Chapter 14
I
follow Arnie down to the garage where our one evidence van is stored. We stash our equipment inside and, as soon as we are underway, Arnie continues the Heinrich saga.
“Gerald Heinrich became quite smitten with Bitsy after a private lap dance or two and then paid her to quit dancing for anyone but him. It was assumed he’d keep her on the side as a mistress but he surprised everyone, especially his kids, when he married her.”
“How many kids does he have?”
“Four: two daughters and two sons by his first wife—a bunch of spoiled brats, if you ask me. They’re in their late twenties and early thirties and not a one of them has ever worked for a living. They sponge off their father’s money and spend their time partying, jet-setting, and trying to avoid the tabloids. As you might imagine, they marked Bitsy as a greedy gold digger right from the get-go and immediately declared her the enemy. Bitsy has a son and daughter of her own: father or fathers unknown, and about the same age as the Heinrich kids. And trust me, there is no love lost between the two camps.”
“Sounds like quite the tempest.”
Arnie laughs. “You have no idea. Ever since Bitsy and Gerald went missing, the rumors have been flying. Bitsy’s kids accused Gerald’s of killing the couple so they could inherit the money. Gerald’s kids countered by saying they thought Bitsy killed Gerald and took off with his money. The two sides have been battling it out in the gab rags ever since.”
I shake my head in disgust. “So if our bodies are Gerald and Bitsy, and they died as the result of a car accident, both sides may be eating crow.”
“Oh, I doubt the battle will end that easily,” Arnie says. “There’s too much money at stake. If this does turn out to be Gerald and Bitsy, our little town is going to be in for a lot of attention.”
He sounds excited at the prospect and I can’t help but wonder if he’ll end up contributing to the conspiracy mill at some point. So far, despite all his suspicions and paranoia, Arnie has shown himself to be objective and open when it comes to his work. He believes in the power and truth of evidence, and gracefully accepts it when he’s proven wrong, though it never stops him from speculating about things and developing some pretty wild theories. Occasionally, his outside-the-box thinking is helpful, but most of the time, it’s simply entertaining.
We pull up to the scene, identifiable by the ambulance, sawhorses, and police cars parked along the shoulder of the road. A storm has moved in, blanketing the sky with a morose shade of gray, and rain is coming down in big fat drops that hit the ground like overripe cherries. Apparently it’s not much of a deterrent, however, since there is also a TV truck parked on the shoulder with its antenna raised high in the air.
Arnie says, “This isn’t good. It looks like the media has already heard.”
“How do they find out so fast?”
“They have people with police scanners who monitor all the emergency calls twenty-four-seven. Whenever something sounds potentially juicy, they’ll send a crew out to investigate.”
Arnie passes by the TV truck and parks at the front of the line of vehicles. Almost immediately there are several people running in our direction carrying microphones, cameras, and lighting equipment.
“Brace yourself,” Arnie warns me. “They aren’t going to be allowed near the crime scene so they’ll be desperate for any clues they can get. Questions will be coming at you faster than a BMW on the Autobahn. Don’t say a word.”
Before Arnie has finished issuing his warning, several faces are peering at me through the van window. I reach behind me to grab my scene kit, then push back the news-hungry horde by opening the van door. As I climb out, I catch the faint odor of rotting flesh with my first breath and switch from breathing through my nose to through my mouth.
A perfectly coifed brunette wearing a tight-fitting business suit over a body not much bigger around than one of my pant legs runs up to me and says, “Is it true that the bodies you found here are those of Chicago oil baron Gerald Heinrich and his wife?” Then she shoves her microphone in my face.
I don’t say a word and smile enigmatically instead, but when I do I accidentally breathe in through my nose and the smell nearly gags me. As I’m struggling to subdue my body’s desire to recycle my breakfast, a bright light flashes in my eyes.
“Perfect!” says a voice I recognize.
Belatedly I see that Alison Miller is among the group of newspeople. I shoot her a dirty look but she has already turned around and is taking shots of all the emergency vehicles, pretending to ignore me.
I slam the van door closed, and when I try to take a step toward the grassy hillside leading down into the trees, I am once again accosted by the first woman, whom I recognize as a reporter for one of the major network TV affiliates in Madison. She begins a machine gun interrogation.
“Are there two bodies? Are there any signs of foul play? Has the Heinrich family been notified yet? How long have the victims been dead?”
I ignore the questions, glare at the cameraman, and shove my way past everyone. It’s not hard to get past the newswoman since she’s as short as Izzy even with her three-inch heels, and can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds soaking wet, which she is, thanks to the rain. But the camera guy proves a bit more challenging. He dodges around me and aims the camera in my general direction. I try a similar dodge but as soon as I step on the wet grass it’s like I’m on ice; one foot is heading downhill at a breakneck speed and the other is fixed on the shoulder of the road. Just as my legs start to feel like the wishbone in a turkey, I hear a loud ripping sound and my second foot finally gives way.
