Etched In Bone

By David Grace

After being acquitted of eight grisly murders by reason of insanity, Hanford Wells was committed to a psychiatric hospital from which he soon escaped. When dental records proved that the battered body discovered in the woods was that of his missing patient, psychiatrist Llewellyn Price breathed a sigh of relief.

Now, a year later a girl’s skeleton is discovered near Wells’ home town and carved into her skull are a line of symbols strikingly similar to those Wells doodled before his escape.

Dr. Price has been asked to help the authorities profile the killer, a job he accepts amidst growing fears that Hanford Wells may not be dead after all, and if he’s not Price knows that this girl was not the madman’s first victim and that she certainly will not be his last.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Grace
• Release date: Aug 31, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452331058

David Grace

David Grace is an internationally acclaimed speaker, coach, and trainer. He is the founder of Kingdom International Embassy, a church organization that empowers individuals to be agents of peace, joy, and prosperity, and Destiny Club, a personal development training program for university students. He is also the managing director of Results Driven International, a training, motivational, and coaching company that mentors private, parastatal, and government agencies throughout Botswana.

Book preview

Chapter One

Detective Joseph Brewer appeared at the Hickory Hollow Forensic Psychiatric Center on a clear, Spring morning. Slump-shouldered, he endured the required search and eventually was ushered into the Medical Director’s office. Dr. Llewellyn Price studied Brewer with a flat and somewhat suspicious gaze.

I appreciate your seeing me without an appointment, Dr. Price, Brewer began. I know this is a long shot but we’ve had some cases in Philadelphia that I’m hoping might have been the work of one of your patients.

Which patient? Price asked uneasily.

Hanford Wells.

Price gave Brewer a sharp glance.

What makes you think that?

Well, I don’t so much think it as hope it. My lieutenant thinks this is a waste of time. Actually, I’m on vacation. I had a hunch that maybe Wells might be able to tell me something I can use so I decided to give it a shot.

You have victims who were subjected to surgical experiments?

No, not exactly.

Price’s expression became quizzical and Brewer hurried to explain.

We’ve had three disappearances, one of them a medical student and another a paleontologist.

And the third?

Architect, but she could be unrelated. We did find one corpse, missing the head and both hands, but we couldn’t conclusively prove it was one of our missing persons — DNA isn’t available for two of them and the third didn’t match. Brewer shifted uneasily in his seat.

Why do you think this has anything to do with Wells?

I did a VICAP search on the keywords ‘MEDICAL’ and ‘MUTILATION’ and your patient Wells popped up. No one’s ever found Dr. Albert Mohan have they?

Not as far as I know, Price said without inflection, his face as blank as a plate.

I admit it’s a long shot but our med student disappeared before Mohan went missing. I wondered if Wells might have tried grabbing him first. The head and hands on the unidentified body were removed with surgical precision so that could fit Wells too. Brewer paused but Price said nothing. Brewer forced a weak smile and continued. I was hoping Wells might be willing to answer some questions.

That would be up to him.

Price turned his gaze to the paper bag which rested on Brewer’s lap.

Considering Wells’ obsession with surgery, I brought him a present.

The bag made a crinkling noise and Brewer held up a soft-cover copy of Gray’s Anatomy.

They x-rayed it when I entered, Brewer said, handing the book to Price who carefully riffled the pages.

We don’t like to encourage Mr. Wells’ . . . fantasies, Price said, hunting for the appropriate word then sighed. But, I guess we can tolerate him having this if he locates one of your victims for you. Price handed the book back. I’ll take you to the Ward.

You get all the nut cases here? Brewer asked as they crossed the yard. Price ignored the detective’s provocative choice of words.

Until the early seventies most of these patients were locked up in the Dannemora Hospital for the Criminally Insane. When it went bankrupt in 1966 Hickory Hollow was a private institution. The State of New York bought it from the Bankruptcy Court, remodeled it, and transferred all the Dannemora patients here in 1973.

Price delivered his explanation in the practiced, flat voice he used on people he wanted to keep at a distance without being openly rude. If Brewer was insulted he gave no evidence other than a crooked smile.

Price unlocked the door to a five story tan brick building. A brisk climb brought them to the rooms comprising Ward 33/34.

Hello, Dr. Price.

