Dirty Devil Page 3

  I pulled on coveralls and my old rain boots and waited to stand before I zipped up the front of the coveralls. It was a cool morning, but the sun shone bright in a cloudless sky, and a light sheen of sweat covered my skin. I dug in my bag for something to pull my hair back with and saw the shadow creep over my shoulder.

  “So,” I said, knowing it was Jack before I turned to look at him. “This seems different.”

  “It’s a new one for me too,” he said. “You think you’ve seen everything, and then someone takes things to a new level.”

  “The good news is you’ll never be unemployed,” I told him, piling my hair on top of my head and twisting a band around it. I’d been letting it grow out, and I was just at the point where I was thinking off chopping it short again.

  “I’m less interested in unemployment and more interested in being able to sleep peacefully in my old age.”

  I grabbed my bag and turned to look at him. Really look at him. There were dark circles under his eyes and the lines around his mouth seemed deeper. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and the dark stubble had flecks of silver in it, which was a new addition over the past few months. To be fair, our past few months had been one for the books.

  Jack was a tall man, broad through the shoulders and narrow of hip. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt untucked so it covered his weapon. His badge was pinned over his shirt pocket. He might have been dressed casually, but there was no doubt he was in charge. Jack had a presence that commanded attention, from the second he walked into a room or on a scene. It still blew my mind that he’d chosen me.

  He came from a long line of tobacco farmers who’d invested their money wisely, and since our marriage, I still had no idea how many accounts or properties Jack managed. But he assured me I’d never run out of coffee, which was all that really mattered in life.

  “Good point,” I said, scanning the ground. “Did the first on scene find any tracks?”

  Jack shook his head. “There’s so many different tracks from trucks and tractors it’s hard to tell what belongs to what.”

  “Who found him?”

  “Homeowner,” Jack said. “Name is Donald Cotton. I want to talk to him after you’ve looked at the body.”

  I grunted and slung my bag over my shoulder. We made our way toward the victim, and I tried to absorb what I was seeing. He was a mess, whoever he was. And then I blanked out the violence displayed before me. I put away the thoughts that made me wonder if he’d suffered. I knew he had, even without an up-close examination. But sympathy wasn’t going to get the job done. Emotion never brought justice to the victims. Only truth.

  “That takes a lot of effort to hoist a man his size onto a pole,” I said.

  “Easier than you think,” he said. “Someone your size could probably do it using the right leverage, but this is a bit more complicated than that, so yeah, it does take a lot of effort.”

  Jack saw things that other people didn’t see. It was an incredible gift. The body would tell me how he died, what he ate, and who he was, but it couldn’t put me in the movie Jack could create—the details that were so clear we could live and breathe the life of the victim.

  “Cotton said there wasn’t anything in the field but the old scarecrow when he went to bed last night. He did a final check in the barn around eight o’clock and then headed inside. So sometime between eight and five this morning the body was dumped out here. This definitely wasn’t the kill site.”

  “No,” I agreed. I didn’t see any large pools of blood or spatter. Just what covered the front of the victim.

  “He’s well dressed,” Jack said. “That’s not a cheap suit. His shirt is tailored. But the suit jacket is missing.”

  “That’s not all that’s missing,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Jack said, his lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s been gutted. But they buttoned his shirt back after they did it. Maybe the killer wanted to give the vultures a head start at destroying evidence.”

  “It’s sick,” I said. “He was already dead when they put him up here. Why would they go to the added trouble of disemboweling him and then buttoning his shirt back to hold in his intestines? Not that it worked very well.”

  The vultures had picked at the delicate tissue until the entrails had spilled out on the ground and his shirt was held together by one straining button.

  “You said it,” he said. “They’re sick. But I think there’s a message here. It’s like you said, why would someone go to the added trouble when they’ve already committed the murder? You’ve got a man who’s got money, not only in his clothes, but look at his hands. He gets manicures.”

  “His fingers have all been broken,” I said, noting the swollen and crooked joints. “Someone wants to send a very strong message.” Then I looked at Jack. “You think the message is for us?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Too soon to tell. We’ll know more once we get an identification.”

  “You really think someone my size could get him up there? That just one person could do this?”

  Jack squatted down and moved some of the tall grass so I could see where the pole was driven into the ground.

  “One person could do it,” he said. “They’d have to be familiar with this farm, and this particular setup, but it can be done. The owner of the farm has these scarecrow posts in every field. They’re built like a cross, and pretty sturdy pieces of metal. There’s already a posthole dug for the pipe, so all the killer would have to do is take it out of the hole and lay it down flat. From there, it’d be easy to tie the victim down and use leverage to push the pipe back down into the hole.”

  “Have y’all finished photographing?” I asked.

  “All done,” he said. “Just waiting on you before we take him down.”

  I normally brought my camera to crime scenes and took my own photos, but it was at the funeral home, and I hadn’t gone by to get it. I’d have to make do with the pictures Officer Riley was taking.

  “Let’s do it,” I said, nodding as Detective Cole walked up.

