The First Victim

CHAPTER 23

Lou Boldt and John LaMoia stood over the black, open mouth of the cemetery grave, looked down inside and took in the sight. The victim was an Asian female-Chinese. She was naked. Her toes, breasts and dirt-covered face protruded from the mud and sand that had been washed away by overnight downpours that continued intermittently. Her head was shaved. Boldt felt the familiar twinge that any contact with death delivered.

She had been deposited into a hole in the ground that had been dug for a casket. Someone had hoped that casket would be lowered down on top of this woman, burying her forever in anonymity.

LaMoia won every officer’s attention as he shouted orders. Boldt couldn’t take his eyes off the woman in the grave. ‘‘Where the hell is SID? Enlarge the perimeter tape to include the entire cemetery. I want the statement of the gravedigger who found her. I want somebody to get Stevie McNeal up here nice and quiet like. And I don’t want another word of this going out over the radio. Got it?’’ Boldt turned to face LaMoia, and said in a normal voice, ‘‘Why is she so pale? Does she look right to you?’’

LaMoia called out sharply to a pair of uniforms, ‘‘Somebody find a tarp! Let’s get a curtain up that the cameras can’t see past. Anyone not wearing gloves is going to be writing traffic tickets ’til Christmas.’’ That sent them scurrying.

When Doc Dixon arrived a few minutes later, he was helped down into the hole. Boldt gave him only a matter of seconds before asking, ‘‘How long has she been dead?’’

Dixon’s low, sullen voice did not transmit well outside. ‘‘Give me a minute, would you?’’

‘‘Does she look right to you?’’ Boldt asked.

Dixon wore a windbreaker, gray flannels damp from the knees down, and a pair of ‘‘lab walkers’’-leather shoes with overly thick rubber soles. ‘‘They never look right to me. Give me a minute,’’ he repeated.

‘‘She’s too pale,’’ Boldt repeated for his colleagues. ‘‘And her breasts are all black around the nipple-What’s that about?’’

Dixon was rarely terse with Boldt, but he snapped, ‘‘If you don’t mind?’’

He let Dixon work the victim until he finally called up out of the hole, ‘‘Soles of her feet like elephant skin. I’m guessing she’s early twenties. Left ankle shows signs of ligatures.’’

Daphne Matthews arrived. The team. . Boldt thought. She wore an ankle-length trench coat and carried an open umbrella. She came and stood alongside Boldt, and as always, he noticed how strikingly handsome she was.

‘‘Zoo’s here!’’ a patrolman shouted from the distance, warning of the arrival of the media. The rain fell harder.

‘‘Maintain that crime line!’’ LaMoia shouted. ‘‘No one crosses except McNeal.’’

Down in the hole, Dixon talked into a dictation device held in his meaty right hand to screen the rain.

LaMoia asked Boldt quietly, ‘‘What’s she doing buried here like this?’’

Boldt answered, ‘‘Hiding.’’ He looked up at the sea of headstones.

Daphne picked up on this. ‘‘If there’s one, there may be others.’’

LaMoia gasped, ‘‘More of ’em?’’

‘‘Visitor!’’ a patrolman shouted, indicating an umbrella approaching.

‘‘McNeal,’’ LaMoia said.

Daphne complained, ‘‘Since when is graveside identification procedure? This is hardly fair to her. Did anyone think about her?’’

‘‘This was my call,’’ Boldt said.

She reminded them, ‘‘The corpse should be cleaned up and presented on the other side of the glass in the morgue. That is procedure. A body found down in a muddy hole?’’

‘‘She’s a reporter,’’ LaMoia said. ‘‘She can handle it.’’

‘‘Punish the press? Is that the idea?’’

‘‘The idea,’’ Boldt said, ‘‘is to know what and whom we are dealing with, just as quickly as we can.’’

Daphne hurried to intercept the approaching woman. ‘‘Listen,’’ she said, unable to slow down McNeal, ‘‘we can do this downtown in a couple of hours. It doesn’t have to be now. . like this. There’s a lot of mud. The face. . it’s not that visible anyway.’’

McNeal nodded, but kept walking toward the grave.

‘‘You’re protecting me?’’ Stevie asked. ‘‘From what?’’

‘‘It’s an awful sight. If it is your friend. . this reporter. . ’’

‘‘Then I’ve got to know,’’ Stevie said. She stopped short of the others and crossed her arms. ‘‘Thank you,’’ Stevie whispered to Daphne. They met eyes and Daphne understood she was going to go through with it.

Stevie stepped up to the grave. LaMoia introduced her to Boldt who said, ‘‘Sorry for any inconvenience caused by the location.’’

Stevie glanced at him, as yet unable to face the body down in that grave.

‘‘I’ve heard about you for years,’’ she said from under the umbrella.

‘‘Not all bad, I hope,’’ Boldt returned.

She hesitated and said, ‘‘No, not all.’’ She then inched toward the grave’s edge, her shoes sinking into the mud, dirt and gravel. She looked straight ahead for a moment, her eyes brimming with tears. She pinched her eyes shut, hung her head, and then opened her eyes slowly, her expression controlled and impassive.

‘‘It’s not her,’’ she said, exhaling in a long sigh. She turned and walked away. ‘‘Not her,’’ she repeated for all to hear.