Secrets to the Grave

3

Vince excused himself from the kitchen, made a beeline for the designated tree, and threw up. He had looked at every kind of horror during his career with the Bureau. His life’s work was the study of murderers. He had spent three years traveling the country from one maximum-security prison to the next, interviewing men who had committed some of the most horrific crimes in the history of mankind as the Bureau gathered information and ammunition to aid in the hunt of human predators. He had stood over crime scenes, one bloodier and more depraved than the next. He’d seen so many bodies in so many states of decay, he had learned long ago not to attach that visual to any emotion other than disgust for the crime.

It wasn’t the visual that got to him.

It was the bullet in his head.

He’d been living with it now for a year and a half, and had grown familiar with the tricks it liked to play on him. The pain ebbed and flowed. Sometimes it was like a thunderstorm contained in his skull. Sometimes it was a dragon sleeping just under the surface.

There were no medical texts in which a list could be found of side effects to having a .22 caliber bullet in one’s head. Seeing as the great majority of people didn’t survive the experience of being shot at nearly point-blank range, anecdotal information was hard to come by. Vince’s own doctors usually had only one thing to say when he would tell them about his symptoms: huh.

One of the stranger side effects was the sudden heightening of senses. Sometimes his vision would become so acute, color so saturated, the light so bright, his eyeballs would ache. Sometimes the smallest sounds would be so amplified in his head he would cringe. Sometimes—now—his sense of smell became so sensitive, every molecule of scent seemed swollen, so full he could literally taste them.

It wasn’t the visual that got to him today. It was the smell.

Like any dead creature, the body of Marissa Fordham had begun its inglorious process of decomposition. Nature was without mercy or modesty. There were no exceptions to the rules. The business of death was dealt with in a no-nonsense, practical matter. Once the heart ceased to pump blood, systems shut down and chemical changes began the process of reducing the highest being on the food chain to food for other creatures.

It didn’t take long. Especially in the warm weather they’d been experiencing. Absent a soul, the eyes glaze over and flatten, the skin loses color, the body’s temperature begins to drop. As if summoned, the blowflies come, laying their eggs in the wounds and orifices. A couple of hours after the last breath, rigor mortis begins in the jaw and neck, slowly spreading through the body. Bacteria rampaging through the abdomen cause gases to form, causing bloating, and the smell begins to gain strength.

It was the smell that got him today.

Vince dug a pack of Doublemint gum out of his pocket, unwrapped two sticks, and began to chew the taste of vomit out of his mouth.

He felt a little weak, a little dizzy. He had no time for either. To clear his head he thought about his bride of five months burrowing under the covers of their bed as he had dressed to leave for this crime scene. A warm sense of calm washed over him and he smiled a little at what a lucky son of a bitch he really was.

“You want to talk to the neighbor?”

Mendez had come out the kitchen door. He took a deep breath of the cool morning air, clearing his head of the stench of violent death. The yard around the house was scattered with pots of geraniums and marigolds and garden herbs. Vince took a deep breath of his own.

Mid-thirties, sharp and ambitious, Mendez had been a good candidate for the Bureau. That had been half of Vince’s goal when he had first come to Oak Knoll to help with the See-No-Evil murders the year before—to recruit Mendez. With some further education and experience, he would have made it to the Investigative Support Unit—the field side of Behavioral Sciences. He had shown a strong interest and talent for the job during his time at the National Academy. But See-No-Evil had consumed the young detective—as it had Vince. Mendez was still working it, trying to help the DA build as tight a case as possible against the man who had murdered at least three local women—and in Vince’s opinion, probably more.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Where is he?”

They went around to the front of the house where Bill Hicks sat on a porch bench, forearms resting on his thighs as he talked to the man who had called in the crime. Tall, lanky, red-haired, Hicks was a cowboy in his free time. He was good in an interview, had an easygoing way about him that helped take the edge off in an otherwise tense situation.

Hicks looked up and allowed himself a lazy smile. “Hey, Vince. Good to see you. How’s married life?”

Vince took a seat on an old painted metal chair. “Great. How you doing, Bill?”

“No complaints.” Hicks tipped his head in the direction of the neighbor. “Vince, this is Mr. Zahn. Mr. Zahn, unfortunately, made the discovery this morning.”

Vince reached out to the man sitting beside Hicks on the bench. Zahn stared at his hand for a moment before looking up. His face was strangely blank.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a hushed, breathy voice. He clasped his hands together on his lap but couldn’t keep them still, wringing one over the other again and again. “I don’t shake hands. I’m ... a ... I have a problem with that. I’m terribly sorry.”

Zahn was maybe in his late thirties or early forties, but prematurely gray. His hair stood out around his head like a soft cloud. His face was long and narrow with sharp angles, his eyes wide, pale, translucent green, and vacant in the way of someone looking inward at a terrible memory.

