Spider Bones

SATURDAY MORNING PRODUCED ANOTHER IMMACULATE BLUE sky. Again meteorologists were promising eighty degrees.

Three spring beauties back-to-back. Perhaps a Montreal record.

LaManche called around nine. A courtesy, not required. I like that about him.

The chief’s autopsy findings were as I expected. Other than slight atherosclerotic disease, Lowery had no preexisting medical conditions. No traumatic lesions. Some pulmonary edema. A blood alcohol level of 132mg/100 ml.

Cause of death was asphyxia due to oxygen deprivation. Manner was accidental, in the context of autoerotic activity.

By ten Ryan and I were zipping south toward Hemmingford. His mood was upbeat. A rocking Friday night? Light traffic? Too many doughnuts? I didn’t pursue it.

I did ask the length of Laurier/Lowery’s residence at the address to which we were heading. Ryan said a very long time.

Given that, I queried Laurier/Lowery’s ability to stay off the grid. Ryan relayed a complex story of lax rental agreements and changing proprietorship. Bottom line, when the last landlord died without heirs, Laurier/Lowery simply stayed on. Instead of paying rent, he paid taxes and utilities in the deceased owner’s name. Or some such scheme.

The conversation turned to Jean Laurier/John Lowery’s unfortunate demise. How could we resist?

“So Lowery got his kink on bundling in plastic, going deep, and beating off in a pond.” Ryan’s tone was tinged with distaste.

“Dressed as a nurse.”

“Apparently he changed in the canoe. The duffel contained jeans, socks, sneakers, and a shirt.”

“Must take good balancing skills.”

“It also contained a flashlight.”

“Suggesting he went to the pond at night.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Ryan shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s the kick?”

Having no life, I’d done research the evening before, learned that the term autoerotic refers to any solitary sexual activity in which a prop, device, or apparatus is used to enhance sexual stimulation. I knew Ryan was fully aware of this.

“Most autoerotic activity takes place in the home,” I said.

“Gee. Why would that be?”

“Death is usually due to the failure of a preestablished escape mechanism.”

“Lowery probably lost his snorkel, then panicked and dropped the knife he was using to cut himself free.”

“That’s LaManche’s take. And it’s plausible. Most autoerotic deaths are accidental. The person chokes or smothers, due to hanging, or the use of a ligature or plastic bag. Also in the mix are electrocution, foreign-body insertion, overdressing, or body wrapping.”

“Body wrapping?”

“A plastic bag over the head is fairly common, body wrapping less so. Last night I read about a sixty-year-old man found rolled in fourteen sewn blankets, his penis wrapped in a plastic bag. A forty-six-year-old man was discovered wearing seven pairs of stockings, a dress, and ladies’ undies cut to allow Mr. Happy a front-row seat. A twenty-three-year-old schoolteacher died sporting a plastic mackintosh, three cotton skirts, a raincoat, and a plastic—”

“I get the picture. But what’s the point?”

“Heightened sexual excitement.”

Two killer blues swung my way. “I can think of better routes to that end.”

Oh, could he. I felt myself blush. Hated it. Focused on what I’d learned the night before.

“Autoerotic arousal derives from a limited number of mechanisms.” I ticked points off on a hand. “One, direct stimulation of the erotic regions.” My thumb moved to middleman. “Two, stimulation of the sexual centers of the central nervous system.”

“As in strangulation or hanging.”

“Or the use of a head covering. It’s well known that cerebral hypoxia can heighten sexual pleasure.”

My thumb went to ring man.

“Three, creation of fear and distress in the context of a masochistic fantasy. Spice things up with electrocution or immersion, for example.”

“Weenie-whacking submerged can’t be all that common.”

“There’s actually a term for it. Aqua-eroticum. I found a few cases reported in the literature. One victim used an ankle rock, just like Lowery.”

Ryan turned onto Highway 219. We passed the pond, and a few minutes later pulled to the shoulder beside a mailbox with the number 572 hand-painted on one side. An SQ cruiser was already there.

Ryan and I studied the house.

Laurier/Lowery’s small bungalow was set back from the road and partially obscured by a thick stand of pine. Green frame. One story. Small storage shed attached on the right.

