Absolute Instinct (18 page)

“
The possibility that Asa's book set him off... that would upset Asa, I can tell you.”

“
Why the bastard needs a crocodile-sized bone God alone knows!”

She said, “Something to fuck, something to cuddle with in bed, something to take walks with, who knows what goes through the minds of these fucked freaks that can do this kind of thing to another human being.”

“
More likely it's like you said. He's extracting the bone marrow and cannibalizing it.”

Propped on her elbow on the bedspread, she replied, “I said that? Oh, yeah... least that'd be my guess if I dared venture one. Possibly thinks it gives him some magical power or eternal life or some such nonsense.” She flashed on the crime-scene photo showing the charcoal sketch Louisa Childe clutched in a closed right hand fist. Another photo showed that the fingertips of her left hand had all been removed. Removed by the killer himself. These had been recovered, unlike the backbone.

“
Tell me again what was in the picture Louisa Childe had clutched in her hand.”

He let go of the door and moved a few steps back into the darkened room. Darwin's skin glistened here in the room as if it came alive in the dark. “A charcoal drawing depicting the victim—”

“
Right... feeding birds in a park.”

“
Not just any park, but the one directly across from her apartment, one she frequented. Three other drawings of the park and the birds had also been left clumsily tacked to the walls.”

“
That's some con to run... quite a segue way into a woman's apartment.”

“
And Minnesota authorities believe the butcher did the artwork.”

“
Was it a good likeness?”

“
Good likeness?”

“
Did he do his subject justice. Did it look like her, you know, a decent job?”

“
From what I gather, it was quite good, along with the other prints found tacked to the walls—all determined to've been done by the same artist.”

“
Strange... strange he would leave such a calling card. Especially in so rural an environment. People there could recognize the hand at work.”

“
Unfortunately, that hasn't happened.”

“
How much time does Robert Towne have before they drop the acid?”

“
Forty-eight hours, and nothing I've been able to do has had the slightest effect on authorities and the governor there, including our field office in Oregon.”

“
Do you know the governor? What kind of a guy is he? Can you get cooperation?”

“
He's a cowboy and an asshole. He's made up his mind, and why not? He has the entire fucking state, along with all of Portland, behind him.”

“
Tell me more about Towne and his wife.”

“
They were estranged, had enjoyed a long separation. He had no motive to kill her. No insurance, no kid problems, no alimony, no motive. The brainless cowboys out there just want a show, and he's the main attraction. Apparently, she was some sort of sainted beauty queen and cheerleader once, so the media had no problem creating a beast out of him.”

“
And now Joyce Olsen in your town.”

“
Under my nose.”

“
Is that your personal interest in this, why you're so passionate about it? That it happened on your watch?”

He hesitated a moment. “Damn straight it is.”

She thought for a moment she should read something into his hesitancy and his reply, but she was too foggy and fatigued now to try. “Get out. Tomorrow is another day. G'night...”

# # #

Millbrook, Minnesota 5:16 A.M.

All of Millbrook, Minnesota, slept. Her quaint tree-lined streets silent save for the Sunbeam bread truck, the milkman's van making its predawn rounds, a farmer going door to door with fresh eggs. A place out of time, Richard thought as the car he and Brannan rode in rushed past disinterested raccoons that'd gotten into garbage back of the Millbrook Diner. The animals simultaneously rummaged, fed and fended off a barking dog barring its teeth at the family of four. Noticing Richard's interest in the raccoons, Dan Brannan said, “Little ones are cute as hell.”

