Boneyard (25 page)

He gazed past her, toward the open door. “Listen, I know it’s tough for you to let yourself get close to people. I get that, believe me.” He met her eyes and put his hand on top of hers. “And I’m trying to be understanding. But honestly, Kelly, I’m not a patient guy. There’s only so long I will wait. Okay?”

She nodded and managed a weak smile. “Okay.”

“All right, then. Can we go now?”

Kelly glanced back at the files. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do here…” she hedged.

“You might be stuck here for months, remember? Time to start pacing yourself.” Jake cocked an eyebrow and said, “Besides, I checked the listings and there’s something good on pay-per-view tonight. I feel strongly that we should watch it together.”

“You want me to stop working so we can watch some porn?” Kelly said quizzically.

“Exactly. So chop-chop, let’s get a move on.” He clapped his hands together. “We don’t have all night.”

It took longer than usual to string her up. Despite her rangy appearance she was surprisingly solid and his shoulder still ached from last week. Just getting her positioned took some work. Usually the boys he worked with were long and lanky; they hadn’t had a chance yet to gain any of the bulk age added year by year. Not her, though—a lifetime of beer nuts and boxed wine had given her fleshy arms and a protruding gut. His face twisted in revulsion when he stripped her down, he was half tempted to dress her again but that wouldn’t do, even though she wasn’t one of his typical guests there was a protocol to be observed.

The drugs worked like a charm on her, though, and she’d simply gazed at him blearily while he got things in order. He wondered if the dose needed to be adjusted for age, he’d forgotten to check. Not that it really mattered, in the end, but he was hoping to keep her alive for the completion of his plan.

Once she was shackled he stepped back to admire his handiwork; chains led from her arms to the wall, so that she was unable to lift them above her waist. No chance of her getting out of the manacles, so binding her legs was unnecessary, and at her age she was more likely to get sores than the boys. He usually kept them for six days, that left plenty of time for him to have his fun and to clean up. This time circumstances were somewhat different. He was using another location, on the off chance that Dwight was fool enough to go to the police. Not likely, but Dwight was a dumb shit, no telling what he might do when pushed. And because he wanted to extend the game a little longer than usual, he needed her off-site anyway.

He glanced around the room—it would suffice for his needs. Originally built by the Federal Civil Defense Administration in the 1950s at the height of the Cold War, the bunker was designed to house and shelter up to three hundred people underground in the event of a nuclear attack. Abandoned and boarded up during the sixties, it was still used occasionally by National Guard units for training. He’d checked, and no one had reserved it until the end of September, which left him plenty of time.

The bunker was a labyrinth of deserted, dusty rooms filled with forgotten items. He was holding her in the former bathroom. He’d managed to rig the shackles to an empty shower stall at the end of the room, out of sight of the door. Ten other stalls lined one side of the room, then an open archway led to a row of toilets. He held up an instrument that checked the air temperature and measured for any dangerous gases. No sign of carbon monoxide. At sixty-eight degrees she’d be chilly, but shouldn’t go into hypothermia. Satisfied, he chucked her under the chin. “Be good for me, Nancy. I’ll be back before you know it, and we’ll get started.”

He left, taking the lantern with him and casting her into shadow. Outside the bathroom was a former bunk room, with a few rusty cots strewn about as if a cyclone had swept through. He had stacked a series of duffel bags in the corner and surrounded them with rat traps to keep the vermin at bay; the last thing he needed was for rodents to mess with the tools of his trade. Thankfully he’d saved a few items during his purge last week. If he’d tossed them it would have meant a four-hour drive across three counties to repurchase them somewhere he wouldn’t be recognized or remembered, and even then it was chancy. After all, it wasn’t every day someone strolled in off the street and bought one of these, he thought, drawing a long, barbed hook out of the top bag, turning it so that it gleamed in the light. No, he’d been wise to hold on to this, it would’ve been a shame to have done without it.

