Bad Bones (Claire Morgan) (4 page)

He showed her where they were, and it felt very good, and she felt very happy that he was back home and things were heating up so well. Because tomorrow was not going to be quite as pleasant as tonight. In fact, it was probably gonna be downright ghoulish and stomach-turning and horrible. Yep, just another typical day at work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

After the fight was over, they carried the poor kid named Hardnose to Loser Land, and just left him lying there, groaning and bleeding and crying. He had to stay there alone a while and suffer some pain to teach him a lesson, and then his father would take him to the doctor, if need be. That was the rule. Punk dragged himself to the back porch and lay down on the bottom step. His head was spinning around and around and making him sick to his stomach. He was seeing two of everything, and he couldn’t make them come together. He squeezed his eyes shut because he felt like he was going to throw up. Everybody was leaving now, climbing into their cars and pickup trucks and pulling out on the road with lots of revving engines and roaring motorcycles. And then it was dark and quiet and he felt very alone.

After a while, Pa stopped beside him, his boots planted apart and his fists on his hips. He looked furious. “You know what I gotta do now, don’t ya, boy? You acted like a ’fraidy cat out there. It’s downright embarrassin’ what that woman made you into. You got in one good punch but that’s it. Maybe after you spend a coupla nights out in the pen with the dogs, you won’t act like a big baby anymore. Now git on out there with them dogs and don’t you come outta there ’til I come git you out. You hear that, Punk? You hear what I’m sayin’?”

“Yes, sir.”

Punk staggered his way out to the dog runs alongside the barn, and then he felt so completely exhausted that he fell on his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way. His pa raised coon hounds and beagles to hunt and to breed, as well as some really vicious pit bulls and Rottweilers that he used for the bloody dog fights they had every Wednesday night. Punk hated the way Pa made his older brothers go down into town and steal other people’s little poodles and other fluffy little dogs that he called “poms,” so that he could use them as bait dogs to rile up the killer dogs. Punk never could bear to watch those tiny little sweet ones get torn apart inside the ring. It made him sick, and he wished he could save them, but there wasn’t anything he could do but go off by himself and cry for them.

When he reached the chain-linked gate of the closest dog run, he opened it and crawled inside. The dogs were no longer barking, not now after all the cars had driven away and all the yelling and cheering was over. They were back inside the barn, sleeping, probably. He looped the rope around the post again, and made his way to the swinging dog door. Crawling inside, he lay down in the straw. Most of the dogs were lying around inside, snuggled up close together. Truth was, Punk didn’t mind so much being with the dogs. He liked them a lot better than he liked his brothers, except for his twin, who was okay and tried to protect Punk when he could. But he was the only one who did. The rest of them liked to slap him up the side of the head or shove him hard in the back so that he’d fall down in the mud.

It wasn’t long before his favorite puppy, a little beagle named Banjo, roused up and left the other pups in her litter, stretched lazily, and walked slowly over to him, her tail wagging. Punk was so tired now that he couldn’t sit up any longer, so he collapsed down and lay on his back. Banjo licked his face like she always did, and her little rough tongue felt so good on his cuts and bruises. It was nice that somebody was showing him all that love, almost like his ma used to. That sweet little dog loved him, even if nobody else did. The summer night was cooler now, and after a little while, more of the beagles and coonhounds moved over and settled in close around him, too. They licked his face and kept him warm, just like they always did when Pa punished him and put him inside their pen. He sure did love them, each and every one.

All through the night and every time he roused up, afraid, and not knowing where he was, Banjo licked him and made him feel better. Punk loved it so much that he decided to lick Banjo back and see how that felt. So he started licking the little puppy’s nose and found that it felt really good. He closed his eyes and pretended it was his ma he was kissing, that she was back down from Heaven, and all beautiful again with her white hair and pale skin. He wondered if she still looked so pretty underneath the dirt they had shoveled in on top of that plain pine box they’d put her in. He’d like to know that. He wondered if he was strong enough to dig her up and see how she was doing down there all alone. Maybe he would someday. Yeah, he sure would. She was probably awfully lonely, even if she was still sleeping so peacefully while her soul went up to be with God.