Frank is the SHTA in charge of the ward. . . . Security Hospital Treatment Assistant, Price explained. Frank, would you have one of the SHTA’s bring Hanford Wells to the interview room.

Yes, sir.

Chambers similar to college dorm rooms, except with windows, lined the corridor.

No one is ever out of sight in this facility, Price said when he noticed the detective eyeing the windows. Staff is never alone with a patient and no patient is ever alone with another patient. All rooms have either one, three or four occupants, never two . . . for obvious reasons. Don’t have any physical contact with Wells of any kind. He scores forty out of forty on the Hare Psychopathy Checklist. For Hanford Wells there is only one human being in the entire world, himself. Everyone else is a thing. He would have no more empathy for a baby on a railroad track than you or I would have for a box of Kleenex. He will not help you unless it is in his interest to do so.

Price stared at Brewer, a strange light in the psychiatrist’s eyes. He received only a blank gaze in return. A moment later Wells was let in.

Like most serial killers, Wells was Caucasian. He had sandy, brown hair above bright blue eyes. A slender but well muscled five feet nine inches tall, Wells wore an easy smile on a face that seemed too handsome to belong to a heartless killer. Most of the people who had met Ted Bundy thought the same thing about him.

Hanford, this is Philadelphia Police Detective Joseph Brewer. He’d like to talk with you.

What about? Wells asked, his smile fading.

He’s working on some cases in Philadelphia and he was hoping you might be able to give him some help.

How am I supposed to do that?

Perhaps you can’t. If you’d prefer to go back to the day room, you can leave now. Brewer glanced uneasily at Price but said nothing. Wells paused a moment then smiled and pulled out the vinyl chair at the end of the table.

Ask away, Wells said in a jocular tone.

I’m trying to locate the remains of some missing people, Brewer said evenly. I’m not here to point any fingers. I just want to find the bodies to bring some closure to the families.

I’ve never been to Philadelphia, Wells said flatly.

I’m not saying that you have. I’m not asking you to admit to anything—

That’s good because I haven’t done anything. The whole reason I’m here is a travesty. I should be—

Hanford, Price interrupted, there’s nothing that Detective Brewer can do about why you’re here. Detective, what were the names of the people you’re looking for, in case Hanford might have heard something about them.

Margaret Ingram? Wells gave his head a shake. Samuel Poulson?

No.

Edward Malta?

Wells waived his hands in dismissal.

I told you, I’ve never been to Philadelphia.

None of those names mean anything to you?

I told you, ‘No.’

Hanford, Price interrupted, Detective Brewer has brought you a little gift if you’re able to give him some help. Detective?

Brewer slid the book from the glossy white bag and pushed it across the table. Wells grabbed it, happily turning from section to section, smiling as he studied the anatomical charts.

Hanford, you’ll have to give that back if you can’t help the Detective.

How am I supposed to know about a bunch of people I’ve never heard of who lived in a place I’ve never been? Wells whined, his fingers caressing the book’s slick cover.

Do you want to hear the names again?

Ingram, Poulson, and Malta. I don’t know anything about them.

Well, Detective, I guess you’ve wasted your time. Hanford, give him back his book. Hunching over, Wells clutched the paperback to his chest. Hanford, you don’t want Frank to have to take it away from you.

It isn’t fair. I told him what I knew.

Which was nothing, so you didn’t earn the book.

I have to stay current on my anatomy. What do you need it for? Wells demanded. Brewer glanced at Price then threw up his hands.

I’m sorry, but we have to follow Dr. Price’s rules.

But—

Hanford, give the book to Detective Brewer or things will get unpleasant. The SHTA took a step forward and Wells looked anxiously from Brewer to Price.

What if . . . what if I could tell you something else, something you don’t know. Then could I keep the book?

What is it that you know that’s worth letting you keep the book?

What I know, Wells began slowly, staring at the flailed human figure on the Gray’s cover, is . . . . that I didn’t tell the police everything.

What didn’t you tell them, Hanford?

I had a lot of work to do to make up for the medical school classes they wouldn’t let me take.

What kind of work?

You know, anatomy practice, surgical techniques. It’s not the same, operating on a dead body. It cuts differently and you don’t get to practice right with the clamps when the heart’s not beating.

You had another patient you didn’t tell the police about?

