Sleepsoftly, p.6
SleepSoftly, page 6
I could hear some of the conversation between Jim and the other FBI guy. My exhaustion seemed to improve my hearing, the buzzing in my ears seeming a magnet for sound waves, drawing them in, clarifying words and phrases I might have missed were I more alert.
“Same positioning of hands and feet,” Jim murmured. “Same binding of the wrists.”
“But none of the missing girls were wearing this style of clothing.”
“We don’t know how long he keeps them. Maybe he buys them new clothes when he buys them the dolls.”
“What about the book? The other one didn’t have a book. And the clothes are ordinary—”
“The other one was wearing the leotard when she was taken from the dance rehearsal. What’s this?” Using tweezers, Jim lifted something off the body to get a better look at it and returned it to its place.
“Looks like a pointed stick. And maybe a melted candle on a tray?”
“I don’t see a wick. And why bury her with a candle?”
“Why the flute on the last one? She didn’t play the flute but was buried with one.”
“This one had schoolbooks when she was taken. There’s a book.” Jim tapped it.
“Can you see the title?”
“Too water damaged.”
“What about the paper?”
Jim bent over the body as if he would kiss the rounded skull and did something I couldn’t see. My hands twitched as if to stop him, before settling in my lap like broken twigs. The breath burned in my throat.
“Got something in the pocket. Folded and mashed. It could be paper.” Jim sat back on his heels.
“So we got positioning, graveyard burial, ethnicity, age and the folded paper. I think that’s enough. I’ll get a pair down from Quantico.”
Jim checked his watch. “If you book it with lights and siren, you can upload the digital photos and e-mail them, so the analysts can study them tonight and on the flight tomorrow.”
“Let’s get her to the medical examiner and get a postmortem and ID process started. See what the lab can do with the folded paper.”
“I’ll handle that. You get on back and see about upgrading us to full task-force level.”
“Who you want locally?”
Jim raised his voice only slightly, the tone too cold to be teasing. “Skye, you think Gaskins would give you part of the action?”
“Not me,” she said sotto voce. “First, I got the wrong kind of genitalia. Gaskins is only going to appoint a man to a task force. And second, honestly, I got a baby at home. A 24/7 thing isn’t what I’m after right now. Ask Ash. She wouldn’t cost the county diddly. She did a great job getting here, preserving all the evidence on the way, and she knows the local history, the local people, everyone in law enforcement in the county. And she’s trained as a forensic nurse, in case you get a splinter in your finger or find a live one as you go.”
“We need law enforcement,” the other cop said.
“Take Steven, too,” Skye said. “He’s up to take the detective test this fall.”
“Steven?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, trying to sound only half as interested as his shining eyes suggested. “If the sheriff approves.”
“Gaskins?” the other cop called out. “We need a local guy to liaise in Columbia with the task force. Steven’s willing.”
C.C.’s nose hair twitched in the lengthening shadows. “Long as you don’t ask for one of my investigators, you can have who you want. But I’m shorthanded starting in the second week of May. I need Steven back by then.”
“It’s not full-time we’re talking here. Only a few hours a week, unless more bodies show up in this county. The other one was in Calhoun County, so our killer’s not sticking close to home with them.”
“Even better,” Gaskins said.
“Ash, you willing to take part in this?”
I wanted to say no and even opened my mouth to say no. “Yes. I’ll do it.”
“Let’s get our vic out of here. Get everything we collected back to the lab by dark-thirty. I’ll schedule a meeting for noon tomorrow. That’ll give the NCAVC guys time to get to the local FBI office from the airport.
“Steven?” Jim asked.
“I’ll be there.”
“Ash?”
My hands twitched again and a cramp was starting in my foot. I would never make it back to the trucks. “I’ll be there, too. Someone will have to give me directions.”
“Get them from the agent who does your interview.” Jim’s expression was hard, a cop look that gave nothing away.
“Interview?” I asked stupidly.
“You’ll be interviewed later on today by a special agent.”