As we walked up the gravel drive, I noted freshly painted trim and neatly stacked wood. A large garden in back appeared recently plowed.

Catching movement through a window, I turned to Ryan. He saw it too.

“Bandau better not be pulling more of his Lone Ranger bullshit.”

The outer door stood open, its frame gouged and splintered at the level of the knob. Ryan and I entered directly into a living room sparsely furnished with what looked like Salvation Army castoffs. Bandau was in it. Hearing footsteps, he turned.

At Bandau’s back was a desk holding a MacBook Pro that appeared fairly new. Its cover was open.

“Not jumping the gun again, are we, Agent?” Ryan’s smile was icy.

“No, sir.”

“You entered ahead of the warrant.”

“Just securing the scene.”

“Let’s hope that’s true.”

Bandau offered nothing in defense or apology.

Ryan and I moved methodically, unsure what we were seeking.

In the kitchen cabinets were chipped tableware, cleaning products, supermarket shelf goods, and enough home-canned produce to outlast the next coming.

The refrigerator offered the normal array of condiments, dairy products, lunch meat, and bread. No caviar. No capers. No French bottled water.

A plate, glass, and utensils stood drying in a green plastic dish rack. A half-empty bottle of Scotch sat on one counter.

The bath, like the kitchen, was surprisingly clean. Over-the-counter meds and personal products in the medicine cabinet. Cheap shampoo and soap in the shower.

The bedroom was equally unremarkable. Double bed with gray wool blanket, pillow, no coverlet. Side table with lamp, clock radio, and lubricating eye drops. Wooden dresser containing boxers and tees, one striped tie, a half dozen pairs of rolled socks, all black.

The closet was the size of a mailbox. Jeans and shirts. Black polyester pants. One bad sports jacket, tan corduroy.

On the floor were two and a half pairs of boots, one pair of oxfords, and one pair of sandals, the kind with tire treads for soles.

The overhead shelf held stacked magazines.

Ryan pulled and scoped a couple. “Hell-o.”

I read the titles. Tit Man. Butt Man.

“The guy’s flexible,” I said.

Ryan chose another. Lollypop Girls. The lead story was headlined Park It in My Panties. I tried to decipher that literary gem. Gave up. The request made no sense.

I looked at Ryan. His eyes were doing that scrunchy thing. I knew a panty suggestion was coming my way.

“Decorum, sir.”

“Hither we yonder to fair computer?” Ryan asked demurely.

“Hither is not a verb.”

“Let us forth, flaxen-haired maiden.”

My eye roll may have attained a personal best.

“I yield to my lady’s superior skills.”

“Thank you.”

“And to her unclean undies.” Whispered.

Smacking Ryan’s arm, I hithered to the desk.

Bandau continued staring out the window, feet wide, elbows winging, hands clasped behind his back.

“No phone,” I said. “No cables. Did Laurier have an ISP account?”

“Meaning?”

“Internet Service Provider. Like Videotron or Bell.”

“Not that I found record of.”

The Mac whirred to life, asked for a password. I tried PASSWORD. 123456. ABCDEF. Various combinations of Jean and Laurier. Laurier’s address and street name. All of the above jumbled, reversed.

No go.

LOWERY.

Nope.

YREWOL.

I took the initials JCR and converted them to number positions within the alphabet. 100318. Flipped the sequence. 813001. Reversed the initials to RCJ. 180310. Flipped that. 013081.

Still the little cursor defied me.

Picturing a phone, I tried the digits associated with the letters LOWERY, 569379.

I was in.

When the computer was fully booted, I checked a fan-shaped icon on the far right of the toolbar. Three stripes. I clicked on it.

“He pirated signal from the neighbors.” I pointed to a network code name. Fife.

“Can he do that?”

“The Fifes probably use their phone number as their password. A lot of folks do. Laurier knew or looked it up. Or maybe he asked permission. Anyway, once the password is entered, the computer remembers and automatically selects that network. The Fifes can’t be far away. The signal’s weak but sufficient.”

As Ryan jotted the name Fife in his spiral, I noted applications.

