I Shall Not Want (23 page)

“—put out now!” Burns sounded like he was going to pop an aorta. “He could be halfway to Canada already!”

“Mr. Burns—” Lyle began, then spotted Russ. Whatever he was going to say became, “Here comes the chief now.”

The Burnses turned to face him. Even under these circumstances, Geoff Burns’s bantam-cock rage set him on edge, but the sight of Karen Burns, red-eyed and puffy-faced, reined him in. Whatever he thought of them personally, these two were going through a parent’s worst nightmare. “Geoff,” he said. “Karen.”

“Your deputy says there’s no use calling in an Amber alert for our son,” Burns snarled.

“I explained that an Amber alert is for suspected abductions.” Russ could tell Lyle was trying to remain patient. “Not for a child lost in the woods.”

“Who’s to say he didn’t wander out by the side of the road and get picked up? Who’s to say there’s not some goddamned pedophile lurking in the woods behind the Muster Field? Everybody knows this place is a picnic ground!”

Russ held up a hand. “Lyle,” he said, “radio our Amber alert contact. Give ‘em all the information.” Lyle looked at him skeptically. “It can’t hurt. And it’s not like they can say we’ve overtaxed the system. This’ll be the first one we’ve called.” He looked at the Burnses. “It would help if we had a picture, but I suppose that’ll have to wait until we’ve gotten to a fax machine.”

“Wait!” Karen Burns clutched at Lyle’s sleeve. “I have pictures saved on my cell phone. If we drive down to where I can get a signal, I can send them.”

Russ nodded. “Go.” She didn’t need more encouragement than that. Russ turned back toward her husband. “There are two dogs out there right now, and another on the way. John Huggins called me while I was on my way over; he’s already alerted the Plattsburgh and Johnstown search-and-rescue teams. They’re standing by. We’ll find your son for you, Geoff. There’s a limit to how far even the most active two-year-old can hike.”

If he hadn’t fallen into a crevasse or found a mountain creek. Russ wasn’t going to mention any of those possibilities to a father who appeared to be one word away from a complete meltdown. Instead, he nodded to the woman who had been standing behind the Burnses. “Reverend Fergusson.” Through sheer willpower, he managed to not picture her naked.

“Chief Van Alstyne.” Her greeting was directed to a point two inches below his chin.

“Oh, for God’s sake, just call each other by your first names,” Burns exploded. “It’s not like everybody doesn’t know about you two already.”

“Geoff,” Clare said, “it looks like another group is ready to head out.” She gestured with her chin to where a gaggle of volunteers had been teamed with one of Huggins’s men. “Maybe you should join them. You’ll feel better if you’re doing something.”

Amazingly, Burns took her suggestion. He stomped away like a pint-sized Godzilla looking for Tokyo.

“Sorry about that,” she said, still talking to Russ’s Adam’s apple. “He’s very emotional right now.”

“Mmm.” Apparently, they weren’t going to discuss if what Burns said was true or not. He was happy to take a pass. “I’d like you to take me to the body.”

That earned him an actual look in the eye. “I should help with one of the search teams.”

“It won’t take long. I’d like to hear your impressions. Please?”

She looked down at her Keds for a moment. “Okay.” She wheeled and headed for the stone wall separating the field from the forest.

“I do a pretty good Scarlett O’Hara,” she said.

“Not that kind of impression.” He stepped over the wall. “Did you find him?”

“What makes you think it’s a him?”

“Just a habit of speech. Saying it always sounds—I dunno, disrespectful.” The temperature decreased beneath the forest cover, an advantage balanced by the increase in mosquitoes.

“One of my parishioners, Tim Garrettson, was near the right—I mean, near the northeastern end of the line. He stumbled over him.” She swatted a mosquito on her arm. “Literally.”

“Damn.”

“He backpedaled right quick, as you can imagine. Fortunately, Dr. Anne was close by. She and I came over, and as soon as I saw what it was”—she shot him a glance—“saw him, I sent for Hadley Knox. We kept everyone else away.”

“Good girl.”

She smiled one-sidedly.

His uniform blouse—the same short-sleeved one he had worn to the rectory two nights ago—had already started sticking to the middle of his back. He found his eyes drifting up to the branches of the trees. Looking for snipers. He shook his head and forced himself to keep his gaze close to the ground. “Tell me what you noticed,” he said.