After he had licked the dog all over her pretty little head and velvety ears, his nose finally stopped bleeding and he fell fast asleep. He slept for a long time, snuggling closer to the dogs. But then around dawn he was startled awake when his oldest brother came inside the barn. He was tall and strong and had a little beard. He was standing in the middle of the barn and looking into the dog pen at Punk. “You ain’t supposed to get no food today, got that, Punk? Pa said no food, no water, and you stay right where you are till he comes gets you out. And you better not, or he’ll whup you. He’ll whup you good.”

Punk didn’t say a word. His pa would whup him all right. His whip was hanging right there beside the loft steps, handy for when it was time for him to beat the killer dogs. He knew that from the last time he lost a fight. But he was relieved his big brother didn’t drag him out and throw him in the creek to wash off the dirt and sweat and the stink of the dogs. The water was spring fed, and so icy cold that he could barely stand to put his hand in it. Even now, in late August, it was that cold.

Still tensed with dread, he watched the bigger boy move down to the other end of the barn where his pa kept the Rottweilers and pit bulls. Pa usually made his oldest boy tie them up to a post every morning on a very short leash and whip them to make them mean. Punk couldn’t stand to see that whip hit those poor animals or hear their yelps of pain and fear, so he quickly pushed his way out of the plastic dog door and into the cool morning air. Banjo came outside with him, and they snuggled up together using the lean-to shelter that shielded them from the hot sun.

They stayed there, huddled together for a time, dozing and keeping each other company. Then Punk began to feel so hungry that he could barely stand it. His stomach was growling so much that he could hear it, and Banjo perked up her ears and cocked her head at the sound it made. He peeked out to see if Pa was around anywhere, and then he crawled back inside the barn and grabbed two handfuls of dog food that his brother had poured into the feeding dishes. He took it back to the shelter and shared the food with Banjo. When he got thirsty, he dipped water out of the trough the dogs used. Back inside the shelter, he fell asleep again, glad that nobody was bothering him.

“Hey, you, Punk, come on over here,” came a loud whisper from outside the fence.

Punk’s muscles tensed up, but then he saw that it was his twin brother. Pa called him Bone Breaker now. He had a big flaky biscuit and a red apple in his hands. “C’mon out, before I get caught, would ya? I stole you some breakfast. Hurry it up, c’mon! Pa’s gonna see me!”

Punk looked around for his pa, but he was nowhere to be seen. He scrambled out and grabbed the apple through the holes in the fence and took a giant bite. He ate it as fast as he could.

“How’s that nose feel? You oughta see it. It’s all swollen up and black and busted up good, and you know that your eyes are black as old Midnight, don’t ya?”

Old Midnight was his pa’s favorite pony, a beautiful and sleek animal that nobody got to ride except for Pa. “I figured I was messed up. I can’t hardly see nothin’ this mornin’. Everythin’s all blurry, and stuff.”

“Here’s some salve and stuff that Pa puts on my bruises. Don’t you tell him that I gave it to you, you hear me, Punk? He’ll tan my hide for helpin’ you.”

Nodding, Punk took the little metal jar and rubbed the greasy medicine around his eyes. It hurt to touch the swelled up parts.

“I have to call you Punk, you know,” Bone Breaker said. “Pa said so. All of us have to. And they’re all callin’ me Bones now, too, ’cause I broke that bone in Hardnose’s arm. Pa’s givin’ us all fightin’ names now.”

“Okay.” Punk looked at the only brother who had ever been nice to him. Bones was awfully brave to come out and defy their pa. “You did good last night. Thank you for comin’ in and beatin’ up that Hardnose kid for me.”

“No problem. I like to beat up kids like him. He acts all rough and rowdy until you hit him hard as you can in the face. Then he ain’t so tough no more.” Bones grinned, very pleased with himself.

“You’re real good at fightin’.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bones looked around. “I better git outta here ’fore Pa comes out. He’ll whup me, even if I won and broke that guy’s bone. He says he’s gonna whup you today, so be ready for it. And remember, don’t you yell and cry, or he’ll keep it up until you stop.”

