The Fed Man (3 page)

“An important point here, Naldie, is that anyone who does anything here at the crime scene should just give you their reports, but they need to be absolutely free of opinions, analysis, or a conclusion. Just the facts, as Joe Friday used to say.”

Ticking off the points by striking his left hand with his right index finger, he continued, “We’ll also need to work with Dr. Anthony regarding the body and how it should be examined and protected to insure we don’t screw up any evidence. And Naldie, we’re going to be here for a while so have one of your young deputies stop at the diner and pick up some coffee, rolls, and sandwiches. Remember, it’s on your nickel, Naldie. Basically what you’ve got here, Chief Bushmiller, is
CSI, Criminal Minds
, and
NCIS
all wrapped up in one right here in Oak Ridge.”

Nube then turned to Dr. Anthony. “With your experience, would you concur with what I have suggested? And another question, if I may. Do you have any idea how long she’s been dead? And do you think she was murdered here, or did the perp just bring the body here for disposal?”

Kneeling next to the body, Dr. Anthony seemed to get into a meditative state before responding. “One of the first clues is the eyes. The pupils become dilated and they develop a thin, cloudy film within three hours. We can measure the potassium in the vitreous humor to help establish the time of death. Unfortunately, our perp has removed the eyes.

“The two most commonly employed postmortem processes for establishing the time of death are rigor mortis and determining the temperature of the liver. Rigor mortis usually begins about three hours after death and reaches its maximum stiffness at twelve hours. The stiffness then gradually decreases until approximately
seventy-two hours after death. Rigor mortis is still present, so my guess is that she was killed within the last twelve hours.”

Briefly looking up at Nube, he continued, “The other process is measuring the core temperature of the body, which is usually determined by measuring the temperature of the liver. This temperature usually drops about 1.5 degrees per hour from the time of death. Unfortunately, I forgot my liver probe or I would measure her liver temperature now. But we also have to take into account such variables as the ambient temperature, the humidity, the weight of the body, et cetera.”

Nube held up his hands in a surrendering posture and interrupted the coroner. “With all due respect, Dr. Anthony, I don’t think we need a forensics lecture right here and now. Just give us an idea about the estimated time of death as soon as you can.”

Standing, he replied, “I’m sorry, Nube. Sometimes I get a bit carried away. Suffice it to say that we’ll take all the variables into account when we get the body to the morgue. Then I’ll be able to estimate the time of death. As soon as the photographer and the sketch artist arrive and do their thing, I’ll help you set up some grids so we can begin the search for any evidence. And, incidentally, I agree that we should get some professionals in to do the sketches and take the photos rather than Leo and me doing that. But there is one thing I can tell you for sure.” Pointing at the victim, he added, “She was murdered here.”

It was well past midnight before Nube was able to leave Whitsell’s pit. It took some time to obtain the photos and sketches, and for Nube and Naldie to establish the search grids and complete an initial survey for evidence. Then Dr. Anthony and his assistant bagged the hands, tagged the corpse, and placed it in a body bag. Nube’s initial impression was that this Leo character seemed more than a little strange, but then anyone doing that job might be a bit strange by nature. The drive back home allowed Nube to wind down as he ran the gears on his Audi.

When he returned home, he let Ms. Abby out of her kennel. Then he cracked open a Beck’s and ambled out to the patio, where he liked to sit in his rocker and gaze at the stars and constellations while enjoying the sounds as well as the quiet of the night. Ms. Abby took her place at his side and he scratched her ears while he began running the crime scene through his mind. In the distance he heard the plaintive wail of the 12:30 Soo Line on its westward trek through the north edge of Oak Ridge.

God, he loved the sound of a train. It brought back fond memories of spending time at his grandparents’ home—a spit’s throw from the railroad tracks. If you lay very still when the train ambled through at night, you could actually feel the house shake a bit. Tonight, for some reason, the lyrics that popped into his mind were those of Steve Goodman’s “City of New Orleans.” He could almost see the old locomotive stretching into the darkness guided by its solitary beam of light and crying out, “Good morning America, how are you?” Nube thought it somewhat ironic that his life seemed to mirror that of the old train. He felt like he was passing fields, farms, houses, and faceless people, and they all seemed to be part of a bad dream.

