“Kater!”
Kater? It rhymed with “tater.” I peeled my shirt from my sweaty back.
“Hey, Palmer.”
Palmer? I wondered if his real name was Palmy.
“Mom, I’d like you to meet Palmer Cousins.”
“Hey, Dr. Brennan.”
Palmer whipped off his shades and shot out a hand. Though not tall, the young man had abundant black hair, blue eyes, and a smile like Tom Cruise’s in Risky Business. He was almost disconcertingly good-looking.
“Tempe.” I offered a hand.
Palmer’s shake was a bone crusher.
“Katy’s told me a lot about you.”
“Really?” I looked at my daughter. She was looking at Palmer.
“Who’s the pooch?”
“Boyd.”
Palmer leaned over and scratched Boyd’s ear. Boyd licked his face. Three slaps to the haunch, then Palmer was back at our level.
“Nice dog. Can I get you ladies a couple of brews?”
“I’ll have one,” Katy chirped. “Diet Coke for Mom. She’s an alckie.”
I shot my daughter a look that could have frozen boiling tar.
“Help yourself to chow.” Palmer set off.
Hearing what he thought was a reference to his bloodline, Boyd shot forward, yanking the leash from Katy’s hand, and began racing in circles around Palmer’s legs.
Recovering his balance, Palmer turned, a look of uncertainty on his perfect face.
“He’s OK off the leash?”
Katy nodded. “But watch him around food.”
She retrieved the leash and unclipped it from the collar.
Palmer gave a thumbs-up.
Boyd raced in delighted circles.
Behind the main house, folding tables offered homemade concoctions in Tupperware tubs. Coleslaw. Potato salad. Baked beans. Greens.
One table was covered with disposable aluminum trays mounded with shredded pork. On the edge of the woods, wisps of smoke still floated from the giant cooker that had been going all night.
Another table held sweets. Another, salads.
“Shouldn’t we have brought a dish?” I asked as we surveyed the Martha Stewart country-dining assemblage.
Katy pulled a bag of Fig Newtons from her purse and parked it on the dessert table.
I did some eye rolling of my own.
When Katy and I returned to our chairs the banjo player was doing “Rocky Top.” Not Pete Seeger, but not bad.
For the next two hours a parade of folks stopped by to chat. It was like career day at the junior high. Lawyers. Pilots. Mechanics. A judge. Computer geeks. A former student, now a homemaker. I was surprised at the number of CMPD cops that I knew.
Several McCranies came over, welcoming us and expressing thanks for our coming. Palmer Cousins also came and went.
I learned that Palmer had been a fix-up through Lija, Katy’s best friend since the fourth grade. I also learned that Lija, having completed a BA in sociology at the University of Georgia, was working in Charlotte as a paramedic.
Most important of all, I learned that Palmer was single, twenty-seven, a Wake Forest biology grad currently employed with the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service at its field office in Columbia, South Carolina.
And a McCranie’s regular when he was back home in Charlotte. The missing piece in why I was now munching on pulled pork in a clover field.
Boyd alternated between sleeping at our feet, racing with varying aggregates of children, and working the crowd, attaching himself to whoever looked like the easiest touch. He was in nap phase when a group of kids ran up requesting his company.
Boyd opened one eye, readjusted his chin on his paws. A girl of around ten wearing a purple Bible Girl cape and headgear waggled a cornmeal muffin. Boyd was off.
Watching them round the barn, I remembered Katy’s words on the phone about Boyd wanting to have a conversation.
“What was it the chow wanted to discuss?”
“Oh, yeah. Dad’s got a trial going in Asheville, so I’ve been taking care of Boyd.” A thumbnail teased the edge of her Budweiser label. “He thinks he’s going to be there another three weeks. But, um . . .” She dug a long tunnel in the wet paper. “Well, I think I’m going to move uptown for the rest of the summer.”
“Uptown?”