Punk nodded, but inside he trembled with fear. He had gotten whuppings before, and it really hurt. Pa always used the whip that he used on his fighting dogs. So he went back inside the shelter and gave Banjo half his biscuit, and then he hid there for the rest of the day, hoping his pa would forget about him. But his pa didn’t forget about him.

Just when the sun was almost all the way down and it was hard to see anything in the gray light, his pa called out his name from outside the dog pen. Punk cringed down in the straw and held his breath.

“You better come out here, you little sissy punk, or I’ll take the hide right off you!” Pa was yelling now, loud and scary. All the dogs got real restless and started barking and howling, afraid, too.

Punk crept out the dog door and stood beside it in the dusk. He began shaking all over, like the leaves on the oak trees around the dog pens. He was terrified. His pa did all kinds of bad things to his boys, and especially to Punk.

“Git over here. Now!”

Swallowing hard, Punk obeyed and walked slowly to the end of the dog run where his pa stood waiting with the whip. He was slapping it in his open palm, hard enough to make a clapping sound. He always did that when he was waiting to punish somebody. Punk moved up to him and stared down at the ground.

“You know why I’m doin’ this to you, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why then?”

“’Cause I lost that fight.”

“No. Because you are a sissy little punk coward, that’s why. And I’m gonna beat you until you show me some backbone like my other boys do. Give me your hands.”

Punk held them out, and Pa tied them to the fence post. Then he hit him once very hard on the back. Punk clamped his jaw, trying not to scream, like Bones had told him. But it hurt. It hurt him so bad.

“Good boy,” said Pa. “Now you’re bein’ a man and takin’ it like you oughta.”

The crop came down hard again, this time at his waist. He bit his lip until it nearly bled. But tears came out of his eyes, and he tried to wipe them on his shirt before Pa could see them.

“You cryin’ now, that what you doin’, you sniveling little pig.”

When his pa raised the crop again, little Banjo inched closer and started growling at him. When she bared her teeth, Pa laughed. “Hell, lookee look, that damn little pup has more courage than you do. At least, she’s got some guts.”

But then Pa brought the whip down on Banjo’s back as hard as he could, and the little beagle fell on her side, bawling with pain. Horrified, Punk didn’t even think about it, he just turned as far as he could on the ropes and kicked his pa’s legs as hard as he could. He kept it up, too, yelling cuss words at him until Pa stepped back out of his reach. Pa started laughing.

“Okay, now. That’s more like it, kid. Showin’ a little spunk now, aren’t you, boy? That’s what you gotta do, show me some grit and I’ll leave you be. Maybe I oughta beat that little puppy there every time you turn coward. Maybe that’s what’ll light a fire under you and get you as tough as the rest of us. Nothin’ else’s done it.”

Punk said nothing, just ground his teeth together so he wouldn’t cry. But inside he was angry, so angry that he could barely stand it. He wanted to grab that whip and beat his father in the face with it. But Pa was untying his hands. Then he turned around and walked off toward the house without another word. Punk fell to his knees and grabbed up Banjo and held her tightly against his chest, licking the little dog’s face, comforting her just like Banjo had comforted him the night before. That’s when Punk decided that Pa wasn’t never gonna hit Banjo again, never. Even if he had to beat some other kid to death in a fight, Pa wasn’t ever going to whip poor little Banjo again.

By the time Claire and Bud arrived at the medical examiner’s office late the next morning, the rest of the team had already assembled around the corpse. Fortunately, the forecasters had been wrong and the storm front had not materialized, at least not directly over the lake. Outside, the sun was actually bright and shining and making the mountains of snow sparkle in the balmy nineteen-degree weather. Not a lot of melting going on, however, and that was unfortunate. As they entered the autopsy room where Buck still had the victim’s body warming under heat lamps, the first thing Claire noticed was the ultra-serious expressions on her colleagues’ faces. The second thing she noted were the x-rays on the light boxes attached to the back wall.

