Tainted Mind (3 page)

“One of yours rode into town tonight,” Ian answered. “Found a body, reported it to me. Seems a bit too coincidental so I thought I might check her out.” He gave Damian her name and waited, packing more supplies, while listening to computer keys click away.

“Huh, that's interesting,” Damian said.

Ian paused. “That's interesting, as in, I've been snowed? Or that's interesting in a good way?”

Damian took a moment to respond. “Definitely in a good way if you can get her to help you. She's done a lot of work for my assistant director.” Damian paused again then let out a low whistle and continued. “She's a medical examiner who somehow also holds the rank of detective with Boston PD. How that works, I'm not sure, since one is a county position and the other with the city. But in addition to her MD, she has a PhD in forensic psychology, and she also volunteers a lot outside the US with the Red Cross and Mercy Corps. Her domestic specialty seems to be violent crimes, which is what it looks like she does a lot of for us. Internationally, I'm not sure, but based on her background and the organizations she works with, I'd guess body identification, disaster response, and search and rescue stuff.”

“A regular saint.”

“She's good looking, too. Kind of has a young Sophia Loren thing going on. Great eyes. Nice hair. Oh, and she's an artist. She also does facial reconstructions.”

“I thought reconstructions were done with computers?” Ian asked, not all that interested in the answer for now but knowing it might be useful later.

“Some of the places she's been have probably never even heard of a computer before.”

“So you're saying this really is a coincidence?” Ian shoved the last of his gear into the supply bag and zipped it up.

“I'm about as much a fan of coincidences as you are, but we've seen stranger things.”

Ian couldn't argue with that.

“Maybe she'll help. Can't imagine you guys get too many dead bodies up there,” Damian suggested.

“I'm sure she could. Whether she wants to or not is another issue. She's on vacation, doesn't seem to want to get involved.”

“A woman like her? She probably works harder than we ever have. From her file it looks like she is on her first leave of absence since she started consulting with us eight years ago. In her spare time she travels to natural disasters. Can't say whether she's a saint or not, but she definitely has some demons riding her. I'm betting you can use that to your advantage. If you want to, that is,” Damian added.

“Guilt her into helping.” Hearing the contemplation in his own voice made Ian cringe.

“I like to think of it as encouragement.”

Ian cringed again when it hit him—just how fucked up he'd become over the past decade-plus. The idea of using guilt on a stand-up fellow law-enforcement officer who was trying to take what seemed like a much-needed vacation had actually held some appeal, if only for a moment.

Nice
. If he ever had any doubt about what a dick he could be, he didn't now.

“Thanks, Damian. I appreciate the intel.”

“No problem. Let me know how it goes.” They disconnected and Ian gathered the last of his supplies. He placed a few calls to the off-duty deputies to request assistance and headed out into the night.

C
HAPTER
3

IAN WALKED INTO THE TAVERN
and approached the bar.

“You look like you need a drink, Ian,” Rob commented more than offered.

“Thanks, Rob. Wish I could, but the day's not done yet.” He'd confirmed Dr. DeMarco's find, but there hadn't been much they could do in the middle of the night. As a result, he and a couple of cops from the state police had been up at first light and had spent much of the morning and afternoon removing the road piece by piece to see what they had. And what they had was indeed a complete skeleton.

“I'm looking for Vivienne DeMarco. I know she's staying here. I tried her cell, but she isn't answering.”

“Most likely can't,” Rob answered, handing Ian a cup of coffee in a to-go cup even though he hadn't asked for it. “She came in this morning asking about hiking trails. I pointed her to the Taconic Trail. If she's up there, she won't have cell coverage.”

“Thanks, Rob,” Ian answered, taking a sip of the hot coffee. It wasn't cold out, not like the winter, and the rain had stopped, but it was still cool for early May. “Did you point her to a specific access point?” Rob nodded and mentioned the entry point off the Taconic Parkway about twelve miles south of town.