Brewer glanced up at the word patient instead of victim but didn’t interrupt.

Yes, Wells said, looking down at the book.

What happened to this person?

He died.

What did you do with him?

I buried him.

Where did you bury him, Hanford?

Can I keep the book?

We need to know the man’s name and where you buried him.

I’d have to show you.

Just tell me his name and where you buried him and you can have the book.

I’m not a pirate, you know!

What? Brewer snapped.

I think Hanford means that he didn’t draw a map with an ‘X’ marking the spot where he buried the body. Is that right, Hanford?

It was in the woods. Past an ‘S’ turn in the road. There’s a big tree next to the highway and then a dirt road. I buried him at the end of the road, under a big tree like the ones in the yard.

A hickory tree?

No, the other ones, with the flowers.

A tulip poplar?

Yes, I remember because I saw the flowers while I was digging the hole and I thought how pretty it was and how happy he would be to have such a nice spot.

What was his name, Hanford?

Something Walters, no Waters. I remember because it was like a fountain. Waters, fountain. Wells laughed at the play on words.

What was his first name?

I don’t remember. Can I have the book?

We need to know the name.

It was like a musical instrument, Wells said, smiling.

What’s the name, Hanford?

Guess.

Ahhh, Sax? Sam? Samuel? Brewer blurted out.

No, Hanford, we’re not going to guess. Tell us the name or give the book back.

Wells looked at Price and frowned, then broke into a smile.

Clarence, like clarinet, Clarence, clarinet, get it?

So, your patient’s name was Clarence Waters?

Yes. Wells hugged Gray’s protectively to his chest.

We still need to recover the body. Where is it?

I’ll show you.

Hanford . . . .

I told you, I’m not a pirate.

If you don’t lead the police to the body, I won’t let you keep the book. You understand that don’t you?

Sure, no body, no book. I’ll show them any time you like. Wells hugged the book and smiled.

A few minutes later Brewer was gone and Price was left to deal with the mess the detective’s visit had created. Price reported the interview to Harley Glavin, Hickory Hollow’s Executive Director, who immediately contacted the State Police. Over Price’s objection they decided that Wells would be taken under guard to locate the body.

Two days before the excursion Price tried to convince Glavin to cancel the trip.

Do you know, Dr. Price, what is the most important element in obtaining the funding this institution requires? Glavin asked him.

Public support?

Yes, Dr. Price, public support. When I testify before the State Assembly Health and Welfare Committee it will be very helpful if I can point out the excellent work we are doing in aiding law enforcement solve terrible crimes. On the other hand, how will I explain refusing to allow Mr. Wells to lead the police to a victim’s body?

Mr. Glavin, there’s something wrong about this whole thing.

Something? Specifically, what?

Wells never buried any of his other victims out in the woods, why this one?

Maybe he didn’t want the body to be discovered.

Why not just stick it in the freezer with the rest of them?

When they arrested Wells wasn’t his freezer was full to the top? Perhaps he just ran out of room.

Then why not bury him in the back yard? There was plenty of land behind that house he rented.

Dr. Price, the man is seriously disturbed. He was found not guilty by reason of insanity, for God’s sake. Who knows why a person like that does anything.

I know why he does what he does. It’s my job to know.

All right then, why did he bury this Clarence Waters in the woods?

That’s just it. It makes no sense that he would.

So, you’re saying there’s no body in the woods? Didn’t the police check on this man?

There is a Clarence Waters who disappeared prior to Wells’ arrest.

There you are.

I just don’t buy it.

Well, he wouldn’t be the first inmate who made up a story to get a trip outside the walls.

All the more reason to keep him right where he is.

Glavin removed his glasses and ran a hand through his thin, black hair.

Dr. Price, I understand everything you’ve said, but you don’t seem to understand what I’ve said. If there’s any chance of finding that body, we have to take it. Public support for the budget, remember?

What if something happens?

Something like what?

What if he escapes?

He’ll be in handcuffs and leg shackles, guarded by trained, armed, police officers.

At least let me and one of the SHTA’s go along.

Once a patient’s custody is signed over to another agency, we cannot be involved. At that point he becomes the sole responsibility of the receiving department.

But—

Dr. Price, I’m sure the State Police can take care of Hanford Wells. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . .

Scowling, Price shuffled from the Director’s office.

* * *

His forehead almost touching the glass, Price gazed across the hospital grounds, his eyes drawn to the sugar maples and American beech that climbed the ridge behind the Center. Now, finally, in full leaf, the forest textured the hillside in patterns of jade and emerald and bottle-green that Price found a pleasant distraction from the scattered intensity of his patients. Within the boundaries of the facility, but never close to the fifteen foot high razor-wire topped fences, grew the hickory trees from which the Hickory Hollow Forensic Psychiatric Center took its name.

Price usually took a quiet pleasure in the panorama. Pale yellow flowers had already begun to unfurl across the tops of the tulip trees and on most days their beauty would have brought a brief, soft smile to his lips, but not this morning. Below he watched the State Police lead Hanford Wells through the hospital’s main gate.

Shackles secured Wells’ ankles. His wrists were fastened to a chain around his waist. The detectives placed Wells in the back seat of their cruiser and then drove through the gate. With a sick feeling Price leaned against the glass and followed the patrol car’s passage north on highway 414 until it crested a gentle rise and disappeared.

Chapter Two

Detective Tom Dement stared lazily at the fields slipping past the cruiser’s window. The drone of the tires had already begun to lull him into a half-stupor. Highway 414 ran north from Corning through a series of gentle, wooded valleys between Seneca and Cayuga Lake. Now, in late Spring, the trees were thick with leaves in a hundred shades of green, the forest broken here and there by isolated farms.

The driver slowed to thirty for a small village, barely more than a white-shingled church, a VFW hall, a Sunoco station, and a small grocery store sheltering beneath two ancient red oaks. Dement closed his eyes against the glare of the morning sun. The night before his wife had returned from a week-long visit with her mother in Albany and he had gotten up at five-thirty for the drive from Troop E Headquarters in Canandaigua.

Sitting like this is killing me, Wells complained, jolting Dement from his doze.

Just relax and enjoy the scenery, Dement’s partner, Ed Foley, ordered. We’ll be there in about an hour.

My muscles are cramping!

If you make any more trouble, I’ll handcuff your arms behind your back. Wells glared at Foley but made no more complaints. Apparently sulking, he angled his body against the passenger door. Out of Foley’s sight he gently pressed his wristwatch so that he could feel the outline of the plastic handcuff key hidden under the band. Wells let his manacled wrists slide back into his lap. The smell of grass and turned earth seeped into the car.

Wells noticed a boy driving a herd of Guernsey cows toward a barn. Had the boy ever had surgery, he wondered. An appendectomy? Perhaps he had torn his knee playing football. Wells admitted that he needed more practice on knees. He had much to learn about joint injuries having spent so much of his energies on thoracic surgery. Well, he was still young, Wells consoled himself as the boy slid from view.

Around 10:30 the driver, Trooper Al Cianfone, woke Dement from his nap.

What?

I said we should almost be there. Cianfone reached across the seat and tapped the map. A red circle marked the general area where Wells claimed to have buried the body.

Wells, Dement called, squinting at the prisoner through the wire screen, keep your eyes open for that spot of yours.

It looks different from this direction. I was driving south when I turned off the road.

Just start looking.

Ten minutes later Cianfone pulled over.

We must have past it.

You’d better not be jerking us around, Wells, Dement called through the screen.

I told you I’d have to find it from the north.

Fine, just make sure you do or you won’t enjoy the trip back very much.

Cianfone turned the cruiser around.

Drive slower. I was going slow, looking for a good spot.

Yeah, picking out grave sites for your victims is careful work, Dement said bitterly.

Slower.

Three miles farther, just beyond a tight S turn, Wells suddenly pressed his face against the glass.

I think we’re almost there. I think that’s the rock.

We’ve passed a hundred rocks like that.

Okay, that big tree . . . .

Which big tree? Cianfone called, slowing further still.

That big maple, just past it, around the bend, is the dirt road.

Cianfone slowed to a crawl and fifty yards ahead spotted a pair of overgrown ruts heading into the woods.

That’s it, Wells called excitedly. Drive in as far as you can.

Jesus, Dement cursed as they nosed into the trees. This thing only goes in about thirty feet.

It’s been four years. I guess stuff has grown.

You think? Christ, Wells, how far in did you bury the guy?

