The Body Farm Read online

  “We’re not going to discuss that case or any other right now,” I said.

  “See? That puts me in a bad spot because I have people I answer to.” I couldn’t believe it when he placed his hand on my shoulder as he added, “I know you wouldn’t want to cause me trouble.”

  “Don’t touch me,” I warned. “Don’t push this any further.”

  “I think you and me need to get together so we can overcome our communication problem.” He left his hand where it was. “Maybe we can catch dinner in some quiet little laid-back place. You like seafood? I know a real private place on the Sound.”

  I was silent as I wondered whether to jam my finger in his windpipe.

  “Don’t be shy. Trust me. It’s all right. This isn’t the Capital of the Confederacy with all these snobby old has-beens you got in Richmond. We believe in live and let live around here. You know what I mean?”

  I tried to move past him and he grabbed my arm.

  “I’m talking to you.” He was beginning to sound angry. “You don’t go walking off when I’m talking to you.”

  “Let go of me,” I demanded.

  I tried to wrench my arm away. But he was surprisingly strong.

  “No matter how many fancy degrees you got, you’re no match for me,” he said under breath that smelled like spearmint.

  I stared straight into his Ray-Bans.

  “Get your hands off me now,” I said in a loud, hard voice. “Now!” I exclaimed as if I would kill him instantly.

  Roche suddenly let go, and I trudged with purpose through the snow as my heart flew off on its own. When I reached the front of the house, I stopped, out of breath and dazed.

  “There are footprints in the backyard that should be photographed,” I addressed everyone. “Detective Roche’s footprints. He was just back there. And I want all of my belongings out of the house.”

  “What the hell do you mean he was just back there?” Marino said.

  “We had a conversation.”

  “How the hell did he get back there without us seeing him?”

  I scanned the street and did not see a car that might have been Roche’s. “I don’t know how he got back there,” I said. “I guess he cut through someone else’s backyard. Or maybe he came up from the beach.”

  Lucy did not know what to think as she looked at me. “You won’t be coming back here?” she asked me. “Not at all?”

  “No,” I said. “I will not be coming back here ever again, if I have my way about it.”

  She helped me pack the remainder of my belongings, and I did not relay what had happened in the backyard until we were in Marino’s car driving fast on 64 West toward Richmond.

  “Shit,” he exclaimed. “The friggin’ bastard hit on you. Goddamn it. Why didn’t you yell?”

  “I think his mission was to harass me on behalf of someone else,” I said.

  “I don’t care what his mission was. He still hit on you. You got to take out a warrant.”

  “Hitting on someone is not against the law,” I said.

  “He grabbed you.”

  “So I’m going to have him arrested for grabbing my arm?”

  “He shouldn’t have grabbed nothing.” He was furious as he drove. “You told him to let go and he didn’t. That’s abduction. At the very least, it’s simple assault. Damn, this thing’s out of alignment.”

  “You’ve got to report him to Internal Affairs,” Lucy said from the front seat, where she was fooling with the scanner because it was hard for her hands to be still. “Hey, Pete, the squelch isn’t right,” she added to him. “And you can’t hear a thing on channel three. That’s Third Precinct, right?”

  “What do you expect when I’m way the hell near Williamsburg? You think I’m a state trooper?”

  “No, but if you want to talk to one, I can probably figure that out.”

  “I’m sure you could tune in to the damn space shuttle,” he irritably remarked.

  “If you can,” I said to her, “how about getting me on it.”

  chapter

  6

  WE ARRIVED IN Richmond at half past two, and a guard raised a gate and allowed us into the secluded neighborhood where I very recently had moved. Typical for this area of Virginia, there had been no snow, and water dripped profusely from trees because rain had turned to ice during the night. Then the temperature had risen.

  My stone house was set back from the street on a bluff that overlooked a rocky bend in the James River, the wooded lot surrounded by a wrought-iron fence neighboring children could not squeeze through. I knew no one on any side of me, and had no intention of changing that.