Twenty minutes later, Ian drove to the end of a short dirt road, pulled into a secluded parking lot that sat halfway up a hill, and considered what he was doing. According to Rob, she'd left five hours ago. If she was still hiking, she could be gone for hours. He hadn't thought much about it; he figured he would just wait for her. But when he'd pulled into the lot and seen her car, he realized his
approach was a throwback to his old life, when he'd had one mission and stuck to it—even if he'd had to wait hours, or days, or weeks. He got out of his Jeep and leaned against the hood, wondering if there was something else he should be doing—some coordination, some oversight, something that, as the Deputy Chief of Police, he should be thinking about.

And not for the first time, he questioned his position on the force. From his vantage point, he stared out over the rural Hudson Valley and contemplated his situation. While the skills he'd developed over the past several years were valued by various law enforcement agencies, the truth was it wasn't an easy transition from soldier to police. As a soldier, he and his team spent a lot of time planning and executing missions. As a police officer, he came in to clean things up—which required an entirely different set of skills. And at times like this, times when he wasn't sure if he was doing what he should be doing, he was very aware of how different the two roles were. In fact, he sometimes thought the only things they had in common were guns and testosterone.

Ian was pondering how long he should wait when a figure emerged at the top of the hill. Dr. DeMarco moved with the ease and familiarity of an expert hiker as she made her way down toward the parking lot. She spotted him, paused, looked behind her, then continued down. Seeing her in her jeans, hiking boots, and a long-sleeved shirt with a backpack slung over her shoulder, Damian's comment about her floated into Ian's mind. She was an attractive woman. Athletic and strong looking with long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, olive skin, and brown eyes that confirmed the Italian heritage her last name hinted at. She didn't look like she wore makeup or needed to. But then again, he was a guy—what did he know about makeup? To him, whatever she did or didn't do was irrelevant; she looked good.

“Dr. DeMarco,” he said, straightening off his Jeep.

She walked toward him, taking a sip from a metal water bottle. “Deputy Chief MacAllister,” she acknowledged as she stopped in front of him. He studied her for a moment, not thinking anything in particular, but taking her measure nonetheless.

“So, did you find her?” she asked, turning away from him and opening the trunk of her car.

“How do you know it's a her?”

“I don't.” She dumped her backpack into the trunk, unzipped the main pocket, and pulled out a lightweight pullover. “But given the size of the wrist bones I saw and what looked like a thin, gold bracelet, I'm presuming. Of course it could be a young person or a cross dresser or the bracelet could have been placed there. It could be anything. Was it a whole body?”

Ian nodded, watching her pull on the sweater.

“Sorry about that,” she said as her head emerged. “My guess is that you don't see a lot of murder up here. Sorry you have to see it now.”

“I could use your help.”

She froze for a moment, a split second, then shook her head. “I'm sorry, I really am, but I'm on vacation. The New York lab is excellent—the doctor who runs it is a good friend of mine. They'll be able to help you.”

“But I hear you're one of the best.”

Crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against her car, Dr. DeMarco eyed him. He could see the honest debate in her eyes. He could try the guilt card and, at this point, he was pretty certain it would work. But he caught a glimpse of the dark circles under her eyes and something stopped him. Not from asking, but from trying to manipulate her.

“Look, the truth is my boss is on vacation now—something we should both be glad about,” he added as an aside. “He thinks I'm out for his job—”

“Are you?”

Ian shook his head. “Half the time I'm not even sure I want
my
job. But he thinks I'm after his anyway. He's a real prick about it. If he comes back and this isn't resolved, or heading in that direction, he'll derail it. I'm not going to disguise the fact that asking you to get involved is as much for the victim as it is for me.”

“I get the sense, Deputy Chief MacAllister, that whether I help or not, you're going to do a thorough job. My guess is that doing it any other way isn't even an option for you.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. The first he'd seen from her.

“Believe me, I will do everything in my power to find out who this person is, what happened to him or her, and who did it. But,
given that I think Vic will do more harm than good, both to me and the case, you can't blame me for wanting to stack the cards in my favor by using you and your skills.” Ian watched her ponder him and his request. It still left him feeling a little slimy—she looked like she deserved her vacation, not a murder investigation. But at least it felt better being honest with her about his situation than trying to manipulate her. His therapist would be so proud.