Chapter 15
I
slide down the wet grass for twenty feet or more, most of it on my butt. When I finally come to a stop in a position that looks like a gymnastic maneuver gone horribly wrong, I look down and see that the crotch of my scrub pants is ripped out. Above me Alison is snapping away and the cameraman appears to be filming also.
I manage to drag my legs together as Arnie appears at my side. “That was impressive,” he says. “I give it a nine and a half. I would have gone the full ten but the landing was a bit off.”
“Very funny.” I get up from the ground and try to adjust my pants.
“Uh-oh,” Arnie says. “Did you have an accident?”
I give him an exasperated
duh!
look.
“I don’t mean your fall,” he says, pointing to my behind with barely contained laughter.
I crank my head around, trying to see, but my circus contortionist genes don’t seem to be working. So I grab a handful of my scrub pants material and pull at the fabric. Just as I see the dark smear on the seat of my pants that looks like a Depends failure, I hear a distinct ripping sound and realize I’ve enhanced my crotch vent.
“Damn it!” I say, glaring at Arnie as he doubles over with laughter. I hear several more clicks from above and quickly turn around so my backside is facing the trees. Then I mentally strangle both Alison and the TV camera guy while making a few ineffective swipes at my ass.
“Go ahead and laugh, you heathen.” I scowl at Arnie.
“Sorry,” he says, struggling to get himself under control. “But it is quite the sight.”
“If you don’t knock it off, it will be the last thing you ever see.”
He makes a
yeah, right
face so I put my hands on my hips and give him The Look.
The Look is one of my more powerful tools, something I learned from my mother. When I was a kid, my sister, Desi, and I both trembled with fear whenever my mother gave us The Look. It came most often when we were lying about something, or screaming at one another, or had been caught doing something we knew we were forbidden to do, like the time we gave each other haircuts and indelible Magic Marker facial tattoos the day before our class pictures were taken. Mother would never say or do anything; she would just cock her left eyebrow and stare at us with this intense look that was mysterious, scary, and very powerful. It pierced our kiddie armor every time. I’ve seen her do it to grown men and make them weep. Though I’ve never mastered it to the degree my mother has, being six feet tall helps a lot with the intimidation factor.
It definitely has an impact on Arnie. Within three seconds of arching my brow he’s straight-faced and all business. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Can we please get going?” I say, picking up my scene kit, which has managed to slide down the hill with me.
Arnie nods, bows, and swings his arm toward the trees. “After you, milady.”
“Walk behind me so those bloodsucking camera goons can’t get any more shots.”
“Happily,” Arnie says, his voice excited as his gaze shifts to my butt.
I roll my eyes, turn toward the trees, and let Arnie fall into step behind me. A police officer is standing at the edge of the woods, and judging from the expression on his face, he hasn’t missed any of what just happened. He looks like he’s about to say something but Arnie shakes his head at him. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he warns.
I arch my brow at the cop and he clamps his mouth shut and waves us along a barely discernible path of broken-limbed bushes amid the trees. Most of the deciduous trees have already dropped their leaves but there are enough pine trees to provide a fair amount of cover. The ground isn’t nearly as wet here, but the shrubbery is so high and thick it keeps snagging at my feet like a snare. And the slope is a precipitous one, forcing me to turn sideways rather than face straight ahead. It makes for slow going but that’s okay since with every baby step I take, the smell grows stronger and more pungent.
“Have you done any heavy decomps yet?” Arnie asks me.
I shake my head.
“It’s not as bad as you think. The first few minutes are kind of tough but then it’s like your body gets used to it and you don’t even smell it anymore. I have some Vicks VapoRub in my scene kit if you want. Dab a little under your nose and it cuts the odor some. I don’t use it anymore but I still carry it because a lot of the cops like to use it.”
“No, thanks,” I say, sounding as if I have a bad head cold because I’m so focused on not breathing through my nose. I am determined to tough it out and prove my mettle. After all, I’ve smelled some pretty nasty things in my time, like the time I found the weekend-old plastic bag with an amputated gangrenous foot in it that an OR tech forgot to put in the biohazard bin. But as we draw closer to the scene, the smell becomes so intense that even breathing through my mouth doesn’t help.
I hear muffled voices and an odd buzzing sound ahead and grip my scene kit tightly, bracing myself for what’s to come. As I push aside a dense growth of bush, the mangled front corner of a silver Cadillac Escalade comes into view.
