Bajraktari did a yes-no tilt with her head. “Not what I’m seeing here, but it’s hard to say. It looks like some of it has been buried under the dirt.”
“Like with a shovel?”
“Or even a shoe, I don’t know. It’s just covered up.”
“How about a blood type or DNA match on Carlton Flynn?”
Bajraktari frowned. “We’ve been here five minutes, Broome. Shoo. Give me a little space, will you?”
The two uniforms surrounded the area with yellow crime-scene tape, which just looked plain silly out in the middle of nowhere. Night was starting to fall. They wouldn’t be able to work out here much longer tonight. It was too far to drag the big spotlights out. Broome looked at the remains of what had been a furnace two hundred years ago. He started pacing, realized that maybe he was too close to the crime scene and might mess something up, headed back down the path.
Cowens, cigar firmly planted in mouth, finally caught up. He bent down, his hands on his knees, trying to suck in oxygen. “Find a body?” he managed to ask.
“Not yet.”
“Man, I’d hate to have walked all this way for nothing.”
“You’re a people person, Cowens.”
“Plus if they find a body, they’ll get some kind of vehicle up here. I don’t feel like walking back. My feet are killing me.”
“You didn’t have to come. I told you that at that parking lot.”
Cowens waved him off and managed to straighten up. He adjusted his pants and patted his hair. Broome said nothing. Then Cowens made his way toward Bajraktari, pulling down the yellow tape as he did.
“Hey, Samantha,” Cowens said, offering up a big smile. “You look nice tonight.”
Bajraktari looked up at him with blank eyes. “You’re contaminating my crime scene, Cowens.”
“I was just saying. Even in that crime tech Windbreaker, you
look really pretty.” Cowens smiled a little more, then suddenly dropped it. “Uh, I’m not harassing you or nothing. I’m just saying.”
Broome shook his head. Now he got why Cowens had wanted to come along. He was sweet on Samantha Bajraktari. Unbelievable.
“Just get behind the yellow tape,” Bajraktari snapped.
But suddenly Cowens wasn’t listening. He turned his head slowly side to side. A funny look crossed his face.
“What?” Bajraktari said to him.
Cowens narrowed his eyes. “I’m getting a little déjà vu here.”
“The trolling spot for trannies looks a little like this,” Bajraktari said.
“Har-har.”
Samantha Bajraktari went back to work. Still looking confounded, Cowens stumbled back toward the tape. Broome meanwhile had an idea. Holding up the photograph in his right hand, he began to circle, trying to figure out exactly where the picture had been taken. He moved up the hill a little, looking back every few steps, trying to calculate the spot. The journey took him off the path.
He stepped slowly, keeping his eyes on the ground and then… Bingo.
“Bajraktari,” Broome called back.
“What?”
“I got what looks like a shoe print over here. Do you think you can get a mold? In fact, you guys should probably go over the whole area, see if you can find anything.”
“No problem, if all of us don’t clop around like a bunch of Clydesdales.”
Bajraktari said something to the other tech, a guy who looked to be maybe thirteen years old. The tech headed toward where Broome
was standing. Broome showed him the shoe print and carefully made his way back to the clearing. He stood next to Cowens and tried to think it through.
Seventeen years ago, on Mardi Gras, Stewart Green had come to this rather remote spot and got—what?—stabbed before disappearing forever. Now Broome had a picture, not date stamped unfortunately, showing Carlton Flynn, another man who vanished on Mardi Gras, in this same remote area. Plus they had just found spilled blood, clearly not seventeen years old. And finally, seventeen years after Stewart Green vanished, there were two other new, strange developments. One, the sudden reappearance of the elusive Cassie—why had she come back, and was she telling the truth? And two, the possible sudden reappearance of Stewart Green.
Was his return related to Cassie?
If not, it seemed like a hell of a coincidence. If he was back at all, that is. Cassie could have just been making that up or her “source” could have been wrong.
So add up all the new clues and… Broome didn’t have a clue.
And right then, mulling it over in the Pine Barrens, the big break came from a most unlikely source.
“I remember now,” Cowens said.
“What?”
“That déjà vu I was talking about before. I remember what it was from.” Cowens took the cigar out of his mouth. “That big murder case.”
That caught Broome’s attention. “What big murder case?”
“You remember. What the hell was the guy’s name? Gunner, Gunther, something like that.”
Broome tried to remember, feeling his pulse pick up pace. “He was stabbed, right?”
“Right. Some hikers found him up here, what, gotta be twenty years ago? Multiple stab wounds.”
“And you’re sure this is the spot?”
“Yeah, pretty sure, with the old furnace and that rock. Yeah, this is the place.”
“Do you remember when this was?”
“Like I said, twenty years ago.”
“I mean the date.”
“You’re kidding, right?
“How about time of the year?”
Cowens thought about it. “It was cold.”
“Like now?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
Broome could look that up when he got back to the station. “Were you the lead?”
“Nah, I was still in uniform. Morris caught it, I think, but I was there on the bust. Well, not really there. I was backup to the backup. Barely got out of the squad car. The perp surrendered easily.”
“The case was cleared, right?”
“Yeah, it was pretty much a slam dunk. A love triangle or something, I don’t remember. I remember the perp was all crying, said he didn’t even know the guy, that his girl would never cheat on him, the usual.”
“They get a confession?”
“Nope. Guy swore he was innocent. Still does, I think. But he got life. I think he’s serving it in Rahway.”