  I liked working with Cole. He was a good guy and a good cop. He was all legs and moved with a slow, lanky gait. His cowboy boots were caked with mud and grass, and his Wranglers fit well enough that he was never without female attention. He wore a black down vest over his denim shirt, and it mostly covered his holster and the badge on his belt.

  “Doc,” he said in greeting. “Long time no see.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I was starting to think crime was a thing of the past.”

  Cole smiled. “We had a lucky stretch. Now we just gotta hope we won’t be playing catch-up for the next three months.”

  “Lovely thought,” I said.

  “This thing is going to be harder to get out than it was to get in,” Cole said, nodding at the cops trying to lift the pipe out of the ground. “Once you push the pipe into that hole, gravity pretty much takes care of the rest.”

  “Our thoughts too,” Jack said.

  Martinez and Riley had the unfortunate task of lifting the pipe, and they were both straining to get it out of the ground.

  “When it falls back, it’s going to fall hard,” I said. “It could compromise the body.”

  Jack nodded and clapped Cole on the shoulder. “Let’s get dirty,” he said and went to position himself behind the body. Riley and Martinez managed to lift it little by little, until the body started to tilt backward.

  “Got it,” Jack said. “Let’s bring him down slow.”

  By the time the body was on the ground, Martinez and Riley were sweating and panting for breath, and Jack and Cole had stains on the front of their shirts and jeans that I didn’t want to think about.

  I reached into my bag for a pair of gloves and slipped them on quickly. The straw hat had fallen off the victim when he’d been laid down, and I winced at the sight of the battered and swollen face. An eye was missing, but I wasn’t sure if it had been done deliberately or by a vulture. They tended to go for soft tissue first,
and the area around the socket was jagged and torn.

  Announcing their displeasure, the vultures hissed and made a low grunting sound overhead, and something soft and wet plopped onto my shoulder. I sighed and picked up the piece of intestine.

  “Gross,” I said.

  “Hand me your bag,” Jack said.

  He grabbed an evidence bag and I dropped the piece of intestine inside before kneeling next to the victim. I lifted his arm and examined the broken fingers.

  “His limbs are completely out of rigor,” I said. “That puts time of death sometime between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago. But his hands are in good enough shape to get prints.” I bagged both of his hands to preserve any evidence or fibers under his fingernails.

  “I don’t recognize him,” Jack said. “We already checked his pockets for ID, but there’s no wallet. I’m not sure his own mother would recognize him looking like this. He’s been worked over pretty good.” He looked over at Cole. “Any missing persons’ reports come in recently?”

  “Not a one,” Cole said. “Already called in to check.”

  I carefully unbuttoned the remaining button across his stomach. The blood had dried, making the fabric stiff. And then I quickly unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and spread it open so I could see him from neck to navel. His chest and what was left of his abdomen was dark purple.

  “Geez,” Martinez said. “Not an inch of him wasn’t beaten.”

  Martinez looked ashen, and I realized he probably hadn’t worked a crime scene since his partner had been killed. By my father. I tried not to dwell on that. And I tried not to wonder if Martinez blamed me for the sins of my father.

  “That’s not bruising,” I said, pressing my fingers against his ribs. “See the difference?” I lifted the body some so they could see the mottled discoloration along the ribs. “His ribs are broken.” I reached across and felt the other side and got an identical result. “And broken badly. It could have punctured a lung.”

  “Cause of death?” Cole asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “There’s no stab or GSWs that I can see.”

  “So what’s the purple?” Martinez asked.

  “Lividity,” I said.

  “He died face down?” Cole asked.

  “That’s what it looks like,” I said. “And he was left in that position long enough for lividity to set in. Which is why there was so much blood when they gutted him postmortem. Dead men don’t bleed like that.”

  I didn’t want to turn him over until I got him back to the lab so I didn’t compromise the integrity of the body. I checked for head wounds carefully, noting the lump at the back of his skull.

  “Blow to the back of the head, but it doesn’t feel like the skin is broken,” I said. “Probably the initial blow to incapacitate him.”

  An industrial-strength wire had been used around his neck to tie him to the pole, and the same wires had been used around each wrist. The edges were sharp where the wire had been cut.

  “Check this out,” I said to Jack, lifting the victim’s shirt sleeve so he could see the silver wire.

  “Looks like high-gauge fence wire,” he said. “Any farm in the state would have it lying around. Don’t try to twist it off with your fingers. You’re going to need pliers.”

  “I’ve got some in the trunk of my unit,” Cole said, heading off to his truck. He was back quickly and untwisted the metal at each wrist. It was time consuming.

  “The killer drives out here in the middle of nowhere with a body in the trunk,” I said, thinking it through out loud. “It’s pitch black, and this guy probably weighs two hundred pounds. If the victim was dragged from a car to here his whole backside would be covered in mud, and it’s not.”

  “So someone carried him,” Cole said. “Or maybe they put him on a piece of cardboard and dragged him over. There are tire tracks all over hell and back, so we didn’t pick up on any drag marks.”

  I nodded, trying to work through it in my mind. “How far is it between here and Cotton’s house?” I asked.

  “A couple of hundred yards,” Jack said. “Maybe a little more.”

