Dust Page 8

  “Maybe not all that brazen at two or three o’clock in the morning when it’s pouring rain,” Marino says. “There’s no other way to get in here unless you have a swipe to raise the gate.”

  “Was the arm up like it is now when the police got here?”

  “Nope. The lot was secure and empty except the gate for foot traffic over there. It was open like it is right now.”

  “Is it possible the couple who found the body opened it?”

  “I asked Machado that. He says it was already open.” Marino stops the SUV and shifts it into park. “Apparently it’s never locked. Don’t ask me why because it sure as hell wouldn’t stop someone unauthorized from parking in here.”

  “Maybe not,” I observe. “But most people aren’t going to drive over a sidewalk and a curb in view of the campus police headquarters. I also expect that cars authorized to park here have stickers. So if you manage to get in without a swipe, you still might get towed.”

  Marino kills the engine, switching on his high beams to annoy Rusty and Harold as they open the back of the van. They exaggerate shielding their eyes with their hands, yelling at him.

  “Jesus!”

  “You trying to blind us?”

  “Turn those damn things off!”

  “Po-lice brutality!”

  “Under one of these trees in the rain and dark, and no one’s going to see anything even if they’re paying attention.” Marino continues telling me what his thinking would have been were he a deranged killer.

  Clearly he’s decided that’s what we’re up against and I have my own reasons to worry he might be right. I think of Benton’s cases and I wonder where he is and what he’s doing.

  Marino lowers the windows several inches.

  “Will he be okay in here?” I ask about his dog.

  Quincy is awake, sitting up in his crate and making his usual crying sounds when Marino leaves him.

  “I’m not sure what the utility is hauling him around everywhere if he’s just going to stay in the car,” I add.

  “He’s in training.” Marino opens his door. “He’s got to get used to things like crime scenes and riding around in a cop car.”

  “I think what he’s used to is exactly that – riding around.” I climb out as Rusty and Harold clack open the folded aluminum legs of a stretcher and I’m again reminded that I’ve lost my lead investigator.

  A stretcher isn’t going to work in these conditions. But it won’t be Marino giving that instruction. The rain is on and off, barely spitting, the overcast ceiling lifting. I don’t bother pulling up my hood or zipping my jacket as I study the fence separating the parking lot from Briggs Field. An open gate is crisscrossed with yellow ribbons of reflective scene tape.

  I imagine someone parking in this lot and having a way to open a gate, perhaps by cutting off the lock. This person then moved the dead body inside the fence, transporting it some fifty yards across grass and mud, leaving it in the middle of a red infield that during baseball season might be a pitcher’s mound. As I look at the scene in the context of its surroundings I think of what Marino said: Some sick fuck out there just getting started. Already I don’t agree with the just getting started part of it.

  My intuition picks up on a calculating intelligence, an individual with a decided purpose. He’s not a novice. What he did wasn’t a reaction to the unexpected. It wasn’t an act of panic. He has a method that works for him. Bringing the dead woman here and leaving her the way he did has meaning. That’s what I feel. I could be wrong, and I hope I am as I continue to think about the Washington, D.C., cases I’ve reviewed. What I’m not wrong about is whoever is responsible left evidence out here. They all do. Locard’s exchange principle. You bring something to the scene and you take something away.

  “The grass is soaked and the area she’s in is thick mud so you can forget a stretcher,” I tell Rusty and Harold, or Cheech and Chong as Marino rudely refers to them behind their backs. “Use a spine board. You’re going to have to carry her. And bring extra sheets and plenty of tape.”

  “What about a body bag?” Rusty asks me.

  “We’re going to carefully preserve the position of the body and the way it’s draped, transporting her exactly as she is. I don’t want to pouch her. We’ll have to be creative.”

  “You got it, Chief.”

  Rusty looks like a refugee from the sixties with his long graying hair and preference for baggy pants and knit beanies, what Marino calls surfer clothes. This early morning he’s outfitted for the weather in a rain jacket with a lightning bolt on the front, faded jeans, tall rubber boots, and a tie-dyed bandanna around his head.

