In the Woods Page 11

  CHAPTER TEN

  Larry Gorham sat down at his desk for what seemed like the first time in months. The first time since that severed finger had been found from victim Number One. The chair gave a creak of protest as the seat conformed to his with a lover-like familiarity. The back bobbed loosely, just the way he liked it, ready to give if he should choose to lean back and put his feet on the desk top to ponder the holes in the ceiling tiles along with a weightier work-related problem.

  Many a meaty case had been solved while contemplating those stained panels that dated back to before the office had gone smoke-free. He missed those good old days, kicked back with a cigarette smoldering in one hand, cold coffee thickening in the other. Less healthy days, but still fondly remembered.

  While he had a brief break in schedule, he took advantage of it by reaching into his bottom drawer to pull out the insulated sack his wife sent with him each morning. Like as not, it came home untouched each evening because he hadn't had time for more than a caffeine-free diet cola but Elizabeth, bless her, persisted, saying good nutrition had its own rewards. Pleasing Elizabeth did too, so he took the sack, endured the teasing of his fellow workers and said nothing, knowing that if they had wives like Elizabeth, they'd be more than willing to look a little foolish, too.

  He separated the Velcro closing to see what dietary delights were in store for him, fairly confident that he wouldn't discover a rib sandwich. He didn't. Instead, he fished out celery sticks, a bagel filled with low-fat cream cheese and an apple. Weighing the apple ruefully, he wished for just a couple of juicy fat grams, a few hundred empty calories to make the last of his belly, that old friend who used to lap over his belt companionably, feel not quite so deprived.

  He'd never been heavy, an athlete all through school and active now in his career, but too many fast food on the run meals and too many late nights hunched over paper work instead of the Stairmaster had quietly taken their toll. The last straw was when Elizabeth had bought him some dress slacks for Christmas and he'd complained loudly that they were cutting the sizes smaller. That was the only logical answer since he could barely button his usual 34s. He'd seen his last Oreo that very night and the next day, Elizabeth announced they were going 'healthy'. He hadn't touched a French fry since, and low and behold, those 34s had gotten more comfortable. Martyrdom wore hard on a man whose Irish-Italian mother raised him on potatoes, pastas and sauce.

  He felt something else at the bottom of the bag and, fantasizing about a Snickers bar, withdrew a foil rectangle. Low fat granola bar.He was about to pitch it into his waste basket and head for the candy machine when a piece of paper fluttered down onto his desk top. He recognized his wife's handwriting.

  I love you, Larry! Elizabeth.

  He sighed. Touching his forefinger to his lips, he pressed the damp pad of it to the glass over Elizabeth's perfect smile where her likeness was framed on his desk amid affidavits and DMV reports. His beautiful Elizabeth with her feathery blonde hair and sophisticated air borne of the truly wealthy. Who'd have guessed such a pedigreed piece of fluff could hide a core of iron necessary to support a man in his line of work, as well as a passionate nature that had him rushing home as soon as possible, whenever possible. Was it Paul Newman who said of his wife, "Why go out for hamburger when you have steak at home"? Well, he had a choice cut and he knew it! Life was good . . . even when it was low fat.

  He was half way through the bagel when he saw Officer Ross Oldman enter the squad room. Since stepping between him and Pellman that morning, he trusted Oldman to go about his work. The man was a bloodhound on a scent. No one in the department was more relentless.However, his furrowed expression bode of no luck as he approached the detective's desk. Larry restored his lunch to its bag and relegated the sack back to the depths of his bottom drawer.

  "Well," Oldman began in heavy frustration, "we had 'em search around the neighboring woods but they didn't find anything. Even as far back as Bell's line. Did a door to door and couldn't turn up a soul who'd heard or seen anything out of the ordinary. I'll tell you what. This guy is good. Not a damn thing to work on."

  Not that Larry doubted him. He only spoke his own aggravation aloud. "I just find it real hard to believe that somebody could just walk up to a house on a quiet suburban street, drop off a torso and not leave a clue behind. Tell me I'm wrong, Ross."

