The Body Farm

  “An indoor cat?” I then asked.

  “Oh, absolutely. Kellie never let that cat out of the house, treated him like a hothouse tomato.”

  “His litter box was found in the backyard,” McGovern told her. “Did Kellie sometimes empty it and leave it out all night? Or for that matter, did she have a habit of emptying it at night? Going out after dark, the door unlocked and the alarm off.”

  Harvey looked confused, and I suspected she had no idea that her neighbor had been murdered.

  “Well,” she said, “I do know that I’ve seen her empty the litter before, but always in a trash bag that went into the super can. So it wouldn’t make sense for her to do that at night. My guess is, she might have emptied it and left it outside to air, you know? Or maybe she just didn’t have time to hose it off and was going to do it the next morning. But whatever the case, that cat knew how to use the toilet. So it wouldn’t be any big deal for him to be without his litter box for a night.”

  She stared off at a state police car cruising by.

  “No one’s said how the fire started,” Harvey went on. “Do we know?”

  “We’re working on it,” McGovern said.

  “She didn’t die . . . well, it was quick, wasn’t it?”

  She squinted in the setting sun, and she bit her lower lip.

  “I just don’t want to think she suffered,” she said.

  “Most people who die in fires don’t suffer,” I answered, evading her question with gentle words. “Usually carbon monoxide overcomes them and they aren’t conscious.”

  “Oh, thank God,” she said.

  “I’ll be inside,” McGovern said to me.

  “Mrs. Harvey,” I said, “did you know Kellie very well?”

  “We’ve been neighbors for almost five years. Not that we did a whole lot together, but I certainly knew her.”

  “I’m wondering if you might have any recent photographs of her, or know someone who might?”

  “I might have something.”

  “I have to make sure of the identification,” I then said, although my motive was other than that.

  I wanted to see for myself what Shephard had looked like in life.

  “And if there’s anything else you can tell me about her, I would appreciate it,” I went on. “For example, does she have family here?”

  “Oh no,” Harvey said, staring at her neighbor’s ruined house. “She was from all over. Her father was military, you know, and I think he and her mom live somewhere in North Carolina. Kellie was very worldly from having moved around so much. I used to tell her I wished I could be as strong and smart as her. She didn’t take crap off anyone, let me tell you. One time there was a snake on my deck, and I called her, all hysterical. She came on and chased it in the yard and killed it with a shovel. I guess she had to get that way because the men just wouldn’t leave her alone. I always told her she could be a movie star, and she would say, But Sandra, I can’t act. And I would say, But neither can most of them!”

  “She was pretty streetwise, then,” I said.

  “You bet. That’s why she had that burglar alarm put in. Feisty and streetwise, that’s Kellie. If you want to come in with me, I’ll see what I can do about pictures.”

  “If you don’t mind,” I said. “That’s very nice of you.”

  We cut through a hedge and I followed her up steps into her big, bright kitchen. It was apparent that Harvey liked to cook, based on a well-stocked pantry and every conceivable appliance. Cookware hung from hooks in the ceiling, and whatever was simmering on the stove smelled rich with beef and onions, perhaps a stroganoff or stew.

  “If you want to sit right over there by the window, I’ll go get what I’ve got from the den,” she said.

  I took a seat at the breakfast table and looked out the window at Kellie Shephard’s house. I could see people passing behind broken windows, and someone had set up lights because the sun was low and smoldering. I wondered how often her neighbor had watched her come and go.

  Certainly, Harvey was curious about the life of a woman exotic enough to be a movie star, and I wondered if someone could have stalked Shephard without her neighbor noticing a strange car or person in the area. But I had to be careful what I asked, because it was not publicly known that Shephard had died a violent death.

  “Well, I can’t believe it,” Harvey called out to me as she returned to the kitchen. “I got something better. You know, some television crew was at the hospital last week filming a feature about the trauma center. It showed on the evening news, and Kellie was in it, so I taped it. I can’t believe it took me this long to think of it, but my brain’s not working all that well, if you know what I mean.”

