Blood Vines

CHAPTER TWO

Friday, February 12

11:45 A.M.

While Tanner called in reinforcements, Reed studied the infant’s remains. The tiny body was partly skeletonized and partly mummified, intact save for head, feet and hands. The skeletonized hands and feet had disarticulated. The skull, he decided, may have dislodged in the excavation process. It lay in three pieces.

He sat back on his heels. True mummification took place when a corpse dried out. The fleshy tissue shrank to the bones, becoming leathery and brown like beef jerky. This was different. The body had saponified, becoming what was affectionately referred to as a soap mummy.

Reed peeled away the plastic, taking in the contents of the homemade coffin. Whoever had buried the infant had taken a good bit of care. The child had been wrapped in a blanket-pieces of the mostly decomposed fabric clung to the remains-then enfolded, envelope style, in plastic sheeting.

He frowned. The plastic and the depth of the grave, from what he could tell a good four feet, had probably been an attempt to prevent scavengers or regular vineyard maintenance from unearthing the victim. If not for the phylloxera infestation, this little victim would still be buried.

Tanner returned. “Anthropologist is on his way. A new kid. And Cal.”

“California” Cal. One of the other CSI detectives. Terminally cool, he bought into the whole Hollywood interpretation of the job. At least when it came to his closet.

Reed grinned. “I’ll have to see if I can help him get his Cole Haans dirty.”

“Bet you five bucks, you can’t.”

“You’re on.” He motioned to the victim. “What’re you thinking so far?”

“This wasn’t a case of SIDS, that’s for certain. Look here.” She indicated the pieces of skull. Two of the pieces showed signs of blunt force trauma. “I don’t think there’s any doubt what killed this child. Poor little thing.”

Reed looked at his partner. “How long have you lived in the valley, Tanner?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Ever heard the name Dylan Sommer?”

She thought a moment, then shook her head. “Any relation to Sommer Winery?”

“Yeah. Dylan Sommer was the owner’s son. He was abducted from their home back in ’85.”

Reed returned his gaze to the gruesome remains. “It was a huge deal around here. It challenged the valley’s notion about safety. The possible and impossible. The kid was nabbed from his own bed while his two sisters, one of them a teenager, slept right across the hall. Everybody figured it was a kidnapping, but no ransom request ever arrived. He was never found.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “You’re thinking this could be him.”

“Yes.”

“This might not even be a-”

“Boy’s remains? I think it is. Check it out.” He pointed. Trapped in a still taped fold of the plastic was a pacifier. A blue one.

“My God.” She sat back on her heels. “Doesn’t mean it’s Dylan Sommer.”

“True. But we’ve got a male infant buried in a wine crate on land not far from the family’s winery.”

She drew her eyebrows together. “The parents weren’t suspects?”

“No. Among other things, they had an airtight alibi.”

“Which was?”

“They were having dinner with their best friends. My parents.”