12
T
he sturdy old bell high above Baker Library had just finished its fourth strike of the afternoon when one of the officers discovered the half-naked body of Professor Wilson Bledsoe. One of the German shepherds from the Vermont State Police canine unit had sniffed his way to the decrepit barn at the edge of Potter's farm. The dog dragged Officer Beck until he spotted the light-gray fabric partly buried underneath a cluster of bushes. First the black wingtipped shoes, then the shirtless upper torso, facedown. Beck touched the inside of the left leg with his shoe and gave a hard nudge. No response. The dog smelled death and started barking furiously as it skipped in restless circles. Beck pulled the leash back, then radioed to the rest of the search crew.
Sterling was finishing up a bowl of cereal when his cell phone rang.
“Bledsoe,” he answered.
“Wiley here. Where are you?”
“At the house,” Sterling said. He pushed back from the table. “What is it?”
“There's no way to put this easy, Agent Bledsoe. But we found him.”
“Wilson? Dead or alive?”
“He's been murdered.”
Sterling heard the words, but they didn't register. “Is he alive, Lieutenant?”
“I'm sorry. He's dead.” There was a long silence before Wiley spoke again. “Are you there, Agent?”
“Where is he?” Sterling said.
“In a wooded area off River Road.”
“I'm on my way.”
———
A
s Sterling raced down River Road he heard the buzz of a chopper overhead, but he couldn't see it through the heavy trees. He ignored a sharp curve, skimming hedges and branches that crawled onto the road. He slammed on the brakes when he reached the flurry of activity. The cordoned-off area was much different from when he had left it a couple of hours ago. Hordes of uniformed men wearing different colored jackets scrambled around like rats in a maze. Anxious dogs barked and strained at their leashes, and at least twenty marked and unmarked cars were haphazardly strewn along the road. The army of bright lights swirling atop the cruisers only added to the chaos, giving it a carnival-like atmosphere. Sterling took a few moments to observe the pandemonium. Some officers screamed into walkie-talkies while others yelled at each other, not in anger but in confusion.
Sterling approached the yellow tape. Two state troopers stood guard with their bulky arms folded across their chests. Twin sentries. “Sir, this is a sealed-off crime scene,” one of them said. “Please vacate the premises and move your car.”
The words “crime scene” ripped through Sterling's gut like a shotgun blast. He flipped his wallet open and flashed his tin, not bothering to waste words on them. He spotted Lieutenant Wiley in the middle of the chaos, barking orders to anyone who would listen. The two sentries moved aside and let Sterling pass.
“How far away is he, Lieutenant?” Sterling asked when he was close enough for Wiley to hear him above the noise. He leaned onto a nearby cruiser to steady himself and inhaled deeply, hoping he could clear his head. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
“About three hundred yards from here,” Wiley said. “He was just outside an old barn up on the Potter property.”
“When was he found?”
“About twenty minutes ago. I called you as soon as I got the word. They're taking photographs and prints now.”
“Which direction?” Sterling bit his lip hard to fight back the tears. He refused to believe that his only brother was dead until he saw the body himself.
“I don't know if you want to go up there, Agent Bledsoe,” Wiley cautioned. “I'm not sure how bad it is.” Sterling's chin fell to his chest and he closed his eyes. Wiley stepped forward and placed a hand on his slumping shoulders. “Maybe you should let our men handle it from here.”
“I'm going to see my brother, Lieutenant.” Sterling's voice was strong and full of anger. “Then I'm gonna figure out who the hell did this.”
“Everyone's on board,” Wiley informed him. “State, the local departments from both towns, and some of your men from Boston are already up there.”
“Did he struggle?” Sterling had to know.
“I think so,” Wiley said, shaking his head. “His clothes were dirty and tattered. Blunt trauma to the side of his head.”
Sterling looked along the side of the road through a slight clearing in the thick trees. He could see the calm rolling waters of the Connecticut River. A family of ducks floated down the current, the sun illuminating their brilliant green, black, and blue feathers. How could something so horrible happen here, a place of such natural serenity—no hustle and bustle like in the big city. His mind raced through scenes of his youth, when Wilson would come home from college and their mother would prepare his favorite meal. Wilson's wide smile had always brought her such pleasure. It was the smile that Sterling had learned to hate.