They followed two cars turning onto a back road out of town that took them trundling across a wooden covered bridge over a stream called Paintbrush Creek on a green sign. Ahead of them in the lead car, now wending its way toward their dubious destination, was the cemetery caretaker who doubled as the small city's undertaker for The French and Parker Arrangement Center—a euphemism for a euphemism—what Sharpe learned was the new term for funeral parlor. Mori French of French and Parker had slipped FBI Agent Richard Sharpe his advertisement which was called a Funeral Decision Guide, and in it Mori and partner Garrett Parker had summed up their service philosophy in a paragraph. The guide pointed out that French and Parker wanted only to help people make the single-most important decisions of their lives—decisions about death and “arrangements” for death in one's own absence. It made Sharpe think of Woody Allen's famous statement on the subject, which he shared with Dan beside him. “ 'I'm not afraid to die, I just don't want to be there when it happens.'“

Dan laughed in response. “Got that right.”

Sharpe returned to the brochure Mori French had whipped out from his inside coat pocket even at this hour, even though Sharpe would not be using his services. “These guys running the local funerary have this down to a science, selling their services.”

“
Lotta money in it. If maybe I'd been smart,” muttered Brannan. “Hell, we see death all the time, too, but we don't make near the bucks off it Frenchy and Parker do.”

“
Listen to this,” said Sharpe, reading now from the soft blue brochure with a cloud-filled sky, bright with beaming light, as backdrop to the bold lettering. “'French and Parker's Arrangement Center provides you with an array of choices: Ground Burial, Cremation, Mausoleum, Funeral Services, Local and Long Distance Shipping to Anywhere in the Continental U.S., Winter Storage (during permafrost season only) and Veteran's Special Arrangements. Free Arrangement Decision Guide.'“

“
They've got the territory covered all right.”

Following Mori French, Dr. Herman Krueshach sleepily bounced along in a family station wagon. Sharpe imagined Krueshach blinking into his rearview mirror and cursing under his breath, disenchanted with the idea of digging up a two-year-old corpse on what he believed to be a wild goose chase.

They had driven through the chill damp fog that crept into the cab of the car and into Sharpe's bones. Despite the season, the predawn drive felt icy cold, its destination and outcome grim like any funeral motorcade, but worse yet since their purpose was at opposition to French and Parker's normal “arrangements.” Nothing on their guide about exhumations. In fact, no one in Millbrook's entire history had ever been raised from the dead.

They'd rolled out past the city limits sign, past silent tractors sitting in fields and patient cows lined up at barn doors. Now in the distance, Sharpe heard the backhoe—a result of his court order, going thrum-pump, thrum-pump, thrum-whosh just as the motorcade of three vehicles turned in under a black wrought-iron gate. The cemetery gate reminded Sharpe of old black-and-white American cowboy films when Gregory Peck or Gary Cooper, sitting astride a horse, staring at the big cattle ranch announced an intent to take a stand. The overhead arch was oddly draped with a banner flapping in the cold November early morning light. The new, temporary banner proclaimed the fog-laden cemetery as The Henry Knox Memorial Cemetery.

“
Just had a rechristening ceremony out here a week ago,” explained Brannan as if apologizing for what appeared to have been a celebration. There were even a few dead balloons left hanging in a surreal fashion from the iron gates.

“
I see,” Sharpe replied as they entered the narrow un-paved paths inside the gates. Ahead of them, the yellow monster backhoe that'd begun its journey here on a flatbed an hour before, coming from Alvin's A to Z Rental in town, materialized from the fog, its formless noise now taking on clearer meaning. Form and function and mechanical efficiency amid the weeping trees and fallen headstones of what appeared to be an ancient plot of ground. Sharpe wondered how old the cemetery might be, and he again wondered why Louisa Childe had not been buried in any one of the three cemeteries within the city limits, the Catholic cemetery, the Baptist cemetery, or the Episcopalian one. Brannan followed the succession of cars as each pulled up against the line created in the fog by Alvin's huge flatbed truck which had come to this point in roundabout fashion so as to disturb as few gravesites as possible. Their presence, the cars, and the flatbed absorbed some but not all of the enormous noise shattering the stillness of this place as the backhoe continued its work.

Sharpe saw a huge gash had been taken out of a lovely oak that, by day, must provide ample shade throughout this area for Louisa and her neighbors.

