Music of Ghosts (8 page)

“And what did you find?”

“Lisa. She was dead.”

Cochran watched the boy's image on the screen. Recalling Lisa's maimed body did not seem to cause him any particular distress. “Tony was really freaking, so I told him to go call 911. He had to run halfway down the mountain before he could get a signal.”

“Why were you so sure she was dead?” asked Whaley.

“I've cut up mice and rabbits all summer,” said Givens. “I know what dead looks like.”

“What did you do after you decided she was dead?” asked Whaley.

The boy shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “I stayed up there a few minutes. Then I went down to the cabin. Tony came back and said the cops were on their way.”

Whaley returned to the same statement that had caught Cochran's attention. “You say you stayed up there a few minutes. What did you do up there?”

The boy's eyes slid away, as if he were embarrassed. “I don't know. I guess I … I kind of looked at her.”

“Ever see a naked girl before?”

“I've seen plenty of naked girls.” Givens licked his lips, trying to maintain his fading bravado. “I've just never seen one cut up like that.”

Cochran knew exactly what the boy was trying to say. Where Lisa's body had simply terrified Blackman and Quarles, Givens had dipped a toe into that monstrously seductive stream that flows between sex and death. Cops knew it but never spoke of it. Killers thrived on it, needed it no less than an addict needs a fix. Though Givens might forget the details of the morning he saw Lisa Wilson dead, the memory of her body would revisit him the rest of his life, whispering words he could not yet dream of.

Nine

“Something carved her up,
but that didn't kill her, Jerry.”

Cochran leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on his desk. Though it was just past six a.m., he'd called the state forensic office, hoping to catch pathologist John Merkel before he left for the day. Merkel was a strange kid Cochran had known in pre-med, at Carolina. While Cochran had to drop out of the program when his father died, Merkel had gone on to become a forensic specialist. He'd become, however, no less strange. He gave his clients pet names, did autopsies at night with Puccini blaring through his iPod, claiming that the cool, slightly green light of the morgue allowed him to truly commune with his subjects. Despite his eccentricities, Merkel's professional reputation was impeccable, and Cochran always requested him whenever he sent a body to the state lab.

“Then what did kill her?” asked Cochran. “The girl's father is going to show up any minute. He's going to ‘roast my balls over a slow fire' if I can't explain what happened to his daughter.”

“Ugh.” Merkel groaned. “I've seen roasted balls. They aren't pretty.”

“So give a guy a break, okay? Give me something to tell him.”

“Okay, okay.”

Cochran heard shuffling on the line, then Merkel spoke again, his voice high-pitched and nasal.

“I don't have all the data in, but I'm fairly certain that Sweet Sue died from being sequentially strangled by a single piece of some non-abrasive material.”

Cochran flinched at Merkel's nickname for the girl. “What do you mean, sequentially strangled?”

“Somebody strangled her to unconsciousness several times with something about an inch wide that lacked texture,” explained Merkel. “They carved her up while she was out. When she started to wake up, they strangled her again.”

“Wow,” said Cochran. “That sounds a lot like torture.”

“Sweet Sue would not have found it fun. The cuts would have been painful, but the killer was not going for exsanguination. I'm guessing they used her to send a message.”

“What kind of message?” Cochran looked at the grisly close-up photos the SBI had dropped off.

“Beats me. The shapes make a repeating pattern, but they aren't recognizable letters in any known alphabet.”

“It looks sort of cuneiform to me,” Cochran replied. “I wonder if it's some kind of code.”

“If it is, it's none my computer's familiar with.”

Cochran swallowed hard, wondering how he could avoid telling the governor about this. “So after they finished writing this message, they killed her?”

“You got it, Sherlock.”

“Had she been sexually assaulted?”

“Nope. Neither vaginally nor rectally.”

“Was she pregnant?”

“Nope.”

Cochran sighed—Merkel just trashed both his sex game and his pregnant girlfriend theories. “Any defensive wounds?”

“Fibers and dirt under two fingernails. Red clay soil with traces of mica, both indigenous to western North Carolina. And denim.”

Cochran sat up a bit straighter. “Denim? As in blue jeans?”

“A thin weave of denim, made in China. Walmart sells them under the Levi's brand. Your perp was wearing cheap jeans when they killed Sweet Sue.”

Again Cochran sighed. Most of Pisgah County wore cheap jeans, purchased at the new Super Walmart. “That's it?” he asked Merkel.