  "We've dusted, sprayed, dipped and fumed."

  "Shit." That summed the whole thing up in a word. "Anything else?"

  "We did get the K-9. It'll be here soon. If there's anything, the dog should get it."

  Unless there was nothing to find. Unless Alex Kerwood was their killer.

  And Larry was real reluctant to believe that. He was a top notch judge of character and no way would he peg Alex, old friend or not, as a killer kook. There had to be something else. Something they were missing.

  He was tilted back, studying the acoustic tiles, when an odd perfume wafted past him. Shalimar and formaldehyde. Lifting his head, he found himself under the unsmiling scrutiny of Anne Goodnight, the department's pathologist.

  "We need to talk."

  Larry sat up. "What is it?" Something in her brusque manner had all his bells and whistles going off at once. She was on to something, that something he'd been looking for.

  God bless her!

  "Not here . . . in the lab."

  Frowning slightly at her tense air of mystery, he followed. She said nothing as her sensible heels tapped down the hall. Her footsteps were just like the lady, herself, quick and purposeful. Anne had been with them for less than a year. She was young, a single mother, and totally committed to her work. Because she was all of those things and attractive besides, she drew a lot of flak from other officers.Larry wasn't one of them. He liked her for her no-nonsense approach and occasional bursts of dry humor. He respected her for her dedication and flawless performance. She was a professional and just what he was counting on to save the department's ass.

  And the life of the next would-be victim.

  They'd reached the far end of the corridor where a frosted glass door marked LAB cordoned off her area of expertise. Anne stopped, hand on the knob, and fixed him with a direct gaze. His adrenaline was bubbling with expectation by then.

  "I thought it would be best to bring this up to you personally . . . privately. I know I'm a rookie here and that I could be wrong or simply overlooking some trivial detail but," she glanced around as if fearing someone might overhear, "there's something definitely not right here."

  Larry placed his hand on her shoulder. There was nothing sexual or patronizing in the gesture. It was one of trust. "Anne, don't sell yourself short. I never have. You're one of the best I've ever worked with and I have every confidence in your findings."

  She didn't smile or even seemed pleased by that assessment. Her look was both confused and compelled. "You may not think so when you see what I have. Pellman's going to go through the roof."

  "I'll worry about the chief. At this point, I'm open to anything you might have." He motioned toward the door. "Let's see."

  She pushed her way into the brightly lit room. The smells made Larry's nose pinch tight in protest. Everything was spotlessly clean and gleaming steel but there was no way to disguise the purpose it served. Especially when they approached the autopsy table where an object the size of a bread box was draped in plastic. Larry was thankful for his bland meal. He nodded toward the drape.

  "Is this it?"

  "Yes."

  After slipping on surgical gloves, Anne lifted off the sheet.Even with her training, she reared back slightly from the stench of progressive decomposition. On the table, was half a human rib cage.

  "Not much to look at, is it?" Larry tried a smile, failed miserably. He looked away as nonchalantly as possible, pretending to study the various specimen bottles that lined some of the shelves.Until he recognized some of the contents as livers, kidneys and other vital organs. He began to examine the floor. A nice black and white speckled pattern, somethi
ng like what he had in his bathroom at home.

  Anne paid him no attention, used to the squeamish reaction to her field. She didn't think any less of the detective because of it.She picked up a long metal pointer, readying to tell him her results.

  "My initial findings are that this is what’s left of a male Caucasian in his mid- or late-forties, well over six foot, two hundred pounds. No light weight, to be sure. Or at least, he wasn’t. With what I have to go on, my report won't be a long one, that's for sure."

  Larry glanced back to her, brow deeply lined, tone sharp."Well, that oughta really help us."

  Surprised by the unexpected attack from a man she admired, Anne rapped the pointer on the edge of the table. The sound echoed her anger.

  "Listen, you don't have to worry about me. Speed and carelessness will not have an effect on my protocol. I'm doing my best to help find a solution for you."