“I think he had been buried.”

He stepped over a moldering log. “Buried? Why?”

“He was just upslope of a big old pine that had toppled over. You know how they do sometimes, roots and all?”

He nodded.

“It looked like when the roots went, a portion of the topsoil slid into the hole. That’s why Tim had gone around to take a look at it; he thought Cody might have gotten in there. Instead, what he got was a partially uncovered body—well, what was left of it.”

“The description I got was ‘partially skeletonized.’ ”

“That was Dr. Anne. She said she’s no expert, but she thought it must have been in the ground since maybe last fall.” She
hmm
ed in consideration. “Hunting season.”

He found himself scanning the high cover for a Dragonov SVD-63.
There aren’t any snipers in these woods. Snap out of it
. He focused on what Clare was saying. “Somebody got mad at their brother-in-law and took the opportunity to settle his hash during deer season? Maybe.”

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

He held a pair of birch saplings aside and let her past. “We don’t have any outstanding missing persons that might support that theory. Lyle got records back from the whole county. There’s nothing but the usual assortment of troubled teens and deadbeat dads skipping out on child support.”

“There are people who can disappear without setting off any alarms. A homeless old or mentally ill person. Someone who’s easy pickings for a predator.”

“Don’t go there.”

“Go where?” She stepped wrong and skidded in the loose, dry pine needles. He caught her arm and steadied her.

“We do
not
have a predatory killer in Washington County. Don’t even start thinking it.”

“Well, it would certainly explain—”

“No. It wouldn’t.” He heard a noise. Faint. Far away. Shouting? “Did you hear that?”

She stopped beside a barrel-trunked oak. Cocked her head. When the radio at his belt squawked, it startled them both. He unhooked the mic.

“Van Alstyne here,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“Huggins here,” the voice said. “We found him.”

“Oh, thank God,” Clare said. “Thank God.”

Russ found the heat and humidity and unwelcome memories were suddenly much less oppressive. “That’s good news,” he said. “Where was he?”

“Looks like he tried to climb a maple and got stuck in the crotch. He was sittin‘ in there suckin’ his thumb when the dog caught his scent. We’re taking him back to the Muster Field now.”

“Thank your dog handler for us. She’s just made a lot of people real happy.”

“Roger that. Over.”

Russ grinned at Clare. “Damn, I like a happy ending for a change.”

“Me, too.”

He rehooked the mic. “Okay, now let’s go deal with the unhappy ending.”

“We’re not far,” she said. “Once you’re in sight, do you mind if I head back to the field?”

His reply was cut off when his radio squawked again. He unhooked the mic a second time. “Van Alstyne here. Go ahead.”

“Chief? This is Trooper McLaren.” The state police K-9 officer who had joined the search. “We’ve got a body here. Over.”

“Thanks, McLaren, I know. Isn’t one of my officers already there? With the pathologist?” Belatedly, he added, “Over.”

“No, Chief. We were briefed about the body the initial searchers found. This is something my dog’s just dug out of the ground. It’s a second dead guy. Over.”

Monday. Memorial Day. Everybody in the United States was going to be hanging out and having a good time—except the sworn officers of the Millers Kill Police Department.
Maybe this is why my social life sucks
, Kevin thought, taking his seat for the morning briefing. At least it wasn’t sucking alone. Everybody was on today, all shifts: the part-time guys and the volunteer fire traffic wardens, too. Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day—they were always big.

But they didn’t always arrive with three unidentified homicide victims.

“The two discovered yesterday were both killed in the same way as John Doe number one.” The chief, sitting in his usual spot atop the table, was grubby and crumpled around the edges. He, MacAuley, Hadley Knox, and Eric McCrea had been up half the night, working the scenes with the state CSI techs. “Single tap at the back of the head with a small-caliber weapon, probably a full jacket. Classic execution style.”

“Scheeler’s report noted there wasn’t any signs the first John Doe’d been restrained,” MacAuley pointed out. “If he’d been taken out to the woods for an execution, you’d think whoever did it woulda trussed him up beforehand.” He was standing at the whiteboard, summarizing the briefing.