  I had not anticipated problems when I had decided for the first time in my life that I would build, but whether it had been the slate roof, the brick pavers or the color of my front door, it seemed everyone had a criticism. When it had gotten to the point where my contractor’s frustrated telephone calls were interrupting me in the morgue, I had threatened the neighborhood association that I would sue. Needless to say, invitations to parties in this subdivision, thus far, had been few.

  “I’m sure your neighbors will be delighted to see you’re home,” my niece dryly said as we got out of the car.

  “I don’t think they pay that much attention to me anymore.” I dug for my keys.

  “Bullshit,” Marino said. “You’re the only one they got who spends her days at murder scenes and cutting up dead bodies. They probably look out their windows the entire time you’re home. Hell, the guards probably call every one of them to let ’em know when you roll in.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said, unlocking the front door. “And just when I was beginning to feel a little better about living here.”

  The burglar alarm loudly buzzed its warning that I had better quickly press the appropriate keys, and I looked around as I always did, because my home was still a stranger to me. I feared the roof would leak, plaster would fall or something else would fail, and when everything was fine, I took intense pleasure in my accomplishment. My house was two levels and very open, with windows placed to catch every photon of light. The living room was a wall of glass that captured miles of the James, and late in the day I could watch the sun set over trees on the river’s banks.

  Adjoining my bedroom was an office that finally was big enough for me to work in, and I checked it first for faxes and found I had four.

  “Anything important?” asked Lucy, who had followed me while Marino was getting boxes and bags.

  “As a matter of fact, they’re all for you from your mother.” I handed them to her.

  She frowned. “Why would she fax me here?”

  “I never told her I was temporarily relocating to Sandbridge. Did you?”

  “No. But Grans would know where you are, right?” Lucy said.

  “Of course. But my mother and yours don’t always get things straight.” I glanced at what she was reading. “Everything okay?”

  “She’s so weird. You know, I installed a modem and CD ROM in her computer and showed her how to use them. My mistake. Now she’s always got questions. Each of these faxes is a computer question.” She irritably shuffled through the pages.

  I was put out with her mother, Dorothy, too. She was my sister, my only sibling, and she could not be bothered to so much as wish her only child a happy New Year.

  “She sent these today,” my niece went on. “It’s a holiday and she’s writing away on another one of her goofy children’s books.”

  “To be fair,” I said, “her books aren’t goofy.”

  “Yeah, go figure. I don’t know where she did her research, but it wasn’t where I grew up.”

  “I wish you two weren’t at odds.” I made the same comment I had made throughout Lucy’s life. “Someday you will have to come to terms with her. Especially when she dies.”

  “You always think about death.”

  “I do because I know about it, and it is the other side of life. You can’t ignore it any more than you can ignore night. You wi
ll have to deal with Dorothy.”

  “No, I won’t.” She swiveled my leather desk chair around and sat in it, facing me. “There’s no point. She doesn’t understand the first thing about me and never has.”

  That was probably true.

  “You’re welcome to use my computer,” I said.

  “It will just take me a minute.”

  “Marino will pick us up about four,” I said.

  “I didn’t know he left.”

  “Briefly.”

  Keys tapped as I went into my bedroom and began to unpack and plot. I needed a car and wondered if I should rent one, and I needed to change my clothes but did not know what to wear. It bothered me that the thought of Wesley would still make me conscious of what I put on, and as minutes crept forward I became truly afraid to see him.

  Marino picked us up when he said he would, and somewhere he had found a car wash open and had filled the tank with gas. We drove east along Monument Avenue into the district known as the Fan, where gracious mansions lined historic avenues and college students crowded old homes. At the statue of Robert E. Lee, he cut over to Grace Street, where Ted Eddings had lived in a white Spanish duplex with a red Santa flag hanging over a wooden front porch with a swing. Bright yellow crime scene tape stretched from post to post in a morbid parody of Christmas wrapping, its bold black letters warning the curious not to come.