“With Lija. She’s got this really cool town house in Third Ward, and her new roommate can’t occupy until September. And Dad’s gone, anyway.” The beer label was now effectively shredded. “So I thought it would be fun to, you know, just live down there for a few weeks. She’s not going to charge me rent or anything.”
“Just until school starts.”
Katy was in her sixth and, by parental dictate, last undergraduate year at the University of Virginia.
“Of course.”
“You’re not thinking of dropping out.”
The World Cup of eye rolls.
“Do you and Dad have the same scriptwriters?”
I could see where the conversation was going.
“Let me guess. You want me to take Boyd.”
“Just until Dad gets back.”
“I’m leaving for the beach on Monday.”
“You’re going to Anne’s place on Sullivan’s Island, right?”
“Yes.” Wary.
“Boyd loves the beach.”
“Boyd would love Auschwitz if they fed him.”
“Anne wouldn’t mind if you took him with you. And he’ll keep you company so you won’t be all alone.”
“Boyd isn’t welcome at the town house?”
“It isn’t that he’s unwelcome. Lija’s landlor—”
From somewhere deep in the woods I heard Boyd’s frantic barking.
Seconds later, the barking was joined by a blood-chilling scream.
Then another.
I BOLTED FROM MY CHAIR, HEART THUDDING IN MY CHEST.
The picnickers around me appeared as on split screen. Those on the house side of the bluegrass quartet continued their milling and chatting and eating, oblivious to whatever calamity might be unfolding in the woods. Those on the barn side formed a frozen tableau, mouths open, heads turned in the direction of the terrible sounds.
I raced toward the screams, weaving among lawn chairs and blankets and people. I could hear Katy and others close on my heels.
Boyd had never harmed a child, had never so much as growled at one. But it was hot. He was excited. Had some kid provoked or confused him? Had the dog suddenly turned?
Sweet Jesus.
My mind scanned images of mauling victims. I saw gaping slashes, severed scalps. Fear shot through me.
Rounding the barn, I spotted a break in the trees and veered off on a trickling dirt path. Branches and leaves tugged my hair and scratched the skin on my arms and legs.
The screams grew shriller, more strident. The spaces between disappeared and the cries blended together in a crescendo of fear and panic.
I ran on.
Suddenly, the shrieking stopped. The sound vacuum was more chilling than the shrieks.
Boyd’s barking continued, frenzied and unrelenting.
The sweat went cold on my face.
Moments later I spotted three kids huddled behind an enormous hedge. Through a gap in the foliage I could see that the two girls were clutching each other. The boy had a hand on Bible Girl’s shoulder.
The boy and the younger girl were staring at Boyd, expressions of fascination/repulsion distorting their features. Bible Girl had her eyes shut, clenched fists pressed to the lids. Every now and then her chest gave an involuntary heave.
Boyd was with them on the far side of the hedge, lunging forward then backpedaling, snapping at something a yard from the base of the growth. Every few seconds he’d point his nose skyward and let loose with a series of high-pitched barks. His hackles were engaged, giving him the look of an auburn wolf.
“You kids all right?” I gasped, pushing through the gap in the hedge.
Three solemn nods.
br />
Katy and Palmer and one of the McCranie sons raced up behind me.
“Anyone hurt?” Katy panted.
Three head shakes. A tiny sob.
Bible Girl ran to McCranie, wrapped her arms around his waist, and collapsed against him. He began stroking the crooked part between her ponytails.
“It’s OK, Sarah. You’re fine.”
McCranie looked up.
“My daughter’s a little high-strung.”
I shifted my attention to the chow.
And knew immediately what was happening.
“Boyd!”
Boyd whipped around. Seeing Katy and me, he loped forward, nudged my hand, then darted back to the hedge and reengaged.
“Stop!” I shouted, bending to relieve the stitch in my side.
When unconvinced of the wisdom of an order directed at him, Boyd rotates the long hairs that serve as his eyebrows. It’s his way of asking “Are you crazy?”
Boyd turned and did that now.
“Boyd, sit!”
Boyd spun and resumed barking.