Standard Mac stuff. Numbers. Mail. Safari. iCal.

Laurier/Lowery had stored no spreadsheets or documents. He’d entered no contacts into the address book, no appointments into the calendar.

“He didn’t use e-mail,” I said. “Or iTunes, iPhoto, iMovie, iDVD.”

“I see.”

Another eye roll. “Let’s check what he found amusing on the net.”

I launched Safari and pulled up the browsing history.

In the past two weeks the user had researched mulch and fertilizer, corn hybrids, scuba diving, hypoxia, poison ivy, copper wire, roofing tiles, North American squirrels, Quebec dentists, and a variety of vitamins.

“A site called robesoniandotcom was visited six times,” I said.

Ryan leaned close. He smelled of male sweat and a “Don’t worry, be happy, mon” cologne. Bay rum, I think.

The flaxen-haired maiden felt a tingle in her southern parts. She managed to stay focused.

Robesonian.com was an online newspaper for Lumberton, the county seat of Robeson County, North Carolina.

“Hot damn,” Ryan said, close to my ear.

Back to the surfing log. In moments I’d spotted additional telling activity.

Laurier/Lowery had visited dozens of sites designed for and by American draft dodgers of the Vietnam era. CBC archive pieces. Coverage of a 2006 draft dodger reunion in Vancouver. A site devoted to an exile community in Toronto. A University of British Columbia page titled Vietnam War Resisters in Canada.

“That nails it.” Ryan straightened. “Lowery left Lumberton for Canada to avoid service in Vietnam. He’s been living the straight life as Jean Laurier ever since.”

“Straight except for one quirk.” I indicated several Web addresses. Love Yourself and Tell. Hard Soloing. Ramrod’s Self-Bondage Page.

“Pick one,” I said.

Ryan pointed.

Ramrod’s blog featured two stories.

A Baptist minister was found dead, alone in his Arkansas home, wearing a wet suit, face mask, diving gloves, and slippers. Underneath the outerwear were a second rubberized suit with suspenders, rubberized male underwear, and bondage gear constructed of nylon and leather. The reverend’s anus featured a condom-covered dildo.

A Kansas plumber hanged himself from a showerhead with his wife’s leather belt. The gentleman survived to tell the tale. In vivid detail.

Ramrod’s home page had a colorful sidebar encouraging visitors into his chat room. Ryan and I declined the invitation.

Shutting down the computer, I began casually rummaging in the desk. What more did we need? Jean Laurier of Hemmingford, Quebec, was clearly John Charles Lowery, a Vietnam draft dodger from Lumberton, North Carolina.

The top drawer was a jumble of rubber bands, paper clips, tape, pens, and pencils. The upper side drawer held lined tablets, envelopes, and two pairs of drugstore reading glasses.

I could hear Ryan behind me, lifting couch pillows and opening cabinets.

The lower side drawer contained computer paraphernalia, including headphones, keyboard brushes, cables, and AC adapter plugs. In closing it, I jostled a white corner into view from below a mouse pad.

Lifting the pad, I discovered a four-by-six white rectangle. On it were written a name and date. Spider, April 7, 1967.

I teased the thing free and flipped it.

The snapshot was black-and-white. Cracked and creased, it looked every bit of forty years old.

The subject was a teenage boy leaning against a fifties Chevy, ankles crossed, arms folded. He had dark hair and eyes, and heavy brows that curved the upper rims of his orbits. He wore jeans and a tee with rolled sleeves. His smile could have lighted the state of Montana.

“Check this out.”

Ryan joined me. I handed him the picture.

“Looks like Lowery,” Ryan said.

“The name Spider is written on the back.”

Ryan studied the photo, then returned it to me.

I stared at Lowery’s face. So young and unspoiled.

Other images flashed in my brain. Water-bloated features. Algae-slimed plastic. A soggy nurse’s cap.

“We’re done here,” Ryan said.

“Take these?” My gesture took in the photo and the Mac.

Ryan’s gaze went to Bandau, then to the gouged front door.

He nodded. “The warrant covers it.”

I couldn’t have known. But that photo would dog me for many days across many, many miles.

And nearly get me killed.