Chapter 23
The cop hadn’t been kidding.
The scene had been processed to hell and back. Vegetation had been stripped. Tape had been strung. Surfaces had been dusted. Pics had been taken.
Acorn stood to one side. On seeing us, he nodded but said nothing.
Thanks to orders from Nguyen, the corpse had been left in place. It lay belly-up, facing away from the path. Though dappled with shadows cast by the thick overhead canopy, its skin looked ghostly pale against the dark substrate upon which it lay.
Necrophagous insects had arrived and begun their recycling act. When I stepped closer, they rose in their usual buzzing cloud.
The person had died wearing a teal polo, blue plaid Bermudas, and sandals.
The shorts had been pulled, or had worked their way down to knee level, making it evident that the deceased was male.
A khaki bucket hat—the kind favored by fishermen—sat askew on the man’s head, blocking a view of his features from where I stood.
Brown paper bags covered the man’s hands and feet. Evidence markers circled him, each small yellow triangle indicating the location of an item that might or might not prove meaningful later.
Signs of scavenging were limited to the right arm and ear. I suspected neighborhood dogs, excited by the scent of death, but not hungry enough or feral enough to really go at it. Purpling on the man’s back and buttocks suggested he’d died where he lay.
“Sonofabitch.”
Pushing past Acorn, Slidell continued into the clearing and rounded the vic. His expression, more than his exclamation, caused something to grip my insides.
Skinny is a veteran of hundreds of murder investigations. He’s seen women stabbed so many times they appeared to have gone through shredders. Newborns wrapped in trash sacks and tossed into dumpsters. Transgender teens castrated, beaten, and strangled. Rarely does he emote at a scene.
Slidell’s face had gone tight with a mixture of feelings I couldn’t read. Disgust? Anger? Pain?
I glanced at Acorn, who’d paused at the trailhead.
No giveaways there.
A long second, then Acorn said, “I’m going to check that CSU collected everything and got all the pics they need. No reason those guys have to hang around.”
I stepped sideways as far as I could.
Acorn eased past me and disappeared back the way we’d come.
Moving forward, I circled the body and drew up next to Slidell.
One quick scan and the gut-grip tightened.
The cockeyed blue cap rested on enormous “what-me-worry?” ears. Mousy brown hair curled from below its band. The familiar letters gaped raw on the forehead beneath its visor. PE.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah,” Slidell agreed. “That’s why my ass is here.”
Appalled at what I was seeing, I said nothing.
“The asshole who used this spot for a body dump knew the area.”
“Agreed.” I spoke knowing Slidell was in “think aloud” mode. “Before CSU did their thing, that path was probably impossible to see.”
“It’s that vet, yeah?” This time Slidell did address me, oblivious to the fact I was fighting back tears.
I nodded.
“What’s his name?”
“Balodis,” I managed. “Ralph Balodis.”
“Any idea who might have offed him?”
I shook my head slowly.
“Any idea how long he’s been dead?”
I forced myself to appraise objectively.
“Not long,” I said, not up to sharing details about livor and rigor and decomp and flies.
“Can you be more specific?” Slidell’s voice was taking on that edge.
“Given this damn freaking heat, I’d say less than forty-eight hours.”
Slidell’s brows floated up at my sharpness.
“But that’s only a prelim—”
“Yeah, yeah. You seen enough so’s your boss’ll be happy?”
I nodded. Slapped a mosquito on my neck.
“I’m green-lighting a body bag to get this stiff gone.” Yanking his mobile from his belt. “If those girls are still here, how about you keep ’em distracted.”
“Has someone called their parents?”
“How the bloody hell would I know?”
Inwardly cursing Slidell’s boorishness, I turned and walked back toward the scout headquarters building.
To say the girls were eager to discuss their discovery would be the understatement of the century.
Even though they’d already given two accounts—one for the MCME transport crew, one for the cops—they were on fire to retell their most excellent adventure.
I had to keep reminding them to speak one at a time.
There were three in all. Elodie Timmons. Georgia French. Rivka Steiner. I guessed they were all about fourteen. Couldn’t help thinking the trio looked like a Benetton ad.
Timmons’s skin was cocoa, her cornrows parted with surgical precision. She was every bit my height.
French had short, curly carroty hair. Nervous, she kept picking at cheeks scattershot with acne.
Steiner was a study in contrasts with wintery pale skin and very dark hair. Her hazel eyes were magnified by lenses attesting to lousy eyesight.
Knowing I should wait until a parent was present, I approached them.
“Hey,” I started out.
“Hey,” they mumbled in unison.
“Rough morning?”
“Beyondo rando,” Timmons said.
“Care to talk about it?”
“It was grody to the max.” French wrinkled her nose, compressing its scatter of freckles into one brown splotch.
“Flies were, like, totally crawling up the bro’s nose!” Steiner’s eyes were saucers behind the thick glasses.
“I thought it was cool.” Timmons was the only one whose adrenaline level might have been close to normal. “You know, like CSI or Bones or something.”