  “Under the circumstances, I didn’t want nobody inside, and I didn’t know who else might have a key,” Marino explained as he unlocked the front door. “What I don’t need is some nosy landlord deciding he’s going to check his friggin’ inventory.”

  I did not see any sign of Wesley and was deciding he wasn’t going to show up when I heard the throaty roar of his gray BMW. It parked on the side of the street, and I watched the radio antenna retract as he cut the engine.

  “Doc, I’ll wait for him if you want to go on in,” Marino said to me.

  “I need to talk to him.” Lucy headed back down the steps.

  “I’ll be inside,” I said and put on cotton gloves, as if Wesley were not someone I knew.

  I entered Eddings’ foyer and his presence instantly overwhelmed me everywhere I looked. I felt his meticulous personality in minimalist furniture, Indian rugs and polished floors, and his warmth in sunny yellow walls hung with bold monotype prints. Dust had formed a fine layer that was disturbed anywhere police might recently have been to open cabinets or drawers. Begonias, ficus, creeping fig and cyclamen seemed to be mourning the loss of their master, and I looked around for a watering can. Finding one in the laundry room, I filled it and began tending plants because I saw no point in allowing them to die. I did not hear Benton Wesley walk in.

  “Kay?” His voice was quiet behind me.

  I turned and he caught sorrow not meant for him.

  “What are you doing?” He stared as I poured water into a pot.

  “Exactly what it looks like.”

  He got quiet, his eyes on mine.

  “I knew him, knew Ted,” I said. “Not terribly well. But he was popular with my staff. He interviewed me many times and I respected . . . Well . . .” My mind left the path.

  Wesley was thin, which made his features seem even sharper, his hair by now completely white, although he wasn’t much older than I. He did look tired, but everyone I knew looked tired, and what he did not look was separated. He did not look miserable to be away from his wife or from me.

  “Pete told me about your cars,” he said.

  “Pretty unbelievable,” I said as I poured.

  “And the detective. What’s his name? Roche? I’ve got to talk to his chief anyway. We’re playing telephone tag, but when we hook up, I’ll say something.”

  “I don’t need you to do that.”

  “I certainly don’t mind,” he said.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Fine.” He raised his hands in a small surrender and looked around the room. “He had money and was gone a lot,” he said.

  “Someone took care of his plants,” I replied.

  “How often?” He looked at them.

  “Non-blooming plants, at least once a week, the rest, every other day, depending on how warm it gets in here.”

  “So these haven’t been watered for a week?”

  “Or longer,” I said.

  By now, Lucy and Marino had entered the duplex and gone down the hall.

  “I want to check the kitchen,” I added as I set down the can.

  “Good idea.”

  It was small and looked like it had not been renovated since the sixties. Inside cupboards I found old cookware and dozens of canned goods like tuna fish and soup, and snack foods like pretzels. As for what Eddings had kept in his refrigerator, that was mostly beer. But I was interested in a single bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal Champagne tied in a big red bow.

  “Find something?” Wesley was looking under the sink.

  “Maybe.” I was still peering inside the refrigerator. “This will set you back as much as a hundred and fifty dollars in a restaurant, maybe a hundred and twenty if you buy it off the shelf.”

  “Do we know how much this guy got paid?”

  “I don’t know. But I suspect it wasn’t a whole lot.”

  “He’s got a lot of shoe polish and cleansers down here, and that’s about it,” Wesley said as he stood.

  I turned the bottle around and read a sticker on the label. “A hundred and thirty dollars, and it wasn’t purchased locally. As far as I know, Richmond doesn’t have a wine shop called The Wine Merchant.”

  “Maybe a gift. Explaining the bow.”

  “What about D.C.?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t buy much wine in D.C. these days,” he said.