  She was holding a videotape. I accompanied her into the living room, where she inserted the tape into the VCR. I sat in a blue wing chair in a sea of blue carpet while she rewound and then hit the play button. The first few frames were of Lehigh Valley hospital from the perspective of a helicopter swooping in with an emergency case. It was then I realized that Kellie was really a medflight paramedic, and not merely a nurse on a ward.

  Footage showed Kellie in a jumpsuit dashing down a corridor with other members of the flight crew who had just been paged.

  “Excuse me, excuse me,” she said on tape as they darted around people in the way.

  She was a spectacular example of the human genome working just right, her teeth dazzling, and the camera in love with every angle of her fine features and bones. It was not hard to imagine patients getting major crushes on her, and then the film showed her in the cafeteria after another impossible mission had been accomplished.

  “It’s always a race against time,” Shephard was telling the reporter. “You know even a minute’s delay could cost a life. Talk about an adrenaline rush.”

  As she continued her rather banal interview, the angle of the camera shifted.

  “I can’t believe I taped that, but it’s not often someone I know is on TV,” Harvey was saying.

  It didn’t penetrate at first.

  “Stop the tape!” I said. “Rewind. Yes, right there. Freeze it.”

  The frame was of someone in the background eating lunch.

  “No,” I said under my breath. “No way.”

  Carrie Grethen was wearing jeans and a tie-dye shirt, and eating a sandwich at a table with other busy hospital personnel. I had not recognized her at first because her hair was below her ears and henna red, and last I had seen her, it was short and bleached white. But it was her eyes that finally pulled at me like a black hole. She was staring straight into the camera as she chewed, her eyes as coldly bright and evil as I remembered.

  I came out of the chair and went straight to the VCR and popped out the tape.

  “I need to take this,” I said, my voice on the verge of panic. “I promise you’ll get it back.”

  “Okay. As long as you don’t forget. It’s my only copy.” Sandra Harvey got up, too. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’ve got to go. Thank you again,” I said.

  I ran next door and trotted up steps into the back of the house, where cold water was an inch deep on the floor and dripping slowly from the roof. Agents were moving about, taking photographs and talking amongst themselves.

  “Teun!” I called out.

  I carefully moved further inside, stepping over missing areas of flooring and doing my best not to trip. I was vaguely aware of an agent dropping the burned carcass of a cat into a plastic bag.

  “Teun!” I called out again.

  I heard sure feet splashing and stepping over fallen roofing and collapsed walls. Then she was mere inches from me and steadying my arm with her hand.

  “Whoa. Careful,” she started to say.

  “We’ve got to find Lucy,” I said.

  “What’s going on?”

  She began to carefully escort me out.

  “Where is she?” I demanded.

  “There’s a two-alarm fire downtown. A grocery store
, probably an arson. Kay, what the hell . . . ?”

  We were out on the lawn and I was clutching the videotape as if it were my only hope in life.

  “Teun, please.” I held her gaze. “Take me to Philadelphia.”

  “Come on,” she said.

  16

  MCGOVERN MADE THE trip back to Philadelphia in forty-five minutes, because she was speeding. She had radioed her field office and talked on a secure tac channel. Although she was still very careful what she relayed, she had made it clear that she wanted every available agent out on the street looking for Carrie. While this was going on, I reached Marino on my cellular phone and told him to get on a plane now.

  “She’s here,” I said.

  “Oh shit. Do Benton and Lucy know?”

  “As soon as I find them.”

  “I’m out the door,” he said.

  I did not believe, nor did McGovern, that Carrie was still in Lehigh County. She wanted to be where she could do the most damage, and I was convinced she somehow knew that Lucy had moved to Philadelphia. Carrie could have been stalking Lucy, for that matter. One thing I believed but could not make sense of was that the murders in Warrenton and now here were intended to lure those of us who had defeated Carrie in the past.