A
RTERIES HARDENED AND LUNGS
blackened just by opening the door of the Weak Signal Bar and Grill. The seedy crowd brought plenty of colorful terminology to mind, but “health conscious” and “long life span” were not among them. The television behind the bar played
SportsCenter
. There was a neon sign for Michelob in the window. According to the chalkboard, tonight was “Ladies Night” featuring “Dollar Drafts for Chicks,” a marketing ploy that drew in, it appeared, a certain female clientele. For example, one straw-haired woman, who was cackle-laughing in a “notice me” manner, wore a yellow T-shirt that read “Sloppy Seconds,” which, alas, seemed all too apropos.
Megan felt as though she had to wave away the smoke, even though no one was smoking. It was that kind of place. The décor was dartboards, shamrocks, and sponsored sport team photographs. She was decked out in suburban-mom wear, a camel hair coat with a Coach bag, and while that look definitely stood out in here, no one really stared. This was a bar where plenty of people came because you did
not
know their name. She probably wasn’t the first seemingly content wife who’d wandered in here from the convention center looking for anonymity.
Lorraine had described Fester thusly: “Cue ball bald and slightly larger than a planet.” Strangely, there were at least three men in here that fit that description, but this was hardly the time to worry about shyness or niceties. She took a quick glance around, hoping that maybe Ray was here too. That would make it easier, wouldn’t it? Eliminate the middleman. Her heart did a little two-step at the thought.
Was she really prepared to see Ray? And when she did, what would she say to him?
No matter. Ray wasn’t here. One of the possible Festers was giving her the eye. She approached him and said, “Are you Fester?”
“Honey, I can be anyone you want me to be.”
“If I had more time, I’d probably swoon and demand that you take me. But I’m pressed for time. Which one of you guys is Fester?”
The man scowled and pointed toward another guy—the biggest of the possible Festers—with his thumb. Megan thanked him and approached.
“Are you Fester?”
The man had forearms like marble columns at the Acropolis. The beer mug looked like a shot glass in his enormous hand. “Who wants to know?”
“Who do you think? Me.”
“And you are?”
“My name isn’t important.”
“Are you a process server?”
Megan frowned. “Do I look like a process server?”
He looked her over. “Kinda, yeah.”
Man, Megan thought for the second time today, she really had changed.
“I’m looking for an employee of yours.”
“To serve him a subpoena?”
“No. I’m not a process server.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“Ray Levine.”
If Fester knew the name, he didn’t show it. He lifted his beer and took a deep swig. “Why would you be looking for Ray?”
Good question. She wondered what to say here and went with the truth. “He’s an old friend.”
Fester studied her a little more. “What do you want with him?”
“No offense, but are you his employer or his mother?”
He smiled at that. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s okay. I’m harmless. What’s your poison?”
Megan sighed, took a deep breath. Her phone kept buzzing. She reached into her purse and put it on silent. Slow down, she thought. Don’t press it and maybe you’ll get what you want. “Fine, whatever you’re having.”
He ordered her some kind of light beer with a fruit in it. She hated light beer, especially with fruit, but it was too late. She took a sip.
“What’s your name?” Fester asked.
“Cassie.”
Fester nodded slowly. “You’re the one, right?”
“The one what?”
“The one who broke Ray’s heart. The one who crushed his soul and left him the wreck of a man he is today.”
Megan felt something in her chest give way. “He told you that?”
“No, but it’s obvious. How do you know he wants to see you?”
“I don’t.”
“He’s working a job right now anyway,” Fester said, his eyes narrowing. “Wait, don’t I know you? You used to work down here, right?”
This wasn’t good.
“I was a bouncer,” Fester said. “Back in the day. Who are you again? I know I’ve seen your face.”
“I’m just looking for Ray,” she said.
Fester kept studying her face. She didn’t like that. She was about to leave when, without warning, Fester took out his phone and snapped a picture of her.
“What the hell did you do that for?”
“My porn collection.” Fester’s huge fingers were working the keyboard. “Actually, I’m sending this pic to Ray. If he wants to see you, he’ll let me know and then I can let you know. You want to give me your cell phone number?”
“No.”
“Then how about another drink?”
K
EN AND
B
ARBIE BEGAN TO CLEAN UP.
Barbie lovingly packed away her favorite new tool—the soldering iron with a sharp needle tip. It still reeked of scorched flesh. Through trial and error, Barbie had figured out the most sensitive spots, the nerve endings that when merely touched, not to mention penetrated with scorching heat, caused the most searing pain, and applied those lessons to the lawyer named Harry Sutton.
Barbie took off her hospital scrubs, her surgical hair cap, her latex gloves, and packed them away. Ken would do the same but
not right away. He knew that no matter how careful you were, DNA got left behind. There was just no way to prevent that completely. Laboratories could do amazing things nowadays, and the best way to handle that was to recognize and respect it.
So what to do?
Ken used obfuscation. He kept random people’s DNA samples—hair, spare tissue, saliva, whatever—in Tupperware containers. Sometimes he found the samples in public restrooms, disgusting at that might sound. One very good spot was at summer camp. Many of the counselors used the disposable razors, which he could easily swipe. Urinals provided pubic hair. Showers gave you more.
With his gloves still on, Ken opened a container and, using tweezers, plucked out some hair and tissue and placed the sample near—and even on—Harry Sutton. It would be enough. He closed the Tupperware and put it back into his bag. He was doing the same with his scrubs when Harry Sutton’s cell phone rang.