  “I guess from now on we don’t have to do what you tell us,” he zings Marino, his former supervisor.

  “And I don’t have to bother telling you shit or pretend I like you,” Marino retorts as if he means it.

  “Do you have a gun under that jacket or are you just happy to see us?” Harold needles him back, looking like the former undertaker he is, in a suit and tie and double-breasted raincoat, the legs of his creased trousers rolled up to the top of his boots. “I see you brought your K-nine just in case we can’t find the body that’s out there in plain view.”

  “The only thing Quincy can find is his doggie bowl.”

  “Watch out. Better not piss off De-tect-ive Marino. He’ll write you a parking ticket.”

  Rusty and Harold continue with the banter and snipes. They return the stretcher to the van and collect sheets, the spine board, and other equipment as I get my field case out of the backseat and Quincy cries.

  “We won’t be very far away. You be a good boy and take a nap.” I find myself talking to a dog again, this one vocal, unlike mine. “We’ll be right over there, just a stone’s throw away.”

  I stare up at lighted windows in apartments around us, counting at least twenty people watching what’s going on. Most of them look young and dressed for bed or maybe they’re up studying, pulling all-nighters. I don’t notice anyone on foot loitering nearby, only the officers on the other side of the playing fields patrolling the sidewalk near the fence.

  I imagine looking out a dormitory or apartment window at the exact moment someone was moving a dead body through the rain and mud of Briggs Field, virtually right under everybody’s nose. It would have been too dark to discern what was happening except that something out of the ordinary was. But students around here don’t pay attention. Marino’s right about that. They don’t even look when they cross a busy street, their situational awareness almost nonexistent, especially this time of year.

  In several days undergraduate students will be numb with exhaustion and headed home for the holidays. The campus will be largely deserted and I can’t stop thinking about the timing, during final exams not even a week before Christmas. And the proximity bothers me, too. Across the street from the MIT police station and within walking distance from the CFC, not even a mile from here.

  10

  I dig the tactical flashlight out of my bag and shine the diamond-bright beam along the chain-link fence.

  For as far as I can see, other gates are secured with padlocks and I don’t know why this one wouldn’t be unless it’s as Marino suggested. Someone used bolt cutters or a key. I paint light over galvanized steel posts, noting multiple scratches where the fork latch would be if the gate were closed.

  “Possibly from the chain and padlock.” I point out the damage to Marino. “But this gouge right here?” I move the light closer and a deep scrape lights up like polished platinum. “It looks recently made, possibly by whatever was used to cut off the lock, if that’s what happened.”

  “It’s fresh.” Marino has his own flashlight out. “MIT won’t be happy but I’ll make sure we dig up the fence post and get it to the labs in case anything’s ever recovered for tool-marks comparison.”

  “I would,” I agree.

  “I’ll wait until we’re done out here.” His eyes haven’t stopped moving, taking in everything around us, and he
lifts his portable radio close to his mouth.

  “Delta Thirteen,” he calls Machado and requests a backup to secure the gate and the parking lot. “We need someone here right now so nobody else enters the scene or tampers with anything,” Marino emphasizes loudly. “And what we don’t need is cops crawling all over either. Why we got so many uniforms where you’re at?”

  “Just two.” Machado’s radio obscures the lower part of his face.

  “I can count. They the only two? Because I don’t think so. We need a record of whoever accesses or attempts. Is someone keeping a log?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “How many reporters so far?”

  “A TV crew about an hour ago, Channel Five, and they keep circling, waiting for the Doc to get here.” Machado stares at us from the muddy infield with its incongruous yellow tarp anchored by cheery orange flags. “Then Channel Seven was here maybe twenty ago. The minute anything they’re filming streams live we can expect more drop-ins.”

  “It’s already on the Internet,” I remind Marino.

  “Too late, thanks to the little spot you did on Fox,” he says over the air for the benefit of whoever’s listening. “You trying out for a reality show?”