He wiped the ever-recurring tears from the corners of his eyes, cracked another brew, and tried to focus on the crime scene. What had he seen and what, if anything, had he missed? It was 2:30 when he awoke with a stiff neck in the rocking chair and thought he had better try to get some sleep, since 0600 would come earlier than he would like.

Staring into the cloudless, starlit night, the questions and the thoughts began to pop into his head. He started wondering about the ex-fed he saw at Whitsell’s pit. Wondered if he was a
need-to, ought-to
, or
should-be
type. He also remembered the young know-it-all he encountered at the bank earlier that day. That SOB tried to tell him he needed collateral if he wanted a loan to get a new truck. Not a new one, but a good used one. What the hell was this world coming to, and especially this town? He made a note that he would have to check into this guy. Maybe give him another chance. Maybe give him a test. But if he screwed that up, then adios. Don’t need his type around here anyway.

Nube was busy placing some sod in a worn area off the eighteenth green when he saw the young boy come through the fence carrying a single golf club. The boy had not noticed Nube. He took a few balls out of his pocket and proceeded with a Sam Snead–like smooth swing to lob the balls onto the putting surface. After knocking about six within gimme range, he walked onto the green to survey his results. He picked up the balls and was walking off the green, presumably to send another volley, when Nube stepped out from behind a large elm with huge limbs that was an obstacle for golfers approaching the green from the right side of the fairway. The members thought it reminded them of the Eisenhower tree at Augusta.

As Nube approached the young boy, he said in a nonthreatening voice, “Hey, son. What are you up to?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean any harm. I’m just trying to practice a bit before the members start playing. I don’t have anywhere else to practice. I’ll leave and I promise I won’t sneak onto the course anymore.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to tell anyone. By the way, son, what’s your name?”

“My name’s Peter Jameson, but everybody calls me PJ.”

“Do you live close by?”

“I live with my mom, Nancy, about four blocks from here. I’ve been sneaking in to practice my short game before going to school. I usually come just after my mom leaves for her job. She works at the pub, you know.”

“Well, you just go ahead and hit a few more. I don’t care and I won’t tell anyone. Just don’t be late for school. And Peter, please call me Nube. Everyone else does.” Nube turned and walked away with a hint of a smile.

Nube had just completed top dressing the seventeenth green when his cell phone rang. He flipped it open without checking the caller ID and said, “This is Nube.” He made a mental note to try and check the caller ID from now on.

“Nube, this is Doc. I just got off the phone with Dr. Anthony. He’s identified the body. Her name is Cassandra Swenson and her last known address is Duluth. She’s just a month shy of her nineteenth birthday. No idea how she got down here or if she was picked up, et cetera. Joe said the toxicology screens were positive for alcohol, a small amount of cocaine, and Rohypnol, or “roofies.” The interesting thing about Rohypnol is that the sedative effects begin within thirty to forty-five minutes and can last from four to eight hours. Joe has also established the estimated time of death as four o’clock in the morning and the cause of death being suffocation. The perp actually pushed a rolled-up sock down her throat that suffocated her without leaving any marks on her neck. Joe didn’t find anything on the fingernail scrapings, there wasn’t any evidence of
sexual assault, and nothing to suggest any defensive wounds. She was out of it when he killed her and then he went about the dismembering. This sounds like a weird-ass psycho with an agenda of some type.”

“Doc, we’ve got to return to the crime scene and do a more thorough search for evidence. I’ll give Naldie a call and we’ll meet you out at Whitsell’s pit in, say, an hour. That sound okay with you?”

“Sure, Nube. That will give me some time to wrap up a few things and then I’ll meet you there. Do you think we should also ask Dr. Anthony?”

“I think we should do this search with just a small crew. If we run into something, we can always call him.”

“See you there.”