Buck saw her repulsed reaction. “That’s right. Every damn bone in his body is either broken or cracked or chipped. Some have pierced through the skin, causing severe compound fractures. This poor man endured a beating like none other that I’ve seen or heard of in all the many years I’ve worked here.”

Bud moved closer and stared at the x-rays. “So he didn’t fall, I take it? He was just dumped down there?”

“Some of the damage could’ve come from the fall, I reckon. There are lots of cuts and abrasions and bruises. But certainly not to this degree, and certainly not incurred by that kind of fall. The skull is fractured in three different places. If I had to guess, I’d say an aluminum baseball bat or a piece of pipe, maybe even a tire iron or crowbar, something on that order.”

“Good grief,” Bud muttered, still staring at the films. “I’ve never seen anything like this, either.”

Buckeye nodded. “Certainly not this extensive. I believe this victim was slowly and methodically beaten to death, no question in my mind.”

Claire stood beside Bud and studied the skeletal fractures, her mind hovering on the very edge of disbelief, too. “How could anybody do something like this to another human being?”

“The victim probably didn’t stay conscious very long, unless the perpetrator saved those blows to his head for last. The pain he suffered would’ve been excruciating. And look at the body. I’ve never seen so many bones actually broken and piercing through the skin, except maybe in the very worst car crashes. Look how many there are, and all over the body. This took some time and effort and know-how.”

“A crime of passion,” Claire said. “Whoever did this hated this guy’s guts, no doubt about it, not to my mind.”

“Yeah. Or maybe there could’ve been more than one assailant,” Bud said. “It would take a long time to inflict this much damage. We got overkill here. Big-time.”

Claire moved back to the body and felt the heat from the lamps warm her cold face. There was water on the steel table under the body from the thawing process. She stared down at the sharp, splintered ends of broken bones sticking out of both forearms. There was another huge wound where about six inches of blunt bare bone from the broken right femur was visible. Some of the victim’s fingers and toes were smashed absolutely flat; others had metacarpals protruding. Some of the breaks jutted out at impossible angles. Lord have mercy. It was a horrific sight. She finally averted her eyes, something she usually didn’t have to do at an autopsy. Shivering, she shook her head and turned away, not wanting to examine the body further. “You think a fistfight might’ve gotten out of control?”

“Maybe it could’ve started that way, but it looks to me like the victim didn’t do much to defend himself, or he couldn’t. Maybe he was too drunk to hold his own or there were too many assailants. There are rope burns around his wrists that look as if he were bound, maybe hung up somehow. Take a look at his hands. No defensive wounds. All those injuries have been inflicted by the killer.”

Buckeye was right. She didn’t think the poor man had been able to defend himself because he had been strung up by the arms. They needed to go back to the park and look for any evidence of that. Suspended from a tree limb, maybe. “Any idea yet who this guy is? Any tats or identifying scars?”

Buckeye shook his head. “Nope. No ID or clothing or jewelry, either. Shaggy’s in there right now running his prints through our databases but hasn’t got a hit yet so he’s probably not gonna get one.”

“What can you tell us?”

“Caucasian male. Twenty to twenty-five years old, I’d say, maybe a little older. In good physical condition, good muscle tone. Looks like he was healthy and well-nourished before he was killed. Some scars, but nothing noteworthy. Looks like he might’ve gotten them in fistfights. I’ll have to wait until I get inside to see what kind of internal damage was incurred, but it’s gonna be extensive. I’d be pretty comfortable saying there is lots of internal bleeding, probably ruptured liver and stomach and other internal organs, certainly collapsed lungs, one or both, probably both. More than one rib is protruding. You can see some of the damage right here.” He pointed to the frontal x-ray of the victim’s chest.

Claire grimaced. She could see it all right. Every rib was cracked or broken in two. “This killer is brutal and thorough. He knew his physiology and didn’t stop until nearly every bone in this man’s body was splintered. Looks almost like a ritualistic killing. You know, method to his madness, something like that. I bet this isn’t the first person he’s beaten to death. God, I’m afraid we’re gonna turn up some more homicides with similar MOs.”

