“I’ll be sure to send a memo.”
“Do that.”
Most didn’t understand that cops could be so casual in the face of death. But it was that very distance mingled with dark humor that kept the horrors they witnessed at bay. “We’ve got bones stacked. Neatly arranged. I need anything you can find around the area that might help.”
Paulie squinted. “There should be footprints. The ground is soft from yesterday’s rain.” He glanced at the crowd around the scene’s perimeter. “But God only knows how many of them traipsed around here and contaminated the area.”
“That’s why you were called, my friend,” Garrison said. “You are the miracle worker.”
“Don’t blow smoke up my ass.” Paulie raised his digital camera and snapped photos of the area. “Now get out of my crime scene.”
“Charming as always,” Malcolm said.
“Bite me.”
Garrison laughed. “So what’s got you more pissed off than usual, Paulie?”
“It’s fucking freezing out here. And because of those damn robberies and because Lorraine Marcus is still on maternity leave, I had to leave a hot dinner, which is now likely cold.”
Malcolm laid his palm over his heart. “Stop, you’re going to make me cry.”
Paulie muttered something under his breath as Malcolm stepped aside to let the man shoot pictures of the bone collection.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Malcolm wished now he’d grabbed an energy bar from the trunk of his car. It had been about three hours since he’d eaten, and it was going to be a long night.
As Paulie continued to snap pictures, Malcolm pulled his notebook from his back pocket and flipped it open. Paulie would document the scene in great detail, but Malcolm always kept his own maps of a crime scene. And he took notes constantly, knowing one day a detail could come back to bite him when some courtroom defense attorney was chewing on his ass. “I’m going to talk to the cop first so he can get out of here. The kids can wait.”
“Take your time,” Garrison said. “It’ll be a while before Paulie is finished doing his thing.”
Malcolm pushed through the uniforms and found the cop and his dog, a German shepherd, sitting on the tailgate of a red truck. The cop was dressed in jeans and a worn hunting jacket. He had short hair and a thick mustache. He smoked a cigarette. The dog lay in the bed of the truck on a blanket, sleeping, as if crime scenes held no interest.
When the off-duty cop saw Malcolm coming he took one last pull on the butt, and then ground it into the tailgate of his truck. “So you got questions?”
Malcolm extended his hand. “More than I can count. I’m Malcolm Kier.”
He shook his hand. “From Richmond.”
“Nice to see I’m noticed.”
“It’s a big small town in Alexandria. I’m Grant McCabe. I work narcotics.”
“Hell of a way to end an evening.”
“Tell me about it.” The cop’s shoulders slumped as if carrying the heavy weight of fatigue. “Shoot.”
“Give me the basics.”
“Arrived about seven p.m. I’d been on the job since seven a.m. but couldn’t break away until after six. Had to babysit a teen drug addict at the emergency room. Picked her up near a crack house I had staked out. Anyway, got home, changed fast, and took Striker out for a run. He’s a good guy, and I can take him off the lead most nights. Tonight, he paused just as we entered the park: then he bolted past the play equipment. Figured it was a squirrel. Since he’s old and retired, there’s something about October that makes Striker a little nuts. It was the kids hovering around the shelter.”
“Were they looking at the table or arranging bones on the table?”
“Looking. Their arms were folded over their chests. They sounded excited. Agitated. Scared even.”
That could or could not mean something. Killers often got scared when the reality of their act settled. “Keep going.”
“So, I call out and ask what’s what. They don’t answer but take off. I go bolting after them, cussing like a sailor. Striker raced past me. He stopped them. When I catch up, the kids are about to piss in their pants. I tell Striker to heel. The old dog looked mighty proud of himself. Long story short I show them my badge and drag them back to the shelter. Striker starts barking like a crazy dog.”
The shepherd glanced up at McCabe, his head cocked. McCabe scratched him between the ears. “So, I shine my flashlight on the table. That’s when I saw your victim.”
His victim. In less than a half hour he’d gone from vacation to taking charge of a dead body. “You called it in.”
“Right away.”
“See anything?”
“Your partner already ran through the checklist. No, I didn’t see anything. No cars in the lot. No one hanging around the woods. No creepy sounds or smells. It was business as usual until Striker got a whiff of the bones.”
“Thanks, McCabe.” He wrote down the officer’s contact information. “Why don’t you take off? If I need you, I know where to find you.”
McCabe rose gingerly to his feet as if his body ached. “Swear to God, my bones are telling me it’s going to be an early winter.”
“Man, you’re too young to be creaking.”
McCabe laughed. “Rugby in high school and in college. Beat the piss out of me.”
Striker jumped down from the bed and trotted to the driver’s side of the truck.
“See you around, Kier.”
“Sure thing, McCabe.”
While Malcolm waited for Sommers to finish up his work at the scene, he moved to the trunk of his car and got a few energy bars. They could hardly be considered cuisine, but they’d stave off the hunger until he could get a real meal.
It was past one in the morning when Sommers declared that the bones could be removed from the table and transferred to a bag. He’d photographed the entire area, noted the location of the bones, and taken impressions of shoe imprints in the dirt.
Paulie moved toward them, his thin sh
oulders stooped. “I called the medical examiner and ran this one past her. She should be here any minute.”
Malcolm raised a brow. The medical examiner, Dr. Amanda Henson, rarely came to crime scenes. It didn’t make sense for her to visit each and every murder scene when she had so much to tackle in the autopsy room.
But this case had to rank high on her odd-o-meter, and she would be curious. And frankly he didn’t mind the arrival of the big guns because he never said no to help on a murder investigation.
Dr. Henson’s black SUV pulled up behind the police cars. She slid out from behind the driver’s seat. Her red hair was tucked up under a Nationals ball cap, and she wore a large peacoat over jeans. Worn sneakers covered her feet.
She moved quickly, efficiently with a burst of energy that didn’t seem right at this time of night. She ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and held out her hand to Garrison, Malcolm, and Paulie. Her handshake was firm and quick. Her hands were small, delicate even, and her nails neatly trimmed. Malcolm had seen those nimble fingers play guitar at the lab’s Christmas party last year and grip bolt cutters as she snapped rib cages apart during autopsies.
“Gentlemen. Paulie tells me you have an unusual case here.” She never raised her voice, but that didn’t diminish the authority.
“All we got right now are bones,” Malcolm said.
“Have a look at the pictures.” Paulie pulled the camera strap from around his neck and switched his digital camera to VIEW.
She squinted, clicked through several images, and then handed the camera back to Paulie. “Bones in the body bag now?”
“That they are,” Malcolm said.
She nodded, moved past him, and as she pulled on gloves she glanced into the body bag. Gently, she picked up a bone and under the glare of the floodlight studied it. A frown wrinkled her brow.
“So what are you thinking, Doc?” Malcolm asked.
“How long were the bones exposed to the elements?” she asked.
“The kids said they came through the park yesterday. Seems this shelter is their favorite meeting spot,” Garrison said. “This is where they exchange drugs and money. Anyway, no bones yesterday.”