The chief paused. “Taken by surprise, then. Wham, bam, thank-youma’am.”

“So what are we looking at?” Paul Urquhart said from the back of the room. “Gangland slaying? Organized crime? If we had something like that moving into our area, we’da noticed it before this.”

The chief held up his hands. “Let’s go through what we know step-by-step.” He slid off the table and turned to the bulletin board, almost covered with photos of John Does one, two, and three, environmental placing shots, and the downstate rap sheets Kevin had looked at Friday night. “John Doe one.”

“Juan Doe,” Urquhart muttered.

“Male Hispanic aged between twenty-one and twenty-eight. Killed sometime mid-April. John Doe two. Male, possibly Caribbean or African-American, based on hair fragments—”

“DeWan Doe.” Urquhart sniggered.

The chief stopped. “You got something you want to share, Paul?” Urquhart shook his head. The chief gave him a long look before continuing. “Age between twenty-one and twenty-eight. Killed sometime last year in the late fall or early winter. John Doe three: male, age between twenty-one and twenty-eight. Killed more than a year ago.”

“The ME any more specific than that?” MacAuley asked.

“He had some fillings. Doc Scheeler’s going to get a dentist to try to date the amalgam. We probably won’t have anything until tomorrow at the earliest.”

The chief crossed to the laminated township map that covered half the other wall. “Location of the bodies,” he said. “John Does three and two were found roughly a mile north-northwest of the old Muster Field off Route seventeen in Cossayuharie.” He marked a three and a two with a dry-erase marker. “They were slightly less than three-quarters of a mile away from each other”—he drew a broken line that slanted drunkenly northwest from the pale green rectangle representing the Muster Field—“buried along a natural flint formation that runs along this line and then drops off steeply into the valley below.”

“Somebody walked in.”

Kevin hadn’t realized he said it aloud until the chief nodded. “Somebody walked in.”

“And went as far as he could go along fairly level terrain,” MacAuley added.

“Who owns that land?” Eric McCrea asked.

The chief looked at Noble Entwhistle. Noble was no Sherlock Holmes, but he gave you better results than Google if you needed a name or date for something that happened in Millers Kill. “The town,” he said. “It used to belong to Shep Ogilvie, but they took it for unpaid taxes back in ‘eighty-seven, when his dairy went under.”

“Easy access from the highway,” McCrea said. “If there’s no snow, you can drive a car almost all the way back to the tree line on that field.”

“That’s one big difference between John Does two and three and the first guy we found,” the chief said. “It’s a coupla kidney-cleaning miles from the nearest public road to where John Doe one was dumped.” He put a
1
on the McGeochs’ farm.

“But it is in the same general area where you were out chasing those runaway illegals,” MacAuley pointed out.

“I think we can safely say that’s a dead end.” The chief went back to his table and picked up his coffee mug. “The men running around in those woods were in Mexico last year when the last two John Does were killed.”

“The Christies and their kin weren’t.”

The chief let his hand fall open. “Put them on the board.”

“Chief.” Kevin tried to control his face from pinking up as everyone turned toward him. “How do we know they were in Mexico a year ago? I mean, if they were illegals, there wouldn’t be any trail, because that’s kind of the point. I know they weren’t employed by your sister and her husband, but maybe they were in the area working for somebody else.” He paused. The chief made a “go on” gesture. “Maybe we should canvass area farms and see who might’ve had migrant workers last year and over winter.”

“Maybe.” The chief leaned against the table. “My problem with that is I don’t see the connection between dairy hands and professional executions.”

Kevin figured everyone was thinking the same thing. So he said it. “What if it’s not professional?”

“What do you mean, Kevin? A sport killing? Somebody doing it for kicks? No.” The chief pinched the bridge of his nose. “I refuse to believe we’re dealing with some sort of serial killer here.”

“You need to at least put it on the table, Russ.” MacAuley wrote the words “Thrill killer” at one corner of the board.

“Serial killers go after vulnerable populations. Kids. Prostitutes.”

“What about Jeffrey Dahmer?”

“Bob Berdella?”

“Randy Steven Kraft?”

MacAuley gave them a look that said
shut up
. He turned to the chief. “The vics already fall into a class,” he said. “Young men in their early twenties.” He ticked a point off one finger.