Buck said, “He probably just hid the others better.”

Bud frowned. “Then why did he leave this one out in the open where we could find him?”

Claire looked at Buck. “Could be he dumped the body when it was dark and snowing hard. The wind could have been swirling up so that he couldn’t see the bottom of the cliff. Truth is, we probably would never have found him this soon if he hadn’t landed sitting up in the water like that. That’s pretty hard to miss. Maybe not even until the spring thaw. Maybe not even then, if the animals got to him first. Or, it could be that he did him and dumped him out in the lake somewhere and the wind and waves pushed him in against the shore, right down there where we found him.”

They all stood around the table in silence, staring down at the broken and battered body of the unknown young murder victim.

“We might ought to order a full search at the bottom of all the cliffs throughout the park,” Claire said at length. “Serials usually have their favorite dumping grounds. Maybe the park is his. Maybe he sinks them to the bottom, and this one got loose and came up, or maybe the ice shifted and pushed him up.”

Bud wasn’t convinced. “Doesn’t make sense to me. Tourists are everywhere around there, taking pictures, and so are the park rangers. Too dangerous for him.”

“Hey, Claire. Bud, my man. ’Sup?”

That was their resident hippie, Shaggy, back from his office and the running of fingerprints. He was decked out in his usual surfer garb, despite the winter weather outside. But he did have on long-sleeved white thermal underwear under his black-and-white-and-red orchid-flowered Hawaiian shirt. He had recently cut off his dreadlocks, or at least they didn’t hang all the way to his shoulders anymore. But he still had his earrings, all eight of them in each ear. But, despite his bohemian fashion sense, he was absolutely top-notch at his job and probably the best criminalist in the state of Missouri. Canton County got him because he loved the lake and everything that went with it. Claire adored the guy. He was one of her best friends, although they didn’t spend as much time together since Black had come along and tended to monopolize her off hours.

“You get a hit on those prints?” Buckeye asked quickly.

“Nope. How’s he cookin’? Done yet?”

“He’s thawing quickly now.”

“When you cuttin’ him, boss?” Shaggy asked, staring down at the broken corpse. Then he leaned closer to the victim’s face. He stood up and shot a startled look at Bud. “Hey, you know what, man? I think I might’ve seen this guy before. Wow, and just the other night, too. Dudes, I can’t believe this. I think I know this dude.”

Claire couldn’t believe it, either. But she sure hoped to hell that Shaggy could ID the deceased because they certainly didn’t have any other way to get his name. She watched Shaggy lean down close to the victim’s bearded face again. It was still bluish and pale and smooth as marble, looking almost like a clothing store’s mannequin but he’d been a nice-looking guy. The whole body was pale, in fact, except for some faded tan lines around the neck and the upper arms, as if he had always worn a shirt when out in the sun.

“Well, who is it?” she prompted.

“Well, I tell you what I’m a thinkin’. This dude here? He looks an awful lot like one of those cage fighters I saw over at the Lake Inn Resort a coupla nights ago. You know the ones, don’t ya, those mixed martial arts guys that beat the crap outta each other inside a chain-linked cage. God, they are stinkin’ beasts, I tell you. Blood sprays out everywhere and runs down their arms when they hit each other. It’s great stuff, man.”

“Yeah, that’s the MMA guys, all right. I’ve seen them on the tube,” Bud said. “They’re crazy, those guys. They box, wrestle, use their feet to kick, and everything else you can think of. And then there’s the bare knuckles guys. Talk about savage.”

Claire looked down at the body again. “Well, that certainly fits our victim’s injuries.”

Bud said, “They don’t use baseball bats, but just about anything else goes. I doubt if this was a sanctioned match, if it even was an MMA fighter. Maybe a black market bout like they do out in the boonies where nobody can find them. I’ve heard of that going on around here. Practically everywhere else nowadays, too, or so I’ve heard. You know kids wantin’ to be like the heroes they watch fight on TV.”

“How stupid can somebody get,” Claire said, irritated. “Who would agree to get into a ring without any rules and just beat up on each other?”