Everyone climbed from their cars and gathered about the large hole being dug. They looked like men who would go out of their way to watch a machine of this size do its job. The sun remained just offstage, its predawn light muted by the overcast morning, while ominous, dark, roiling clouds threatened to complicate the morning's work with a downpour. But there seemed already so much moisture in the air that it would be difficult for raindrops to pass through it. Sharpe sauntered up alongside Krueshach, Mori French, and Detective Brannan. Nothing was said. The sound of the backhoe was king.

The serene invaded by the chaotic needs of men with questions.

“
It's Millbrook's second cemetery for its second-class citizenry, transients, homeless and uninsured,” Dan Brannan said in his ear. “I see.”

“
Is that what they're going to put on your tombstone, Sharpe? 'I see'?”

“
Quaint place,” he replied, surveying the nearby tombstones, thin as parchment some of them, some with dates going back to the 1830s. None of the more recent markers had names, only numbers.

AT the same time that Richard Sharpe exhumed Louisa Childe's body, Jessica awoke sprawled across her luxurious Wyndham Hotel bed, amid paperwork on Sarah Towne of Portland, Oregon. She recalled having reviewed the Towne case the night before. She didn't remember tossing the files on the huge bed or falling asleep for that matter, or saying good night to Darwin Reynolds.

Rolling over, her eyes growing accustomed to the notion of opening, she saw it was still dark outside—overcast with roiling thunderstorms off in the distance and a pitter-patter against the windows that gently rocked her back into numbness and sleep. So she closed her eyes again and contemplated what lay ahead of her, and wondering if she'd been too exhausted last night to set her alarm properly. Why hasn't it gone off by now... Must be seconds away from ringing... How can I sleep knowing that?

She wanted to see Joyce Olsen's body one last time, perhaps to verify that it had ever happened. Most certainly for a final, closer look, wishing to find the secret message in the dead woman that she ought to be able to discover. Joyce Olsen's wrong-side-up or upside-down autopsy had been a strange postmortem indeed. Cleaned of blood, the wound had been like a gash torn from the body of a battlefield victim hit by heavy mortar fire. All the parts disfigured, out of place, surreal.

Jessica wondered now if she was losing her touch, her edge, her instinct for the chase. She had learned nothing new in the autopsy. Perhaps it was to be so and to remain so with this particular victim, but it nagged at Jessica. In the past, she had often discovered something that had gone unnoticed by others, including other medical examiners. But not this time. Not now. Perhaps it was the attitude with which she approached the Olsen woman's body. Jaded, unfeeling, all the emotion knocked from her at the scene. Or perhaps she simply expected too much, expected that the very way in which the killer had carved Joyce Olsen up might lead to something, might tell them something, might grant them some small insight into the mind capable of such a monster's appetite. But neither the body, nor the enormous insult to it, nor the autopsy itself had revealed any great insights. And another go-round—the continuation of the autopsy with Sands this morning—she rather doubted would net anything new or useful, either. Still, Sands was going to “dig” deeper, and so, Jessica felt she'd best be present.

In his own subtle way, Ira Sands seemed to want to best Jessica, given this opportunity to work alongside the FBI's finest forensic detective. He'd turned it into a macabre competition she wanted no part of. No doubt he had the body prepped, ready and already waiting.

She pulled herself up against the headboard, and squinted at the clock: 6 A.M. She'd set the alarm for 6:30. She clicked it off so it would not ring in her ears. She next worked gummy sleep residue from her eyes. Then she looked across the room at the table where she and Reynolds had spent some time early in the evening yesterday working before they'd gone out to the terrace to work there.

Suddenly, the massive dark shadow at the table registered in her waking mind.

My god, it's Darwin. Here all night. He never left. She realized that Reynolds had fallen asleep there, too, sitting upright in a chair, the autopsy report of Louisa Childe lying in disarray on both the table and at his feet. He looked like one of those big Klingons in the Star Trek movies, his eyes closed, head back, slightly snoring.

Shit, how in the hell did this happen? she asked herself.