Without Mercy (Body Farm 10)

To give the agents their due, most mornings—weekdays—I was in my truck when I picked up the latest edition of the News-Sentinel. Pausing at the end of the driveway, I would open the door, lean out—hanging practically upside down to snag the paper, like some modern-day cowboy leaning from his saddle—and snag the plastic bag, giving it a vigorous shake to remove most of the morning’s dew before straightening up, tossing the paper on the passenger seat, and closing the door. Then I would turn onto my street, make my way to Cherokee Boulevard, and wind along the foggy Tennessee River, an FBI car behind me, as the street curved uphill, away from the water, and toward the main artery of Kingston Pike. A mile east on Kingston Pike, I’d take a right onto Neyland Drive, following the river once more, wondering if the agent behind me was able to take in the beauty of the wispy fog spooling downstream, the herons wading and flying along the shore, the occasional tree trunk gliding along like some ghost ship or botanical submarine, its periscopic branches peering out from the secret emerald depths.

But today was Saturday, so I did not need to head to campus at daybreak. Today, I could relax at home—not that relaxing was something that came easily these days. And not that being at home was any great treat, either. Home was merely where I slept—or where I mostly failed to sleep, these days.

Today’s newspaper was half buried in the leaves—maples, mainly, though with a fair number of tulip poplar and a smattering of Bradford pear—that had accumulated over the past several weeks. The leaves had gotten so deep that it was difficult to tell where my driveway left off and my lawn began. It must be annoying to be my neighbors, I amended. I glanced skyward, saw abundant blue through the scattering of stubborn leaves still clinging to branches. The day was bright and crisp; cool, but not cold. A perfect day to rake.

I ventured across the street, approaching the unmarked car that screamed “law enforcement,” and the tinted window slid down. “Good morning,” I said.

“Morning,” replied the agent, a clean-cut, close-cropped, strapping young man I didn’t recognize.

“I’m Bill Brockton,” I said, offering my hand.

“Travis Joyner,” he said, reaching across his chest to give me the requisite manly vise grip.

“Thank you for watching my back,” I said. “My front and sides, too. I suspect this isn’t the most interesting assignment, but I appreciate you.”

“All part of the job,” he said, a study in politeness and impenetrability, as if his personality was wearing reflective sunglasses.

“Can I bring you anything? Coffee? Tea? A bowl of oatmeal?”

“No, sir, I’m fine. Thanks just the same.”

“Well, if you need anything—water, a restroom, whatever—just knock.”

“Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

So y’all are trained to hold your pee? I considered asking, but he didn’t strike me as a guy who’d see the humor in the question. “All right, then. Oh, I’m thinking about raking up some of these leaves, so the city doesn’t decide my property’s abandoned. That’s okay, right? It’s not a big risk for me to rake leaves, is it?”

“Rake away,” he said. “You just pretend I’m not here.”

“Right. Of course. I didn’t even know it was you till you rolled down the window. Have a good one.”

I turned back toward the leaf-covered driveway—I knew it lay just to the left of the mailbox—and I noticed that the mailbox was open, and a large manila envelope was curled inside. Strange: I had collected Friday’s mail when I arrived home that evening, and it was far too early for the Saturday mail delivery. I pulled the envelope from the mailbox and looked it over. No return address; no address of any kind, in fact, not even mine. I felt a surge of fear—I’d once received a sinister missive from Satterfield in this way—but I fought back, scolding myself for being paranoid.

I strolled back to the FBI agent’s sedan, and the window slid down again. “Agent Joyner, did you see who dropped this off?”

He nodded. “A kid on a skateboard—nine or ten, maybe. Friendly. Waved at me, but didn’t talk. Turned at that next corner.”

I felt relieved. Something from a neighbor, then—an American Cancer Society fund-raising packet? A sheaf of petitions protesting my lackadaisical lawn care? It wasn’t even sealed; simply held closed by the two thin tabs of the metal clasp, like the delicate wings of a damsel fly. I folded them upward, side by side—wing to wing—and raised the envelope’s flap.

Inside was a quarter-inch sheaf of papers. Photographs. I smiled as soon as I saw the first one: Tyler on the soccer field, his right leg extended in a powerful kick, the ball—distorted by the kick and blurred by speed—streaking out of one corner of the frame. The second one, of Walker, was fun but not remarkable; it showed him behind the wheel of their minivan, leaning out the open window, checking the half inch of clearance between the vehicle and the mailbox. The third one showed Jenny, kneeling in the yard, her face intent as she planted pansies along their front sidewalk.

