The Soul Catcher (20 page)

FDR Memorial
Washington, D.C.

B
en Garrison put his gloves back on and slapped the back of his camera shut on a fresh roll of film. He certainly didn’t want to waste any time or give Detective Racine a chance to change her mind. He stepped in closer, focusing on the woman’s face. She looked so peaceful, almost as if she were simply sleeping, despite being set up against a tree. Ben was fascinated by the blue tint of her skin. Had it been caused by the cold last night or a delayed reaction to the strangulation?

Even more fascinating were the flies, hundreds of them, persistent despite the activity of officers and detectives examining the area around them. They were huge and black, not your ordinary houseflies, and they seemed to be taking up residence in every one of the body’s orifices, especially the warmer, moist areas like her eyes and ears. Her dark pubic hair looked alive with them. Already Ben could see what had to be milky gray eggs nestled in the mass of thick hair.

Death and its rituals and all the natural processes that went along with it amazed him. No matter how many dead bodies he saw, he continued to be fascinated. Less than twenty-four hours ago something warm and pulsating had been housed within this body. In New Caledonia the old men called this a word that meant
shadow soul.
The Esquimaux of Bering Strait referred to it as a person’s shade. In Christian faith it was simply referred to as the soul. But now, whatever it was, it was gone. It had disappeared into thin air, leaving behind an empty, hollow carcass for insects to feed upon.

He remembered reading somewhere that in a week’s time, a human cadaver could lose about ninety percent of its original weight when left exposed to insects during a hot summer. Insects were certainly efficient and predictable. Too bad human beings weren’t. It would make his job so much easier.

“Hey, watch where you’re stepping!” a uniformed cop yelled at him.

“Who the hell are you, buddy?” a guy in a navy windbreaker and baseball cap wanted to know. He looked more like a third baseman than a cop. When Ben didn’t answer and continued to snap shots, the man grabbed him by the elbow. “Who let this guy back here?”

“Wait a fucking minute.” Ben twisted free and was immediately accosted by two uniforms. Now he could see the white letters on the back of the guy’s windbreaker: FBI. Shit, how was he supposed to know? The guy looked like a clean-cut, fucking Boy Scout.

“It’s okay.” Racine finally appeared to rescue him. The knees of her carefully pressed trousers had leaves sticking to them and her short blond hair had been tangled by the wind. “I know the guy. He used to shoot crime scenes for us before he became a big-shot freelancer. Steinberg isn’t here yet. He’s across town at another scene. We’ve gotta get some shots before the rain starts. Hell, we lucked out. Garrison just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

The officers let go of Ben’s arms, giving him a shove just as a reminder that they could. He checked his camera settings to make sure they didn’t get all fucked up. Assholes. He was doing them a goddamn favor, and they still treated him like shit.

“Come on, boys. Show’s over,” Racine told the mobile-crime-lab guys who had stopped crawling around in the grass to watch the commotion. “We’ve got to hurry up before our evidence gets washed away. That goes for you, too, Garrison.”

He nodded but wasn’t paying much attention. He had only now noticed that no matter where he stood, the dead woman’s eyes seemed to follow him. It had to be one of those strange illusion things, right? Or was he getting paranoid?

“Hey, camera guy,” the FBI agent called to him. “Get a shot of this.”

The guy stood behind Ben, pointing to a spot on the ground about five feet away from the body.

“The name’s Garrison,” Ben said, waiting for the guy to meet his eyes, and when he did, Ben made it clear that he wouldn’t proceed until the guy acknowledged him with a little respect.

He tipped back his baseball cap and smiled. “And you just happened to be in the neighborhood, is that what Detective Racine said?”

“Yeah. What about it? I was getting some fucking stock shots of the monuments.”

“On a Sunday morning?”

“Best time to do it. No oddballs monkeying around, thinking it’s funny to screw up my shots. Hey, I’m helping you guys out here. Maybe you could quit busting my balls.” Ben kept his tone calm, confining the anger, when he really wanted to tell this guy to go fuck himself.

“Okay, Mr. Garrison, could you please take a shot of these indentations in the dirt?” He pointed to the ground again. He was tall, over six feet, and lanky but athletic-looking. The sarcasm and his eyes told Ben he’d better not push it. Fucking feebie. Ben glanced at the guy’s windbreaker and wondered where his gun was hidden. He bet the asshole wouldn’t be such a macho prick without his government-issued Glock.