  Chagrinned, Larry put up his hand. "Whoa . . . I'm just looking for some answers, or better yet, some leads. Whether they're in concrete or paper Mache, I don't care. I've seen one too many missing persons reports cross my desk—hell, even one is too many, and I want to make sure there aren't any more. We haven't had a damn thing to work on since this whole deal started. I guess that makes me grumpy, but you know I don't mean to take it out on you. So, if you've got anything for me, I'm all ears."

  Anne took a deep breath, her composure returning as she explained without truly apologizing for her snappishness. "Sorry.I'm just a bit stressed out, too. And I'm not going to be popular when I make my findings public. I call 'em as I see 'em and now, I'm about to throw a big wrench into the engine to clog up the works."

  Larry's frown returned along with an aching gut feeling as he asked, "What are you talking about?"

  Anne turned back to the remains. "To put it simply, this person was chewed to death."

  Now that he hadn't expected.

  "What do you mean? Chewed?"

  The pathologist pointed out an area of exposed bone. In his curiosity, Larry leaned in close, seeing the small area instead of the gruesome whole. That made it easier to take.

  "This, for instance. This is not broken, crushed, cut or sawed.It's been, basically, gnawed apart. There are also punctures in the bone. I've been trying to get a match from the groove marks, but no luck."

  Larry's light lunch did a slow roll over. "Are you saying we haven't found any of the victims because our killer is some kind of Hannibal Lector?"

  "No, I'm not." She put the pointer down and stripped out of the gloves, her actions brisk, her gaze intense. "They're not human bite marks. I've been running these jaw patterns around with every known carnivore. Nothing matches up." She paused then for emphasis, repeated, "Nothing."

  "Some kind of wolf did this? Some animal?"

  "Something. I don't know what. I found traces of dog hair, some kind of terrier, but I don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with.It would have to be something larger, much larger, to inflict this degree of trauma on a man this size.”

  "Shit."

  Now he not only had no answers for his current case, he had more questions. And he didn't like them. Not at all. "Did you have a chance to look at that blood sample?"

  "Briefly. It's not human, either. I'll give it more study later, but I wanted to get to this first."

  Larry heaved a tremendous sigh. "Anne, I want you to keep this under wraps for now. Stall the official report until I tell you otherwise. And keep working on this. I want to know if we have one problem or two."

  "Sure, Larry."

  He started for the door. "Hell," he grumbled. "One problem was enough."

  He’d just gotten back to his office when Oldman peered in, his florid face composed in granite hard lines.

  “Detective, I’ve got a Millicent Forbes out front. She’s real upset. Seems her husband Harvey went to take their dog out for a walk last night . . . and never came back.”

  “Forbes? Coach Harvey Forbes?”

  Oldman nodded grimly. Forbes had been his Phys Ed coach at the high school. “She’s sure it must be foul play. He’s not the kind to just–” He couldn’t finish.

  Larry nodded. “Get Mrs. Forbes some coffee and get her settled in the conference room. I’ll be there in a minute. And Ross, not a word.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Larry closed his eyes, picturing Coach Forbes. A big man, well over six foot, two hundred pounds. He picked up his phone and punched in an extension. After a long sigh, he said, “Anne, I think we’ve IDed your John Doe.”

  Shit.

  ӜӜӜ

  Toby Bender took pride in his job. Some called him a garbage man. He preferred sanitation engineer. He didn’t care if others sneered at the stigma his work carried like the stench on his clothes.It was decent work, necessary work and he earned a darned good wage.

  He angled the big truck down one of the alleys between a Chinese restaurant and a music store. Even without looking, he could have told what kind of businesses they were by what they discarded. Bok Choy and fried rice. CD jewel cases and torn rocker posters.Sometimes he’d bring things home if they were rescuable and not too badly soiled. Even when he didn’t find anything of value, he was always interested in the archaeology of waste disposal. The remains of a civilization, he’d come to think of it.

  In his youth, he’d wanted to scour the desert for bones after taking a semester of anthropology in his only year of college. But that was before his mother got sick and he’d had to surrender his scholarship for a paying job.

  He didn’t mind. Not really. And now that his mother was gone, he could still search for mysteries in what people left behind.