I blinked at him. Interviewed? That was a fancy word for questioned. I had to be questioned in the case. “Well. I hope he can question me while I sleep, ’cause I’m dead on my feet.”
“We can start now if you like, Miz Davenport.”
I looked up into the blue eyes of a young looking cop.
“I’m Special Agent Julie Schwartz.”
“Well, dantucket,” I said.
Julie Schwartz found that remark inordinately funny.
6
H e heard a soft noise above him, a scraping sound like a shoe on wood flooring. Quietly, he locked all the doors, pocketed the key and went up the steps. On the way, he lifted a hammer, tested its heft and balance. Just in case. Not that he expected it to be a trespasser.
At the top of the stairs, he paused and turned off the basement lights, the door behind him open. The only light downstairs now came from the window into the pink room. It cast a soft glow in the hallway.
From the kitchen he heard off-key humming, familiar, congenial. Still silent, he set the hammer on the step and carefully stood, locking the door behind him. Again he pocketed the key. Pasting a smile on his face, he went to the kitchen.
After Special Agent Julie Schwartz left, I stood at the kitchen sink and washed dishes by hand. Neither of us had eaten all day, so I had whipped up cheese omelets with bacon, and we’d eaten while she’d questioned me. The meal obviously wasn’t by the book, but we both had wanted to get the day and the interview over with, so Julie had compromised.
I put the plates in the drainer and turned to the skillet and omelet pan. I had a top-of-the-line Kenmore automatic dishwasher, so it wasn’t as if I had to wash them by hand, but my body was exhausted and my brain needed the mindless chore of washing and rinsing. When the last dish was clean and left to airdry on the plastic drainer, I poured myself a glass of wine and walked out to the swing on the screened back porch.
Night was falling. The cop cars were long gone. Jas would be home soon, and Nana and Aunt Mosetta were sure to come by. Even if my lack of sleep hadn’t left me with a sensation of cotton wool between my ears, the coming confrontation would have. The moment Julie had left, I should have gone directly along the path through the woods to Nana’s house. The woman was psychic. She would know when the last cop was gone; Nana knew everything about her land, everything except that a little girl had been buried on it. And what Nana didn’t know, she would spy out through the side porch with the binoculars she had kept there since Jack had died.
In spite of what I knew I should do, I was just too tired. Let them come to me. I sipped the wine, smelled the fresh scent of horse and hay, watched as Johnny Ray let the last mare out into the back pasture, her form moving darkly against the setting sun, bright red on the horizon. Mabel, I figured, from the size and the way she moved, lumbering and just a bit stiff from the day’s ride.
Elwyn was long gone. I hadn’t even seen the horse trainer today, but I was fairly certain the cops had. They had spoken to everyone associated with the land except Jas, and they would get to her tomorrow.
Johnny Ray stumbled and went to his knees while closing the paddock fence, pushed himself back to his feet, using the gate as a prop. Drunk as two skunks. He would sleep it off in the barn tonight.
Could Johnny Ray be the killer? How about Elwyn? Do I have a murderer on the payroll? Jas dated Elwyn for a short time after he came to work here. Did she date a murderer?
It was a silly thought. Johnny Ray was too wasted to carry out a murder except maybe one of drunken passion. If someone tried to take away his bottle before he was ready to let it go, he might do some damage, half by accident as he fell on them. Elwyn was from up north. He lived in town in an apartment. He didn’t know about the family graveyard plot or much of anything about South Carolina. He had Internet access to look up graveyards, and he had enough time off to do any crime he might be capable of. But where would he keep a young girl? In his apartment in DorCity, as locals called nearby Dorsey City? In the tack room in the barn? No. Not Johnny Ray or Elwyn.
“I hope that’s bourbon and you have enough for me.”
I jerked, sending the swing off at a jittery angle and back. “Nana.” I hadn’t heard them walk up. Nana and Aunt Mosetta climbed the steps and walked onto the dark porch. “It’s wine. Let me get—”
“I’ll get my own liquor,” Nana said and moved into the house. She knew her way around as well as I did and she saw better in the dark. The bourbon was kept on hand just for her anyway. I hated the stuff.