I drove until the car was out of sight of the road, down around that turn. Wells gestured with his cuffed hands toward a bend a hundred yards ahead. A screech sounded as the transmission housing scraped over a rock. Five feet further Cianfone pulled to a stop with the cruiser’s front bumper against a two inch sapling.

This is a far as she’ll go.

I guess we walk.

Cianfone called in their location then he and Dement unlocked the rear doors. Foley recovered his gun while Cianfone took a shovel and camera from the trunk then led them down the overgrown trail. Foley and Dement flanked Wells. The ground was covered in horseweed and pepper grass.

Crap! Dement swore.

I told you to wear your sneaks. Foley pointed to his already muddy Nike’s.

Yeah, well, I was in a hurry this morning.

Overslept, huh? Didn’t Janet get home last night?

I had a lot on my mind this morning.

You had a lot on something, I believe that.

Gee, Ed, you’re hilarious. Come on, let’s just do this, all right?

Wells’ shackles caught on a milkweed stem and he tumbled face-down into the weeds. Fuck! Dement pulled him to his feet. Stick-tights and dead leaves covered Wells’ denim shirt.

I can’t walk through this stuff with these chains.

Try! Foley ordered. Wells shuffled to the limit of the tether but stopped almost immediately. The chain had scythed a path almost a foot wide through the weeds.

I’m fucking mowing the lawn here, Wells complained, pointing to the stems wedged into the chain. Dement and Foley looked from the shackles to the eighty yards of trail still ahead of them. Just take it off one ankle, Wells whined. Where the hell am I going to run in handcuffs with you three guys watching me?

Dement stared at the line of broken stems. Foley nodded and moved the cuff from Wells’ right ankle to his left so that the two shackles rode one above the other.

Don’t get any ideas, Wells, Dement said, tapping his gun. I’m not going to chase you. The phrase you’ve got to remember is ‘Shot while trying to escape.’ Do we understand each other?

Where would I go? Wells raised his wrists toward the thick forest surrounding them.

Ahead the trail made a sharp bend to the right. Dement nodded to Cianfone to check it out. An instant later Cianfone shouted Damn! and they heard him fall. Dement jogged ahead and just beyond the turn he saw Cianfone lying face-down in the high grass. A bolt of fear tore through Dement’s gut. As he reached for his weapon when he heard Foley shout, Tom!

Wells’ right wrist had come free and his left arm whipped the loose end of the cuffs at Foley’s head. The Investigator stumbled backward just as the cuff cracked into his skull. Blood spurted and Foley tumbled into the weeds. Dement returned to the main trail and centered his Glock on Wells’ torso. From behind him, Dement heard a slight swishing sound then his legs flew out from under him and he found himself lying in the grass. His pistol made a muted thump and disappeared into the weeds. Dement had begun to struggle to his feet just as Wells grabbed Foley’s gun. Frantically, Dement looked for his Glock then he heard Foley’s pistol fire and a sledgehammer hit him in the chest. Dement fell and a black cloud exploded inside his head and then the world disappeared.

* * *

Cianfone had made his regular 10:30 check-in and called in again a when they reached the dirt road. His next report was scheduled for 11:00 a.m..

When Cianfone did not make the call, the dispatcher assumed that it had taken longer than anticipated to find the grave. By 11:15 people were getting worried. At 11:30 the alarm went out. At 12:10 they found the cruiser at the beginning of the rutted trail. A minute later Foley was found sprawled on his back, blue bottle flies feasting on the blood congealed below his temple. Dement had taken two wounds, one in his chest, the second through his forehead. They found Dement’s Glock three feet to his right. Foley’s nine millimeter Beretta was missing.

Foley had also been killed by a nine millimeter bullet, this one between his eyes. Ballistics later confirmed that all three men had been shot with Foley’s gun.

They discovered Cianfone’s lifeless body lying where Dement had first found him. A bloody rock lay near the Trooper’s head but the cause of death was a nine millimeter bullet through the back of his skull.

It was speculated that Cianfone had tripped and hit his head and when Dement’s attention was diverted Wells had somehow managed to grab Foley’s gun.