I took out my cell phone and called Jeff. “Hey, thanks for the pictures,” I said when he answered. “But who was the delivery boy?”

“What pictures?”

“This packet of pictures in my mailbox,” I said. “The boys and Jenny. They’re from you, right?” His silence spoke volumes, and every page of every volume terrified me. “They’re not from you,” I said, needlessly. Cradling the phone with my shoulder, I began leafing through the pictures, and with each picture—each increasingly intimate, invasive, voyeuristic image—I felt my revulsion and panic rising. As I neared the bottom of the sheaf, I came to a series that showed each member of my family in close-up, and on each face was superimposed the crosshairs of a rifle scope. The final four images were identical, with one addition: each face was smeared with what appeared to be blood.

“Dad? Dad!” Faintly, from far away, I heard Jeff shouting, his voice tinny and distorted by the cell phone’s minuscule speaker.

“Y’all keep together, Jeff,” I told him. “Stay close to home. Tell your security detail that Satterfield’s circling. I’ll call Price, tell her we need reinforcements.”

“Shit,” he said. “Shit shit shit.”

My sentiments exactly.

CHAPTER 33

WHEN IT RAINS, SOMETIMES IT ONLY POURS. SOMETIMES, though, you need an ark.

“Doc, it’s Bubba,” Meffert’s voice drawled in my ear. “How’s it going?”

“Been better, Bubba. I just found out that Satterfield’s stalking my family.”

A pause. “Damn, Doc. I’m sorry to hear that. Really, really sorry. You got security?”

“Some. Not enough. I just got off the phone with Agent Price, at the FBI. I’ve asked her to assign more agents to us, but I’m not sure she can. Meanwhile, it feels like we’re swimming around in a fishbowl while a hungry tiger circles, planning his menu.” I desperately wanted to change the subject. “How’re you doing? Better news on your end, I hope?”

“It’s been an interesting twenty-four hours,” he said. “But ‘better’? I wouldn’t necessarily put it that way.”

“Crap,” I said. “Spill it, Bubba. What’s happening?”

“Tilden Stubbs is dead. Single gunshot to the head. Could be suicide, could be homicide.”

“Christ. Time of death?”

“Judging by the stink and the bugs, it’s been a while. The M.E. called in an entomologist to look at the maggots, figure out how long ago they hatched.”

“What’d he say?”

“She, actually. She took some samples back to her lab—some alive and wiggling, some that she put in a kill jar—”

“Sounds lik

e she knows what she’s doing,” I said. “She’ll study the dead ones under a microscope to get a better idea how developed they are, and she’ll let the live ones complete their life cycle and pupate into adult flies. That helps pin down how long ago they hatched from eggs. Generally, it takes about fourteen days to go from egg to fly.”

“Yeah, that’s just about how she explained it, too,” he said. “Based on her first look, she thinks he was killed five to seven days ago.”

I did some quick math. “Right about the time Shiflett was killed. That doesn’t shed much light.”

“Try this,” said Meffert. “Satterfield kills Shiflett for stealing his idea about the bear—I think Brubaker’s right about that—and then Stubbs finds out about the murder. Stubbs feels guilty—after all, he’s the one who introduced Shiflett to his cellmate Satterfield, right? So Stubbs starts drinking, and the more he drinks, the worse he feels. Finally he decides he’s a sorry sumbitch who doesn’t deserve to live. Puts a gun to his head and offs himself. You buy it?”

“I don’t,” I said. “Stubbs? Killing himself out of remorse? Guys like that don’t feel remorse, Bubba. Guys like that don’t shoot themselves. Guys like that shoot other people. Guys like that blame anybody but themselves when things go wrong.” I felt a surprising head of steam building inside me. “Guys like that think they shouldn’t have to pay taxes, even though they want good roads and a strong military and a well-trained fire department and plenty of Border Patrol agents. Guys like that think it’s your fault if they break their hand by punching you in the face. Guys like that—” I stopped, because I could hear that I was getting spun up, loud and angry. “Sorry, Bubba,” I said. “I tried it, and I guess I don’t buy it.”

He gave a brief laugh. “Yeah, I was starting to get the picture. Okay, so if it’s not suicide, it’s homicide. Shiflett, or Satterfield?”

“Satterfield, of course.”

“Why not Shiflett? Maybe Shiflett shot Stubbs over some kinda disagreement, and then Satterfield went after Shiflett ’cause Shiflett had killed his buddy.”