Last Known Victim (3 page)

Where they'd scraped him up, Patti could only imagine. Without housing, there was nowhere for people to live, even those who still had jobs. Currently hundreds of NOPD officers were living on the Carnival cruise ship
Ecstasy,
docked downtown on the Mississippi River.

“Yo,” the tech said, setting down the gear. “What do we have?”

Spencer pointed. “Somebody's collection.”

The guy made a face and shook his head. “This is so screwed-up. The tipping point for me was them spotting a shark swimming down Veterans Boulevard. I mean, how do you come back from that?”

He loaded the camera. “Mom lives in St. Tammany, I evacuated to her place. Lost forty trees on her property, but not one hit her house. Can you believe it?”

He didn't expect an answer and got to work. His story wasn't new. Patti heard a version of it from everybody she ran into. Nobody connected in this “post-Katrina world” without sharing their storm story.

She turned to the other officer. “Connelly, help him out here. Make certain the evidence is collected. Check in with me when it's done.”

She and Spencer started back to their vehicle. They didn't speak until they had removed their HazMat gear and climbed into Spencer's vintage Camaro.

She turned to him. “We look for a victim. See if the computer turns up a vic that was missing a hand. Have Tony give you a—”

She had been about to say “a hand.” He realized it, too, and glanced her way, eyebrow cocked.

A grim smile touched her mouth. “Detective Sciame assists. Keep me posted.”

He agreed and they fell silent again. As Spencer drove, Patti gazed out at the ravaged landscape, one thought playing through her head: it wasn't enough the city had Katrina's devastation and rebuilding process to face, now they had a serial killer to catch as well.

Friday, April 20, 2007
Noon

C
ity Park was a sprawling thirteen-hundred-acre park in the heart of New Orleans. Before Katrina, it had boasted three eighteen-hole golf courses, a tennis center, and lagoons complete with a gondola and paddle boats, Storybook Land and Carousel Gardens, and the New Orleans Museum of Art. Limping back to its previous glory or not, it was still one of the oldest urban parks in the United States.

Today it was the location of a gruesome discovery: human remains.

Spencer parked his 1977 Camaro in front of the Bayou Oaks golf center's two-story practice range and climbed out. The dispatcher had described the remains as “skeletal.” Certainly not the first of his career. Louisiana's sub-tropic climate, with its abundance of rain, long hot summers and acidic soil, accelerated the decomposition process. Here, a body could be reduced to nothing but bones and a few tendons in two weeks.

Detective Tony Sciame roared into the gravel lot. Spencer crossed to his partner's seen-better-days Ford Taurus just as the driver's-side door flew open and Tony heaved himself out.

The smell of French fries followed him. The call had obviously interrupted his lunch.

“Pasta Man,” Spencer greeted him. “Betty know you're eating that garbage?”

Betty, Tony's wife of thirty-four years, monitored her husband's food consumption like a hawk—something Tony had no intention of doing for himself—and it had become a sort of battle of wills between them.

“Of course she does, Slick. My Betty's a very bright woman.”

Spencer chuckled and glanced up at the sky. “Good day for a round of golf.”

Tony hooted in amusement. “Slick, the closest you've ever come to swinging a golf club is the time you broke up a fight between those two guys in plaid knickers.”

“Doesn't mean it couldn't happen.” They fell into step together, and he sent his partner an amused glance. “And if I were you I wouldn't say anything about other guys' fashion choices.”

“What?” Tony looked down at himself. “I look good.”

He wore trousers in a shade too green to be called khaki and too brown to really be green. Puke or vomit would describe it nicely. Tony had paired the pants with a wild print shirt whose predominant color was orange.

“Sure, you do. For a color blind old fart.”

Tony snorted. “You're just jealous I have the self-confidence to wear bright colors.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, my friend,” Spencer teased. Spencer had nicknamed the older man for his “pasta” gut, while Tony's nickname for Spencer aimed at his youth and inexperience. Though they swapped insults much of the day, they liked, respected and, most importantly, trusted each other to watch their backs.

In the NOPD, detectives weren't assigned partners, per se. They worked rotation. When a case came in, whoever was next in line got it and chose someone to assist. It was in the “choosing” that most of the detectives paired up.