Sterling allowed himself to get lost in the memories. They had always been a hardworking family. The academic success of the children had become the old man's pride, and he would boast about it to anyone willing to listen. Sterling remembered the warm glow that would light up his mother's face when the ladies at church asked how Wilson was doing in Chicago. They asked every Sunday morning, as if things might've changed one week to the next. In their small manufacturing town in western Pennsylvania, most of the children finished high school and then went to work in the factories and textile mills. It was a big deal to have a son off in college, then graduate school, and an even bigger deal that he was a scientist.
Wilson's Nobel came at a time when their parents' health was declining but good enough for them to make the trip to Sweden. That same glow returned to his mother's cheeks as Wilson accepted his award from King Carl XVI Gustaf. They'd died before he won the Devonshire, but they'd known that their small-town boys had turned out to be successful men of the world.
“Agent Bledsoe.” Lieutenant Wiley tapped Sterling on the shoulder. “Maybe you should let us clean things up a bit and identify him at the morgue.”
“No,” Sterling insisted. “I want to see him now.”
Wiley walked over to one of the cruisers and pulled out a fresh box of latex gloves. He led Sterling through the dense trees, stepping over fallen branches and walking around areas where the ground was wet and soft from the previous night's rain. They crossed a small ravine, then climbed their way up to the pond. A few minutes later they had reached the clearing that led to the back of the Potter property. Both men were breathing heavily by the time the barn came into view.
The chopper continued to make passes in the sky. A group of officers, too many for Sterling to count, huddled just outside the barn, their heads bent toward the ground like kids playing marbles. A flash from the photographer's camera popped every couple of seconds. Sterling took a series of deep breaths, hoping to untie the knot in his stomach. This was going to be the most difficult thing he had ever done.
The solemn voices grew quiet as he and Wiley approached.
“Gentlemen, this is Agent Sterling Bledsoe,” Wiley announced. “Brother of Professor Bledsoe.”
The men turned and nodded, but didn't say anything. Their faces were long and dark. Death had that kind of effect, even on grown men. They all moved back to give Sterling some private time. He was pleased that they stood behind him, making it impossible for them to see the tears in his eyes.
The dog that had found the body had finally settled down, though it occasionally let out a distressed yelp. Sterling took one last breath, then moved closer. The body hadn't been moved. Both shoes were untied, their soles packed with mud that still hadn't dried. Wilson's gray pants were covered with dirt marks and the right leg had a large tear in it.
The upper torso was naked, but there weren't any abrasions or fresh wounds on the back. Sterling looked at Wilson's waist and noticed the extra pounds he had put on in the last few months. His face was planted in the ground, but strangely the arms were extended above his head. His fingers had stiffened in a slightly curled position.
“Are you done with location and position photos?” he asked the photographer.
“I think we've got enough,” the photographer answered. He patted his vest pocket bulging with rolls of film.
A short, burly man approached. “I'm sorry, Sterling,” he said. His voice sounded like sandpaper dragged across a piece of rotted wood. His heavy black mustache drooped past the corners of his mouth and curled back in perfect loops. Sterling recognized Special Agent Lonnie Brusco right away. “I got in about an hour ago.” They pumped hands firmly. “You sure you don't wanna wait till we take him to the morgue? This won't be easy.”
“Nothing about this damn business is easy,” Sterling said. “I need to see what they did to my brother.”
Brusco sighed in acknowledgment. He understood the pain, and he also knew what it meant to be a homicide agent. There was something buried deep inside all of them that compelled them to see and learn every grisly detail of the killing. Even if it was family. He gave Sterling his space.
Sterling snapped on the latex gloves. He had done this hundreds of times, in the lab and in the field, but never had he imagined it would be over the dead body of his brother. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and mouthed a small prayer. When he finished, he knelt beside Wilson, then turned him over with considerable effort. Nothing could have prepared him for what he found. He had to reach out to stop from falling.
