Web of Lies (17 page)
Oh no. Little ant feet suddenly scurried on his shoes. Up his ankles. Crawling fast. He cursed and kicked off his Nikes, peeled off his socks. Stumbled to the sink and stuck a foot under the water. He scrubbed with a sponge, heart thudding. Changed feet and scrubbed again.
The dirt ants swirled down the drain. He snapped on the garbage disposal, chewed up every last one of them before they crawled out and hunted him down.
Okay. Okay.
He slumped against a counter, breathing hard, feet dripping water on the floor. Okay. Think.
Abruptly he pulled a glass from a cabinet, filled it with water and chugged it down. Okay.
Now.
He glared across the room at the newspaper. Trudged to stand over the articles. Think. Take one problem at a time.
Annie Kingston’s death threat was a dumb move. Except that now she’d be all tripped out and scared . . .
Could he use that?
The skeleton. Bad, bad news. But incomplete.
Chelsea Adams’s vision. Scary as all get-out. But man, it was also crazy.
He started pacing again. Maybe they were straight on everything. Maybe all this vision stuff was a hoax. They were just trying to trap him. He thought of recent phone calls, places he’d been. Had they tracked him down?
Man, you’re safe. Stop flippin’.
Still . . . Look what Chelsea Adams knew already. Any day now she would see it all. It was only a matter of time.
He muttered and paced. Guzzled more water. Gathered all the information in his head and spun it around. He had to do something. Soon.
What he needed was a good diversion.
T
welve noon. Jenna and Chelsea had left. Kelly had called from Erin’s house after returning from the early service at church. She was upset by the articles in the paper, especially the one about people possibly trapped in a room full of spiders. I tried to soothe her, wishing she didn’t have to know at all. But better for her to hear it now than tomorrow at school. Now only Stephen remained at home, knocking about the kitchen for something to eat and talking on his cell phone. Earlier I’d gone outside to thank the surveillance officer who’d come on duty at six a.m. Ben Schalt was his name — a boyish-faced policeman who’d been on the force for two years.
Two years.
That wasn’t very long. Suddenly I was sorry I’d sent the others on their way.
I headed to my office, intent on keeping busy. But within all too short a time, the materials for a facial reconstruction were laid out upon the table, ready to go.
Now what? I folded my arms, glanced around the room. Walked over to sit in my desk chair.
I needed to pray.
During the final horrific days of seeking the Poison Killer, God had taught me to pray as I’d never done before. There were times when oppression so overwhelmed me that all I could do was open my mouth and let the words flow. Later I learned that God had led others to pray in the same way. Evil had descended upon Redding, and God wanted His people to take part in bringing it to its knees. I’d not experienced prayer of that kind since then. But until now circumstances hadn’t warranted it. Sitting here in my chair, I wished again for that overwhelming sense of God’s power to fill my mouth with words . . .
I closed my eyes and waited.
Nothing.
Irritation niggled in my gut.
God, what is going on?
Sometimes He seemed to purposely make circumstances hard. Why couldn’t He guide my words the way He did before? And why, when He sent Chelsea that vision, couldn’t He have
explained
it? Instead we were left with threatening pieces that may or may not even fit the same puzzle.
I sighed, fingertips tapping my desk.
Okay, Lord. All I can do is pray in my own way, as best I can. Please help me do that.
Bowing my head, I asked God for His protection over me, my family, and Chelsea, and for guidance. For help in finding Orwin Neese before the man killed anyone else.
And God, if Amy and that man are still alive — please be with them. Please help us find them in time. Also, the skeleton that was discovered. Help us find this person’s
identity. Guide me in the work I may have to do today . . .
Twenty minutes later I raised my head. I felt no particular strengthening. But one truth I could cling to: God’s power
is
released through prayer, whether I feel anything or not.
One o’clock rolled around. Stephen drove off to work, leaving me alone. I checked that all doors were locked, the alarm on. Outside in his vehicle, the policeman faithfully watched.