A slight smile danced around his lips, then with a sigh he tucked it away. Not tonight, unfortunately. He had to get home, Sylvia and the kids would be back soon and they were all going to Tanglewood for a concert. It was one of his wife’s favorite things to do. They’d set out a blanket and a picnic, enjoy chilled pinot grigio and listen to the Boston Symphony Orchestra while the girls chased each other around the lawn. Personally he found it a bit smelly and plebeian, but if he went she’d be placated, and he’d have more freedom tomorrow. It was inconvenient still having them here, but since the girls went back to school next week, Sylvia had decided to let them enjoy the last of their vacation in the Berkshires.

As he left, he snapped a kryptonite lock on a chain looped through the front door handles. The civil defense bunker was a little more public than he would’ve preferred, but under the circumstances it should suit his needs. Even if Nancy was found he’d taken care not to leave behind any evidence implicating him. Everything in the duffels was purchased with cash and little of it had been handled yet. The items he had used were soaked in bleach and alcohol for days. And, of course, he’d always worn his full suit every time he entered the bunker. He crossed the parking lot and ducked through the trees, removing the shower cap, the booties and the gloves as he went. By the time he emerged next to his parked truck, he looked like any other hiker enjoying the last gasp of summer.

Dr. Stuart squinted at the test results, flipped back a few pages, turned to the body in front of him and frowned. “It just doesn’t make any sense,” he said aloud, before setting the papers down on the table and removing his glasses so he could polish them.

“Why not?” Monica asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Just look here.” He gestured for her to lean in as he hovered over a corpse laid out on a gurney.

Monica kept her eyes elevated. “Thanks, I’ve seen him.”

“I know you’ve seen him, but have you examined him closely?”

Monica heaved a sigh and glanced downward. “You have any idea the kind of nightmares I’m having?”

“Actually, I do,” he said, sotto voce.

Monica tapped him on the shoulder, her lips curving up slightly with delight. “I swear, Howie, you’re getting fresher every day. So what am I looking at here?” She forced herself to gaze down at the remains of Danny Smith.

His chest cavity had been peeled open, the skin held in place by enormous metal prongs. Howard probed the cavity with a wooden tongue depressor, pointing out elements as he went along. “I first suspected it when I saw the lungs were overinflated and filled with fluid, but that in and of itself doesn’t prove anything. They would be the same in the event of a pulmonary edema, or even a drug overdose. The same conclusion could be drawn from the hemorrhages in his bony middle ear. They might be attributed to head trauma, or as a side effect of electrocution, both of which we know he was subjected to.”

“You do dance around it, don’t you.” Monica sighed. She hated to admit it, since she knew this was his job, but the dispassionate way he was dealing with the kid’s body kind of creeped her out. “What’re you getting at, Howie?”

He beamed at her. “I’m saying that this boy drowned.”

“He what? How is that possible?”

He shook his head as he said, “I’m afraid—”

She waved him off. “I know, I know, not your job to figure that part out, it’s ours. Gotcha. Any idea where he drowned?”

He shook his head. “I’m still examining the fluid, but saw no sign of silt or other foreign matter indicating a lake or pond. It could possibly have been in a bathtub, or even a toilet. Further tests might show more.”

“Jesus.” Monica tilted her head back and rubbed her neck with one hand. “That’s horrible. Poor kid.”

“Yes,” he said without conviction. “Anyway, now that I have all the remains consolidated here, I’ve made tremendous headway.”

“Yeah, Kelly put the fear of God in Doyle, finally got him to play nice and share.” Monica debated whether or not to tell him more. Despite her strong dislike of Doyle, there was a code among cops, you didn’t rat one out to a civilian unless you absolutely had to. And Howie, though he was working with them, wasn’t a cop in any sense of the word. She told herself that, knowing full well that the truth was she was half-afraid to find out what his reaction would be. If he didn’t act horrified, just gave her that disconcerting stare, how would she handle that? Monica glanced across the room and repressed a shudder. “Honestly, Howie, I don’t get how this doesn’t wig you out.”

They were in the center of a large room. Lining one wall were illuminated panels of X-rays, CAT scans, and MRIs; another held state-of-the-art computers and diagnostic equipment. Scattered about the room at odd angles were gurneys, each stacked with the remains of a different victim. Some of the carts held only a few bones, others nearly a full skeleton. The other fresh corpses were in cold storage.

Dr. Stuart shrugged. “It’s my job,” he said simply, looking wounded.

