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“Close-up and personal?” Monck proffered a small pair of Bushnells I hadn’t noticed him slip from a pocket.
“Thanks.”
I brought the binoculars to my eyes and adjusted the knob. Wanting to see. Not wanting to see.
The scene crystallized into grisly focus.
The driver’s skull was distorted, its occipital bone protruding at an impossible angle, its frontal bone mashed down into its orbits. The exposed brain was a scorched hamburger mess, dotted with bone chips and crawling with flies.
Tiny glass cubes peppered both the body and the truck. Here and there a shard winked orange in the few rays managing to slice into the hole from the low-hanging sun.
My gut was telling me who had died in this wreck. Still, I couldn’t be certain. The driver remained half inside the cab. The fire and trauma had rendered his or her face unrecognizable.
Almost invisible, even when magnified, a minute detail told a heartbreaking story.
“I think there’s expectorated blood around the lips.” I handed back the glasses. “On a strip of unburned skin where one hand may have protected the mouth.”
“Meaning?”
“Death wasn’t immediate.”
Monck peered down another very long moment. Lowered the glasses and started to speak.
“Nasty one, eh?”
We both turned.
Constable Gardiner had crossed the cordon to join us.
“We’re finished with what we can do here. The tow crew is itching to get on with their bit. You okay with that?”
“Is anyone going down there?”
“Chief says no can do. Too dangerous. Ordered us to lug the whole kit and kaboodle up and process topside. Hauler boys say they have a plan.”
“Have you spotted anything suspicious?” Monck asked.
Gardiner blew out a breath.
“Guy runs off the road on a clear sunny day? Leaves no rubber on the pavement?” He pantomimed drinking from a bottle. “CSU’s on the way. But I’m guessing the coroner will dot the I and cross the T on this one.”
“You ran the tag?”
“Yes, sir.” Gardiner whipped the ubiquitous cop spiral from his ill-fitting pants. “The vehicle is registered to a Joe Benjamin. Joe, not Joseph, no middle name or initial. Lives right up the road.” Thumb-jabbing the two lane at his back.
My scalp tingled as he read off the address.
Monck spoke to me as Gardiner waddled away.
“Thoughts?”
“We’re closing in on Benjamin for three homicides, maybe four. The day after my second drop-by, he goes off-road into”—I pointed at the pit—“whatever that is.”
“Little Hole.”
“He’s lived on Karst Way for ten years. Surely, he knew the sinkhole was here.”
“You’re thinking the bastard offed himself?”