“That's all I've got so far.” Merkel rattled some papers. “Look, I know you're probably going to go the FBI/VICAP route on these figures carved into her body, but I've got a pal over at Duke who might be able to help us out faster.”

Cochran was skeptical. “He studies messages carved into corpses?”

“No, the guy's a cyber cryptologist. He has an IQ of about five thousand and is working on a new enigma machine. I think his Duke job's a cover for NSA.”

“So why would he care about this?” asked Cochran.

“He wouldn't. He would just think it was fun.”

“Thanks but no thanks, Merkel.” Cochran knew if some spook leaked a photo of Lisa's body, he might as well take up residence at that cabin and pray that Fiddlesticks came for him. “Your buddy might find it fun, but my balls are the ones on the barbie.”

“No, wait. He's a good guy who can keep a secret. How about I send him a picture of just the writing? No names or identifiable body parts.”

Cochran still didn't like it. “I don't know.”

“Jerry, it's your best shot at finding out what these figures mean. I don't have a clue. Usually the only messages I see on people's bodies are four-letter, one-syllable words. Your killer's written a novel.”

Cochran considered Merkel's suggestion. Though having photos of the body sent to some geek at Duke felt a lot like losing control of his evidence, if the guy could identify those figures, it would be worth it. That much, he owed the poor girl. “Okay,” he finally said. “But for God's sake, don't give him anything he can link back to the governor.”

“Wilson's already called this office a dozen times,” said Merkel. “I don't want him down on my ass any more than you do.”

Cochran looked at his notes from their conversation. Though he had no real news to report, at least when Wilson showed up he could tell him that the best experts in the country were working on his daughter's case. “Okay, buddy,” he said. “I appreciate your help. I'll buy you a beer next time I come over there.”

“Could you bring me a couple of bottles of that kombucha they make in Asheville?”

Cochran remembered Merkel's drink of choice, a thick, soupy health drink that looked like swamp sludge. “You got it. Let me know ASAP what your pal at Duke says, okay?”

Cochran hung up the phone, disappointed. He'd hoped Merkel would have given him a fingerprint, or DNA from one of those kids at the haunted house. Cheap Walmart denim wasn't going to convict anybody of anything. Now the attack on the girl seemed even more bizarre. Repeated choking took strength, hard work. That kind of furious action connoted deep-seated rage. Yet the girl hadn't lifted a finger to defend herself.

He was considering that when his phone rang. He picked up the receiver to find an urgent male voice on the line.

“Sheriff? This is Scott at the front desk. I just wanted to give you a heads-up … Carlisle Wilson is on his way to your office.”

Cochran felt his stomach clench. The ball-roaster had arrived. “Thanks, Scott. Geneva will take care of him.”

“I don't think she's come in yet,” Scott replied. “The guy's got a trooper with him and they both look like they could spit nails. They're already halfway down the hall.”

Cochran dropped the phone and scooped up the photos of Lisa Wilson's puckered, blood-spattered body. He stuffed them in a single manila envelope and shoved them in the bottom drawer of his desk just as his door burst open.

“You the sheriff?” A burly highway patrolman, looking official to the point of ridiculousness, strode into his office, side arm strapped around his waist, a Smoky-the-Bear hat pulled low on his forehead.

Cochran rose from his chair, irritated. “Yeah, I'm the sheriff. Who the hell are you?”

“He's my assistant.” A tall man with a shock of white hair brushed past the trooper. Though he walked with a cane, his dark eyes were sharp, taking in Cochran and his office in a single glance. A much younger woman followed him, perky breasts bobbing, high heels clattering.

“I'm Jackson Carlisle Wilson,” the old man growled, though there was no need of introduction—every North Carolinian over thirty knew the man's white hair and snapping eyes.

“Gerald Cochran.” He extended his hand, but Wilson ignored it. Instead, he grabbed Cochran's chair with the hook end of his cane and pulled it in front of the desk.

“Tell me what the fuck happened to my little girl.” Wilson sat down, his eyes boring into Cochran like hot coals.

Cochran glared at the highway patrolman, who stood by the door with his arms folded. He was willing to cut Carlisle Wilson some slack, but he did not intend to let some lumpy-assed traffic cop in on this. “I can only discuss this with the next of kin.”

“Beat it, Fred,” the governor ordered.

“Yes sir.” With a sour look at Cochran, the assistant left the room immediately, closing the door behind him.

“Okay, Sheriff,” the old man snarled. “Let's have it.”