After a long moment when the sounds of nearby birds and the distant cars on the Taconic Parkway seemed impossibly loud, she conceded. “I'll take a look. I'm not promising anything and I'm not going to process any evidence for you because I'm not authorized to. But I'll take a look and tell you what I can.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, more grateful than he expected. He didn't know Vivienne DeMarco from Adam, but still, he felt he now had an ally. “We're still working to clear the debris away, but they should be close to done.”

“I want to shower and change. We have plenty of light, so give me forty-five minutes and meet me at The Tavern. I'll be ready then.” Again, Ian nodded then watched as she climbed into her car and drove away. She wasn't warm to the idea, but she was going to do it. He couldn't ask for much more.

A little over an hour later, Ian and Dr. DeMarco pulled up to the spot on County Route 8. He glanced at his passenger who was checking out the scene. The car ride had been silent, but not uncomfortable.

“Must look a bit different than last night,” he broke in. She inclined her head.

“It was dark and pouring rain most of the time—it was hard to see much of anything that wasn't ten feet in front of me. In the daylight, if you ignore the crime scene tape and the knowledge that someone was buried here, it's pretty.” She sounded surprised.

“You've never been to this area before?”

She shook her head. “I know, crazy, right? I grew up in Boston and I know it's only a few hours away, but well, when I get home, I like to stay there. I travel a lot.”

“What made you come here now?”

She was quiet for a moment and he couldn't tell whether she was debating how much to tell him about herself or if she just didn't
know the answer. Then she shrugged. “I have a close family friend, kind of like an aunt. She and her husband come here all the time. She's always talking about it. When I was passing through New York City, I saw the sign for the Taconic State Parkway and on a whim I decided to take it.”

“You regret that decision?”

“I'm here,” she shrugged again and reached for the door handle. “Doesn't matter whether I regret it or not.”

They exited the car and headed toward the primary scene. Ducking under the crime scene tape, Ian caught a few speculative glances cast at Dr. DeMarco. Heading it off at the pass, he announced, “Everyone, this is Dr. DeMarco, FBI consultant. She's not here officially but happens to be traveling through the area and has been nice enough to stop and give us her opinion.” He didn't mention she was the one who found the body. He didn't feel like having to explain it to everyone else, so he took the path of least resistance.

He watched her scope out the area as they made their way to the grave. When they arrived at the side of the hole dug by the crew, she went down on her haunches. She studied the skeleton for a long time. He didn't know what she was looking at or for, but her obvious competence reassured him. And so he studied her.

She had changed into another pair of jeans and a different pair of boots—the kind of boots that were made for a woman, with heels and all. She had on a light green sweater and her hair was pulled back again and still damp. Her curves were hard to miss, as was her confidence. The combination of the two made it hard for him to ignore the fact that Dr. Vivienne DeMarco was most definitely a woman.

Not taking her eyes from the body, she held her hand up and asked for a flashlight. The daylight was still good, but he didn't question her as he handed one over. He watched as she swept the beam over the body. Finally, she spoke.

“It's a female. Between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. I can't tell for certain from this angle, but there does not appear to be any severe trauma to the bones. I also can't see it from here, but when you get her out, I'd take a close look at the hyoid bone.”

“Strangulation?” Ian asked.

“Possibly, but she could have been starved to death, or suffocated, in which case the hyoid will likely be intact. But in cases like this, with no obvious trauma, it's the first place I look.

“She's Caucasian,” she continued. “And has had at least one child,” she added, shining the light on the pelvis area.

“Then there is probably family looking for her? Husband, boyfriend? Maybe even the kid?” interjected Wyatt Granger, one of Ian's officers. Dr. DeMarco looked up at the young man as if just now realizing other people were around.

“Not if the husband or boyfriend did it, or there is even a husband or boyfriend at all,” Ian stated. Wyatt's questions were nice but naïve. “And the kid, if it's still alive, might not even know who his or her mother is. For all we know, she might have been a migrant prostitute with no family to speak of.”