  “But Warrenton happened before she escaped from Kirby,” McGovern reminded me as she turned onto Chestnut Street.

  “I know,” I said as fear turned my pulse to static. “I don’t understand any of it except that somehow she’s involved. It’s not coincidence that she was on that news clip, Teun. She knew that after Kellie Shephard’s murder we would review everything we could find. Carrie knew damn well we would see that tape.”

  The fire was located on a seedy strip on the western fringes of the University of Pennsylvania. Darkness had fallen, and flashing emergency lights were visible miles away. Police cars had closed off two blocks of the street. There were at least eight fire engines and four ladder trucks, and more than seventy feet in the air, firefighters in buckets blasted the smoking roof with deluge guns. The night rumbled with diesel engines, and the blasting of high pressure water drummed over wood and shattered more glass. Tumescent hoses snaked across the street, and water was up to the hubcaps of parked cars that would be going nowhere anytime soon.

  Photographers and news crews prowled sidewalks and were suddenly on alert when McGovern and I got out of her car.

  “Is ATF involved in this case?” asked a TV reporter.

  “We’re just here taking a look,” McGovern answered as we walked without pause.

  “Then it’s a suspected arson, like the other grocery stores?”

  The microphone followed as our boots splashed.

  “It’s under investigation,” McGovern said. “And you need to stay back, ma’am.”

  The reporter was left at the hood of a fire engine while McGovern and I drew closer to the store. Flames had jumped to the barbershop next door, where firefighters with axes and pike poles chopped square holes in the roof. Agents in ATF flak jackets were interviewing potential witnesses, and investigators in turn-outs and helmets moved in and out of a basement. I overheard something about toggle switches and the meter and stealing service. Black smoke billowed, and there seemed to be only one area in the plenum that stubbornly smoldered and spurted flame.

  “She might be inside,” McGovern said in my ear.

  I followed her in closer. The plate-glass storefront was wide open, and part of the inventory flowed out on a cold river of water. Cans of tuna fish, blackened bananas, sanitary napkins, bags of potato chips, and bottles of salad dressing flowed by, and a firefighter rescued a can of coffee and shrugged as he tossed it inside his truck. The strong beams of flashlights probed the smoky, black interior of the devastated store, illuminating girders twisted like taffy and exposed wires hanging in tangles from I-beams.

  “Is Lucy Farinelli in there?” McGovern called inside.

  “Last I saw her she was out back talking to the owner,” a male voice called back.

  “Be careful in there,” McGovern loudly said.

  “Yeah, well, we’re having a real problem getting the power to shut down. Must be an underground feed. Maybe if you could look into that?”

  “Will do.”

  “So this is what my niece does,” I said as McGovern and I waded back out to the street and more ruined produce and canned goods floated past.

  “On her good days. I think her unit number’s 718. Let me see if I can raise her.”

  McGovern held the portable radio to her lips and searched for Lucy on the air.

  “What’cha got?” my niece’s voice came back.

  “You in the middle of something?”

  “Finishing up.”

  “Can you meet us in front?”

  “On my way.”

  My relief was apparent, and McGovern smiled at me as lights strobed and water arched. Firefighters were black with soot and sweating. I watched them moving slowly in their boots, dragging hoses over their shoulders and drinking cups of a green thirst quencher that they mixed in plastic jugs. Bright lights had been set up in a truck, and the glare was harsh and confusing as the scene became surreal. Fire buffs, or whackers, as ATF agents called them, had crawled out of the dark and were taking photographs with disposable cameras, while entrepreneurial vendors hawked incense and counterfeit watches.

  By the time Lucy got to us, the smoke had thinned and was white, indicating a lot of steam. Water was getting to the source.

  “Good,” McGovern commented, observing the same thing. “I think we’re almost there.”

  “Rats chewing wires,” Lucy said first thing. “That’s the owner’s theory.”

