Milk and Honey (15 page)

Slouched in the
backseat of the unmarked, Decker smoked a cigarette. He’d removed his jacket and tie, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His feet were propped over the driver’s seat, all the windows of the Plymouth cranked open, the doors pushed out to the maximum. Hot tobacco air mixed with dry dust, and his mouth felt desert-arid. He eyeballed Marge outside, saw the sweat pouring off her forehead, and wondered if he should give her a break, whether she’d take offense at his offer. He shrugged and decided she’d ask for help if she needed it. She was talking to Byron Howard, calming him down, trying to get him inside the car so he wouldn’t mess the ground if a grid search was needed. But the bald man wasn’t heeding her advice, and paced as if he had something to hide.

Ten minutes later, Decker heard tires grinding against gravel. From the back windshield, he saw a black-and-white County Sheriff’s car and a white crime-lab van park behind the Plymouth. The driver of the cruiser opened the door, stood, and stretched. He appeared to be in his sixties—a portly man with a pencil-thin mustache, pouches for cheeks, and a pale complexion. His hair was white and thin, combed to the side to cover an empty patch of pink scalp. He was dressed in typical detective fashion—a white short-
sleeved shirt, clip-on tie, navy slacks and black oxfords. He sauntered over to the van, knocked on the window, and waved the men from Forensic outside.

The techs were young—a crew-cut Asian and curly-haired redhead splattered with acne and freckles, both wearing long white coats and sweating in the heat. Slowly, Decker swung his feet outside, stood up, and joined the powwow.

Shaking Decker’s hand, the sheriff detective introduced himself as Ozzie Crandal. He said, “I was in the field when the RTO patched the call through. Actually, I was on my lunch break. It sounds like we’ve got a mess inside there.”

Decker introduced himself and said “mess” was an understatement, explaining what they had was a quadruple homicide.

Crandal bit his lip. “How’d LAPD field the call?”

“Case originated in my division just over the mountain. I was doing follow-up when my partner and I stumbled onto this one.”

“Who’s your partner?”

“Detective Dunn, the woman talking to the bald man.”

Crandal touched the crown of his head and said, “Witness?”

“No, so far as I know. He’s a neighbor—name’s Byron Howard.” Decker turned to the techs. “Detective Dunn will take you men in. It’s ripe in there. Take along lots of VapoRub.”

The Asian smiled, exposing large, square teeth. His name tag said Tommy Chin. “I like challenge.” He spoke in a staccato voice. “Food for brain.”

The redhead rolled his eyes, and pulled his partner by his coat sleeve over to Marge. Decker watched the three of them go inside the house, then asked Crandal if he wanted to take a look at the murder victims.

Crandal ignored the question and said, “So you and your partner are not technically with Homicide?”

“Nope,” Decker said. “Juvey and Sex Crimes.”

“But you found the kid in Foothill territory.”

“Yes,” Decker answered. “In the newest Manfred development just over the hill.”

“Who’s Manfred?” Crandal asked.

“Developer,” Decker said. “Been building a lot in our division.”

Crandal marked a line in the ground with the tip of his shoe. He said, “We can do a joint investigation, if you want—split the paperwork.”

Bullshit, Decker thought. A joint investigation usually meant double paperwork on everything and people stepping all over each other’s toes. But he paused only a moment before nodding yes. He couldn’t get Katie’s face out of his head, her tinkly laughter, her scrunched-nose smile. And Byron Howard sobbing
Linda, Linda, Linda
…

Dammit, one of those women was the little girl’s mother.

Tommy, the Asian, came running out of the house, his mouth and nose hidden behind a kerchief. Wiping sweat off his brow, he came back to Decker and Crandal.

“We got a real problem in there.”

“What?” Decker asked.

Tommy said, “Better if you see for yourself. Arnie’s in there now. He try to figure out what to do. It’s real bad. Especially bad if you are allergic.” He let go with machine-gun laughter.

Decker removed his shoes, explaining to Crandal that there were two different shoe prints and the less mixup Forensics had, the better. He led Crandal into the house, offering him the VapoRub as they reached the front door. Then they stepped inside.

