Bones (4 page)

Setting in another spot, farther up the marsh, panting.

“Like she was proud of herself,” said Moe Reed. “Guess she should be.”

By five a.m., three additional bodies had been confirmed.

Moe Reed said, “The others seem to be mostly bones, Lieutenant. Could be one of those Indian burial rights situations.”

One of the crypt drivers had come over. He said, “Sure don’t smell like ancient history.”

“Maybe it’s natural gas.”

The driver grinned. “Or the chili someone had for dinner. Or frijoles growing in the marsh.”

Moe Reed said, “I’ll let you know when you can go,” and led us toward the trio of anthropologists. Groin-high in brown-green soup, the women conferred earnestly around another staked white pennant that drooped in the warm, static air. If they saw us, they gave no notice. We kept going. Around the next bend were the other two flags. Like a weird golf course.

We retraced. Two of the scientists were young, one black, one white. Both had crammed ample coiffures into disposable caps. An older woman with short-chopped gray hair noticed Reed and waved.

“Hey, Dr. Hargrove. Any news?”

“Normally, we’d be setting up the angles for trenching, but this is protected land and we’re not sure what the parameters are.”

“I can try to find out.”

“We’ve already got a call in to the volunteer office, someone should be here soon. More important, the earth gets so soft in spots — inconsistently so — that we’re afraid we’ll do more damage than good in terms of finding everything there is to find.” She smiled. “At least it’s not quicksand, I’m pretty sure.”

The young women laughed. Small, metal tools gleamed in their hands.

Moe Reed said, “What’s the plan, then, Dr. Hargrove?”

“We’re going to need time to poke around. The best technique may be to eventually slide something under whatever’s in here, raise it up very gradually, and hope nothing falls off. One thing I
can
tell you, we’re not talking paleontology. There’s soft tissue present under the mandible of this one, and possibly behind the knees. The skin we’ve been able to observe appears dark, but that could be decomp.”

“Fresh?” said Reed.

“Not nearly as fresh as the one left out in the open, but I can’t give you a fix. Water can rot or preserve, depending on so many factors. We’re getting moderate pH for samples in the immediate area, despite all the detritus, but there could still be some kind of buffering effect due to specific vegetation that mediates the effects of acid rain, plant decay, all that good stuff. I really can’t tell you more until I get everything out of here.”

“Soft tissue,” said Reed. “That’s pretty recent, right?”

“Probably but not necessarily,” said Hargrove. “A few years ago they pulled a Civil War vet out of a mass grave in Pennsylvania, poor fellow just happened to end up in a low-oxygen, low-humidity pocket near a series of subterranean caves and still had skin and muscle adhering to his cheeks. Most of it was mummified, but some wasn’t. His beard looked freshly trimmed.”

“Unbelievable,” said Reed, catching the eye of the young black anthropologist and turning away. “No way you can guesstimate for me, Doctor? Off the record?”

“Off the record, I’ll go out on a limb and say probably not decades. There is one thing: The right hand’s gone from all of them. But we haven’t started examining closely, there could be other parts missing.”

“Animal scatter?” said Reed.

“Don’t imagine coyotes or raccoons diving into this, but you never know. Some of the bigger birds — herons, egrets, even a pelican or a gull — might’ve picked out a tidbit or two. Or a human predator — someone taking a trophy. We’ll backtrack weather reports, try to find out if wind on water could’ve been a factor in terms of drift and alteration of surface temperature.”

“Complicated,” said Milo.

Hargrove grinned. “It’s what we live for, but I’m sorry for you guys.”

The young black anthropologist, pretty, with a heart-shaped face and a bow mouth, said something to Hargrove.

Hargrove said, “Thank you, Liz.” To us: “Dr. Wilkinson wants you to know that all three bodies seem to be facing east. Was that true of the one left out in the open?”

Reed thought. “As a matter of fact, it was. Interesting…”

Dr. Wilkinson spoke up. “On the other hand, we’re talking about an
n
of — a small sample from which to draw a significant conclusion.”

Reed said, “Four out of four sounds significant to me, Doc.”

Wilkinson shrugged. The other young anthropologist, freckled and rosy-cheeked, said, “East. As in facing the dawn? Some sort of ritual?”

“Facing Mecca,” said Hargrove. She grimaced. “We won’t even
go
there.”

