Guilt

CHAPTER 12

The woman was late twenties to early thirties, dark-haired, medium height, slightly heavy at arms, hips, and ankles. She lay on her right side, the front part of her body shaded by shrubbery. Her dress, short-sleeved and knee-length, was patterned in a pale green mini-paisley with old-fashioned cap sleeves.

One leg rested atop the other, a position that almost resembled peaceful sleep. No disruption of clothing, no obvious sexual posing, but Milo pointed out faint pink rings around her wrists that were probably the residuals of being bound.

A rubber-soled brown loafer encased her right foot. Its mate lay a couple of feet away to the north. Her hair was trimmed short enough to expose the nape of her neck. The bullet hole was a red-black mini-crater at the junction of cranium and spine.

A single shot, fired at close enough range to leave light stippling, entering the medulla oblongata and cutting off the respiratory functions marshaled by the lower brain.

What the papers like to call execution-style, but there are all sorts of ways to execute someone and what this wound and the wrist marks said was a killer in total control leaving nothing to chance.

The two uniforms guarding the scene said she’d been spotted by a jogger. Her bare foot, clean and white amid the greenery, had been the attention-getter.

No jogger in sight. Milo didn’t comment on that as he explored the edges of the scene.

Even without her foot protruding, the woman would’ve been noticed soon enough. This part of the park was relatively secluded but could be reached by any number of pathways or a simple walk across rolling lawn, followed by a brief pass through a planting of gum trees. The jogging trail was a well-worn rut that paralleled the park’s southern border. Where the body lay, the trail veered especially close, maybe three feet away.

Intending for her to be found? A methodical killer eager to show off?

Milo kept looking at the woman. I forced myself to do the same. Her mouth was agape, eyes half open, filmed like those of a hooked fish left too long on deck. Crusts of dried blood leaked from her ears, nose, and mouth. That and the size of the bullet hole said a small-caliber slug had bounced around her brain like a pinball.

No purse, no jewelry, no I.D. Whatever bare skin was visible was free of tattoos, scars, distinguishing marks.

I spotted additional blood speckling dirt, leaves, a rock. No need to point it out; Milo crouched like a silverback gorilla, examining one of the larger splotches.

He moved to a spot just north of the woman’s legs and pointed. A broken chain of footprints appeared to lead up to the body. A second series pointed in the opposite direction.

Large, deep impressions for both. The same person, a heavyweight. The tracks revealed none of the corrugations you’d see with an athletic shoe or a hiking boot, just your smooth heel-sole imprint lacking trademark or label or idiosyncrasy.

Both sets of prints vanished as soil gave way to grass. Tough park turf had sprung back hours ago, concealing the killer’s entrance and exit.

Milo circled a couple more times, wrote something down in his pad, showed me a pair of depressions in the grass, slightly to the left of the corpse.

Shallow indentations, as if two weighted bowls had been placed there. Easy to miss but hard to ignore once you saw them. The resilient lawn had tried but failed to mask them completely.

I said, “On her knees.”

“Has to be,” he said. “Then he shot her and she fell over.”

“Or was pushed.”

“No bruising or dirt on her face.”

“He could’ve cleaned her off before he arranged her.”

“You think she looks posed? He didn’t put that other shoe on.”

“It was dark, maybe he didn’t notice.”

He crouched, took out his flashlight despite ample sun, aimed the beam between her teeth.

Victim on her knees, check for oral rape.

I said, “Anything?”

“No obvious fluid but I am seeing little white specks on her gums.”

He showed me.

I said, “Looks like fabric. Bound and gagged.”

He waved the uniforms over. Both were young, male, clean-featured, with gym-rat swaggers. One was sandy-haired and freckled, the other had a dark buzz cut and suspicious brown eyes.

“You guys check for casings?”

Sandy said, “We did, sir, nothing.”

Milo did his own search, took his time but came up empty-handed. Careful shooter or a revolver.

The uniforms had returned to their original positions. He waved them back. “Who called it in?”

“Like we said, the jogger,” said Sandy. “A girl.”

“Where is she?”

Buzz said, “We got her information and let her go home. Here you go, sir.”

Milo took the paper. “Heather Goldfeder.”

Sandy said, “She lives just a few blocks away. With her parents.”

“We talking a minor?”

“Barely a major, sir. Eighteen last month, she was pretty traumatized.”