Time had done nothing to dampen the shock of the sight. Decker felt his stomach buck anew at the pile of bloated meat in the center, the legless man on the refrigerator. Pools of blood, layers of milk and honey. The bugs—especially the maggots—seemed to have multiplied in just a half hour.
The heat sped everything up. Marge was sketching the layout of the kitchen in her notepad, trying to draw, hold the tablet, and cover her nose at the same time. Arnie, the other lab man, was scraping some dried blood off a cabinet, transferring it to a glassine slide.

He said, “I can’t keep this up much longer. Bee stings weren’t part of the job description.”

Tommy said, “I’ve seen bodies covered by beetles, ants, even worms. They like to lay eggs in the cavities—nose, eyes, ears. Never seen bees like this. I take a few for specimens, a few live ones, too. But the rest, they just background. They get mad when we try to do our job.”

“And they’re eating up the evidence,” Arnie added.

“Give us a minute to decide how we want to handle this,” Decker said. “In the meantime, can you take some blood samples from the bodies? I need to see if they match the blood found on a little girl’s pajamas.”

“Sure, I get you blood,” Tommy answered. “How much you need? A tube? A pint? A gallon? They don’t need any of it now.” Again, the laughter.

“Whatever Forensics needs to run the tests, Tommy,” Decker said.

“No problem.” Tommy went back to work.

Arnie slapped his arm. “I can’t work this way.”

Decker said a minute, and waved Marge and Crandal outside. He then explained to Crandal that Byron Howard was a resident bee expert.

“Bet he can help us get rid of the critters,” Decker said.

“Before he does that,” Marge said, “he should look at the bodies and see how many he can ID. Who knows what those corpses will look like once we get all the insects off? With all the heat and bloat, we may be seeing the bodies at their peak.”

“A gruesome thought,” Crandal said.

Decker said, “Way Byron was moaning inside, one of the women should be Linda Darcy. The others?” He shrugged.

“Let’s go ask Byron,” Marge said.

Crandal wiped his forehead and said he was going to take a look around outside. When Marge asked him if he wanted his notepad, Crandal gave her a sour look and announced he was going to the car to get it. But Marge noticed he had been walking in the opposite direction.

As Decker and Marge approached Byron, Decker realized how slowly they were walking, how listless their movements had become. The sun was directly overhead, the sky cloudless and deep blue. The unrelenting heat, the rancid smells, everyone was being sapped of energy. Decker asked Byron how he felt. The bald man was ashen.

Byron said, “Kin I go home now?”

Decker said, “There’s no legal reason why you can’t. But we have a couple of favors to ask you.”

“What?” Byron asked.

“First, someone should ID the bodies for us now—before any more decay sets in….”

Byron didn’t answer. Decker placed his hand on the beekeeper’s thick shoulder, but Byron shrugged him off.

Marge said, “Mr. Howard, I know this is horrible stuff, but we need you to do this for us—”

“A couple of favors,” Byron interrupted. He faced Decker. “You said a couple of favors. What’s the other one?”

Decker fanned himself with the back of his hand and said, “None of us are used to working around bees. We have to get the bees off the bodies—”

“And wasps,” Byron corrected. “Some are bees, but there’re wasps too…they eat…bite…meat…I gotta sit down.”

“Sure.” Decker steered him to the unmarked, placed him down in the backseat. Decker and Marge sat on either side of the beekeeper, not too close but close enough to let Byron know what was expected of him.

Decker said, “Not feeling so hot?”

Byron shook his head. “I gotta get back to my own farm.
Darlene’s gonna get fiery for me being out this long.”

“Not once she hears the reason,” Marge said.

“No, sir, Miss Detective. You don’t know Darlene.”

“Mr. Howard—” Decker said.

“You might as well call me Byron. This ain’t no time to get formal.”

“Byron, we need help,” Decker said. “How do we get rid of those bees…wasps?”

“Smoke ’em, I reckon. Smoke confuses bees, makes them easy to handle. A few may still have a ornery disposition, but most you’ll be able to brush aside, into a box or some supers. The wasps…smoke sometimes doesn’t work. But it don’t hurt to try.”

“You have special suits for handling bees?” Marge asked. “Something our lab men can maybe borrow?”

“I’ve got some veils and gloves back at my farm. Take what you need. Then do me a favor and get out of my life.” He shook his head again, this time with a “Dear God” escaping from his lips.

Marge said, “I’ll drive you to your place. We’ll pick up the veils, gloves, and the smokers, you show us how to use everything.”