  He put the brake on and hopped out of the high cab to the puddled cobblestones. Tugging on his heavy gloves–one couldn’t be too careful these days–he approached the first of three dumpsters. Grabbing on, he expertly swung it around and clipped it on the truck’s hopper.Stepping off to the side, he flipped the switch and watched as the container went airborne with a mechanical whine and whir of the hydraulics. After a few satisfying clunks, he brought it back down, empty, and shoved it back in place. He was reaching for the second one when he heard it for the first time–a soft snuffling sound at the shadowed rear of the alley.

  Toby was a big guy. He’d played football and had done some wrestling. He knew how to handle himself in just about any situation, so he wasn’t alarmed to think he wasn’t alone. Since the newspaper started reporting the series of killings, he’d begun to carry his big hunting blade. One flash of that razor-edged sucker would make any pervert think twice. But what lingered in the dank alley wasn’t some psycho killer. Probably just some whino in a sterno-oblivion or maybe some poor homeless person. The later thought made him frown.He didn’t like to think of anyone forced to find shelter between unyielding walls and open sky. He reached back for his wallet, wondering if he had a five or ten to spare, enough to get the unfortunate soul a decent meal in a warm environment.

  He heard the noise again, this time accompanied by a low rumble, like a growl. That made him pause. Taking on a drugged out kid was one thing. Tangling with an animal was another. He’d seen packs of strays scouring the alleyways for scraps—family pets cruelly abandoned for peeing on rugs or barking too much that found a new home banding together with their kin. Alone, they were mere dogs, skinny, pathetic orphans, but together, they were a vicious force.Usually, they slunk back into the shadows when they smelled a human’s approach. Usually. But there was no exit from the alley, and if cornered and feeling threatened, Toby could find himself in real danger from them.

  Quickly, he attached the second dumpster to the lift, determined to finish his job and get the hell gone without discovering what was back there making those alarming grumbles. He shoved the empty container with extra energy. It collided with the brick wall in a loud clatter. Maybe that would make them think twice . . . he hoped as he reached for the last bin.

  He was sweating now, eager to be on his way without any trouble. In his has
te, his first attempt to hook the bar on the truck failed, forcing him to give it his full attention. With his back to the alley as he wrestled the heavy container, his first warning was the stirring of the hairs at the base of his neck as what felt like a warm breeze brushed across it. A shudder raced through him. He tried to turn just a bit too quickly, too carelessly, and as the bar of the dumpster clicked into place, the fingers of his sturdy gloves were crushed between it and the truck. His shout of surprise and pain was smothered by the sudden surge of fear that closed off his throat even as his eyes widened in horror.

  Because what stood behind him in the alley wasn’t a whino with a switchblade or a growling pack of dogs. What he discovered would have been an anthropologist’s dream. All Toby saw was a looming nightmare. He made a grab for the sheath on his belt. If he could get to the knife . . .

  But before he could reach it, he was jerked away from the truck with a force that left his glove . . . and the hand in it, dangling behind.

  ӜӜӜ

  Alex returned to a darkened home, reminding him with a visceral punch that it was empty inside. Police tape covered the opening to the garage so he had to park in the drive. Wayne had come by sometime during the day for his truck but Alex hadn't heard word one from him. Was he just as weirded out as Alex was by all that had happened? He wanted to call, but wasn’t sure yet of what he was going to say.

  Ducking under the tape, Alex went in through the kitchen, snapping on the dim light over the sink. He knew he should get something going for dinner, but when he noticed that no message light was blinking on the answering machine, his appetite shriveled. No message from Helen. Or from Wayne, for that matter. A hot, dry yearning for alcohol rose in its place. Alcohol taken in large enough doses to dull the sense of isolation and anguish twisting to his soul. He suppressed it with a soft curse of denial and began to run water into the coffee pot. He wanted to try talking to Helen again, and when he did, he wanted to sound stone cold sober.

  A sudden crash from the back yard startled him, the clatter his garbage cans would make if knocked over by one of the neighbor's kids cutting through by hopping his fence. He shut off the water, not thinking about kids at all.