  “Once the killer got here, in the dark, and carried the body to where we’re standing, then he had to go about the process of wiring him up. Look how long it’s taken Cole to untwist the wire. He couldn’t do it in the dark. He’d need a high-powered flashlight.”

  “I doubt a flashlight could be seen from the house unless Cotton was looking straight at it,” Cole said.

  “Killer had brass balls,” Martinez said, his hand resting on his weapon out of habit.

  “We’ve got wire at the neck, both wrists, and ankles,” Cole said, dropping each length of wire into an evidence bag as he untied them.”

  I could see the areas in question clearer now that the wire was gone. “He’s got ligature marks. The bruising indicates it occurred antemortem, and it’s a different material than the wire. I might be able to get some fibers once I get him back to the lab. It looks like rope burn.”

  “There’s got to be another wire I’m missing,” Cole said, patting the victim’s legs and arms down gently.

  “Look,” I said, pulling the waistband of his trousers down carefully so as not to disturb what remained of his abdomen. “A man like this would wear a belt with his expensive suit, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said, crouching down beside me. “We didn’t find one as we canvased the area, but we’ll keep looking. The killer might have kept a souvenir.”

  I unclasped the trousers so I could pull them down a little farther, exposing the metal wire around his waist. Fortunately, it was twisted in front of him instead of behind him. The sharp ends had penetrated the dermis and I pressed down on the skin to release the wire so Cole could unwind it.

  “This wasn’t a fast job,” Jack said. “The killer knew the area, knew how much time he had, and what equipment he’d need. Once he had him secured to the pole, then he had to get him upright. Once he was upright, the killer lifted the victim’s shirt, gutted him, and then tucked his shirt back into his pants. We haven’t found any evidence other than what the vultures scattered around. The killer cleaned up well.”

  “That’s messed up,” Martinez said.

  “It takes all kinds,” Jack said. “Our job is to put whoever did this away. Let’s make sure we follow all protocol on this. Pick up every scrap of paper, cigarette butt, or pocket lint, even if it seems unimportant. Let’s get a team out by the entrance to this road and see if we can pull any tire tracks. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  We heard gravel crunching beneath tires and all turned to look as another black Suburban pulled in directly behind mine.

  Martinez whistled low and long. “Well, this day just got a whole lot better,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair to make sure it was perfect.

  Martinez had a nickname around the squad room as the GQ cop. He was always put together, his clothes pressed and probably nicer than his salary could afford, and his hair was always styled. He was a lady’s man, though to be fair, I had yet to meet a cop who didn’t consider himself a lady’s man. You could hang a uniform on a light post and the badge bunnies would throw themselves at it.

  “Leave my intern alone,” I said, rolling my eyes. “She has no idea how to handle a wolf like you.”

  “I’m hurt,” Martinez said, grabbing his chest. “How dare you think I’d treat my future wife that way.”

  Cole snorted out a laugh. “In your dreams, Martinez. She’s so far out of your league you’d be lucky to clean the dugout.”

  “I’m always up for a challenge. I’ve been known to play in the Ivy Leagues a time or two myself. I’ve never had any complaints.”

  The cops closest to us snickered under their breaths, and then the insults started flying. I looked over at Jack and saw the corner of his mouth tilted and the sparkle of laughter in his eyes.

  Fortunately, Lily could handle herself. I could only assume that when you looked like she did, it was important to learn
how to ward off unwanted advances. Lily was stunning. She had the sculpted features of a supermodel and a body that belonged to a Kardashian. Jack had to tell several of the officers to tone down the excited looks at crime scenes when she arrived. It didn’t make a good impression to the community to see cops grinning like loons over a dead body.

  She’d been my intern for the past eight months or so, and she was quite simply, amazing. Her brains and her sarcastic wit far surpassed her beauty, and I liked her immensely. She was going to graduate in December, and then it’d be just me and my assistant, Sheldon Durkus, unless the university approved my request for another intern for the spring semester. I’d found it was good to have a buffer between myself and Sheldon so I didn’t kill him.

  Sheldon was the complete opposite of Lily. He reminded me of a mole, coming into the light for the first time as he got out of the passenger side of the Suburban. He was a small doughy man with Coke bottle glasses and a comb-over. He was in his early twenties, and he made socially awkward people seem totally normal. Sheldon was my assistant at the funeral home, and he was finishing up getting his mortician’s license. He wasn’t great with people, and he had a tendency to say the wrong thing to grieving families at the wrong time, but his embalming technique and organizational skills were top notch, so I tried to keep him contained from clients unless I absolutely couldn’t help it.

  Our relationship had changed over the last couple of months. Sheldon had been with me at the mortician’s convention when a serial killer had wreaked havoc at our hotel—the death hotel, as Chuck Grable had called it. Sheldon had been a little harder to deal with since the traumatic event. He was dealing with guilt over the fact that he’d had a romantic relationship with the killer, and she’d been using him for her own gains. So Sheldon’s attitude had gone from naïve schoolboy who quoted useless facts at inappropriate times to a belligerent preteen who quoted useless facts all the time.