Cochran remained standing and reported the facts of the case, adding that he'd just talked to the chief pathologist in Winston-Salem, who'd determined that his daughter had died of strangulation. The woman gasped at the news; Carlisle Wilson pursed his lips in a tight line. Cochran hoped that would satisfy them. He didn't want to reveal any more details about how his daughter had died.

“Did Winston get any forensic evidence?” asked the governor, his voice firm and commanding.

“They found dirt under her nails and threads from a type of denim sold at Walmart.”

“And that's all?” the old man thundered. “No fingerprints? No DNA? None of that shit they come up with on TV?”

Cochran shook his head. “No. But neither did your daughter have any defensive wounds, nor was there evidence of sexual assault.” Maybe, he hoped, that would give the old man some comfort.

Wilson blinked, distinctly un-comforted. “So you're expecting me to believe that Lisa just lay down under a pine tree and let somebody choke her to death? What kind of moron are you?”

“Sir, this case is barely twenty-four hours old. I'm telling you exactly what we know at this point.”

“Where are all those people she went camping with?”

“The interns are just now being released from jail. All freely gave detailed statements about this case. Unfortunately, none remember seeing or hearing anything out of the ordinary.”

“And you believe them?” the former governor thundered.

“I neither believe nor disbelieve while I'm still gathering evidence,” Cochran said, feeling like an idiot. He realized now how Wilson had gotten all his pet bills through the legislature—he'd simply browbeaten his opponents into submission. “Do you have any political enemies, sir?”

“Of course I do. You don't spend eight years in Raleigh throwing tea parties.”

“Could you give me a list—of any who might bear this kind of animosity toward you?”

The old man stared at his cane, shook his head. “None of 'em would do this. None of 'em hate me this hard.”

A silence fell in the room. Carlisle Wilson's wife attempted to rub his shoulders, but the old man brushed her away. “Sweet little Pisgah,” he whispered, all the fury seeming to drain out of him. “I can't believe this happened here.”

“It's a terrible tragedy, sir. I'm deeply, deeply sorry.” Cochran was sorry. The governor had no idea how much he regretted this.

The old man sat there, resting his hands on his cane, a single tear rolling from his left eye down to the furrow that bracketed that side of his mouth. Its saltiness must have startled him, because suddenly he snapped out of whatever fugue had gripped him. He straightened his shoulders and looked up at Cochran. “I want to see the pictures.”

“Excuse me?” Cochran's heart began to beat faster.
Please dear Christ
, he prayed.
Not the pictures
.

“You take pictures of bodies. I want to see Lisa's.”

“Sir, it's not our policy to allow that. Those pictures are police property and—”

Wilson slammed his cane down on the floor. “I don't give a rat's ass about your policy! I want to see those pictures.”

“Sir, it would be better if you didn't.”

Suddenly the old man leapt to his feet, put both hands on the opposite corners of Cochran's desk. “Son, I was running this state when you were in diapers. Do not try to tell me what I should or should not see. Get me the pictures.”

Cochran said, “Sir, wouldn't you rather remember her as she was rather tha—”

“Get me the goddamn pictures!” the governor screamed, spit flying into Cochran's face.

Cochran reached for his bottom drawer, suddenly fed up with the man's bullying. He wanted to see the pictures, fine. Cochran only hoped the sight of them wouldn't lay the old bastard out with a coronary in the middle of his office.

He pulled out the folder, but warned Carlisle Wilson once more. “Sir, these are truly nothing any parent—”

Wilson gave a snort of disgust as he ripped the pictures from Cochran's hand. He sat back down and opened the folder. The photo that Cochran had been studying while talking to Merkel was on the top of the pile. It was the worst of the lot—the one that showed in horrific detail what acts evil could visit upon flesh and bone.

For a moment, Carlisle Wilson just sat there staring at the photo, still as a statue. Then his old jaw dropped open and he made a sound unlike any Cochran had ever heard.

“Noooo!” he screamed, howling, it seemed, all the rage and grief and pain of every parent who'd ever lost a child. “Noooooo!”

Cochran lowered his eyes, not wanting to witness the old man's agony. He heard the woman clucking and shushing, but Carlisle Wilson suddenly grew deathly quiet. Cochran lifted his gaze to find the old man staring directly at him, snot running from his nose, tears from his eyes.

“Let me tell you something, you candy-ass college boy. I'm going to set up camp here in Hartsville and keep your feet to the fire until you find who did this to my little girl. I'll have this story on every front page in the state and believe me, everybody's going to be talking about Sheriff Gerald Cochran!”