Cianfone’s pockets had been turned inside out and his ID and wallet were missing. Foley’s and Dement’s wallets were found near their bodies with all of the cash removed. The keys to the cruiser were also missing. Three hours after the forensic team arrived, an officer with a metal detector found the car keys in the underbrush ten feet from Cianfone’s body. The investigators theorized that he had briefly regained consciousness and had tossed the keys to keep Wells from escaping in the cruiser. Of the entire horrible mess, the only positive aspect was that Wells was stranded in the woods.

It was the largest manhunt in the history of the Northern Tier. Hundreds of police officers backed by units of the National Guard combed the woods for three days before eventually finding Wells’ body lodged between two boulders at the bottom of Mohawk Glen. By that time the foxes and ravens and hawks and feral pigs had turned the carcass into something barely human. In the corpse’s pocket they found Cianfone’s wallet and ID. Foley’s gun with four rounds expended was discovered six hundred yards up-stream at the base of a sixty foot shale cliff that apparently had disintegrated under Wells’ feet, probably on the night following his escape. Blood and bone on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff matched the shattered body downstream.

Those portions of the hands that were not smashed had been skinned by predators and no useable fingerprints were obtainable, but a comparison of the crushed jaw with Wells’ dental chart showed an almost perfect match. There were no samples of Wells’ DNA available because his acquittal by reason of insanity kept him out of the New York State violent offenders DNA database. Still, the dental match was conclusive.

Back at Hickory Hollow Llewellyn Price was fully vindicated but he was too smart to speak the name Hanford Wells to Harley Glavin. He did not mind. Price was sure that the need to re-open Wells’ file would never arise, but he was wrong.

Chapter Three

On an overcast, damp, April morning the year following Wells’ escape, the topic uppermost in Larry Manett’s mind was fish. He tramped through the backwoods of Iroquois County thinking only of his rod, flies and the feel of a strike on the line. The Spring rains had filled Panhandle Creek to a gurgling rush.

Manett parked his Explorer fifty yards off County Road 52 and he and Chris Russell hiked half a mile through a forest of leafless beeches, red oaks, and mountain ash. Only the sugar maples and, near the stream, the willows, had produced any leaves and these were sparse and an off-shade of yellow-green.

Chris took the lead as they headed north along the east side of the stream. Emerging from the thick trees they reached their usual spot but a white birch had toppled filling the pool with a maze of line-fouling branches.

You want to try Widow’s Bend?

I guess.

A hundred yards up-stream the creek made a sharp turn and widened to about thirty feet across.

Hell of a winter, Chris muttered. Floods had torn several feet from the embankment and half a dozen trees tilted precariously over the water.

It looks clear over there. Larry nodded at a shelf thirty yards ahead.

Boy, I’m glad I wasn’t here when that bank gave way.

Less talking and more fishing.

Manett made the first cast. Russell moved to the end of the shelf but when he snapped his rod forward he felt a tug from behind.

Oh, geez. His leader had wrapped around a tangle of roots near the top of the bank. Damned funny roots, Russell muttered as he squinted at the angular shapes.

You got the extra flies in your bag? Manett called. Chris?

What do you suppose this is?

Manett squinted at something that looked like a pale brown root just above eye level. Russell reached out to touch it, then changed his mind and began to dig into the soft earth. He stopped when he reached the bones of the corpse’s ankle. Manett rubbed away the dirt a foot to the left and exposed the left foot’s phalanges.

I guess one of us better call the Sheriff.

Flip you for it.

Ten minutes later, cursing his luck, Manett was back in his Explorer.

Iroquois County Deputy Sheriff Angela Paressi got the call. See the citizen about some bones, was all she was told. A few minutes later she pulled in behind Manett’s SUV.

Hi, I’m the one who called you.

You found some bones?

A human skeleton . . . .

Where?

Follow me.

Fifteen minutes later Manett was pointing to their discovery. Paressi placed a dollar bill along side the upturned toes and took a series of pictures with a disposable camera.

Why’d you do that? Russell asked, all the while thinking, Hey, she’s pretty cute.

A dollar bill is almost exactly six inches long. It’s a good reference for the size of other objects in the picture.

That’s pretty sharp.

You want some help digging it out? Chris asked, wondering if Angela might be the next love of his life.

I’ll get a State Police forensic team out here. You know the owners of this land?

Sure, the Blondels, Manett said. They let us fish here, he added defensively.