Reed had kept his eyes on Dr. Liz Wilkinson. “Thanks for being so observant.”

Wilkinson tugged at her hair cap. “Just thought you should know.”

Reed, Milo, and I returned to the entrance of the marsh. The coroner’s van was gone. Two uniforms remained on guard, looking bored. One said, “The ghouls went to catch a bite.”

Reed said, “Any ideas, Lieutenant?”

“Sounds like you’ve got everything covered.”

The young detective fiddled with his sunglasses. “Tell you one thing, I’m happy for the help.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s shaping up like a team case, right?”

Milo didn’t answer, and Reed’s sunburned spot turned crimson. “To be honest, I’m not exactly Sherlock, Lieutenant.”

“How long on the job?”

“Joined the department after college, made detective two years ago, started at Central GTA. I just got transferred to Homicide last February.”

“Congratulations.”

Reed frowned. “Picked up two cases since then. Besides this one, I mean. One closed in a week but anyone could’ve done it, total no-brainer. The second one’s an icy-cold missing person I’m not sure will ever be solved.”

“Pacific sends MP cases to Homicide?”

“Not generally,” said Reed. “Rich connections, the kind you definitely want to make happy, but…”

“Cases have their own rhythm,” said Milo. “Takes time to get your footing.”

I’d seen him lose sleep, gain weight, and experience soaring blood pressure over unsolveds.

Reed studied the soft brown dirt of the marsh. A brown pelican soared, aimed its massive beak downward, changed its mind and flew back toward the Pacific.

Milo said, “Let’s talk about Selena Bass.”

Reed pulled out his pad. “Female Caucasian, twenty-six years old, five five, one ten, brown and brown. One registered vehicle, a 2003 Nissan Sentra, it was at her apartment, didn’t look disturbed, so we’re not talking a jacking. No signs of obvious forced entry. Maybe she went off with someone she knew and things got nasty.”

“Where in Venice?”

Reed read off an address on Indiana, south of Rose, west of Lincoln.

Milo said, “Gang stuff going on there, right?”

“Some. Banger snatches her, it wouldn’t be much of a drive from there to here. So sure, we could be talking about a convenient dump site. But those other bodies…”

“They could also be vics from Bass’s neighborhood.”

“A gang-hit thing?”

“Or,” said Milo, “a creepo thing. He watches them, stalks them, grabs them.”

Reed frowned. “Stranger-on-stranger.”

A bellowed “Hey!” made the three of us turn.

A scrawny, bowlegged, bearded man in a white T-shirt, high green cargo shorts, and flip-flops strode toward us, pumping his arms.

Same fellow who’d snarled the surly remark about humans three months ago.

“Hey,” he repeated.

No one answered.

“What’s going on?”

Moe Reed said, “You are…”

“Silford Duboff, Save the Marsh. This is my place. I’m here to keep an eye on all proceedings.”

“Your place,” said Reed.

“No one else cares.”

Reed extended a hand. Duboff took it reluctantly, as if fearing contamination. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on, sir, is early this morning we removed the body of a young woman who was murdered and left on the banks of the marsh. While processing the scene, we found at least three other bodies.”

Silford Duboff blanched. “
Processing?
You’re digging?”

“Nothing extensive—”

“Out of the question.” Duboff noticed the flag marking Selena Bass’s dump site. “What’s
that
doing here?”

“That’s where we found the first victim, sir. And as I said, three other women. All dead.”

Duboff rubbed his beard. “This is a disaster.”

Reed removed his sunglasses. Baby-blue eyes had narrowed. “I’d call four dead bodies a disaster.”

“You said
at least
three more. Are you implying there could be more?”

“Three’s what we’ve got so far, Mr. Duboff.”

“Oh, crap — where are the others? I need to look.”

Duboff started to head for the flag. Milo’s big arm held him back.

“What?” Duboff demanded.

“No access yet, sir.”

“That’s absolutely unacceptable.”

Milo showed teeth. “Sir, it’s eminently acceptable.”

Duboff said, “What’s the reason?”

“Police personnel are working the scene.”

“What do you mean
working
?”

“Examining particulars.”

Duboff yanked on his beard. “This is a protected site, you just can’t have cops parking their grubby—”

“Forensic anthropologists, sir.”