I could do little but putter in the house, dusting some furniture, cleaning bathrooms, while I awaited the phone call from the morgue. A dozen times I checked the clock. Minutes ground by, my feeble attempts to separate Chelsea’s vision from Neese turning to dust beneath their wheels. If Amy and the young man were trapped in that nightmarish spider room, unable to sleep, unable to so much as put a hand on the floor for fear of being bitten, every second counted. And if the morning’s paper had infuriated Neese enough to end their tortured lives now . . .
Oh, God, please help Blanche and his men find Neese! I don’t care if Blanche gets all the credit and struts his stuff; just keep these people safe!
And keep me safe too.
On the other hand, as long as Neese was spending time and energy tracking
me
down, those two people might continue to live.
My hand stalled midair, holding the dusting cloth. I squinted out the front window, making sure the surveillance officer was in place.
Ring, you stupid phone!
At least working on the skull would take my mind off Orwin Neese.
Finally, around one forty-five, the call came.
“Harry Fleck here, Annie.” The medical examiner’s voice carried its typical slow cadence. “Ready to come see what we’ve got?”
“You need me, then?” He sounded so matter-of-fact, it almost irritated me.
Knock it off, Annie. He couldn’t have known you’ve been on pins and needles.
“No missing persons record or anything else to help?”
“Afraid not. How soon can you make it?”
“I’ll leave right away.”
“Okay. We’ll be waiting for you.”
I grabbed my purse and a notebook and hurried out the door. Ben Schalt lifted a hand in greeting as I approached his car.
I leaned down to speak through his open window. “The morgue called. I need to go in and pick up some work. You think it’s better if you just take me, rather than us both driving?”
“Yeah, fine.” He grinned, clearly glad for something to do. “I’ve got a shift change at two anyway. Hop in.”
As I slid inside, I spied the morning newspaper tossed in the backseat. Schalt’s eyelids flickered as they followed my gaze, but he said nothing. Fresh anger at Blanche pricked my nerves. “Thank you for taking me.” I buckled my seat belt.
On the ride into town I entertained myself with my own visions — of telling Tim Blanche just what I thought of him.
At the morgue I greeted Larry Delching and Harry Fleck — the Harry and Larry team, as they’re called. But any similarity between them went no further than their names. Larry, with his small frame and quick gestures, resembled a lightweight boxer next to Harry’s heavyweight body and almost laborious movements. Larry’s hair was brown, his nose sharp and lips thin. Harry was fifteen years older, white-haired and thick-jowled.
They led me to the skeleton, laid out on a slab and missing surprisingly few bones. “Meet John Doe.” Larry’s state ment weighted with the substance of his words. I opened my notebook and began to write. “No doubt a male, by the shape and size of the pelvis. About six feet tall. Average build. And young. I’d place him between seventeen and twenty-three.” He pointed to the arm bones. “He was in good shape. Bones are strong. These here are built up somewhat, indicating that he may have either lifted weights or worked in a job that required upper body strength.” He stepped toward the feet. “At some point he had a broken ankle, but at time of death it had long healed. See the faint line here?”
I leaned over to look. “Yes.”
Larry waved a hand over the table. “We were able to recover most of the bones, as you can see. A few missing parts, which may contribute to John Doe’s story; you never know. But we did the best we could. I think the discovery was remarkably clean, considering that the area had been churned by a backhoe. Also, wood rats tend to carry away bones. Before darkness fell, we were able to move a little farther afield and look for wood rat nests. We managed to find one that held two bones. This one.” He pointed to the right third finger. “And this one in the foot.”
I shook my head. Wood rats. That was a new one to me.
Larry walked back toward the head and picked up the skull, cradling it with both hands. I moved to stand beside him. “He’s Caucasian. See the shape of the eye sockets? Also, we can tell by the nasal aperture and jaw.”
I nodded, tilting my head one way, then another as I observed the various areas. “Okay.”
Larry tipped the skull. “Dentition is in fairly good shape. A few teeth are missing. Those sockets are clean and open, see? Not filled in with any bone. So I believe these losses are postmortem.” He paused while I examined the teeth, then scribbled notes. “Overall the dentition points to someone of lower socioeconomic status. Quite a few of the molars have filled cavities, but there are a couple of teeth with cavities that are not filled. Must have hurt.” He flattened his mouth. “Also notice the crookedness. This person never had braces. The teeth don’t protrude, however, so I don’t see the crookedness affecting the profile to a big degree.”