Then I see Hurley standing with a couple of sheriff’s deputies off to my right and lose sight of everything else, including the big root in the ground in front of me. I catch my foot on it and fall headlong toward the passenger side of the car. I try to break my fall against the wreck with my left hand but it hits something squishy, gelatinous, and slippery. I half fall, half slide to the ground, landing on my left side just below the passenger door.
“Aw, shit,” I hear Hurley mutter. “There she goes again.”
The smell of decay is suddenly so pungent, it’s as if I’m bathing in it, and the source of the buzzing sound becomes apparent as I swat at the hordes of flies hovering around me. My stomach lurches as I look at the disgusting, smelly mess on my hand and arm, and just when I think it couldn’t possibly get any worse, I see that it’s all down the side of my scrubs as well. Then, just to make matters more interesting, I realize some of it is moving.
Maggots!
I brush frantically at the ones clinging to my arm and though some of them fall off, most of them prove surprisingly tenacious.
“What is that?” I say, gesturing toward the nasty pile of goo on the ground.
Hurley and the two sheriffs stare at me like I’m a life form from another planet and none of them offer up an answer. But Arnie does.
“My guess is it’s what’s left of the upper part of that person,” he says, pointing toward the car.
Belatedly I look above me and see the remains of a well-clothed, bug-ridden, rotting corpse hanging halfway out of the broken passenger side window. One arm, or what’s left of it, is hanging down the outside of the door and a steady flow of reddish brown goo is dripping off the fingertips into a puddle on the ground. Adding to the pool is what’s left of the corpse’s head, which is hanging onto its body by the thinnest of sinewy threads. Oozing from this is a grayish-colored jellylike substance. Both of the eye sockets are empty and I can see maggots crawling around there as well as in the nose, mouth, and ears.
I tear my eyes away from the horror of the hovering corpse and realize that everyone is watching me, waiting to see how I’ll react. As the new kid on the block, this will be one more test to deem my worthiness and I’m determined to pass muster. I summon my resolve, set my scene kit to one side, and stand up. My scent receptors must be growing numb because already the smell doesn’t seem quite as bad, despite the fact that my skin and clothing are covered with putrid goo.
As calmly as I can, I open my kit and remove a container of disinfectant wipes. Then I begin the arduous task of trying to bathe with a chemically ridden washcloth the size of a square of toilet paper. Realizing I’m not going to have a meltdown, the group shifts their attention back to the wreck. Relieved to be out from under their scrutiny, I do the same, wiping absentmindedly at the pungent miasma on my arm as I examine the scene.
I can see now that there are two bodies. The driver—most likely a man, based on the hair and clothing—is lying on the ground near the front bumper on the driver side. Both legs are badly fractured, and judging from the fact that the windshield is shattered but intact, I guess that he most likely dragged himself out of the car and along the ground as far as he could, where he then died.
Peering inside the passenger side I see that the legs of the corpse closest to me—this one appears to be a woman—are pinned beneath the dashboard. The front grille of the car is crumpled against the trunk of a large oak tree. In the back of the SUV are several suitcases, and beside the body in the front seat, covered with blood and Lord knows what else, is a lockable briefcase. Behind the car I see a mowed-down trail leading back through the brush and trees, presumably the path the car took before it came to rest.
Arnie echoes my thoughts by saying, “They must have been really moving when they left the road to have made it this far into the woods.”
I nod in agreement and pluck another wipe from my container, feeling something tickle along my shoulder as I do. I idly scratch at the spot and watch as Arnie starts taking camera shots of the scene from a variety of angles. Three disinfectant wipes later, with my hands relatively clean, I don a pair of gloves and take in the condition of my scrubs, which are smeared down one side with the death goo. Remembering that Izzy will be coming to the scene, I take out my cell phone and try to call him, thinking I can ask him to bring me a change of scrubs. But my phone can’t find a signal. I snap it shut, grab another wipe, and attempt to remove the worst of the muck from my scrubs using that.
I feel another itch—this time on my chest—and something about it makes me pull at the front of my scrub top and look down inside. To my horror I see a handful of maggots slowly crawling their way across my torso and around my cleavage. Panicked, I try to reach in there and pluck them out but then I feel that same itchy sensation in the middle of my back and realize the little varmints are now in places I can’t reach. I do a jiggly jump-and-hop, hoping to knock them loose, but the itching only grows more intense. Suddenly I feel little itchies all over my body so I do the only sensible thing I can think of. Standing in the middle of the woods on a cold November morning in front of four men and two corpses, I strip off my scrubs and start swiping and swatting at myself like a full-blown detox in a lockdown room.