Sarah McCranie’s arms tightened around her father. Her playmates watched me with saucer eyes.
I repeated my command.
Boyd twisted his head and did the eyebrow thing, this time with feeling: Are you frigging nuts?
“Boyd!” Keeping my left hand on my thigh, I leveled my right index finger at his snout.
Boyd canted his head, blew air out his nose, and sat.
“What’s wrong with him?” Katy was panting as hard as I was.
“Dork Brain probably thinks he’s discovered the lost colony from Roanoke.”
Boyd turned back to the hedge, flattened his ears, and drew a long, low growl from deep in his chest.
“What?”
Ignoring my daughter’s question, I picked my way through roots and undergrowth. When I drew close, Boyd shot to his feet and looked at me expectantly.
“Sit.”
Boyd sat.
I squatted beside him.
Boyd rocketed up, tail rigid and trembling.
My heart sank.
Boyd’s find was much larger than I’d expected. His last hit had been a squirrel, dead perhaps two or three days.
I looked at the chow. He returned my gaze, the large amount of white visible in each eye an indication of his agitation.
Refocusing on the mound at my feet, I began to share his apprehension. I picked up a stick and poked at the center. Plastic popped, then a stench like rotting meat rose from the leaves. Flies buzzed and darted, bodies iridescent in the sticky air.
Boyd, the self-taught cadaver dog, strikes again.
“Shit.”
“What?”
I heard rustling as Katy worked her way toward the chow and me.
“What did he find?” My daughter squatted beside me, then bounced to her feet as though tied to a bungee. A hand flew to her mouth. Boyd danced around her legs.
“What the hell is it?”
Palmer joined us.
“Something’s dead.” After that masterful observation Palmer squeezed his nostrils with a thumb and forefinger. “Human?”
“I’m not sure.” I pointed to semi-fleshed digits projecting from a tear Boyd had made in the plastic. “That’s definitely not a dog or deer.”
I probed the dimensions of the half-buried bag. “Not many other animals are this big.”
I scraped back dirt and leaves and examined the soil below.
“No evidence of fur.”
Boyd moved in for a sniff. I elbowed him back.
“Holy crap, Mom. Not at a picnic.”
“I didn’t will this here.” I flapped a hand at Boyd’s find.
“Are you going to have to do the whole ME bit?”
“This may be nothing. But on the outside chance it’s something, the remains have to be recovered properly.”
Katy groaned.
“Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. I’m supposed to leave for the beach on Monday.”
“This is so embarrassing. Why can’t you be like other mothers? Why can’t you just”—she looked at Palmer, then back to me—“bake cookies?”
“I prefer Fig Newtons,” I snapped, rising to my feet. “Might be best to take the kids back,” I said to Sarah’s father.
“No!” the boy yelped. “It’s a dead guy, right? We want to see you dig up the DOA.” His face was flushed and glossy with perspiration. “We want to know who you like for the hit.”
“Yeah!” The younger girl looked like Shirley Temple in pink denim coveralls. “We want to see the DOA!”
Inwardly cursing TV crime shows, I chose my words carefully.
“It would be most useful to the case if you’d collect your thoughts, talk over your observations, and then give a statement. Could you do that?”
The two looked at each other, eyes grown from saucers to platters.
“Yeah,” said Shirley Temple, clapping chubby hands. “We’ll give cool statements.”
* * *
The crime scene truck arrived at four. Joe Hawkins, the MCME death investigator on call that weekend, showed up a few minutes later. By then most of the McCranies’ guests had folded their blankets and chairs and departed.
So had Katy, Palmer, and Boyd.
Boyd’s discovery lay beyond the hedge dividing the McCranies’ property from the adjacent farm. According to Sarah’s father, no one occupied the neighboring house, which belonged to someone named Foote. A quick check drew no response, so we brought in our equipment through its driveway and yard.
I explained the situation to Hawkins as two crime scene techs unloaded cameras, shovels, screens, and other equipment we’d need for processing.
“It may be an animal carcass,” I said, feeling apprehensive about calling people out on a Saturday.