  Marino repeats that they must keep a record of everyone who enters and leaves and to watch the area for “nonessentials,” by which he means voyeurs, possibly whoever’s involved in the body being left out here. I envision the Marino from our early years, chain-smoking, chronically in a sour mood, acting like a male chauvinist ass. But he knew what to do. He was a damn good detective and I’d almost forgotten that.

  Marino squats close to the opening in the fence and shines his flashlight through, the crisscrossed tape blazing neon yellow. The intense beam of light illuminates where the pavement ends at an area of soaked brown grass that is flattened and gouged as if something hard and heavy was dragged over it. Then the churned-up area recedes into the distance, to the infield, fading into a barely perceptible intermittent trail, a remnant that seems more imagined than real as if left by a phantom snail.

  “She was dragged.” Marino stands up.

  “I’d say so,” Harold agrees.

  “He got her inside this gate,” Marino adds, “and had to have a way to do that unless it just happened to be unlocked or the lock and chain conveniently were already cut off.”

  “Unlikely,” Harold says. “MIT campus police patrol everything around here like it’s Vatican City.”

  “They’d notice if one of these gates was busted into or a lock was missing,” Rusty pipes up.

  “Did I hear an echo?” Marino says as if Rusty and Harold are invisible. “Oh no. I’m sorry. It’s the peanut gallery. My point being,” he says to me, “whoever’s involved had a plan for disposing of her body.” He stares at the square of bright yellow plasticized paper in a sea of red some fifty yards from us.

  The wind shakes and snatches at the tarp as if what’s underneath it is fighting to get out.

  “Someone who knew he didn’t need a swipe to get into this back lot,” Marino continues. “Someone who knew he could drive over the curb through that pedestrian gate, that it happens to be a wide one and a vehicle could fit through it. Someone who knew that all the gates leading into the playing fields would be locked and he’d have to have a way inside the fence.”

  “Unless you’re talking about an individual who in fact does have a swipe, keys, access. Like a student or someone who works here,” Rusty points out and Marino ignores him.

  He scans the lit-up apartment windows, a misty rain slick like sweat on his face, which is hard and angry as if whatever happened to this dead woman is personal and he might just hurt whoever’s to blame. He takes his time glaring at a Channel 5 TV van with a satellite dish on the roof and a microwave antenna on the back as it pulls into the lot and stops. The front doors swing open.

  “Don’t even think of coming inside the fence!” Marino barks at the news correspondent stepping out, a striking-looking woman I recognize. “Nobody beyond the tape. Stay the hell out.”

  “If I wait right here and behave myself, can I get a statement, pretty please?” The correspondent’s name is Barbara Fairbanks, and I’ve had my rounds with her, unpleasant ones.

  “I got nothing to say,” Marino answers.

  “I was talking to Dr. Scarpetta,” Barbara Fairbanks says as she smiles at me and moves closer with her microphone, a cameraman on her heels. “Do you know anything yet? Can you confirm if it’s the woman reported missing?”

  The camera light turns on, following Barbara Fairbanks like a full moon, and I know better than to give even one simple answer. If I reply I just got here or don’t know or I haven’t examined the body yet, somehow it ends up an out-of-context slanted quote that goes viral on the Internet.

  “Can you give me a statement about Newtown? Do you think it will do any good to study the killer’s brain…?”

  “Let’s go,” I tell Rusty and Harold.

  “Stay away from the disturbed grassy area, keep way off to the side of it,” Marino says to us. “I got to get it photographed if they haven’t done it already. I’ll probably get some soil samples, too. See if there’s fibers from the sheet that’s over her, see if we can reconstruct what the hell happened out here.”

  We pick our way through sopping-wet grass and mud that sucks at our feet, headed toward Machado and the two officers, one with Cambridge, the other with MIT.

  Having stood sentry over the body for more than an hour, they look wet and chilled, their boots chunked with red clay. Machado’s boyish face is tired and tense, with a shadow of stubble, and I can sense his worries. He has legitimate ones.