“No problem,” Ben finally said. He checked out the area where the agent pointed. Immediately he saw two, maybe three small circular indentations in the ground. They were about five to six inches apart.

“What is it?” Racine joined them, looking over Ben’s shoulder just as he felt the first raindrops on the back of his neck.

“Not sure,” the agent told her. “Something was set down here. Or maybe it’s some sort of signature.”

“Jesus, Tully, you’re always thinking serial killers, aren’t you? Maybe the killer set down a suitcase or something.”

“With little circular feet?” Ben laughed and snapped a couple of more shots.

“Everyone’s a goddamn expert.” Racine was getting pissed.

Ben smiled, his bent back to her and his face to the ground. He liked when Racine got pissed, and he imagined her mouth making that sexy little pout.

“That should be enough photos, Garrison. Now, play nice and hand over the film.”

When he glanced up at her, she was holding out her hand.

“I didn’t get very many angles of the body,” he protested. “And I have a few more exposures left.”

“I’m sure we have enough. Besides, the medical examiner’s here.” She waved to the small, pudgy man in the houndstooth jacket and wool cap making his way up the overgrown incline. The guy took small, careful steps, watching his feet the entire time. He reminded Ben of some cartoon character with a little black bag.

“Come on, Garrison.” Her hands had moved to her hips while she waited. Maybe she thought it made her look authoritive. Racine had boyish, straight hips, probably even wore men’s trousers with those long legs. What she lacked in hips, she made up for in tits. He stared at them now as she waited. Something about those soft tits next to that holstered metal gave him a hard-on every time. He wondered if she knew and liked it, because she didn’t budge to close her jacket. Instead, she stood there, same stance, pretending to get impatient but not denying him access.

“Garrison, I don’t have all fucking day.”

Reluctantly, he tapped the release button and rewound the film, snapped the camera open and handed her the roll. “No problem. Not like I don’t have better places to be.”

She stuffed the film into her pocket, then buttoned the jacket as if to tell him the show was over now that she had what she wanted.

“So you owe me one, Racine. How about dinner?”

“In your dreams, Garrison. Just send me a bill.” She turned to meet the medical examiner, dismissing Ben as though he were one of her lackeys.

Ben scratched his bristled jaw, feeling like he had been sucker punched. The ungrateful cunt. One of these days she wouldn’t get away with jacking men around. Actually, Ben had heard rumors that she did the same thing to women. Yeah, he could see Racine doing both, maybe even at the same time. The thought threatened to give him another hard-on. He felt the feebie staring at him. It was time to get the hell out of here. After all, he had gotten what he wanted.

He started down the path, knowing without looking where to step so he wouldn’t slip. Before he turned around the granite boulders, he glanced over his shoulder. Racine and the rest of them were already occupied with the medical examiner. Ben stuffed his hand deep into his pocket, found the smooth cylinder. Then he smiled as he squeezed the roll of film into the palm of his hand. Poor Racine. It had never occurred to her that he may have taken more than one roll.

M
aggie felt an immediate sense of relief. How awful was that? She preferred examining a dead body to having breakfast with her mother. Surely, that had to be a mortal sin for which she’d burn in hell. Or perhaps she’d be struck by lightning—maybe by one of the thickening gray thunderheads gathering now.

She flashed her badge to the first uniformed officer blocking the sidewalk next to the information center. He nodded, and she ducked under the crime scene tape. It was her first visit to the monument, though it had been finished and dedicated in 1997. She guessed she wasn’t much different from other District suburbanites. Who had time to tour monuments except on vacation? And even if she took vacations, she certainly wouldn’t choose to stay in the District.

Unlike the other presidential monuments, the FDR Memorial included trees, waterfalls, grassy berms, alcoves and gardens, all spread out over a long, expansive area rather than grouped in one imposing structure. As Maggie walked through the galleries or rooms, she paid little attention to the sculptures and bronzes. Instead her attention went to the granite walls, the ledges above and behind. She noticed plenty of trees and bushes. From down here, the area looked like a private haven for murder. Had the designers not given that a thought or had she simply become cynical after years of trying to think like a killer?

Maggie stopped at the bigger-than-life bronze of the seated Roosevelt with a little bronze dog next to him. She checked the position of the spotlights around it and wondered how far up they would shine. If the sky continued to darken, perhaps she’d soon get her answer. However, the granite walls had to be ten to fifteen feet tall. She doubted the lights illuminated any of the trees and bushes above and behind. From where she stood, craning her neck, she wondered if it was possible to even notice someone in those woods? She could faintly hear the commotion of detectives over the rushing sound of the waterfall. The voices came from above and farther in the bushes, but she couldn’t see them. Not a single motion.