The word
NIGGER
had been inscribed across Wilson's chest. The cuts were so deep that Sterling could see large tangled chunks of bone, muscle, and fat. Sterling couldn't get out more than a painful grunt. He scrambled to his feet and looked away.
One of the other officers started heaving. He grabbed his stomach before doubling over to vomit.
“Get him the hell out of here,” Wiley barked. Two other men escorted the sickened officer away from the scene. Even with the buzz of the chopper overhead, they could still hear him retching on the side of the barn.
“What the hell?” one of the other men said. He spoke for everyone staring at Wilson's mutilated body.
Brusco walked behind Sterling and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Let us take it from here,” he said. “You've seen enough.”
Sterling dried his eyes with his hands, then stepped back. He watched quietly as the other men went to work. They began dusting the body for prints, then took samples—tissue, skin, hair, fingernails, and some of the blood that had clotted on his chest. The team worked quickly and expertly, gathering the evidence and sealing it in large plastic bags, then labeling them with black markers. As Sterling watched, he mentally checked off the steps that should be taken during the early collection of evidence. Reflex. This was his area of expertise, and despite the pain in his heart and the fog clouding his mind, the FBI agent in him monitored their movements carefully.
Sterling stepped closer to the body. The more he looked at the word “nigger” carved into Wilson's chest, the angrier he became. Didn't the evils of racism have any boundaries, play by any rules? Sterling was painfully reminded of what Pops had always told them growing up.
No matter how high you climb, don't ever forget the color of your skin because they won't. The amount of money you have in the bank or the number of degrees hanging on your wall won't mean a damn thing. To some of them you'll always be a nigger.
And that's what Wilson was to them, even after all that he had accomplished. Sterling cursed his father because his words rang so true. He cursed Wilson's killers for senselessly wasting a good and productive life.
Sterling felt a wave of hate surge in his body. He wanted to kill them—all of them—racists, bigots, hate mongers, and anyone else who had spewed the venomous ideology of racism. If they could kill someone like Wilson who rarely, if ever, even whispered a harsh word about anybody else, then no one was safe.
His jaws tightened as he examined the carved letters. If this was the work of a hand knife, it must have taken the killer a long time to complete the disfigurement. The letters were well formed and in a strange sort of way they were neat. Most troubling, however, was the depth of penetration. Spicules of bone were fixed in the dried, matted blood as if they had been stuck in glue. Sterling prayed that Wilson had been dead long before they mutilated him. The skin along the incised areas remained puckered, the edges uneven and actually frayed in some parts. Sterling knew this had to be the work of a jagged blade. The cuts seemed too deep to be carved by hand. He had cut through bone for years during autopsies, and he knew the effort it would take to accomplish it with a knife.
The men pulled the body so that Wilson's face emerged from underneath the bushes. He wore an expression of terror. His eyes were wide and glassy, his mouth was open. It looked like he had been killed while in the middle of saying something. Sterling peered over the shoulders of the men kneeling beside Wilson's body. There weren't any marks on his face, nor was there blood in his mouth. But that expression. Sterling knew it would haunt him forever.
Sterling found Lieutenant Wiley standing a few feet away deep in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. “Whose property is this?” Sterling asked.
“Potter's farm,” Wiley said.
“Who owns it?”
“It belonged to one of the richest men in the Upper Valley—Ezra Potter.”
“Belonged?”
“The old man died years ago. Actually, he was killed somewhere on this property in a hunting accident.” Wiley slightly stressed the word “accident.”
Sterling heard the skepticism. “You didn't buy it?”
“I was only a teenager at the time, but I remember it well. Just too damned strange. He heads out here one afternoon with a couple of buddies and returns in a body bag.”
“But hunting accidents do happen.”
“Not when you're shooting up in the air at fowl and all four men have been hunting since they were kids.”
“So who lives here now?” Wiley took Sterling by the arm and led him a few yards away from the chaos. He pointed at the distant trees. The mountain peaks reached into the sky, piercing the bed of clouds suspended above them.