I wasn’t suggesting you were trespassing, Mr. Manett. Is their house around here?

They’re in Arizona, Sedona, right now.

Do you have their phone number?

No, but their lawyer’s Jake Mills in Peaksville. He could probably give it to you.

Okay, thanks. Angela waved at the exposed foot. I’ll need statements from both of you.

I’ll get together with you any time you like, Chris said, giving Angela his best smile.

I’ll let you know when they’ve been typed up so you can come by the station and sign them. Thanks for your help.

Sure, any time, Chris called then hurried over to offer Angela his arm. She ignored him and scrambled easily to the top of the bank.

She seems real nice, Chris said.

Oh, put it back in your pants and hand me the flies!

* * *

We need a State Police forensic team, Angela radioed the dispatcher ten minutes later. The Captain should probably call Troop E and find out if they have a team in Zone 3 or if they’ll have to send one down from Canandaigua. Until then I’ll go back on patrol.

Wait one, 62, while I call Captain McCleary.

Angela laid the mike on the seat, frowned, and stared at the leafless trees obscuring Panhandle Creek. Wait one. Why was she surprised? Practically every suggestion she had made in her nine months on the force had been questioned, ridiculed, or overruled.

The Iroquois Sheriff’s office consisted of twelve deputies, three plain clothes investigators, two Captains, and the Sheriff, Elias Nance. Only one officer, Angela Paressi, was female. None of them were African-American, Asian, or Hispanic. There was one Jew, reformed, Marc Roth. The average age of the deputies was 28. Of the twelve deputies only one, Angela Paressi, had attended graduate school. Two, Angela and Larry Grobard, had graduated from college. One more had graduated from a junior college. Seven had only graduated from high school and two had not even achieved that honor, instead qualifying by taking the GED exam. The pay was terrible, a fact only made tolerable by the county’s low cost of living.

And to think, I had to threaten the Sheriff with a sexual discrimination suit to get this job! Angela reminded herself.

62, the Captain wants to know the condition of the subject. For a fleeting instant Angela considered replying "Dead," but stifled the impulse.

The right foot and the left toe are protruding from the bank. They’re both completely skeletonized. The subject appears to be buried about two feet down. A long pause followed while the Captain passed further questions to the Dispatcher. The wimp won’t even talk to me directly, Angela fumed.

62, does it appear that the subject has been in the ground for a substantial period of time? Can you confirm that it is completely skeletonized?

How—, all I can see is one foot up to the ankle and the toes of the second one. As for the rest of it, I don’t know. The ground above the location is fully overgrown so I’d guess he’s been there at least six to nine months.

Roger, 62. Hold your position until contacted.

A sour chill began to work its way through Angela’s chest. Oh, hell, Nance can’t be that stupid! she told herself, then remembered that before being appointed Sheriff to fill out Herb Prichards’ term, Elias Nance had been a real estate agent and Chairman of the Iroquois County Republican Central Committee. The son of a bitch was handsome, in a fatherly, Warren G. Harding sort of way, and had been elected Sheriff largely on the strength of the word Incumbent on the ballot and the excellent photograph he took in his uniform and fully equipped Sam Browne belt.

* * *

Elias Nance was reviewing a lease for a Ford Expedition as the Sheriff’s new Command Vehicle when Jack McCleary knocked on his door.

Sheriff, Deputy Paressi has discovered a skeleton on the Blondel farm. A couple of fishermen noticed the foot extending out of the bank. I wanted to get your approval before I called in the State Police.

Do we know who this is?

No, sir, it’s just a foot.

"I mean do we have some missing person we’ve been looking for, some hunter or somebody who’s disappeared in that area?"

No, sir. We did have that bird watcher three years ago who never came home but we figured that he’d just left his wife and run off. I think there was a Girl Scout troop leader who left town about the same time.

Is this near where he was doing his bird watching?

A couple of miles away.

Are there any signs of foul play at this, . . . this location?

No, sir. The ground is undisturbed and the foot is fully skeletonized so he’s been in the dirt awhile.

Skeletonized—that means there’s no meat on the bones?

Yes, sir.

So why are we assuming this is a crime scene?

Sir?

