Hounded To Death

CHAPTER 16

The blue-gray smoke from a true Montecristo—Cuban, not Dominican—curled overhead. Ben Sidell, not much of a smoker, treated himself to a special cigar every time he came back from the morgue. Viewing bodies in various conditions of decay or freshly ripped apart by violence was part of his job, but not a part he relished. How the coroner and his assistants adjusted to the stench amazed him. Even the odor of old death that had lingered in the work boot offended him, made his eyes water. So once back outside he lit up, inhaled, closed his eyes, and considered the problem.

One problem, not immediately apparent, was smoking a contraband cigar. He slipped the paper cigar ring off the dark-golden-leaf wrapper, dropping it in his pocket. Ever since he was a kid he had saved cigar bands.

When Sister called him that morning, he’d immediately driven out, taking a rookie with him. Along with Sister, Shaker, and Tootie, they scoured Hangman’s Ridge. The chiggers feasted on the poor rookie, a suburban boy who didn’t know that one had to smear oneself with insect repellant to thwart the tiny little irritants. Once the chigger burrowed in your flesh, no amount of digging, applying alcohol to the tiny pinprick site, or cursing removed the insect. And the scars from scratching—for there was no way to stop scratching—stayed for months.

After fighting through undergrowth and sweating like pigs, they found nothing—apart from the chiggers dropping off cedars—not even an eyelet from the chewed-off part of the boot.

After that exercise in futility, Ben returned to his desk at headquarters, blissfully air-conditioned, to pore over the file of missing persons reports from the last six months that his staff had assembled while he was on Hangman’s Ridge. Most of those gone missing had been found, including a few older people who had wandered off from home, minds gone and families not able to afford full-time care; Ben studied these reports to see if, of those who had perished, the bodies were all intact. Yes.

After two hours of examining every detail, he slapped the folder shut. The coroner had estimated the age of the remains at three months. Decay accelerated in heat and humidity; even though pieces of foot remained in the toe box of the boot, the death and apparent dismemberment weren’t recent.

That ruled out Grant Fuller. Although the businessman disappeared in Loudoun County, at Sister’s request, Ben bore that in mind. Both knew the foot was older than Grant’s disappearance but this was Sister’s way of saying, “One thing can lead to another.” When the coroner called him he was happy to leave his desk. Now sitting in the squad car, air conditioner humming along with the motor, his curiosity grew stronger. Sure, it was possible that an animal dug up a shallow grave, breaking up the body. But how far would a marauder carry the gains?

He punched in the familiar number.

“Hello?” Sister Jane replied.

“Sister, dogs eat carrion. Do foxes, raccoons, or possums?”

“I don’t think foxes prefer carrion, but if times are hard they’ll eat it. They’re omnivorous, as we are. Raccoons and possums aren’t much interested. Any of the flesh-eating birds will gobble carrion. It’s like candy to them.”

“Such as.”

“Crows are the most obvious. A cardinal wants seeds.”

“Bigger game.”

“Bobcat and bear?”

“Right. I’m wondering how far this foot walked, so to speak. Obviously an animal drug it.”

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you mean?”

“A human could have dropped it.” She couldn’t help herself. “Sheer carelessness.”

He laughed. “Maybe he was putting his best foot forward.”

“That’s really bad.”

“Hey, you need gallows humor in this job.”

“You sure need it on Hangman’s Ridge.” She stopped and thought. “Bears prefer sweets and berries. A bear tearing a human apart and carrying it around is pretty far-fetched. A mountain lion would hide meat in a cache. You’ve seen the caches foxes build? Well, the mountain lion’s is bigger.”

“Would a mountain lion eat carrion?”

“Cats don’t like it.”

“But you said that mountain lions, foxes, and bobcats build caches. The meat rots.”

“Yes, it does decay, but it’s different because it’s covered. Kind of like a primitive crock pot. These animals return to their caches only if they can’t get a fresh kill. It’s not their preferred food, like it is for vultures, say.”

“You don’t think any of those animals would carry a foot a long distance from the rest of the body?”

“No. I don’t think a coyote would either, and we know we’ve got them in this area. If a fox, coyote, bobcat, or mountain lion had torn apart a body, the farthest from Hangman’s Ridge it could happen would be two miles.”

“Lot of territory to cover.”

“Yes, but I live here. I’d have seen the spiral of buzzards. And if I didn’t, Cindy Chandler would, because Foxglove Farm is on the other side of Soldier Road.” Sister took a breath. “Wait a minute. There is an animal with a huge foraging range that will gladly eat carrion and anything else.”

“What?”

“A feral pig. Their usual hunting territory is ten square miles, but fifty is not uncommon if times are hard, and this is a drought summer.”

“If anyone would know about feral pigs, it’s you.”

Sister had nearly been killed by a boar during a hunt. “That boar, the sow, and her piglets are probably still around over by Paradise. It’s remote, much of it wild, so they’re undisturbed. That doesn’t mean there’s a body over there. It only means that’s where we encountered the boar. Could a boar or a sow have traveled here? Sure, but if the animal came by the kennels, we’d know it.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t come through After All.” Ben named the Bancroft farm. “There are three other ways up Hangman’s Ridge apart from your farm.”

“Then I think the thing to do is to call the Bancrofts and Cindy. As for the fourth way up Hangman’s Ridge, the south face, it’s mostly sheer rock with a narrow deer path. I’ll check for tracks. That’s all anyone can do at this point; given the drought and the dust, we’ll be damned lucky to get one print. There weren’t any on the ridge, because I looked.”

He stubbed out his cigar. “Just for the hell of it, after I call around I’m going out to Paradise.”

“Wait until dawn.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons. First, dawn is feeding time for the day animals, and the night animals are coming home; they can tell you a great deal. The second reason is dew on the grass. If there’s any hint of a depression, on a track or dirt road, we might see it then. Also, on the meadows, you’ll see the slick spots where animals have walked. It’s not as good as a clear track, but it gives you a sense of the size of the animal and the direction it’s traveling. That’s something.”

“Do you have a shotgun?” Ben asked.

“I do.” She anticipated his next remark. “Better to bring a long-barreled forty-five, though. I don’t have one but if you do, wear it. We’ll be traveling through heavy brush in some spots and a shotgun, which is heavy anyway, will just slow us down. I’ll bring my thirty-eight. Do you mind if Tootie comes?”

“No.”

“She’s got sharp eyes.”

“I’ll meet you at the gate of Paradise at five in the morning.”

“I look forward to greeting the dawn with you.”

“God knows what else we’ll greet.”