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“I’ve bought the cemetery plot on the other side of hers,” he said. “I hope I don’t need it for a while, but Cooke County sheriffs do seem to die prematurely and violently.”
“I’m betting you’ll be the exception to that rule, Jim.”
“Hang onto that thought. Listen, I wanted you to hear this from me face to face. Leon Williams and his lawyer — some slick Knoxville guy named DeVriess — just cut a deal with the U.S. Attorney.” I grimaced at the mention of DeVriess, but I supposed if I were in the deputy’s bloody shoes, I’d hire Grease, too. “Leon’s pleading guilty to second-degree murder in Tom’s death and first-degree in Orbin’s; in return, he avoids a possible death sentence. He’s also confessed to shooting the prior sheriff during that drug bust three years ago. Apparently he’d been plotting against the Kitchings clan and aiming to be sheriff — pun intended — for quite awhile.”
“Any chance of parole?”
“None.”
“Good.”
“The prosecutor’s also talking plea bargain with Mrs. Kitchings,” he added. “I figure she’ll end up doing only a couple years for second-degree or manslaughter. She doesn’t seem to care what her sentence is. She’s got nothing and nobody left to come home to when she does get out.”
I nodded. “Sounds about right. I figure Williams deserves whatever an ex-cop gets in prison, but Mrs. Kitchings has already suffered about as much as a human being can bear.”
He agreed. “There’s one other thing I want you to know. I appreciate what you did for us up there; what you did for me, especially.”
I held up a hand. “Don’t mention it. I hate to think of Kitchings pinning Leena’s murder on you — or Williams framing you for Orbin’s death.”
“You saved my neck in a couple of ways,” he said. “But I’m not just thanking you for keeping me out of prison. I hadn’t realized how much emotional shrapnel I’ve been carrying around ever since I lost Leena. It still hurts — hell, feels like somebody’s just stomped on my heart all over again — but I think maybe this time it’ll heal, sooner or later.” He wiped his eyes. “I never did stop loving that girl, Doc; it damn near killed me to think she’d stopped loving me. I like to think now that she didn’t, after all.”
“She died wearing your name around her neck, Jim. I’d say that’s pretty convincing proof.” How odd, to hear myself quoting a line from Grease.
He drew a deep breath and forced it out through pursed lips. “Part of me’ll always grieve for what happened to her — and for my inability to protect her from it. But at least I know the truth now.”
“And the truth can set you free,” I finished the thought. “If you let it.”
“I think I will.” He looked into me. “How ’bout you?”
I took a breath. “I’m trying.”
He nodded. “Good. You deserve to be at peace, too.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Mostly I am now. Except when I’m looking over my shoulder for a vengeful medical examiner. Listen, I hope we can stay in touch. Maybe keep tabs on each other’s progress. Form our own twelve-step program for griefaholics.”
“We can try,” he said, “but we might have to hold the meetings by telephone for a while. Me and Chief Deputy Waylon here got us some cockfightin’ and pot-growin’ and meth-cookin’ scoundrels to track down, don’t we, Waylon?”
Waylon frowned. “Let’s not be too hasty about them cockfights. TBI might want to keep workin’ ’em undercover.” O’Conner snorted, but Waylon seemed unfazed. “Doc, Cousin Vern says to tell you ‘hey.’ Wanted you to know he’s gettin’ into a new line of farming — raising sang ’stead of weed, up at Jim’s place. The sang don’t grow near as fast, but it’s a mite safer.” I felt safer myself, knowing Waylon didn’t need to booby-trap the ginseng operation.
“Vernon’s got quite a gift for horticulture, too,” said O’Conner. “I think Cooke County Black Ginseng is going to make a big splash next fall over in China.”
Waylon fidgeted in his uniform. “Vern’s boy’s doing real good since you got him in to see that doctor at Children’s Hospital, too.” I nodded, glad that what I’d diagnosed as leukemia had proved to be merely salmonella poisoning plus a kidney infection. “Oh! and he’s got him a new pup, too — another redbone hound. Sweet little thing — named her Duchess in memory of Duke.”
I smiled. “You give Cousin Vern my best,” I said. “If you don’t care to.” Waylon nodded and clapped me on the shoulder, nearly sending me sprawling. “Hell no, I don’t care to.”
O’Conner caught Waylon’s eye and nodded at the Jeep. “We better head on back,” he said. “I’m afraid to leave the county for more than an hour at a time. I’m not sure I’ll be back this way until I get another deputy hired and up to speed, so don’t be surprised if you don’t see me for a while. On the other hand, probably won’t be long before some unidentified, varmint-chewed, vermin-infested body turns up in some backwoods hollow or chop-shop junkyard. We are talking Cooke County, after all.”
“Well, I reckon I could find my way back to your neck of the woods if duty calls,” I said. “And you know where to find me. Either under the stadium or out here communing with the dead.”
He grinned and nodded. We shook hands again, and he climbed back into the Cherokee and backed out the gate.
I checked my watch and realized I should be going, too. I was expected at Jeff’s house for dinner in a couple of hours, and it wouldn’t do to show up reeking of corpses. Besides, after I got cleaned up, I’d need to swing by the Hilton to pick up Jess Carter, who was back in town to do another autopsy. “My God, is this a date?” Jeff had asked when I asked if I could bring her along.
“I don’t know,” I said. “She might still be happily lesbian.”
He laughed. “That could make a difference, Dad. You might want to find out at some point.”
“I intend to, son,” I said. “Should be interesting.” He concurred.
As I swung the gates shut and snapped the locks onto their chains, I looked up at the barren branches ringing the facility. Above them, a narrow ray of sunshine threaded a gap in the clouds. The light caught and backlit the wing of a buzzard. The bird was gliding effortlessly, patiently above the Body Farm, riding the wind, the scent, and his own mysterious yearnings.
He might not fully comprehend why he was drawn to delve into the messy details of death. But delve he did — with grace and gusto.
I couldn’t help but admire that.
Reprinted from Human Osteology: A Laboratory and Field Manual (Fourth Edition), by William M. Bass. © Missouri Archaeological Society, Inc., 1995.