“I been telling that old woman she got to give up hard liquor. At her age it be going to kill her,” Aunt Moses said as she levered herself into the heavy captain’s chair she preferred. The chair had wide arms to bear her weight, and its legs splayed out at slight angles to make it steady. The firm cushion I had supplied supported her back and protected her thighs from the wooden seat and was pretty, according to Aunt Moses, a bright floral pattern totally at odds with the rest of the porch.
“I’ll drink if I want to. Stop badgering me. I’ve been badgered enough today by self-important cops not old enough to drink this.” She saluted us with the lowball glass, bourbon straight up, no ice, no water. The very thought made my stomach ache.
“So. Fill us in.” Nana settled into a cushioned deck chair with her denim-clad legs out in front, ankles crossed, her hands warming the glass across her T-shirted middle. Even in the dark, I could tell that she had showered and pulled on tomorrow’s work clothes, her steel-gray hair still wet and curling around her ears.
Aunt Moses pulled her terry-cloth housecoat closer around her shoulders and said, “You badgering the girl you own self. Whyn’t you jest set and be quiet. She tell us in her own time.” When I didn’t respond, Aunt Moses said, “Well?”
I guess that meant my own time was now. I started from the beginning and walked them through my day, through everything I saw and remembered. After my recital, they were silent, the only sound the wind through the trees, the squeak of the swing as I moved it with a toe. “It was pretty awful,” I finished, “and they seem to think it could be a Chadwick who killed her.”
“Ain’t none a my peoples. Ain’t,” Aunt Moses said. “But I answer all they questions and lets ’em look around all they wants. They gots to clear my peoples ’fore they can find the real suspect.”
“She’s been watching CSI reruns. Thinks she can help the cops,” Nana said.
“I can help the police. They sends a real nice black woman to the house to ax me questions. I ’member time when a black woman woulda been cleaning the toilets at the police station. This gal was a special agent with the FBI. She treat me real nice when she ax me questions and I answered her. You was mean and rude to the man who talking to you. I hear that tone on your voice when he axing you questions.”
“The so-called man talkin’ to me was young enough to be my great-grandson and had a disagreeable manner. He never once called me ma’am. My grandsons speak to me without a ‘yes, ma’am’ and a ‘no, ma’am’ and I wouldn’t be polite to them either. I didn’t have to be polite, I only had to answer his questions, that little officious, pipsqueak Yankee.”
I smiled into my wine and wished I had brought the bottle. I caught a whiff of Aunt Mosetta’s latest favorite perfume, night-blooming jasmine, a gift from my daughter for Mother’s Day last year.
“You look all done in, Ashlee,” Nana said.
“I haven’t slept in two days. I’m worn out. In fact, I’m not sure I’m not dreaming right now.”
“You come to your senses about that new forensics job? It ain’t you, girl. It ain’t you.”
“Ash can do that job and any other one she want. I seen how they gather up all the evidence and find the killer. Ash can do that iffn she want.”
Nana shook her head. “Ash has been like a boat with no rudder since Jack died. First trying to run his business, then selling it.”
“She made a fortune. Ash no silly girl.”
“Then leaving the Dawkins County Hospital and going to that new, big hospital in Columbia. Now this forensic stuff. She doesn’t know what she wants. Hasn’t, since finding out Jack had cheated on her with that worthless best friend of hers.”
Something twisted painfully deep inside, burning. It was a familiar pain, one I always felt whenever I remembered that I had lost Jack and my best friend Robyn, all in one fell swoop. Whenever I remembered that he hadn’t loved me as he should. As he’d promised. “I am sitting right here with the two of you, if you’ll remember. And I’m not deaf.” My voice sounded cool and controlled, not as if it were burning a hole in me. “If you’d like me to go inside so you can gossip over me in private, I’ll be happy to.”
