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One part of the story bothered me.
“When we first met in my offices, you said a fisherman found the bones?” My tone implied a question.
“Achilles Slanter.”
“What was Slanter doing in these woods?”
“Claimed he was hunting mushrooms. Said his mama’s favorites grow here.”
“What’s his story?”
“Slanter says he was here with his dog, Thursday.”
“Wait. A full week ago?”
“Thursday is the dog. As Slanter tells it, when Thursday took to yapping at a mound of sand, he poked with his ’shroom stick and hit something hard. He dug a bit, stripped away vines and creepers, spotted a human skull.”
“That explains the first set of bones.”
“Yes. Hoping to score easy money, who knows how the chap thought that would work, Slanter dragged Thursday and his son back out the next day for a wider look-see.”
“They found the second set.”
Musgrove nodded. “That pooch must have one helluva nose. Less entrepreneurial than his old man, the kid insisted they call the cops.”
“Does his account sound reasonable?”
“We ran the old geezer a million ways to Sunday. And the son. Both checked out clean.” Musgrove arced an arm toward the van. “Shall we suit up?”
Wordlessly, the four of us donned the usual Tyvek zip-ups and booties. While doing so, we discussed strategy.
The sandy substrate made pushing a wheeled gurney or cart impossible. Since we were expecting only dry bones, we decided to keep our equipment to a minimum. Should we encounter the unexpected, someone could return to the van for whatever was needed. Or we could call for backup.
We entered the woods single file. Constable. Detective. Anthropologist. Constable.
Kemp lugged a wooden-framed screen and two collapsible sawhorses. Stubbs shouldered pruning shears and shovels, buckets swinging on their handles. Musgrove and I hauled recovery kits.
I’d viewed the scene photos in Montreal, studied them more closely while riding out from the morgue. Soon I began to recognize the terrain. A Jamaican caper tree here. A pair of wild tamarinds there.
Before long, a uniformed cop materialized within the fuzzy web of light seeping through the foliage overhead. Tall and needle-thin, the man’s gray hair and furrowed skin—a shade somewhere between that of mud and dead leaves—made a postscript of his youth.
The man’s body language radiated unhappiness as clearly as Plante’s had at Bickerdike Basin. Or maybe the old guy was just tired. Shoulder-slumped, head turtling forward on a reedy neck, he turned at the sound of us rattling his way.
The man’s name plaque saidConstable Love. As Musgrove and I set down our cases, she requested a briefing.
Voice flatlined with displeasure, fatigue, or boredom, Love said he’d been in position since shift handoff at midnight. Save for two dogs, an armada of geckos, and one misguided bat, no one and nothing had come calling.
“Where’s the first vic?” Musgrove asked.
“Just yonder.” A skinny digit pointed downward over the right side of the path. “Ground slopes like a sonofabitch into a ravine. First DOA’s at the bottom. The other’s a slog into the woods.” The digit veered left. “That away.”
“Is this a good place to set up?” Musgrove asked, looking around.
“You won’t get no further with all that truck.” Love chin-cocked our collection of gear.
Musgrove circled a hand in the air, then pointed at the ground. Kemp found a level spot on the path and began assembling the screen. Stubbs dug out video and still cameras and started filming.
I opened my kit and ran through my somewhat OCD pre-op check. Evidence bags. Syringe tubes. Labels. Scale. Scalpels. Hammer. Trowel. Dental picks. Tweezers. Tape measure. Magnifier. Bone chart. You get the picture.