“The little dog’s name is Fala.”

She startled and turned to find a man with a camera hanging from his neck.

“Excuse me?”

“Most people don’t know that. The dog. It was Roosevelt’s favorite.”

“The monument’s closed this morning,” she told him, and immediately saw his expression change to anger.

“I’m not some fucking tourist. I’m here taking crime scene shots. Just ask Racine.”

“Okay, my mistake.” But his quick temper drew her attention, and she found herself assessing his bristled jaw and tousled dark hair, the worn knees of his blue jeans and the toe-tips of shiny, expensive cowboy boots. He could easily pass for a tourist or an aging college student.

“See, I could make a snap judgment, too, and wonder what a babe like you was doing here. I thought Racine liked being the only babe on the scene.” He returned her assessment by letting his eyes slowly run the length of her.

“New police procedure. We like to have at least one backup.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m the backup babe.”

He smiled, more of a smirk than a smile, and his eyes traveled the same path.

“Sorta like cameramen,” she continued. “Every police station needs a backup. You know, a second stringer, some lackey they call when they’re in a pinch and the real cameraman can’t make it.”

His eyes shot up to hers, and she could see the flash of anger return. This guy was as much a crime scene photographer as she was a police babe. What the hell was Racine thinking? Or perhaps that was the problem. Racine hadn’t been thinking, as usual.

“I’m tired of this fucking treatment,” he said, with his hands swiping the air as if to show her what he had endured. “I do you assholes a favor and what do I get? I don’t fucking need this shit. I’m outta here.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he turned on the heels of his polished boots and left with enough of a strut that Maggie knew he had gotten something for his early morning trouble. Just what, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps some promise from Racine, some token quid pro quo. The woman had it down to an art form. Maggie remembered the last time she and Racine had worked a case, not that long ago. It was still too fresh in her memory bank to shrug off the distasteful experience. She had almost found herself on the other end of one of Racine’s quid pro quos.

“O’Dell.” This time the voice came from above. Agent Tully leaned over the ledge. “I want you to take a look at this before they bag the body.”

“What’s the best route up?”

“Around the fourth gallery. There’s a set of rest rooms. Come all the way around them and to the back.” He pointed to a place she couldn’t see—too many granite walls. She found her way past another waterfall and more granite, then climbed a path that looked freshly made.

They were waiting for her, keeping their distance from the body, though Stan Wenhoff looked anxious to get on with his job. The forensics team was packing up what they had gathered so far in larger plastic bags. Maggie understood their urgency even before a low rumble of thunder came from overhead.

The girl sat against a tree with her back to the ledge of the monument. Her head lolled on her neck, exposing one side of deep raw tracks. Her eyes stared out despite the mass of whitish yellow in the corner of one. Without closer examination, Maggie knew the mass to be maggots. Her legs were extended straight out in front of her and spread apart. Black, shiny-backed blowflies were already taking their posts in her pubic area and up her nostrils.

The girl wore only a black bra, still clasped but pushed up to expose her small white breasts. A piece of gray duct tape covered her mouth. Her short dark hair was tangled with bits and pieces of dried leaves and pine needles. Despite the horror of the scene, the girl’s hands were folded together, lying neatly and calmly across her lap, resting just below the nest of blowflies. The hands reminded Maggie of someone praying. Was it supposed to mean something?

“We don’t have much time, Agent O’Dell.” Stan was the first to get impatient.

Poor Stan. Another early morning call-in for him in less than a week.

Tully was alongside her now, pointing to the ground in front of her.

“There’s these weird marks, circular indentations.”

At first she couldn’t see them. It looked as if something may have been set down, though the object had not been very heavy. The marks Tully referred to were not deep, barely leaving impressions on the surface.

“Mean anything to you?” he asked.

“No. Should it?”

“I think so, but I can’t figure out what.”

“Tully’s all gloom and doom today.” Julia Racine approached on Maggie’s other side. She smiled down at her, hands on her hips. “He’s already looking for a serial killer.”

Maggie took one last look at the indentations, stood up and glanced at the girl’s body again, then she faced the detective. “I think Agent Tully’s right. And judging by this scene, I’d say this guy’s just getting started.”