“Anthro — they’re
excavating
? I
absolutely
must talk to them, right now!”

“We appreciate your concern, Mr. Duboff. But these people are specialists and they respect every site.”

“This isn’t just a site, it’s a—”

“Beautiful place,” said Milo. “The only thing that will be removed is evidence.”

“That’s outrageous.”

“So is homicide, sir.”

“This is worse,” said Duboff.

“Worse than four bodies?” said Reed.

“I’m not… I appreciate the fact that people have died. But when push comes to shove, all humans do is alter the balance — your murders are perfect proof.”

“Of what?”

“We keep murdering the earth, then we wonder why life’s so brutal.”

I said, “Sounds like you don’t have much use for people.”

Duboff stared at me. Not a hint of recognition. “As a matter of fact, I’m a card-carrying misanthrope but I don’t kill anything that breathes oxygen.” Pointing to his flip-flops. “Organic rubber.” He eyed the white flag. “What I’m saying is we need to ensure that this rare pocket of tranquility remains that way.”

“Seems to me,” said Reed, “that it’s already been disturbed.”

“Then let’s not make matters worse. I
must
have a talk with those ditchdiggers.”

Reed looked at Milo.

Milo said, “After you answer a few questions.”

He loomed over Duboff, began peppering the increasingly flustered man with a mix of relevant and seemingly random questions. Eventually zeroing in on Duboff’s whereabouts during the past twenty-four hours.

Duboff said, “You suspect
me
?”

“Sir, these are the questions we need to—”

“Who cares where I was last night? But fine, I’ve got nothing to hide, nothing. I was home. Reading.” Jutting his chin. “Enjoying
Utne Reader,
if you must know.”

“You live alone?” said Milo.

Duboff smiled. “Yes, but often a friend stays over. A bright, altruistic, sensuous woman who just happens to be in Sebastopol at the Green Fiber Music Festival. When did your murder take place?”

“We’re still determining that, sir.”

Duboff said, “It had to be after eight o’clock because I stopped by the marsh at eight and trust me, there were no bodies.”

“How long were you here?”

“Briefly, to check for trash. After that, I bought a sandwich at the all-night market on Culver. Greens and tempeh, if you must know. Then I dropped over at my office to see how our volunteer was doing.” He huffed. “Rich brat, got assigned to us for a community service punishment. He was doing fine, so I left him and drove to Santa Monica and ate my sandwich on Ocean Front. Then I returned to the office at ten oh five to make sure the brat had locked up. Which was fortunate, because he hadn’t. By ten thirty, I was with my
Utne.
”

“Find any trash at the marsh?” said Milo.

“Not this time… oh, yes, Alma — my companion — was due to call me from Sebastopol at eleven fifteen. And she did.”

“Your volunteer,” said Moe Reed. “What’s he being punished for?”

“Something to do with school,” said Duboff. “I didn’t ask, couldn’t care less. He’s no asset but he doesn’t cause problems.”

“Alma,” said Reed, taking out his pad. “Last name, please.”

Duboff’s eyes bugged. “Why would you want to talk to her?”

“Routine—”

“Unbelievable. I’m here to safeguard the marsh and you
storm-
troop me?”

Reed said, “That’s a little harsh, sir.”

“Is it? I think not.”

Milo said, “Alma what?”

“Good God — fine, fine, Reynolds, Alma Reynolds.” He recited a phone number. “Satisfied? Now you
must
let me through.”

We followed Duboff’s race-walk to the anthropologists’ work site. Moe Reed caught up, asked Duboff if the name Selena Bass was familiar.

“The only bass I know and care about are the striped ones. Grievously overfished because of American flesh-lust.”

I said, “People,” wondering if he’d finally remember me.

He said, “That song is absolute nonsense. Barbra had it completely wrong.”

Dr. Hargrove’s team had removed a few small brown fragments and placed them on a blue tarp laid out on the bank. All three women were back in the water, heads close to the surface, sifting, peering.

Duboff said, “What is
that
?”

Reed said, “Human bones.”

Duboff cupped his hand and called to the scientists: “Be careful, you!”

The women looked up.

Milo said, “This gentleman safeguards the marsh.”

Duboff said, “Don’t make it sound trivial.”

“This gentleman safeguards the marsh importantly.”