Chapter Twenty-Seven
We bring the man’s body up from under the clinic. April puts out her sign for patients to knock and then locks both the front and back door. We don’t want anyone bursting in for a bandage and seeing a dead stranger.
Dalton cares for Rory while April and I examine the man again. As we do, I tell my sister about the possible connection between Blake and Mark—the original mine owner. Yes, as Dalton said, I don’t need a reason to reexamine the victim, but I don’t want my sister thinking I’m being “silly.”
Old wounds will always be sensitive, and part of me will always need her approval.
She agrees that we seem to have a link. As for how it connects to this dead man, she’s not convinced that it does.
If Blake is here for the mine, then it’s unlikely our dead guy is their companion.
As Petra pointed out, a trio of spies doesn’t make sense.
Whatever the connection, if Gretchen is telling the truth about hearing two men in the burial clearing, then I believe someone at the mining operation killed him.
After an hour of examining the body, I sit back, pull my gloves off, and rub my hands over my face. “There’s no chip, is there? Not an existing one. Not a removed one.”
“Doesn’t mean he couldn’t be from the mining operation,” Dalton says. He’s on the floor with Rory, stacking blocks for her to knock over. “A new hire. Management. Visitor.”
“I know. I just keep thinking the tracker could be there. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack. One tiny mark on a human body. But since we know the others were implanted in the shoulders, looking for it elsewhere feels like a wild-goose chase.”
“The mark is not ‘tiny,’” April says.
I clamp back a frustrated growl. “You know what I mean. It’s small. Very small.”
“But I still believe we’d see it.”
Dalton scoops up Rory as she makes a mad scramble for Storm, sleeping on the floor. When he lifts her onto his shoulder, she immediately grabs for his hair … which works far better with me and she grunts in frustration when she can’t get enough.
“Have you checked under his hair?” Dalton asks.
“We’ve searched his hairline,” I say. “And the tops of his ears. We also shaved off his beard.”
“I could shave his head,” April says.
I sigh. “At this point, we’d just be making extra work for ourselves.”
“Shave it,” Dalton says. “Let’s be sure.”
I want to argue, but April already has the scissors. I shake my head and start looking for the clippers.
“Good job, Rory,” Dalton says, patting the baby’s back as she wriggles to get free. “You’re going to be a fine detective.”
“You’re the one who suggested looking under his hair,” April says, frowning.
“But it was Rory’s idea. I just interpreted the clue.”
I peer at the dead man’s scalp. The quarter-inch cut we uncovered is exactly the right size for extracting a tiny chip.
At some point, the mining operation must have realized the danger of inserting them all in the shoulder—eventually one of the employees would notice.
There’s also a reason this man’s was implanted in his scalp. Because, when he’d come to work for them, he was likely bald.
In our initial examination, we’d noticed what seemed like an old scalp tattoo, as we’d searched for signs of a contusion. Now that his hair is gone, we can see the tattoo in full, along with two smaller and newer ones.
“I don’t understand those,” Dalton says. “I mean, I understand tattoos in general. Body art. If you’re bald, you might put them on your scalp. Also easy to cover up if you don’t like them later. But those are ugly as fuck.”
He’s right. One is a cross made from two simple lines. Another is three hatches. The largest is a very crudely drawn symbol that looks like a rune.
“These aren’t meant to be art,” I say. “Like Will’s, they can be symbolic.”
“Will’s tattoo shows he was an American soldier,” April says.
“Yes. I very strongly suspect this big one”—I point to the rune—“also signifies membership in a group. But definitely not the army.”
“Do you recognize it?” April asks.
“No, but I recognize the very basic style. I also recognize the way they were all done.” I glance over at Dalton. “They’re prison tattoos.”
“Which means we have a chance of identifying this guy,” he says.
“We just might.”
We have two more identifiers, as well. The fingers on the man’s right hand show arthritis that an X-ray reveals as two poorly healed bone breaks. He’s also had dental work that, again, was badly done.
We’d noted these things in our first postmortem exam, but since they hadn’t been a cause of death, we’d only filed them away. On their own, they wouldn’t identify our victim. Together with those tattoos, they might. He has several scars, too. We send all that information to émilie.
“So he’s from the mining camp,” I say as I sit with Rory while Dalton helps April tidy up. “While he could be a guard, I’m going to guess he’s a miner.”
“Because of the prison tattoos,” April says. “He would be unfit for law enforcement.”
I make a face. “Being an ex-con doesn’t make you unfit for security work.
I believe in rehabilitation, even if our prison system doesn’t always seem to.
The rune tattoo suggests he was part of a prison gang, possibly white supremacy, which sadly doesn’t rule out security work.
But the mining operation is so security conscious that, yes, I don’t think they’re hiring ex-cons as guards. ”
“But they’d hire them as workers?”