Naldie was half sitting on his cluttered old metal desk, looking through the dust-laden venetian blinds that covered the solitary window of his office. The afternoon sun shining on the window made it more difficult to see clearly through the layers of dirt. He was so deep in thought that he was oblivious to the dust motes in the stray shaft of sunlight that pierced the grime. He was staring at the Red Owl grocery store and its adjacent variety store across the street. They were owned by his good friends the Kolton brothers. You just couldn’t beat people like those two guys. He shook his head for the umpteenth time as he wondered how they survived since the opening of a Walmart in the neighboring town. Naldie and his wife, Janelle, refused to enter that Walmart and often referred to it as a commercial Satan.

He started wondering how he was going to handle this investigation. For just a moment, he allowed himself to reminisce about his career. He was born and raised here and had spent his entire life in Oak Ridge. He had worked summers at the old cheese plant
until it burned down. After high school he attended a vo-tech school to earn a degree in law enforcement, and then he returned to Oak Ridge as a young, set-the-world-straight, obey-the-laws-or-else, rookie policeman. Within two years everyone above him in the office left town and he became, by default, the chief. He’d held this position for the last thirty-five years and was starting to mark the time until he could retire and take up fishing in earnest. The biggest things he’d dealt with to date were a few drug busts.

He removed the U.S. Open cap and subconsciously tried to rub the deep furrows from his brow. He began pacing and talking out loud. “Just what in the blazes has happened to this nice, sleepy burg? A murder? Here in Oak Ridge? Give me a break, for crying out loud.” Continuing to ponder his present quandary, he began an old habit of rubbing his rotund abdomen when contemplating just about anything, when his office phone rang.

“This is Chief Bushmiller.”

“Good afternoon, chief. This is Nube Lawson. I just received a call from Doc informing me of the toxicology reports on the young victim. Doc and I were chatting and we think we should return to the crime scene to do a more thorough search for evidence. We’d like you and Pete to join us. The grids are all set so it shouldn’t take us too long. Probably even have you home in time for your Tuesday night pot roast supper.”

“Ah, jeez, Nube. I told you yesterday that this is way over my head. Don’t you think we should call in some real cops or something?”

“You’re our leader, Naldie, and we’re all comfortable with that. We’ll see you guys there in about an hour. And by the way, call that photographer and sketch artist again because if we find anything, we’ll need to have photos taken before removing it. And we may need more sketches as well.”

Jason Archer had just finished his day at First American State Bank, where he was employed as a loan officer. He had obtained his undergraduate degree in business administration at St. Michael’s University before beginning at the bank, which just so happened to be owned by his father. But someday this was going to be his bank. That’s why he spent two nights a week and most weekends at the University of Minnesota working on his MBA in finance. He had some strong opinions about how to make this a real bank, to help people and still make some serious money. But one thing was for sure, the people around here had to learn that he was not going to give the bank’s money away. If they wanted a loan, they had to qualify. No ifs, ands, or buts, baby. He had always thought that his dad was too lenient. His dad always said he felt sorry for those who were in need and it was his duty to help them. Well, when the bank was his, that would change. As they used to say at the old Chinese laundry close to his fraternity house in college,
no tickie, no washie
.

Perhaps it was because he was so deep in thought about his bright, rich future that he failed to notice the old, rusted-out Nissan pickup with peeling red paint and duct tape holding the left front fender in place. It was parked right behind his 2008 135i twin-turbocharged, royal blue BMW convertible. Nor did Jason notice the man slouched behind the Nissan’s steering wheel wearing sunglasses and a pulled-up hooded gray sweatshirt.

He had been patiently waiting for about half an hour when the upstart, too-smart-for-his-own-good butthead walked out of the bank. He had kind of thought, and perhaps silently wished, that the Bimmer belonged to the young dickhead. Sure enough. He walked right up to the shiny ride and hit his key fob to open the door. He wondered how the butthead would handle it when he learned that he had parked his Nissan tight against the guy’s rear bumper. Some guys owned a fancy Chevy Silverado or a Toyota Tundra. But all he had was a Nissan POS. That was his own name for his piece-of-shit truck. Well, we’ll find out, he thought, because the jerk has just figured it out and he’ll need to talk about how he’s going to leave. With a smirk on his face, he thought that this would be the test. Pass and you live, fail and it’s adios. The moment of truth has arrived because here he comes.