“You watch too much television,” French said.
“And you don’t?”
“I’m not, like, addicted.”
“Really? Every time—”
“I’m sorry you had to see what you did,” I said, interrupting the squabbling.
“My cat died last summer. By the time we found her body she looked as disgusting as that dude back there.” Steiner jabbed a thumb over one shoulder.
“Eww,” French said.
“Bite it,” Steiner snapped. “She was a great cat.”
“Can you describe what you saw?” I tried another approach.
“We already told the cops everything we know.” Did Steiner now sound guarded? Or simply teenage bored?
“I understand. But you three are the only actual eyewitnesses.” I looked at Timmons, hoping her TV crime drama habit might work in my favor. “We need to keep asking questions until we’re satisfied that we’ve covered every possible base. It’s routine.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Eyes narrowed, Timmons hooked air quotes around the pronoun I’d used. I had to admire the kid. She was no dummy.
Using middle school language, I explained who I was and what I do.
“Sick,” French said.
“Gross,” Steiner said.
“Whatever,” Timmons said. “But, like we told the cops, we don’t know shitzo.”
Fifteen minutes later, I had to agree. Except for one important detail.
According to Timmons, she and her friends were working on some sort of Girl Scout merit badge requiring a minimum of three hikes. When they’d gone on their first trek late Thursday afternoon, Balodis’s body hadn’t been under the tree. When they’d set out early today, it had.
That timeline corroborated my preliminary PMI estimate of less than forty-eight hours. Balodis had probably been killed sometime Friday.
“Did you get a look at the man’s face?” I asked gently.
Three solemn nods.
“Do you know him?”
Three violent head shakes.
I was about to pose a follow-up when footsteps sounded on the path at our backs. We all turned.
In seconds, a very sweaty Slidell emerged from the trees.
Raising a thumb and finger to his lips, Skinny whistled loud enough to be heard in Nairobi.
The MCME techs, again Hawkins and Winslow, were butt-leaning on the front panel of their truck. Startled, both looked his way.
Slidell circled a hand in the air. Showtime!
Winslow opened the truck’s rear doors, withdrew a gurney, popped the legs down, and began wheeling it toward Slidell. With a nod in my direction, Hawkins followed.
Alert to the possibility of grisly, ratings-boosting footage, the occupants of the WSOC van flew into action. One was male, the other female. Both looked to be fresh out of junior high.
The man, dressed in jeans and a black tee, pulled a camera-mic combo from the van’s rear and positioned it with the building as a backdrop.
The woman, wearing a blue silk blouse and tan pants, took a moment to fluff her hair and apply lipstick using a compact mirror.
I recognized her as a journalist who often did on-scene reports.
Wanting no part of the media hoopla, and knowing I might be a target, I beelined to Slidell’s Trailblazer. Slumped low in the passenger seat, I phoned Nguyen. As expected, I got the MCME’s messaging service.
I reported that the Idlewild Road remains would soon be in transit to the morgue. That the DOA was an adult male with multiple gunshot wounds and one missing hand. That the body appeared sufficiently intact to allow a normal autopsy.
I finished with an unenthusiastic offer to be present if needed.
Then I waited.
Slidell didn’t join me for another forty minutes.
We were almost to the Annex when my mobile rang. Seeing Katy’s name, I answered.
“Hey, sweetie.”
“Hey.” Her smiling face filled the screen.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Are you in a car?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“What have you been doing?”
“A recovery.”
“Oh.” The smile faltered a little, but she seemed curious.
“Anything exciting?”
“No.”
“How long have you been out?”
“Since early morning. Why?”
“So Ruthie’s not with you?”
“No.”
A slight pause, then, “I’m not sure where she is.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No. I suppose not. Who knows?”
“That answer covers a range of possibilities.”
“Ruthie has agreed to keep me looped in on her plans. Mainly so I have intel if Aunt Harry calls.”
“Why doesn’t Harry phone Ruthie’s cell and talk to her directly?”
“She does. If Ruthie doesn’t answer, I’m up next.”
A typical MO for my baby sister. If Harry wants a conversation, she wants it on demand. Her demand.
“Are you worried?” I asked.
“Not really. It’s just that Ruthie usually leaves me a note. Today, nothing.”
“Was she home last night?”
“I think so. I got delayed at the center until after eleven. When I got here her door was closed and her light was out. I didn’t want to wake her, so I didn’t look in.”
“Was her bed slept in?”
“She always makes it in the morning, so that tells me nothing.”
“Do you think she’s with her UNCC pals?”
“Probably.” Now with the smile gone.
“Do you have an issue with them?”
“I’ve met some of that group. Once, briefly, when they came to pick Ruthie up.”
“And?”
“Mostly they seemed geeky, but harmless.”
“Mostly? Sensing there was something Katy wasn’t saying.
“I don’t know. I got a weird vibe from a couple of them.”
Before I could poke at that, she added,
“I know Ruthie’s precocious and funny and smarter than fuck. But these guys are grad students. Why would they hang with a seventeen-year-old kid?”