“Or it may be some guy’s wife with an ax in her head.” Hawkins pulled a body bag from his transport van. “Ain’t our job to second-guess.”
Joe Hawkins had been hauling stiffs since DiMaggio and Monroe married in ’54, and was about to hit mandatory retirement age. He could tell some stories. Autopsies were performed in the basement of the jail back then, in a room equipped with little more than a table and sink. When North Carolina overhauled its death investigation system in the eighties, and the Mecklenburg County ME facility was moved to its current location, Hawkins took only one memento: an autographed portrait of Joltin’ Joe. The picture still sat on the desk in his cubicle.
“But if we’ve got a bad one, you’ll make the call to Doc Larabee. Deal?”
“Deal,” I agreed.
Hawkins slammed the van’s double doors. I couldn’t help thinking how the job had molded the man’s physiognomy. Cadaver thin, with dark circles under puffy eyes, bushy brows, and dyed black hair combed straight back from his face, Hawkins looked like a death investigator from central casting.
“Think we’ll need lights?” asked one of the techs, a woman in her twenties with blotchy skin and granny glasses.
“Let’s see how it goes.”
“All set?”
I looked at Hawkins. He nodded.
“Let’s do her,” said granny glasses.
I led the team into the woods, and for the next two hours we photographed, cleared, bagged, and tagged according to ME protocol.
Not a leaf stirred. My hair bonded to my neck and forehead, and my clothes grew damp inside the Tyvek jumpsuit Hawkins had brought me. Despite liberal applications of Hawkins’s Deep Woods, mosquitoes feasted on every millimeter of exposed flesh.
By five we had a pretty good idea of what we were facing.
A large black trash bag had been placed in a shallow grave, then covered with a layer of soil and leaves. Close to the ground surface, wind and erosion had taken their toll, finally exposing one corner of the bag. Boyd had accomplished the rest.
Beneath the first bag, we discovered a second. Though we left both sealed, except for such tears and holes as they already had, the odor oozing f
rom the sacks was unmistakable. It was the sweet, fetid stench of decomposing flesh.
The fact that the remains appeared to be limited to their packaging sped our processing time. By six we’d removed the sacks, sealed them in body bags, and placed the bags in the ME van. After receiving assurances that granny glasses and her partner and I would be fine, Hawkins set off for the morgue.
An hour of screening turned up nothing from the surrounding or underlying soil.
By seven-thirty we’d packed the truck and were rolling toward town.
By nine I was in my shower, exhausted, discouraged, and wishing I’d chosen another profession.
Just when I thought I was catching up, two fifty-gallon Heftys had entered my life.
Damn!
And a seventy-pound chow.
Damn!
I lathered my hair for the third time and thought about the day to come and my visitor. Could I get through the bags before meeting him at baggage claim?
I pictured a face, and my stomach did a mini-flip.
Oh, boy.
Was this little rendezvous such a good idea? I hadn’t seen the guy since we’d worked together in Guatemala. A vacation had seemed a good plan then. We’d both been under tremendous pressure. The place. The circumstances. The sadness of dealing with so much death.
I rinsed my hair.
The vacation that never was. The case was done. We were on our way. Before we’d reached La Aurora International, his pager had sounded. Off he’d gone, regretful, but obedient to the call of duty.
I pictured Katy’s face at the picnic today, later at the site of Boyd’s discovery. Was my daughter serious about the intensely captivating Palmer Cousins? Was she considering dropping out of school to be near him? For other reasons?
What was it about Palmer Cousins that bothered me? Was “the boy,” as Katy would call him, just too damn good-looking? Was I growing so narrow-minded that I was starting to judge character by appearance?
No matter about Cousins. Katy was an adult now. She would do what she would do. I had no control over her life.
I soaped myself with almond-peppermint bath gel and reverted to worrying about Boyd’s plastic sacks.
With a little luck, the contents would be animal bone. But what if that wasn’t the case? What if Joe Hawkins’s ax theory wasn’t a joke?