Byron didn’t answer right away, but Decker pressed him, and the beekeeper eventually agreed. He added, “Darlene’s gonna want to come.”

“Let me handle your wife,” Marge said. “You just handle the bees…and the identification of the bodies, Byron.”

“The bodies first,” Decker said. “I hate to do this to you, Byron, but…well, to put it bluntly, I don’t want any further decomposition.” Decker got out of the car, grasped Byron’s shoulder, and gently led him in the direction of the house. “I know this is hard for you, but you can do it.”

Byron wiped a thin sheen of perspiration off his nude scalp with his shirtsleeve. He coughed up a phlegm ball and spat. Great, Decker thought. Something else to confuse
Forensics. He’d remember to point it out to the lab boys later.

The beekeeper’s steps toward the house were tentative, his breath sour and shallow. Decker felt sorry for him—he was shaking—but also reserved judgment on his guilt or innocence. He’d seen too many murderers crying bitterly at the sight of their victims floating in blood.

Once inside the Darcys’ kitchen, Byron broke down—dry sobs coughed up from his chest, guttural groans emanating from his throat.

“It’s…it’s Linda Darcy, over there,” Byron said. He pointed to the middle of the room, his lower lip trembling now. “Other one’s…Dear God…other woman’s Carla Darcy…the man on the Frigidaire is Luke…dear Jesus, have mercy on their souls.”

“How about the other man?” Decker said softly.

“Huh?”

Byron seemed dazed. Decker spoke quickly. “The other man, Mr. Howard, in the pile with the women. Do you know him?”

Byron shook his head, his skin as gray as gunmetal. The Linda mantra tape was playing again, speaking her name as if he were in prayer. His eyes had begun to roll backward. Before the beekeeper went under, Decker escorted him outside and handed him to Marge, waiting by the unmarked. Byron allowed himself to be transferred as if he were a baby swaddled in bunting.

Decker pulled Marge aside and ID’d the bodies for her, explaining that there was still one unaccountable John Doe. Marge listened, then asked if Decker thought bee smoke would muck up evidence.

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Decker said. “You take Byron back to his farm, I’ll ask the techs. Cameraman and the meat wagon should be here soon. Like to debug the bodies before we cart them down to the morgue.”

“Be back in about a half hour,” Marge said. She slid into the driver’s seat of the unmarked, and was off.

Decker took the time to sort out the mess. Part of the Darcy family—Luke, his wife, Linda, and his sister, Carla—lay dead in the kitchen. Decker was curious about the part of the family that was missing. A set of parents, a sister named Sue Beth, and her husband and kids. Then there was the retarded brother named Earl.

According to Annette Howard, they were at a bee convention in Fall Springs. First thing to do was notify kinfolk and find out everyone’s exact whereabouts for the last week.

Then, he thought, at least Katie has relatives.

Katie. The kid wasn’t wandering around the Manfred development when all this went down. She was probably in the house, and someone couldn’t stand the thought of her rotting with the others. Someone deliberately dropped her off at the Manfred development, hoping that she’d be found and cared for.

So what did that mean?

Decker tapped his pencil against the tablet, put aside his speculations for now. He began combing the outside area for evidence. In the front, he found dried spots of brown gook. Could be blood, could be anything. He swung around back. The rear side of the house faced a two-story redwood barn, weathered dusty gray. Next to the barn was a hundred feet worth of fenced corral, stacked bales of hay, and a 40' × 40' lot of yellowed weeds stained by oil and crushed by tire prints. Probably where the Darcys parked their cars. But it never hurt to have too much physical evidence. He’d point it out to Sheriff’s Homicide, request a tire imprint and lab work on the oil.

Automatically, Decker pulled out a handkerchief, placed it over the knob, and tried the barn door. Locked, but at least no odor seemed to be coming from the threshold. He peeked through the window. Dark, the sun doing little to il
luminate the interior, but Decker made out an empty cordoned-off area to the left, that portion of the ground covered with hay. The rest of the floor space was taken up with machinery—big metal cylinders, other pieces of brushed steel and chromium he couldn’t identify.

He saw Tommy Chin come around back.

Chin said, “Arnie real mad about bees.”

“Take a break,” Decker said. “It shouldn’t be much longer. I’m trying to get someone over here to get rid of the bugs. We’re going to try to smoke them out. Will that ruin forensic evidence?”