“I know, it’s just…I can’t help thinking of Zach when I see all these kids. Someone tossed them out like so much trash. It’s just not right. Doesn’t that bother you?” She eyed him expectantly.

He removed his glasses and began polishing them again. “In truth, Monica, it doesn’t. If I let what people did to each other bother me, I’d never be able to do my job. I apologize if that bothers you, but it’s how I am. It’s not personal for me.”

“Okay, so what else did you find?” she said after an awkward pause, changing the subject.

His eyes gleamed. “Now that I have them all in one place, I can say more definitively that you’re probably looking for a pair of killers.”

“Working together?”

“Doubtful. You see the burns here, and here?” He gestured toward Danny’s legs. “On closer examination, it’s sloppy work. Very different from what we found on the John Doe from last week. Those marks were deliberate, evenly spaced. Whoever did this had no idea what he was doing, while the other body underwent what I would call a very studied and thorough trauma. I’d compare it to cutting a lawn with a pair of scissors as opposed to using a lawn mower.”

“Huh. Anything else?”

“Since most of the other remains are skeletal, it’s difficult to say what they were subjected to premortem. But on the waist of the most recent John Doe, there’s evidence of some sort of hook being applied through the flesh. Based on my research I’d guess he used something called the Algerian hook, a slow method of execution favored four hundred years ago in North Africa. Usually the victims were impaled through the waist by a suspended hook, and left dangling. Whoever inserted this one was particularly adept—he managed to avoid all major organs. In the end it wasn’t the hook that killed the boy.”

Monica shuddered. “That’s horrible.”

“Indeed. Apparently the hook was even used for such minor crimes as stealing a loaf of bread. Algiers was one of the safer cities in the world at that time.”

Monica cast him a withering look. “Not that you support that kind of treatment.”

“Of course not. Really, Monica, do you not know me at all?” He gazed at her quizzically.

Monica shrugged in response. “I guess I don’t, not really. We haven’t had a lot of those talks yet. Hell, I don’t even know if you support the death penalty.” She issued a short, barking laugh. When he didn’t respond, she raised an eyebrow. “Jesus, really? The death penalty?”

He held up a hand. “Granted, in this day and age I think that sentence is applied too liberally for lesser offenses. But for certain criminals, when there’s no doubt as to their guilt and no hope for rehabilitation…” He stared her down. “Are you saying that if the killer of these boys was caught and there was no doubt as to his guilt, you would want him to live?”

Monica eyed him levelly. “Absolutely. I don’t believe in an eye for an eye.”

“And if he killed Zach?”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Monica said, shocked. “How could you suggest that, even as an example?”

“I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Dr. Stuart said, turning from her to focus back on the body. His voice resumed the authoritative lecturing tone he was so fond of. “The eyes were gouged out of all the skulls. Based on the three found recently, we can determine that the genitals were removed, postmortem on two of them, premortem on the John Doe. And if pressed, I’d say two were killed by your novice. The ones that showed signs of previous burial were killed by someone else.”

“So, what? We’ve got a copycat on our hands?” Howie shrugged and opened his mouth to respond, but Monica waved a hand impatiently, cutting him off. “I know, I know. Not your job. I’m just starting to wish it wasn’t mine, either.”

“Are we still having dinner this evening?” he asked after a pause.

“Can’t, I have to track down a few more people,” she said, turning to leave.

He caught her hand, but she refused to face him. “Let’s not pretend this was ever anything more than it was, okay?” she said in a low voice.

He dropped her hand abruptly and she left the room, head down.

Twenty-Four

Doyle tilted his head back, taking another gulp of Gatorade. Another car drove past, a Volvo that barely held a family of five, water toys smashed against the rear window, canoe strapped to the top. As they drove past he caught a glimpse of a kid, mouth pressed up against the glass in a slobbery O. He snorted, glanced at the pad next to him and shook his head. “Not going to bother with that one, either,” he grumbled.

The pad contained the license plate numbers of eight cars. Probably three times that had passed him so far, but Doyle hadn’t bothered to write down every goddamn one of them. He had a sneaking suspicion that the second half of this assignment—tracking down the owners of those cars—was going to fall to him, too. It wouldn’t hurt to lighten his workload from the get-go.