“Who made the judgment to let her go?”

The cops looked at each other. Buzz said, “Sir, it was a joint decision. She’s maybe five two, hundred pounds, so she’s obviously not the offender.”

Milo said, “Teeny toon.”

“Student at SMC, sir. She was really distraught.”

Milo said, “Thanks for the psychological profile.”

“Sir,” said Buzz, “she told us she runs here three times a week, never saw your victim before. Ever.”

Sandy said, “Sir, if we did something wrong by letting her go, we’re sorry. She was totally emotional, we made the judgment that babysitting her would distract our attention away from what needed to be done.”

“Which was?”

“Securing the scene, sir.”

Milo ushered me several yards away. “Everyone’s a damn therapist. So what does a real shrink have to say about this one being connected to the new bones?”

I said, “Two bodies in the park, same approximate time?”

He nodded. “So what do we have, Mommy and Baby?”

“If so, Baby died first. Days or weeks or months ago.”

“Maybe Mommy got blamed for that by Daddy?”

“That would be a good place to start.”

“On the other hand, if Daddy’s so devoted, why would he dump his kid’s bones?”

I thought about that. “We could be talking about someone with serious psychiatric issues-paranoia, an active delusional system that got kicked up by the baby’s death. That could also explain the bones being preserved. He elevated them to an object of worship-some sort of icon. It also fits with leaving them in the park on the night he killed the person he deems responsible. This is what she did, this is what I did to her.”

“Some nutter de-fleshing his own kid’s skeleton? What’s next, he walks into traffic with an AK?”

“Delusional doesn’t have to mean a raving lunatic,” I said. “There’s nothing disordered about the woman’s murder, so you could be dealing with someone who keeps it under wraps pretty well.”

“Till he doesn’t.” He phoned Reed, found out the coroner’s investigator had arrived, done a quick visual, authorized Liz to take possession of the bones, and left. The crime scene techs were doing their thing but had turned up nothing, so far.

Returning to Sandy and Buzz, he said, “We’re heading back to the other scene. You stay here.”

“How is that one, sir?” said Sandy.

“What do you mean?”

“The other scene. We heard bones over the radio. Whose?”

“Someone dead.”

Sandy flinched.

Buzz said, “They have something to do with each other? Have to be, no?”

Milo rocked on his heels. He spoke between clenched jaws. “Here’s what has to be: Guard this scene as if it was your best set of barbells. Don’t let anyone but the C.I. and the C.S. crew within fifty yards of the body-make that a hundred. Stand right there. Don’t wander off. Don’t answer any questions. Of any sort. From anyone. At any time. If you’re considering thinking, don’t do that, either.”

Buzz stood straighter. “Sir. We’re all about proper procedure.”

Milo saved his laughter until we were well away. Not a pleasant sound, quick and harsh as a gunshot.

Liz Wilkinson stood just outside the perimeter of the bone-dump. A team of three crime scene techs had nailed up an inner cordon on stakes, was photographing, bagging and tagging. Moe Reed stood near enough to observe, far enough to avoid getting in their way.

Liz said, “Got some new data for you. The front of the face exhibits no breakage or damage of any sort. No erupted teeth on either jaw, the buds are barely visible, I’m estimating age at around two months. And Alex, you were right about the bones being coated. When I got up close I could smell beeswax, it’s got a distinct aroma. My father collects antique tea caddies and he uses it to shine them up. So maybe we’re dealing with another type of collector. Some sort of fetishist.”

Milo repeated the enraged-father theory.

She said, “A father preserving his own child’s bones?” She looked at me.

I said, “You know the drill: Anything’s possible.”

“God, I hope that’s not how it turns out. These past few days are already testing my detachment mettle.”

“If there were faint tool marks could they be spotted under the wax?”

“I think so but I’ll find out when I get them magnified. I’ll x-ray every single one, maybe we’ll get lucky and internal damage due to disease will show up, or a subtle injury. The nice thing-God, that sounds horrible-is that fresh infant skeletal remains have the best chance of yielding genetic material.”

Milo said, “Fresh, as opposed to the first ones.”

“DNA’s been extracted from eons-old tissue so I’m guardedly optimistic on those, as well.”

“That like nervously calm?”

She grinned. “Kind of. Anyway, Mommy and Baby should be easy enough to verify.”

“Good,” said Milo. “I like answers.”