Spencer and Tony's was an admittedly odd pairing. Spencer was thirty-three and single; Tony had been married longer than Spencer had been alive and had four children. Spencer was a relative rookie to Investigative Support Division, ISD for short, and homicide; Tony had been working homicide for twenty-seven years. Spencer had a reputation for being a brash hothead; Tony, one as a cautious plodder.

The tortoise and the hare. Not very sexy but, in their case, effective.

“Yo, Mikey,” Spencer greeted the first officer, a guy who'd been in his brother Percy's graduating class at the academy. The two had been pals and bottle buddies before Mike had gotten married. “What do we have?”

The officer grinned. “Hey, Spencer, Detective Sciame. First tee, west course. Skeletal remains. Mostly intact.”

“Man or woman?”

“Dunno. Not my area.”

“Who'd the coroner's office send?”

“The bone lady. Elizabeth Walker.”

“ID?”

“Nope. And no personal effects, though there might be something more in the grave. We didn't move the body. Called DIU, district three. They sent Landry.”

Nearly ten years ago, the NOPD brass had decided the best place to fight crime was where it happened. They had decentralized the department, relocating the various detective units, taking them out of headquarters and moving them into the eight district stations, bundling them into what they named the Detective Investigative Unit. The detectives in DIU didn't specialize; they handled everything except rape, child abuse and high-profile murders. For those crimes, ISD took over.

“Glad to hear that, Mikey. You might make a decent cop, after all.”

“Bite me, Malone.”

“Nah, you'd like it too much.”

“Can we save your personal issues for later?” Tony asked dryly. “The rest of the friggin' department's already here. I'd like to make an appearance before the vic's bagged and tagged.”

Unfazed, the junior officer went on. “The engineer and landscape artist who're planning the course's restoration found the grave. Stumbled over it, actually.”

Spencer frowned. “What does that mean, stumbled over it?”

“Just what it sounds like. Really freaked the engineer out. Landed right on top of it, poor bastard. If he hadn't, they might've missed the grave altogether.”

“You have names and numbers for these guys?”

He said he did and added, “I told them both to expect a visit from the NOPD this afternoon.” The officer motioned toward the row of golf carts.

“Choose your wheels. Keys are in 'em. Follow the signs.”

They crossed to a cart and climbed in, Tony behind the wheel.

Spencer looked at his partner. “Ironic, finding a body here now.”

Until a few months ago, when they'd moved back into their Broad Street headquarters, the entire detective division had been operating out of trailers here at the park.

“No joke.”

While Tony drove, Spencer took in the surroundings. City Park had been decimated by Hurricane Katrina. The day after the storm, ninety percent of the park had been under anywhere from one to ten feet of water. Adding insult to injury, the water had been from the Gulf of Mexico, and its salt content had killed all the grass in the park, as well as a tremendous number of delicate plant species.

And like the city itself, in the two years since Katrina, the park had hobbled back to life—though to nowhere near its pre-Katrina glory.

They reached the site. With crime-scene tape, Mikey and his partner had created a wide swathe around the first tee. Tony parked the cart just beyond the tape; they climbed out and crossed to the officer. Spencer didn't recognize him and decided he must be a post-Katrina hire.

That's the way everything was in the Big Easy these days: pre- or post-Katrina. It served as New Orleanians' frame of reference to mark time and personal history.

It certainly served as Spencer's.

Before “The Thing,” as local columnist Chris Rose had nicknamed it, Spencer had been confident he had finally conquered his demons. He'd felt secure in his own skin, his place in the universe, tiny as it was.

Sammy's murder, Katrina and the chaos that ensued had eroded that confidence, his feeling of security. Now he doubted. And second-guessed. Life, he'd learned, was fragile. The moment fleeting.

He thought about it a lot. One day life was as it should be; the next, turned upside down. A cop always lived with uncertainty, but this was different. Katrina had made it feel…global.

He and Tony signed the scene log, ducked under the tape and crossed to the group clustered around the grave.

Located six feet behind the tee box, under a large shade tree, Spencer saw that the crime-scene guys had gotten their shots and begun the excavation process. Elizabeth Walker crouched beside, watching intently.

