherry said, hand out. “You’re a welcome addition to the team.”

The cobalt eyes studied Cherry like Hernán Cortés viewing the welcoming natives. “Team?” she said.

Time for the official meet’n’greet amenities. I pasted my most charming smile on my face and waved across the dozen feet. “I’m pleased to meet you, Agent Krenkler. I’m Carson Ryder and I’m sort of, uh, consulting on the case.” The eyes studied me through a slow and silent five-count, like she was sorting items into boxes and trying to figure out what container I’d require.

“Ah yes, the vacationing cop who received the call from nowhere. Who called you?”

I shrugged. Krenkler said, “I heard it was Detective Cherry.”

Beale grinned and I realized he’d fed Krenkler his version of events.

“That was my initial belief,” I said. “I was wrong.”

Krenkler arched a perfectly drawn eyebrow. “Really? I heard Detective Cherry discovered you were nearby and called for help.” Krenkler turned to Cherry. “You’d call a vacationing cop before you’d call the FBI?”

“I assure you that I didn’t call Detective Ryder,” Cherry said evenly.

“But he was surely called by
someone
in local law enforcement, right?”

“That’s the safe guess, Agent Krenkler,” Cherry said. It was a subtle poke, and if Krenkler recognized it, an impression didn’t register. Cherry continued. “However Detective Ryder was alerted, he’s been tremendously generous with his time and input. We all owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“I just arrived,” Krenkler said, affecting puzzled. “Why do I owe him anything?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, no one wishing to venture an answer. I cleared my throat. “It’s true,” I said, trying to steer back toward civility. “I’ve simply been helping gather what little evidence has presented. In fact, new evidence came to light about the methodology of Mr Burton’s murder, and Detective Cherry and I were documenting it for the Bureau’s review.”

Krenkler approached me with arms crossed. She stopped
a foot away, an uncomfortable incursion of personal space. “And just where is this new evidence, Detective Ryder?”

I gave it two slow beats.

“You’re standing on it, ma’am.”

Krenkler looked down. Her icepick-pointy black flats were dead-center on the dolomite. She stepped back and we studied one another, neither happy with the input.

She said, “I’m sure you’ll be glad to get back to your vacation, Detective Ryder.”

“I can help here, Agent Krenkler. I’ve had experience with—” I was addressing her retreating back. She gestured Cherry to her with a crooked finger, as if summoning an errant child. They spoke, Cherry’s face growing red. I walked to the other agents with my hand out. The older man shook my hand and mumbled, “Rourke.” The other kept his hands in his pockets and nodded to the air beside my head.

I leaned against a hemlock until Krenkler dismissed Cherry. We drove away, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“It’s officially Krenkler’s investigation,” Cherry said, voice tightly controlled. “She was officially asked to take over by Beale, who is officially in charge of the county and officially allowed to request any assistance he needs.”

“And you are officially what?” I asked.

“Fucked.”

It was the only word she said on the drive back.

Two days passed. I resumed my climbing lessons and afternoon hikes, occasionally seeing a law-enforcement vehicle speed by, Beale’s county mounties or one of the FBI’s dark cruisers. The Bureau berthed at two cabins by the park. It looked like they’d brought in a couple additional agents, or maybe clerical types to keep the paperwork straight.

I knew they’d start by interviewing anyone who’d ever had a beef with Burton or Powers or who’d done time in prison or psychiatric observation. They’d check locals with violent backgrounds. Evidence - what little there was - would be shipped to the Bureau’s labs, waiting for that one hit: the partial fingerprint, the molecule of DNA in Burton’s truck or on Powers’s clothing.

I hoped the Feds could identify Soldering-iron Man, the anomaly, the victim with no known ties to the area.

Gloria Krenkler and I hadn’t harmonized at our initial
meeting and I’d judged her harshly based on my natural aversion to arrogance. I had been wrong about people before - often to my detriment - so I called John Morgenstern, a long-time FBI buddy. Harry and I had met John when he instructed us in behavioral psychology years ago. He was a straight shooter who gave me background info, knowing I’d never pass it on.

“Carson!” came the happy exclamation at the far end of the line, the Bureau’s training academy in Quantico, Virginia. “How they hanging?”

“Off a cliff this morning, John. I’m on vacation in Kentucky, getting in some rock climbing.”

“Keep a tight grip, buddy. What can I do for you?”

“Got a mean case nearby and I’ve got a fingertip in the proceedings. A state detective got bumped hard by one of your field agents, Gloria Krenkler. I was just wondering about Krenkler’s capabilities.”

“She’s been based in the New York office for over a decade. Working mail fraud, mainly, heavy detail work, sitting at a desk and poring over reams of paper. We’re short-handed, homeland security issues. I imagine it was felt she needed to get back out in the field a bit and—”

“You’re giving me everything but an answer, John.”

Morgenstern loosed a long sigh. “Let me put it like this, Carson: Krenkler’s smart, but not creative. She makes up by being dogged, getting the job done a half-inch at a time. If Gloria Krenkler was an auto mechanic she’d tear down the engine to get at the tailpipe.”

“I sense a need to control. Anger issues, perhaps.”

A pause. “You’re the one with the psychology degree.”

“Just between you and me, John, do you respect Gloria Krenkler’s abilities?”

“She can get the job done.”

“Do you like her as a person?”

“Enjoy your mountains,” he said, hanging up.

I decided to grab lunch at the lodge. When I arrived, McCoy was there, perhaps who I’d been hoping to see. He gestured me to his table. I sat and ordered.