  She looked oddly at me.

  “What brings you out?” she asked.

  “It’s looking like Carrie is involved in the Lehigh arson-homicide,” McGovern answered for me. “And it’s possible she’s still in the area, maybe even here in Philadelphia.”

  “What?” Lucy looked stunned. “How? What about Warrenton?”

  “I know,” I replied. “It seems inexplicable. But there are definite parallels.”

  “So maybe this one’s a copycat,” my niece then said. “She read about it and is jerking us around.”

  I thought of the metal shaving again, and of the point of origin. There had been nothing in the news about details like that. Nor had it ever been released that Claire Rawley had been killed with a sharp cutting instrument, such as a knife, and I could not get away from one other similarity. Both Rawley and Shephard were beautiful.

  “We’ve got a lot of agents on the street,” McGovern said to Lucy. “The point is for you to be aware and alert, all right? And Kay.” She looked at me. “This may not be the best place for you to be.”

  I did not answer her, but instead said to Lucy, “Have you heard from Benton?”

  “No.”

  “I just don’t understand,” I muttered. “I wonder where he could be.”

  “When did you have contact with him last?” Lucy asked.

  “At the morgue. He left saying he was going to the scene. And he what? Stayed there maybe an hour?” I said to McGovern.

  “If that. You don’t think he would have gone back to New York, or maybe Richmond?” she asked me.

  “I’m sure he would have told me. I’ll keep paging him. Maybe when Marino gets here, he’ll know something,” I added as fire hoses blasted and a fine mist settled over us.

  It was almost midnight when Marino came to my hotel room, and he knew nothing.

  “I don’t think you should be here by yourself,” he said right off, and he was keyed up and disheveled.

  “You want to tell me where I might be safer? I don’t know what’s happening. Benton’s left no messages. He isn’t answering his pager.”

  “You two didn’t get in a fight or something, did you?”

  “For God’s sake,” I said in exasperation.

  “Look, you asked me, and I’m just trying to help.”

  “I know.?
??

  I took a deep breath and tried to settle down.

  “What about Lucy?”

  He sat on the edge of my bed.

  “There was a pretty big fire near the university. She’s probably still there,” I answered.

  “Arson?”

  “I’m not sure they know yet.”

  We were quiet for a moment, and my tension grew.

  “Look,” I said. “We can stay here and wait for God knows what. Or we can go out. I can’t sleep.”

  I began to pace.

  “I’m not sitting here all night worrying that Carrie might be lying in wait, damn it.”

  Tears filled my eyes.

  “Benton’s out there somewhere. Maybe at the fire scene with Lucy. I don’t know.”

  I turned my back to him and stared out at the harbor. My breath trembled in my breast, and my hands were so cold the fingernails had turned blue.

  Marino got up, and I knew he was watching me.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s check it out.”

  When we reached the fire scene on Walnut Street, the activity had diminished considerably. Most of the fire trucks had left, and those few firefighters still on the job were exhausted and coiling hoses. Steamy smoke drifted up from the plenum area of the store, but I could see no flames, and from within voices and footsteps sounded as the strong beam of flashlights cut the darkness and were caught in shards of broken glass. I sloshed through water as more groceries and debris floated past, and when I reached the entrance, I heard McGovern’s voice. She was saying something about a medical examiner.

  “Get him here now,” she barked. “And watch it over there, okay? No telling where all it’s scattered, and I don’t want us stepping on anything.”

  “Someone got a camera?”

  “Okay, I got a watch, stainless steel, men’s. Crystal’s shattered. And we got one pair of handcuffs?”

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. Handcuffs, Smith & Wesson, the genuine article. Closed and locked like someone had them on. In fact, they’re double locked.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  I made my way inside as large drops of cold water smacked my helmet and dripped down my neck. I recognized Lucy’s voice, but I could not make out what she was saying. She sounded almost hysterical, and there was suddenly a lot of splashing and commotion.