“Good point. If I were running a mining operation up here, ex-cons wouldn’t be my first choice.
There’s a security risk plus an increased risk of violence in an isolated community.
But we’re talking potentially hard physical labor in less than ideal conditions.
Including ex-cons would widen your pool.
I’d just be sure to not hire anyone convicted of violent offenses. ”
“Former prisoners might actually make good miners,” Dalton says. “They’re accustomed to harsh conditions and hard work, right?”
I nod. “Yes, some countries allow penal labor, and it can be hard work under harsh conditions with a regimented routine. Okay, forget what I said earlier. As long as they weren’t convicted of violent crimes, I can see why they’d be hired.
Ex-cons might be more likely to accept the conditions, and their employment options are limited.
The mine could take advantage of that and underpay them. ”
“It’d also explain the extra guards,” Dalton says. “And the chipping.”
“Yes and yes. Okay, so our victim is likely a miner. Either they specifically hire ex-cons or they just don’t mind hiring them. That would actually fit our former experience with the camp.”
“The pedophile.”
I scoop up Rory. “Rogers knew the guy’s background.
He understandably thought it didn’t matter in an area without children.
He also warned us about his workers, said they could be a rough bunch, and he didn’t like the idea of there being women and children nearby.
That would fit with a camp of ex-cons. Let’s—”
Someone bangs at the outside door. April takes off her apron and folds it. Then she slips out, shutting the door behind her. From the next room, I hear Arturo’s voice.
“Someone watched her go in there this morning, and no one’s seen her since, so she must still be in there.”
“My sister is busy with a case,” April says. “She is not on duty. Nor am I.”
“So no one cares what’s happening out here? The rest of us are stuck on lockdown, getting cabin fever but obeying the rules, and Muriel is allowed to do as she pleases.”
I groan and rest my head against Dalton’s shoulder.
Outside, Arturo continues, “She isn’t just breaking curfew. She’s in the forest, where she’s not supposed to be at any time, but who cares about the rules? She wanted an early-morning walk.”
Dalton shakes his head, but I go still. Then I pass Rory to him and open the door.
“You said Muriel was in the forest? Early this morning?”
“No, yesterday morning.”
I murmur to April, “May I take him into your office?”
She nods, and I usher Arturo in.
Arturo and I talk in April’s office, which also serves as a room for patients who need to sleep over. I’ve given Arturo the desk chair, while I lean against the bed.
“Muriel was out early yesterday,” I say. “In the woods.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You also said that no one cared. Who did you mention this to?”
He shifts, some of the belligerence leaving his voice. “I just found out this morning.”
“So you didn’t personally see her come out of the forest yesterday?”
“Someone else did, and I’m not giving you his name because he doesn’t want to start trouble.
We were talking about the lockdown, what a pain in the ass it is, and he said he saw Muriel come out of the forest around dawn.
He was at his window, looking out, because, you know, we’re all bored shitless and we can’t leave our rooms until eight thirty.
He felt like he should tell someone—for security reasons—but worried that it sounded like snitching.
He asked my opinion. I said I’d pass it along. ”
“If I can’t get the name of the person who witnessed it, I’m going to need all the details from you. Exactly what time it was. Where she was seen. Even what she was wearing or how she was acting. Can you get that from him?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a notepad. “I have it all here.”
Arturo reminds me of those nosy neighbors that everyone hates …
everyone except cops. Well, no, cops do hate them when they’re reporting nuisances, but when an actual crime happens in a residential neighborhood, that’s who you want to talk to.
The stereotypical little old lady with her binoculars and notebook.
She’s a pain in the ass … until her testimony catches the person who has been breaking into nearby homes.
Those nosy neighbors might tell themselves they’re keeping the street safe, but most times, they’re just looking to judge others.
Likewise here, as useful as Arturo’s information is, he isn’t trying to help.
He’s only feeding a grudge. But he also just handed me a major clue, one that I hope I’d have figured out when my brain had time to rest and ruminate.
We knew Muriel had been going into the forest. She’d admitted it, and while she was breaking the rules, her explanation was plausible, and supported by evidence.
She was an introvert who needed alone time, and her stowed backpack proved it.
She’d readily agreed to not do it again, and so I’d dropped the matter, especially since we had far more pressing issues.
But yesterday morning, we heard a woman in the forest. A woman talking to a man. After we found Gretchen in the area, it seemed to have been her. Sure, she claimed she was nearby because she also heard the voices, but I hadn’t been completely convinced of that.
Once I had time to rest, I would have come back to this and—I hope—put two and two together. Who did we hear? Maybe the woman who’d admitted to being in the forest alone before her early-morning shifts.
Except, if that was Muriel, she wasn’t alone.