Twilight at Blueberry Barrens (26 page)

M
a'am. Sheriff Reed told me to come and get you. He said he was sorry you had to wait so long. The body's here. I mean, it was here before . . . downstairs. In the morgue.”

I craned my head backward to see the young, lean-faced deputy standing over me. He had to be six foot four or taller, very slender, with wispy brown hair. His eyes were blue with heavy lids and his mouth red, probably from chewing his lips. Sure enough, his cheeks flushed at my studying him and he started gnawing his lower lip.

Sitting outside the Pikeville Community Hospital, I'd been enjoying the late-October sunshine and waiting for someone to remember I was here. I picked up my forensic art kit and followed the officer through a set of doors to an elevator next to the nurses' station. “I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name.”

“Junior Reed.” He nodded at his answer. “Sheriff Reed is my father.”

I did a double take. He didn't look anything like Clayton Reed, the sheriff of Pike County, Kentucky, who'd picked me up from the Lexington airport yesterday. “Nice to meet you, Junior.” I stuck out my hand. “I'm Gwen Marcey.”

He hesitated for a moment, staring at my hand, then awkwardly shook it. His hand was wet.

The elevator door opened. As we entered, I surreptitiously wiped my hand on my slacks. The elevator seemed to think about moving, then quietly closed and slipped to the floor below, taking much longer than simply running down the stairs. The elevator finally opened. The smell hit me immediately.

I swallowed hard and took a firmer grip on my kit.

Several deputies had gathered in the middle of the hall, talking softly. They turned and stared at us. I couldn't quite decipher the expressions on their faces. They parted as we approached, revealing a closed door inscribed with the word
Morgue
.

Junior entered the room and moved to the body bag resting on a stainless steel table. Sheriff Clayton Reed—a large man with a thick chest, buzz-cut hair, and gray-blond mustache, stood next to a man in navy blue scrubs. I nodded at the man. “Hello. I'm Gwen Marcey, the forensic artist.”

“Ma'am. I'm Dr. Billy Graham.” He noted my raised eyebrows and grinned. “My parents had high hopes for a particular career direction.”

I grinned back, then slowed as I approached the table. I'd seen bodies before. Too many times before, but I still had a moment of hesitation when I knew what was coming. This was once someone's son or daughter, parent or friend. And no one knew of the death. Then the analytical part of my brain would take over, and I could concentrate on drawing the face of the unknown remains.

I just had to get past the
ick
moment.

“Here you go,” Sheriff Clay Reed said in a deep Appalachian accent. My brain was still trying to translate his comments for
my western Montana ears. “So far, no one has recognized . . . what was left.” He unzipped the body bag. Several flies made an angry exit. The odor was like a solid wall.

Junior spun and made it to a bucket near the door before losing his lunch.

I fought the urge to join him.

The sheriff frowned at Junior, then caught my gaze. “He never had much of a stomach for smells.”

I could relate to that. “What . . . um . . . what can you tell me about the body?”

“According to the doc here”—Clay nodded at the man—“he's been dead for at least a month, but hard to say exactly at this time . . . critters and all . . . in his late teens or early twenties. Slender. Teeth in pretty good shape, but obviously never been to a dentist. No help there.”

Pulling out a small sketchbook and pencil, I jotted down the sheriff's information. “No one reported him missing?”

The sheriff shook his head. “But that's not surprising. A lot of folks around here steer clear of the law.”

“Cause of death?”

“Can't be sure just yet,” the doctor said. “But I'd guess . . . snakebite.”

I stopped writing and looked up. “I thought, I mean, didn't you say he was murdered?”

“In a sense, he was.” Clay nodded toward a counter beside him. “We found those with the body.”

A white cotton bag, badly stained; a golf club with a bend at the end; a long clamping tool; a revolver; and a moldy Bible all lay spread out.

“Okay. What does that tell you?” I asked.

“I'd say he was snake hunting,” the sheriff said.

“I still don't understand.”

“The golf club with the metal hook on the end is a homemade snake hook. They cut the club off the end, then bend a piece of metal to form a U.”

“Can't you just buy one?”

“That can cost a bit. But folks are always throwing away golf clubs.” Clay chuckled. “I've tossed more than my fair share after a bad round of golf.”

He stopped chuckling at my expression. “Well then, those are snake tongs, and the bag is to put the snake into. The revolver is loaded with snake-shot ammunition.”

“But that doesn't mean—”

He unzipped the body bag farther. Lying across the man's stomach was what was left of a very dead snake.

I dropped my pencil and paper. “Ohmigosh!”

“That's a big 'un.” Junior had stopped throwing up and had moved next to me. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then started twiddling his fingers as if playing a trumpet.

Resisting the urge to bolt from the room, I bent down and snatched up my materials, then reached into my forensic kit and tugged out my digital camera. I stayed bent over until I felt some blood returning to my face. “What kind of snake is that?”

“I put in a call to Jason Morrow with animal control to identify—”

“Rattler,” Junior said. “
Crotalus horridus
, also known as a canebrake or timber rattler—”

“That's enough, Junior,” Clay said.

When I heard the zipper close on the body bag, I stood. Only the man's ravaged face was now exposed.

“Now, Sheriff,” Dr. Graham said, “we don't know for sure yet that he died of snakebite. I only said he
may
have—”

“Come on, Billy,” Clay said. “The snake's head was full of bird shot from that pistol. Obviously he got bit while trying to catch a snake. He didn't even try to go for help.”

I felt at a loss as to what the men were talking about. Snakes in general gave me the creeps, and a stinky body with a snake on top really was pushing my heebie-jeebies meter. “Gentlemen, my knowledge and experience with snakes is very limited.” I resisted the urge to add,
Thank the Lord
. “I still don't get why you consider this a murder.”

“Oh, not an out-and-out murder,” the sheriff said. “I mentioned he didn't even try to go for help. He shot the snake, then sat down, read his Bible, and prayed.”

Before I could say anything, the sheriff held up a finger. “I'm not done. That Bible falls open to Mark 16. I think he was catching snakes to handle in church.”

“Church?” My creeped-out meter ratcheted up a notch. “Uh, regardless of how he died, you did still want me to draw him for identification, right? Or are you just planning to go to his church and ask around?”

All the men exchanged glances. “Not that simple,” the sheriff finally said. “We'll need that drawing.”

I took a deep breath, instantly regretting it as the stench of the body filled my lungs. “Here's how this works. I'm going to photograph him from all angles with this evidence scale.” I held up what looked like a small ruler. “I'll be ready to work on this drawing when I return to my hotel. You said the rape victim is upstairs, so I'll interview her—”

“Well now, Miz Marcey.” Clay rubbed his chin. “Seems you
have a lot to do with this here sketch. You can maybe meet with Shelby Lee tomorrow—”

“Why not now?”

“There's just no sense in overloading you with work.”

I blinked at him. “I'm hardly overloaded. I'm here. Although I'm glad to help you with the unknown remains.” I nodded at the body bag. “You did fly me out all the way from Montana to work on your serial rapist cases.”

“Well now . . .”

“Is something wrong, Sheriff?” I asked.

“No. No. No. Nothing. Nothing's wrong.” He shook his head, then turned and headed for the door. “Follow me.”

I stared at his retreating back.
He's lying.

* * *

The story continues in Carrie Stuart Parks'
When Death Draws Near
. . .