  I shut the refrigerator door, secretly pleased, for he and I had enjoyed wine. We once had liked to pick and choose and drink as we sat close to each other on the couch or in bed.

  “He didn’t shop much,” I said. “I see no evidence that he ever ate in.”

  “It doesn’t look to me like he was ever even here,” he said.

  I felt his closeness as he moved near me, and I almost could not bear it. His cologne was always subtle and evocative of cinnamon and wood, and whenever I smelled it anywhere, for an instant I was caught as I was now.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in a voice meant for no one but me as he paused in the doorway.

  “No,” I said. “This is pretty awful.” I shut a cabinet door a little too hard.

  He stepped into the hallway. “Well, we need to take a hard look at his financial status, to see where he was getting money for eating out and expensive champagne.”

  Those papers were in the office, and the police had not gone through them yet because officially there had been no crime. Despite my suspicions about Eddings’ cause of death and the strange events surrounding it, at this moment we legally had no homicide.

  “Has anyone gone into this computer?” asked Lucy, who was looking at the 486 machine on the desk.

  “Nope,” said Marino as he sorted through files in a green metal cabinet. “One of the guys said we’re locked out.”

  She touched the mouse and a password window appeared on the screen.

  “Okay,” she said. “He’s got a password, which isn’t unusual. But what is a little strange is he’s got no disk in his backup drive. Hey, Pete? You guys find any disks in here?”

  “Yeah, there’s a whole box of them up there.” He pointed at a bookcase, which was crowded with histories of the Civil War and an elaborate leather-bound set of encyclopedias.

  Lucy took the box down and opened it.

  “No. These are programming disks for WordPerfect.” She looked at us. “All I’m saying is most people would have a backup of their work, assuming he was working on something here in his house.”

  No one knew if he had been. We knew only that Eddings was employed by the AP office downtown on Fourth Street. We had no reason to know what he did at home, until Lucy rebooted his
computer, did her magic and somehow got into programming files. She disabled the screen saver, then started sorting through WordPerfect directories, all of which were empty. Eddings did not have a single file.

  “Shit,” she said. “Now that really is bizarre unless he never used his computer.”

  “I can’t imagine that,” I said. “Even if he did work downtown, he must have had an office at home for a reason.”

  She typed some more, while Marino and Wesley sifted through various financial records that Eddings had neatly stored in a basket inside a filing cabinet drawer.

  “I just hope he didn’t blow away his entire subdirectory,” said Lucy, who was in the operating system now. “I can’t restore that without a backup, and he doesn’t seem to have a backup.”

  I watched her type undelete*.* and hit the enter key. Miraculously, a file named killdrug.old appeared, and after she was prompted to keep it, another name followed. By the time she was finished, she had recovered twenty-six files as we watched in amazement.

  “That’s what’s cool about DOS 6,” she simply said as she began printing.

  “Can you tell when they were deleted?” Wesley asked.

  “The time and date on the files is all the same,” she replied. “Damn. December thirty-first, between one-oh-one and one-thirty-five A.M. You would have thought he’d already be dead by then.”

  “It depends on what time he went to Chesapeake,” I said. “His boat wasn’t spotted until six A.M.”

  “By the way, the clock’s set right on the computer. So these times ought to be good,” she added.

  “Would it take more than half an hour to delete that many files?” I asked.

  “No. You could do it in minutes.”

  “Then someone might have been reading them as he was deleting them,” I said.

  “That’s what a lot of people do. We need more paper for the printer. Wait, I’ll steal some from the fax machine.”

  “Speaking of that,” I said, “can we get a journal report?”

  “Sure.”

  She produced a list of meaningless fax diagnostics and telephone numbers that I had an idea about checking later. But at least we knew with certainty that around the time Eddings had died, someone had gone into his computer and had deleted every one of his files. Whoever was responsible wasn’t terribly sophisticated, Lucy went on to explain, because a computer expert would have removed the files’ sub-directory, too, rendering the undelete command useless.