“Sounds jist like her mama, don’t she.”
“Josey is not what I’d call a good influence. But at least she knows what she wants.”
“Nana,” I said, to stop the bickering. “You are absolutely right.” That shut them both up. “I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life. I’m still trying to get it all together inside. I know you think I should have it all figured out by now, but I haven’t.”
Jack’s heart attack and my subsequent discovery of his affair with Robyn had indeed played a huge part in my inability to direct my own future. I hadn’t told my family about the affair. I wouldn’t ruin my daughter’s vision of her father. But Nana had her own ways of discovering the truth, and she had eventually found out. I pushed thoughts of the past away.
“All I can say is, I always wanted to be a nurse and I’m still nursing. I’m just not nursing exactly the way you wanted me to, working in the county hospital with Wallace Chadwick as my boss and surrounded by family. I want more, and I’m not sure what kind of more. So I’m trying new things, going new places. And I’ll find myself.”
“Jack left you enough money to sit and play pinochle all day if you wanted to. You don’t have to drive into that dangerous city to work. Next thing you’ll be moving there, taking Jas with you.”
Ahhhh. Understanding nestled in me. Nana was worried about my health a lot less than she was worried about the possibility that I might move to the state capital. Leave home in my midlife crisis. Cleave a chasm in her comfortable world “Crime is everywhere, Nana,” I said softly. “Even on Chadwick Farms. We can’t hide from danger or troubles. And I promise I’ll find myself. Without moving away.”
“Tole you she figure out what you doin’. Ash got your number.”
“Shut up, old woman.”
Before the bickering could start up again, a small truck pulled into the yard and cut its lights. Jas was home. I felt something inside lighten as she slid from the truck, something tight and frightened that I hadn’t even been aware of. Jas skipped up the steps and stopped when she saw us. “What’s up?” she said, trepidation in her voice. My Jas was smart. Smart enough to know that there was trouble just by reading our body language in the deep dusk light.
“Nothing. We going home. Jist stop by to say good-night to your mama.” In a slow and ponderous process, Aunt Moses stood, crossed the porch and enveloped Jasmine in a mama-bear hug. Nana hugged right behind her and they were both gone, slow steps crunching across the gravel, leaving me to explain to my daughter about a body, cops and a task force.
Once she got over the shock of hearing that a child had been buried at the old family homestead, my daughter thought it was cool to have a crime scene on the property and even cooler that she would be questioned by the FBI. Youth, I thought, disgusted. So tired I weaved when I walked, I made my way to my room, showered the stink of the grave off me and fell into bed.
7
Tuesday
B y noon I had found my way through horrid traffic to the South Carolina FBI field office. Luckily, I discovered a parking spot close by, not that easy in a metropolitan area that was growing so congested. The inner city had been designed with gracious living and farming in mind, rather than good use of government resources, and many of its streets were narrow and twisting. And I was sure its belt loop and interchanges had been designed by a caffeine-charged five-year-old with a box of crayons.
Inside the entrance, my ID was carefully checked, twice, my photo compared to my face, and my reason for coming to feeb headquarters questioned by a guard with the personality of a block of stone. Finally I was given a name badge with a security locator device attached so I couldn’t get lost or misplaced, and directed to a room on the second floor.
I passed large rooms, some full of frenetic activity and ringing phones, and offices with closed doors. I heard a variety of languages, though most conversations were in English or Spanish, and foreign-sounding names interspersed with names Bubba might have been born with. Everyone I passed or glimpsed wore a look of intense concentration or anger or some combination of the two. The expressions seemed unrelieved by even brief moments of levity or relaxation, and I was glad I didn’t work here.
As a forensic nurse, I was expected to work with law enforcement. I had toured the local LEC—law enforcement centers—in three counties surrounding Dawkins, and had even taken a tour through SLED, the State Law Enforcement Division. But no one who set up the training had envisioned a forensic nurse needing to work with FBI, so that locale had not been on my list of suggested places to visit.