The skeleton was, indeed, almost fully intact, positioned faceup. Bits of what appeared to have been clothing clung to the mottled-looking bones.

“Hey, Terry,” Spencer greeted the DIU detective, “how's it going?”

“Can't complain, though I mostly do, anyway.” He smiled and shook his hand, then Tony's. “How about you?”

“Ditto, man. I'll tell Quentin I saw you.”

“Hell no, you won't. Tell that no-good welcher he owes me a beer.”

Spencer laughed. Quentin and Terry Landry had been partners before Quentin decided to quit the PD and go to law school. Now he was an assistant D.A. Truth was, you couldn't swing a dead cat in this town without hitting someone who had worked—or partied—with one of the Malone siblings.

Elizabeth Walker looked over her shoulder at him. An African-American who'd been a child in preinte-grated New Orleans, she had a sharp eye for detail, a dry sense of humor and the no-nonsense air of a woman who had clawed her way up and out. “A Malone, God help us.”

“Good to see you, too.” He squatted beside her. “What do you think?”

“Definitely a woman.” She indicated the pelvic bone. “See how short it is? How wide the pelvic bowl?”

“Age?”

“Young, not twenty-five. Her bones hadn't finished growing. I'll know more after I X-ray her back at the lab.” She paused, then went on. “Judging by her color, she's been out here awhile. A couple years, I'd think.”

“By out here, you mean exposed to the elements.”

“Exactly.” She pointed. “See how the bone is dry-looking, without the smooth ivory finish. And sort of a mottled gray and white. Bone is porous. If she'd been in the earth, she'd have taken on its color.”

“Was she ever in the ground?”

“My best guess is yes, but in a shallow grave. The wind and rain have eroded the layer of soil and debris used to cover her. Maybe even Katrina's floodwater.”

Spencer studied the victim. “She could have been here that long?”

“Absolutely.”

Spencer looked up at Tony. “Shallow grave. Our guy could have been rushed.”

Tony nodded. “Or not cared if she was found.”

Spencer slipped on latex gloves and carefully brushed away some leaves and other debris. Scraps of fabric clung to her pelvic area. Panties, he guessed. Had she been wearing anything else?

The forensic anthropologist seemed to read his thoughts. “A synthetic,” she said. “Nylon, probably. The elements do a quick number on natural fabrics like cotton and silk, but the synthetics can last years. She was dressed. Look here.”

A zipper. Peeking out from leaves and pine straw. The garment it had fastened long gone.

“Can you tell me anything else?”

“She had breast implants. Unlike the real thing, they don't decompose.”

“A forever upgrade,” Tony murmured dryly. “What a selling point.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Tell me about it.”

“Is that it?” Spencer asked.

“Before I get her to the lab? Pretty much. Except for the missing right hand, there's no obvious traumas to the bones. And certainly nothing that could be the cause of death.”

Missing hand?
For a moment Spencer thought he had misheard her. His gaze went to her right arm, then down to where her hand should have been.

Should have been. But wasn't.

The serial killer dubbed the “Handyman” had never been found. Between lack of evidence and post-Katrina chaos, the investigation had gone nowhere and been closed.

Could this be one of his victims?

Excited, he looked up at Tony and saw by his expression that he was thinking the same thing.

“Scavenger could have taken off with it,” Tony offered.

Elizabeth shook her head. “No way. Look at the bones, Detective. This was a clean cut. Like an amputation.”

The three exchanged glances. “Damn interesting, to have a victim surface now.
If
these remains turn out to belong to one of the Handyman's victims.”

“You think they won't?”

The forensic anthropologist followed them to their feet. “I suppose your top priority is determining whether one of those hands belonged to this woman?”

“How long?”

“Not very. We'll get her bagged and back to the lab. Bones are as unique as an individual. And they don't lie. If one of those hands belongs to her, we'll know.”

“IDing her would be a home run. Having a known victim would open up a lot of investigative doors.”

“I'll look for any kind of identifying bone trauma. That'll help. So will her dental work.”

“With what's left, how close can you come to establishing when she died?”

“Not closer than I already have. Sorry. I'll make this a priority and call you when I know more.”