Flesh and Bone: A Body Farm Novel

CHAPTER 31

IT WAS 4 A.M., and I was so exhausted my entire body seemed to be humming like a high-voltage power line. DeVriess and I had been cooling our heels for two hours in the same KPD interview room where I’d already spent several hours earlier today. Only “today” had blurred into “yesterday.” Or “tomorrow” had smeared into “today.” It was as if I were trapped in a nightmare from which there was no waking. I imagined Rod Serling’s metallic voice narrating how even the most respectable life could unravel in a heartbeat…here…in the Twilight Zone.

Finally the door banged open and Evers walked in carry ing a file folder. He was still wearing the same outfit he’d worn eighteen hours ago-so was I, for that matter-but the starch had gone out of his shirt, and the man himself looked as rumpled and tired as his clothes did.

He went through the usual routine with the tape recorder, then said, “Tell me about the sheets. Whose blood is that on the sheets? Whose pan ties are those?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but my guess is, Jess Carter’s.”

“The blood, or the pan ties?”

“Both, I suspect. Again, I’m just guessing, but I’d say they’re probably from the same person. And my guess is they’re from Jess.”

“You say you guess they’re hers. Do you know they’re hers?”

“No, I don’t. But I do know that somebody killed Jess and put her body at my research facility, and I know that somebody put bloody sheets on my bed. Adding those two things together, I figure somebody’s trying mighty hard to make me look guilty.”

“Any idea why somebody might want to do that?”

“I’ve helped put a lot of people behind bars,” I said. “Could be somebody just got out of prison and wants to get even with me. Jess has helped-Jess had helped-put a lot of people behind bars, too. Could be somebody wanted to kill Jess, and I just happen to be a convenient scapegoat. Maybe Mrs. Willis, who attacked Jess in my office. Maybe Jess’s ex-husband. Maybe somebody from that creationist group-whoever threatened Jess last week and threw a rock through my window today.”

“So what you’re saying is, people are lining up to frame you for murder, is that right, Dr. Brockton? The whole world’s out to get you?”

DeVriess spoke up. “Detective, you asked my client why somebody might want to make him look guilty. He has given you a reasonable answer to that question. If you’re going to start browbeating him, we’re out of here.”

Evers sighed like a long-suffering saint. “All right, tell me the exact sequence of events when you arrived home this evening. Last night, rather.” I did. “Where did you sleep the night before-the night after Dr. Carter’s body was discovered?”

“At home. In my bed.”

“On those sheets?”

“I don’t know. The sheets I slept on two nights ago weren’t bloody. I don’t know if somebody replaced those with a bloody set sometime after that, or if somebody smeared blood on those same sheets after I slept on them.” I thought of something. “That blood didn’t look completely dry to me, Detective. Some of it was still bright red. If Dr. Carter was killed in my bed sometime Saturday or Sunday, the blood would have been dry and brown by Monday night.”

“That’s a good point, Detective,” DeVriess chimed in.

“Not necessarily,” said Evers. “That’s a heavy bedspread. Thick enough to keep in the moisture for days. I’ve seen that happen before.” Evers opened the file folder and pulled out a form I recognized as an autopsy report. I also recognized Garland Hamilton’s handwriting on it. “Dr. Brockton, do you own a handgun?”

“No. I’ve never felt the need to have one. The director of the TBI tried to issue me one once, but I turned it down. When I’m working at a crime scene, I’m usually down on my hands and knees, my butt in the air and my nose to the ground. I wouldn’t see somebody sneaking up on me in time to shoot them. Besides, I’m usually surrounded by armed police officers.”

“What about for protection at home?”

“A lot of people end up getting shot with their own guns. Don’t have one, never have, don’t expect I ever will.”

“So when we search your house-and we’ll have that search warrant within the hour-you’re saying there’s no chance we’ll find the gun that killed Dr. Carter.”

A horrible thought occurred to me, and it must have occurred to DeVriess at the same moment. “Don’t answer that,” he said. “You don’t know what else might have been planted in your home besides that blood.”

“Are you saying we might find other incriminating evidence in your home?”

“Detective, my client can’t speculate about what may or may not have been planted in the house in his absence. If we’re down to hypothetical and rhetorical questions, I think maybe it’s time for us all to go home and get some sleep.”

“Fine, counselor,” he said, “you can go on home. But Dr. Brockton? You can’t. Your house is still secured as a probable crime scene. And we now have a signature on a search warrant.”

“So where am I supposed to go?”

“Not my problem, Doc,” he said. “Just don’t go far.”

I didn’t. As DeVriess and I walked out the front door of KPD for the third time in less than twenty-four hours, I realized that not only did I have no place to go, I had no way to get there. “Damn,” I said. “They’ve stranded me again.”

DeVriess shook his head. “Those bastards. You know they realize they’re doing that. Just one more way to wear you down. You want me to take you to a hotel?” He pointed toward the bluff above the river, where the stepped-pyramid wedge of the Marriott reared against the skyline like some TVA hydroelectric dam that had missed its mark by a quarter mile. “Hell, let’s get you a room there.”

I shook my head. “I’m tired of being in other people’s space,” I said. “You’re going to think I’m nuts, but would you be willing to drop me at my office over at the stadium? I’ve got an old sofa in there that I’ve spent the last twenty years breaking in. I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather try to sleep right now than on that sofa, surrounded by my skeletal collection.”

He laughed. “You’re right, Doc,” he said. “I do think you’re nuts. But come on, I’ll drop you off.”

There was no mistaking which of the handful of cars in the KPD parking lot was Burt’s. Parked beneath one of the sodium vapor lights was a gleaming black Bentley. It looked like what you’d get if you mated a Jaguar with a Rolls-Royce, and I suspected it was worth nearly as much as my house. The seats were upholstered in a butter-soft leather of silvery gray, and the dash was covered in what looked like burl oak, which I could tell, even in the dimness of the night, was not plastic. The door swung shut on what felt like jeweled bearings, and when the engine started, I could barely hear it, but what I heard sounded big and softly powerful. Burt pulled out of the lot and turned onto Hill Avenue, taking the same arched bridge I had crossed on foot a few hours before, on my way to hire him. Crossing the bridge in the Bentley, though, was like cruising in a luxury yacht.

I guided DeVriess through the labyrinthine route along the base of the stadium to the end-zone gate where a stairwell led to my office. Besides my pickup and UT maintenance trucks, few vehicles ever threaded this single lane of asphalt snaking among the girders and pilings; I was quite sure this was the first Bentley to do so, and probably the last. By the time the car stopped, I was half asleep in the leather.

“You want me to make sure you get in all right?” DeVriess asked.

I thanked him but refused. “I’ll be fine,” I said. It wasn’t true-I was far from fine-but getting safely inside wasn’t going to be the problem. It was being inside, and alone, that had me worried, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to fix that.

As I unlocked my office and walked inside, I caught a fleeting glimpse out the window of expensive taillights disappearing into the labyrinth. And then it was dark, and I was alone. Pausing only long enough to step into my small bathroom and pee, then take off my shoes, I crawled onto the battered sofa beneath the bank of dirty windows. Even as I laid my head on the soiled armrest, I felt myself spiraling down into blackness.