“My condolences on your loss,” Vince offered softly. “I assume Ms. Fordham was a friend—you stopping by so early and all.”

“Yes,” Zahn said. “Marissa and I were friends.”

“Why so early?” Mendez asked. He stood, leaning back against a post, his arms crossed.

Too blunt, Vince thought. This was where his protégé lacked finesse. Zahn was already nervous. He almost flinched at the tone of the detective’s voice.

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” Zahn said. “Marissa is always up early. She likes the early light.”

“You’ve been friends for a long time?” Vince asked.

“As long as she’s been here. As long as I’ve been here. Four years?” he asked, as if Vince would know.

“Maybe you can help us then, Mr. Zahn,” Vince suggested. “What can you tell us about Ms. Fordham? Was she married? Divorced?”

“Single. She was single.”

“What about her little girl?”

“Haley. Please tell me Haley isn’t dead,” Zahn pleaded. “I couldn’t stand it if Haley was injured or dead.”

“She’s been taken to the hospital,” Vince assured him. “She isn’t dead.”

“Oh my God. Thank God.”

“What about Haley’s father? Is he ever around?”

“I don’t know him. I don’t know who he is. Marissa was very private.”

“Do you know if she has any family in the area?”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “They were estranged. She never spoke of them.”

“Do you know where she was from?”

“The East Coast, I think. From a good family, I’m sure.”

“Mr. Zahn—”

“Call me Zander, please. Alex-zander. I’ve always gone by Zander. That’s what people call me. Please call me that.”

“All right. Zander. I’m Vince. This is Tony,” he said, hooking a thumb in the direction of Mendez. “You already know Bill.”

“Vince and Tony,” Zahn murmured, wringing his hands. “Vince and Tony.”

“Do you know if Ms. Fordham was having trouble with anyone?” Mendez asked. “Had anyone been bothering her lately? Was she afraid of anyone?”

“Marissa was never afraid. She didn’t believe in fear. She embraced life. Every day. She had the most courageous spirit I’ve ever known.”

When he spoke of his deceased friend Zahn’s face took on a beatific, rapturous glow, as if he had seen an angel.

“Do you know of anyone who might have posed a threat to her?” Mendez asked.

“Detractors of her art,” Zahn said. “Detractors of her art threatened her creativity.”

“I meant more of a physical threat,” Mendez corrected himself.

Points for patience on that one, Vince thought. Zahn couldn’t seem to give a straight answer. The guy was socially off, his manner of speaking peculiar and often repetitive. He didn’t like to make eye contact, but once he made it, he went into a stare. A fascinating study if they hadn’t needed answers to jump-start a murder investigation.

Zahn looked away. “No,” he said, but Vince thought he didn’t mean it.

“Marissa was an artist?” Vince asked.

“Oh, yes. You didn’t know her? She was quite well-known. I’m surprised you didn’t know of her.”

“I’m new to the area,” Vince explained.

Zahn nodded. “Quite well-known. She was.”

“What do you do for a living, Zander?”

He seemed to think about his answer before saying, “I’m an artist as well. My life is my art.”

“You like the early morning light too,” Vince said, smiling like an old friend.

“Yes. I also meditate. I meditate very early. And then I come to see Marissa and Haley. We drink mimosas. Not Haley, of course,” he hastened to add. “Marissa is an excellent mother.”

“But this morning no mimosas,” Vince said. “Tell us your story, Zander. How you came here, what you saw along the way.”

“My story,” Zahn said, rolling the concept around in his labyrinth mind. He liked it. “I meditated until five twenty-three and then I walked here.”

“Where do you live?” Mendez asked.

“Over the hill. Off Dyer Canyon Road.”

“That’s a long walk.”

“I enjoy walking.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary as you approached the house?” Mendez asked.

“Not at all. It was quite dark.”

“What happened when you got here?”

“I went to the kitchen door. It was open, as always. I called out to Marissa. There was no coffee on. I couldn’t smell the coffee, but something else ... And then I saw them.”

Zahn stood up so abruptly they all startled.

“I’m finished telling my story now. I can’t tell this story,” he said, agitated, rubbing his palms hard against his thighs, as if trying to wipe off something greasy. “I’ll be leaving now. I have to go. This is very disturbing. I’m so disturbed by this.”

Vince rose slowly from his chair and put a hand out toward Zahn, as if to steady him, but very careful not to touch him.

“It’s all right, Zander. You’ve had a terrible shock,” he said quietly. “Someone here can drive you home. We’ll talk more another time.”

“I’m very disturbed,” Zahn said. “I would prefer to walk, thank you. Good-bye.”

They watched him cross the yard on his way to the path he had come on. He walked very quickly, his arms straight down at his sides as if bound to him.

“He’s disturbed,” Vince said.

Mendez rolled his eyes. “I’ll say.”