We’ve got no freshly dug grave or anything. If someone was going to kill somebody and bury the body, I can’t see them hauling it half a mile through the woods. Maybe this is our bird watcher. He tripped, broke his leg or hit his head or fell into a ditch or something. The animals got to him and three years later some fishermen have found his foot. I don’t see why we need to make a Federal case out of this.

Sir, the procedure is to treat anything like this as a crime scene. Usually, we call in the Troopers—

Are you saying that this department is incapable of handling a crime scene?

No, sir. But the forensic—

Are you telling me that your men are improperly trained? Because if you are, then maybe we need to re-evaluate things around here.

No, sir. I have complete confidence in my men.

Correct me if I’m wrong, Jack, but we aren’t required to call in the State Police, are we?

No sir, that’s completely voluntary.

So, it’s up to me if I want to tell the citizens of this county that we can’t do our job. It’s up to me if I want to make some kind of public proclamation that if anything bigger than a stolen bicycle comes along, we can’t handle it, that we have to go crying to the Troopers. Is that right?

Yes, sir, it’s up to you. But—

But?

Nothing, you’re the Sheriff. It’s your decision.

"Do you think I’ve forgotten the story the Troopers planted in the Daily Messenger after I invited them in on that missing kid case? Do you think I’ve forgotten how they made it look like we botched the investigation, how we were responsible for her being raped by that psycho? How the hell do you think that looks to the voters? Elias Nance can’t do his job so the Troopers have to do it for him! Well, let me tell you, if we can’t dig up a few bones we may as well close up shop right now."

What do you want me to tell Paressi?

You tell her to sit on her can until help arrives. Send a couple of your men out there with shovels and, I don’t know, a camera and whatever else they need and have them dig up the bones and take them over to Doc Swanson, that’s what the County pays him for. He can look them over and tell us if there are any signs of foul play. Then, if he finds a bullet hole through the skull or something, we can think about calling the Troopers. Okay?

Yes, sir.

A minute later Paressi’s radio squawked.

62, hold your position. Deputies are on the way to help you recover the subject.

Central, this is 62. Do you mean a State Police forensic team? Angela tapped her fingernails on the wheel.

Negative, 62. This department will recover the subject and transport it to Dr. Swanson’s office for a medical examination. Central out.

Shit! The stupid son-of-a-bitch was refusing to call in the Troopers. Angela angrily grabbed the camera, extra gloves, crime scene tape, a small hammer, six wooden stakes, evidence bags, and a body bag from her trunk. She scribbled a note, head through the woods to Panhandle Creek, then north, jammed it in the driver’s side window, and jogged back to the scene. By the time Terry Jackson and Sam Watkins arrived Angela had already photographed the site, staked out the perimeter, and had begun to comb the ground for cigarette butts, buttons, keys and anything else that might have been lost when the body was buried. So far, she had found nothing.

During the excavation she paused every few minutes to measure the depth of the trench until they had gone down eighteen inches, at which time they switched to trowels and scoops. In spite of some good-natured grumbling, Jackson and Watkins followed Angela’s instructions, content to let her take responsibility for the exhumation.

Finally, her trowel struck bone. She used her gloved hands to claw the dirt from the sternum, paused, and photographed the exposed bone. Once the top of the skeleton was fully revealed, the hole was enlarged two feet all the way around so that they could loosen the earth from underneath. It was two in the afternoon before the remains were fully excavated. Angela shot six more pictures, then they carefully shifted the bones onto a blanket which they sealed in a body bag.

Watkins and Jackson fastened the bag to a litter and headed back to their Cherokee.

I’m glad that’s done, Terry said as he closed the Jeep’s rear door. Seeing’s how we did all the digging, you want to deliver the bones to Doc Swanson and write up the reports? Jackson held up the Cherokee’s keys.

Sure. That sounds fair to me, Angela agreed and slipped the key ring into her khakis.

Lucky you had us big strong men around to do the heavy work, a Angela? Watkins said, laughing.

I sure am. You guys are going to come in real handy.

What do you mean ‘are going to come in handy?’ We’re done.

Except for the dirt.

What?

I figure there’s about 90 cubic feet of dirt back there that’s got to be sifted for clues before it rains. Angela glanced at the thickening sky. It doesn’t look like you’ve got much daylight left. Thanks again, guys. I just love big strong men.

Angela tossed Terry the keys to her cruiser and, smiling, drove away.