I jotted more notes, then took another minute to peruse the dentition. Larry’s comments about socioeconomic level, broken bones, and body strength may not have direct bearing on facial appearance, but any understanding I could gain about John Doe would help give me a feel for him. “Okay. Thanks.”
Larry looked to the medical examiner. “Your turn.”
“Yes.” Harry took the skull in his hands, tilting it forward. “Take a look at our repairs of the cranium. I think you know that this was damaged?”
I nodded.
“You’ll see how the pieces fit together, but with some wiggle room. See what I mean?” He paused while I looked over the area. “This indicates that cause of death was blunt force to the head. I’ve ruled the manner of death as homicide.”
Blunt force. Homicide.
The words stabbed through me, but I merely nodded. This poor young man, with years ahead of him, had been violently killed. Why? And who was he? Who missed him? Somewhere a mother, father, siblings, friends needed closure.
“This skull was out there a number of years.” Harry carefully laid it back down. “It’s somewhat fragile. Don’t know how well it’ll handle a lot of clay.”
I shook my head. “That’s fine. I’m going to do a two-dimensional reconstruction anyway — the one Karen Taylor developed. You familiar with it?”
Taylor, a nationally recognized forensic artist, had combined aspects from various experts’ forms of reconstruction. In her two-dimensional, or drawing, approach, she uses tissue depth indicators to help flesh out the face, then draws the features rather than sculpting them directly onto the skull.
Harry nodded slowly. “That’s fine. Good. We’ll hear back all the more quickly from you then.”
I closed my notebook. “Okay, let’s get John Doe’s head ready to move. And soon.” My gaze lingered on the skull, battered and crying out its story. “I hope we can give this young man back his name.”
Larry meticulously packed the skull for transporting, while Harry and I completed the paperwork for its release. “I’ll begin working right away,” I told them. “I don’t have anything
else going at the moment.”
Except that somebody wants to kill me.
Harry surveyed me, as if reading my thoughts. “Are you all right? I saw the paper this morning. Didn’t know you’d been threatened.”
Dear Harry Fleck. It just wasn’t in him to mention the other article.
I gave him a wan smile. “I’m fine. I have police protection. In fact, the officer brought me here and another one’s taking me home.”
“Good.” Harry nodded his sage head. “You take care of yourself now, Annie. We sure don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Thanks. I will.”
On the way back home in the police car, I cradled the boxed skull on my lap, questions and imaginings of John Doe’s identity spiraling through my mind.
And at every stoplight, I couldn’t help but scan the sidewalks and streets for any sign of Orwin Neese.
O
kay, God, here we go. Please help me.
Upon my table, the skull sat in a stabilizing ring of cork. As I touched it, felt the contours of bone, my other worries faded to background. Here, now, I felt a connection to this unknown person. John Doe deserved his identity; he deserved justice for his untimely death. That responsibility sat heavily on my shoulders.
My first task was to glue the skull’s mandible to the cranium so the jaw would not move as I worked on it. In a live person the jaw is relaxed, the teeth not clenched. To simulate that positioning, I first layered in a small “spacer” of clay between the condyle and fossa bones — the hinge of the jaw — to replicate the cartilage that had once been present. Next I glued a small cutting from a round toothpick to the surface of the molars, creating a spacing between the teeth. Then I turned the skull upside down on the cork ring and glued the mandible in place.
So far, so good. I was now ready to tackle the challenge of meticulously cutting the small cylindrical eraser strips into tissue depth indicators.
In my facial reconstruction classes, the tissue depth tables had fascinated me from the beginning. The data, developed in the 1980s by Dr. Stanley Rhine and his colleagues at the University of New Mexico, simulate the thickness of muscle and other tissues, plus the skin, at twenty-one locations on the face. The mathematical tables vary according to race, gender, and build. Based upon the anthropologist’s information on John Doe, I would follow the table for a Caucasian male of average weight.