  Cambridge is a powerhouse, with Harvard and MIT and multibillion-dollar technology companies, not to mention a constant stream of visitors that includes celebrities, royalty, and sitting heads of state. The DA and the mayor will be breathing fire down the investigative unit’s neck if this case isn’t solved quickly and quietly.

  “I don’t see anybody guarding the gate,” Marino says right off. “There’s a news crew hovering like vultures. Barbara Unfairbanks, it just so happens. Where’s the backup I asked for?”

  “We’ve got another car coming.” Machado turns his attention to the parking lot where the news van is waiting with headlights on, engine rumbling.

  For an instant I hold Barbara Fairbanks’s stare. A tall lithe woman with bottomless dark eyes and short raven-black hair, she’s remarkably pretty in a hard way, like a gemstone, like a perfectly shaped figure carved of Thai spinel or tourmaline. She turns away and climbs back inside the van, and she’s not the sort to give up on a scoop.

  “The body may have been placed on top of something and dragged,” Marino says to Machado. “The grass just inside the gate looks disturbed and pressed down in places with divots where it got dug up in spots.”

  “There are a lot of divots and churned-up areas,” Machado replies, and it doesn’t seem to bother him that Marino has a way of acting as if he’s in charge. “The problem is knowing for sure when any of them happened. It’s hard to tell because of the conditions.”

  After setting scene cases in the mud, Harold and Rusty place the spine board and sheets on top of them, awaiting my instruction as Marino digs a pair of examination gloves out of a pocket and asks for a camera. I silently make plans, calculating how to handle what I expect will happen next as I watch the news van drive out of the parking lot. I have no doubt that Barbara Fairbanks hasn’t given up. I expect she’ll circle around to the other side of the field, the one nearest us, and try to film through the fence. I’m not going to examine the body until I know exactly what she intends to do.

  “I’ll walk around, get some photos.” Marino turns on his flashlight and is careful stepping in the muck, sweeping the beam of light over puddles and red mud.

  The MIT officer says to me, “I’m pretty sure he didn’t do anything to her out here, just left her so she’d be found really fast.”

  I set down my scene case
as he continues to offer his opinions, and with his strong jaw and perfect build he’s probably used to commanding attention. I remember him well from a case several weeks ago. An MIT freshman died suddenly and unexpectedly during wrestling practice.

  “Drugs,” he adds. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  I don’t recall his name but I won’t forget Bryce following him and gawking when the officer appeared inside the large-scale x-ray room while I was using an embalming machine to inject contrast dye into the dead wrestler’s femoral artery, a procedure that would seem bizarre to someone unfamiliar with postmortem angiography. Three-dimensional computed tomography images revealed the cause of death before I touched the body with a blade.

  “We’ve met before,” I say to him as I crouch down by my field case. “Earlier this month.”

  “Yeah, that was pretty crazy. I thought for a minute you were a mad scientist pumping in fluids like you were trying to raise him from the dead. Andy Hunter,” he reintroduces himself, his gray eyes penetrating. “It turns out the kid’s father is a Nobel Prize winner. You’d think people that smart could have prevented their kid’s death with routine tests.”

  “Abdominal aortic aneurysms are called a silent killer for a reason. Often there are no warnings or symptoms.” I snap open heavy plastic clasps.

  “My grandfather died from a blown aneurysm.” Hunter stares at me, and when he was at the CFC several weeks ago he openly flirted. “Blue collar, no insurance, never went to the doctor. He had a bad headache one minute, was dead the next. I’ve thought about being screened but I’m phobic of radiation.”

  “An MRI with contrast dye doesn’t emit radiation.” I settle closer to the anchored yellow tarp with its ominous shape underneath. “You’d be fine unless you have kidney damage.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Talk to your doctor,” Machado kids him. “You know, the one you pay?”

  “Gail Shipton was last seen possibly between five-thirty and six last night at the Psi Bar. Is that still the story?” I ask him.