“Hey, Claire, there’s big money in the cities for winnin’ bouts. It’s a big deal in St. Louis, with fights held in the arena and everything. Kansas City, New Orleans, lots of places have ’em now.”

“Any fight clubs or karate places around here that would cater to a guy like this?” Claire asked Shaggy.

“Yeah, lots of ’em.”

“Where’s that place where you saw him fight, Shaggy? We need to pay them a call.”

“It’s the Lake Inn Resort, over off Highway 54, down in a hollow right on the lake.

You know, it’s got a big flashy red-and-green neon sign that moves like a fisherman catching a bass. ’Member? The bass looks like it’s jumpin’ up the line and into the boat with him? You’ve seen it. I know you have.”

Buck said, “Yeah, they have bass fishing contests out there, too. It’s pretty redneck, but they’ve got a great golf course. I played there once. Best round I ever played.”

Claire didn’t remember the place, but why would she? She spent all her time at Black’s hotel and resort, quite a honey of a place by the name of Cedar Bend Lodge, which was way too classy and upscale to host any sort of a bloody fight night. Nobody dripped blood on Black’s elegant décor, uh-uh, a very big no-no. Except for her, oh, yeah. She’d come home bleeding a time or two, much to Black’s chagrin. Hers, too, actually. “Well, we’ll just have to pay them a visit. Can we get a picture of his face, Buck? Maybe somebody can give us his name.”

“Sure. Shaggy’ll get it for you. You need it now?”

“Yeah. We’ve got time to get out there before dark. I want to interview everyone involved in that fight you saw, Shaggy. Was it held on the property?”

“Yeah. Lake Inn’s got a big convention center kinda place out back for parties and dances and whatnot. They put up this cage thing right in the middle of it. First time I’d ever been down there. Wow, it’s awesome to watch. You just can’t sit on the front row or you might get some blood spatter on your clothes, especially if they start pushin’ each other’s faces up against that cage. I tell you, it’s awesome, dudes.”

Claire frowned. “That’s not awesome. That’s gross.”

“Nah. They mop up any spilled blood quick enough. Haven’t you ever been to a prize fight, or nothin’?”

“No, and I won’t be going to one anytime soon. Like I said, they are stupid shows put on by stupid people.”

“Well, I sat way back on the bleachers, but I sure do think this’s one of the guys who was fighting that night. Not positive about it, but pretty sure.”

“Did he win or lose?”

“He won. Bloodied up the other guy pretty bad. He was bigger and looked stronger, but this guy here, well, he was like some kinda whirlin’ dervish, or something. Quick as all get out. He just didn’t ever stop until his opponent was pinned down and called for an end to it. Never seen anything quite like it. He had some wrestlin’ skills, oh, yeah, you shoulda seen it.”

“Well, I still think it’s dumb. Two grown men getting inside a ring and punching each other until one is knocked unconscious. Just plain ignorant.”

“I thought you liked to kickbox.”

“I do, but I do it for my own self-protection, not to entertain a crowd of bloodthirsty people holding their thumbs up or down like in the gladiator days.”

Nobody disagreed with that, but Claire had a feeling all her male colleagues liked boxing and fighting and bloodletting just fine, and the bloodier, the better. Black certainly did. Men and their testosterone jollies. Jeez.

“Hold on, I’m gonna pull up that place’s site on the net and see if I got this right. Don’t move.” Shaggy ran off toward his office with his usual boyish enthusiasm.

Claire looked at Bud. “Guess we need to do some research on cage fighters in this area, and anybody else connected to this so-called sport.”

“That’s gonna take us till summer.”

“I’m right!” yelled Shaggy from the other room. They watched him through the window as he came rushing back into the autopsy room. “His name is Paulie Parker. Ring name is Parker the Punisher. He’s a real tough kid, who’s been comin’ up fast in MMA circles. He fought last week, too, up in KC. I saw it go down on the tube but didn’t put that together till now. That’s how I knew about him comin’ down here. He won up there, too, beat up the other guy real good. Broke his nose.”