Shiny Bones

By Enrique Laso

A NEW ETHAN BUSH NOVEL
The FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit especial agent Ethan Bush must to investigate a serial killer in Nebraska...
A GRIPPING, HEART-STOPPING THRILLER
The monster lives in each one of us. We are beasts that have learned, over the centuries, to control ourselves, to restrain our basic instincts and live peacefully in society. We are, after all, fully domesticated and well-trained beasts.
Only on rare occasions, the wild animal that hides deep in our entrails goes on a rampage, giving rise to an insane nightmare...

If you enjoyed novels like 'The Silence of the Lambs' or TV series as 'Criminal Minds' or 'True Detective'... this is the story that you have been waiting for.
FROM THE NOVEL:
The county police had cordoned off the zone less than an hour after the boys' find. A pathologist established that the remains were human, although a large part of the skeleton was missing. In fact, what was missing was what would have been most helpful in the task of identifying the body: the cranium.
"Do you have any clues as to how long have those bones been here?" the sheriff asked, perplexed. His head was full of the terror that he knew would grab hold of his entire community just a few hours later.
"Not long. And one of the boys has told us that he comes for walks in this area often and they weren't here a few days ago."
"But this stiff croaked some years ago, don't you think?" asked the sheriff, pointing at what looked like a tibia. Never in his life had he seen such a thing, and it perturbed him.
The pathologist looked at the grayish sky, where clouds were growing and thickening threatening to release a good downpour. But that storm would only be a child's game in comparison with what was hanging over the county where he lived.
"I don't know," he replied, laconic.
"What do you mean, you don't know?" asked the sheriff, who felt he'd got a completely senseless answer. These were the remains of a skeleton; therefore one didn't need to be an eminence in medicine to deduct that the guy, no matter who the hell he or she was, would have stopped breathing a very long time ago.
"These bones have been thoroughly cleaned. They have been manipulated. Without studying them in detail, right now I can't tell you if the owner died yesterday or over ten years ago."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Enrique Laso
• Release date: Jun 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310037566

Book preview

Chapter I

That guy had been walking his dog for at least a couple of hours, trying to pass the time and not get under anyone’s feet at home, whilst his son and his wife busied themselves preparing an exquisite dinner consisting of a perfectly cooked turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, cider, and for dessert, a delicious pumpkin pie. Later it would be his turn to clear the table and do the washing-up. It was a fair division of labor, although he hated doing the dishes. But it was worth it. Thanksgiving only came around once a year.

He had wandered those dried-up roads, hardened by the first autumnal frosts, hundreds of times, and one could say that he knew them better than his own bedroom. The truth was that he never got tired of them, because their rugged beauty helped him forget a past full of ample avenues, pollution and the deafening noise of traffic. That was probably the reason he immediately realized that some bushes on the right side of the path he was following were slightly squashed. Curiosity made him enter the undergrowth, as he imagined that, with a bit of luck, he’d bump into a naughty badger, a shy fox or a raccoon.

He’d just taken his smartphone out of one of the pockets of his cargo trousers, intent on taking a half-decent picture of whatever he’d find hiding there, so he could proudly share it with his family later, when the barking of his dog made him jump. It was only a few steps ahead of him, and it seemed to have found something really interesting. The man thought it would likely be a small dead animal, and he approached with certain apprehension. Five years of living surrounded by nature had not yet managed to change the man, who had been a Wall Street broker for two decades, to the wild world, and that old persona would stir in his guts often, trying again to take charge of a life that had become much more peaceful.

What’s up, Duke? he asked, as if his tiny Beagle understood and could reply to him.

The guy approached it, smiling, laughing at his own naivety, and remembering hundreds of chats he had had with Duke. But suddenly a horrible image banished his joy and turned it into a sickening mixture of repugnance and panic. His Beagle was sniffing a handful of bones that, without any doubt, and although he wasn’t an expert in medicine, paleontology, and even less anthropology, he knew were human.

Let’s go, Duke, let’s leave!

The man ran back home, mortified by the memory of those remains, unclear about how they’d turned up, but sure that somebody had left them there a few days ago at most. Who could have disturbed that idyllic spot? What kind of monster had been getting rid of that only a mile away from his home? His wonderful Thanksgiving night had just become a nightmare.

That’s how I imagine it all started. I was never able to have a conversation with that man, because he fell into a deep depression before my arrival in Nebraska, and that made him unsuitable for any interviews, on the advice on his psychiatrist. There are people who experience such a reaction when confronted with the immensity of evil, more so when they have been shaken by unremitting stress in the past.

And I imagine it that way, although the reports I had access to were, of course, much more sterile and aseptic with regard to that first event, because I’m trying to graft myself into the skin of that man who believed he had found the perfect place to finally rest and enjoy a few well-deserved years of peace in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by oaks and accompanied by his wife and son. But hell can cross our path by chance and turn our lives upside down forever.

I, as an agent of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, had undergone in-depth training to be able to live with those monsters without becoming one of them; but as an expert in psychology I knew only too well that when normal people are suddenly confronted, directly and personally, by savagery on such scale, it leaves a mark on their souls, a wound that sometimes can never be healed.

Chapter II

I had an unfinished business to deal with and was waiting patiently for a chance to approach Peter Wharton, my superior, at the headquarters in Quantico, to obtain his permission and the necessary resources to resolve a question that had become something personal. The intervening months hadn’t eased my anxiety in the slightest, and I was convinced, with the selfishness of a spoilt brat, that I had earned the right to take on a case of my choosing, even if it was outside my jurisdiction. That shows how conceited and immature I still was at that time.

I won’t deny I had tried—following the advice of people who cared for me—to allow the wounds to heal and to leave the past behind, in the same way we leave behind a traffic sign when we are cruising down the highway. Unfortunately, in the road that is our life we keep coming across the same signs again and again. So I was totally convinced that nobody could prevent me from settling old scores with the past.

But fate does as it pleases with time, and it was Peter who summoned me to his office on a quiet and surprisingly warm morning towards the end of January 2016.

Ethan, we have a truly baffling case in our hands. One of the worst we have seen in the last few years.

I understand, I politely replied, mistakenly thinking that he was trying to gage my opinion in order to add a different perspective to an investigation already underway. It was something my boss did regularly, and it was part of my duties.

Do you know Nebraska?

I remained silent, pondering not the answer but the question. I was weighing up what it could mean, especially regarding my future plans.

I haven’t set foot in that state in my whole life.

Wharton scratched his chin, thoughtful. He was churning an idea, but I wasn’t able to guess what the hell was going through his head. They have found the remains of three bodies. In less than two months…

I imagine they must share the same characteristics, I said, as otherwise there was no point in mentioning that fact. In the United States, dead bodies turned up like mushrooms after heavy rain in any forest in early autumn.

"That’s right. A very peculiar modus operandi." Peter emphasized the words, stretching them in a way that wasn’t usual for him.

At that point, and for the first time in the conversation, I went on the defensive and my intuition, although late, finally glimpsed what was coming. Peculiar?

They are only skeletons. Incomplete skeletons. They are always missing the same bones, and we always find the same remains. They show very strange cuts, and on the left femur on all of them there is a carved inscription.

An inscription?

My boss handed me a high resolution picture of a femur. On the surface of the clean bone a series of unusual carved symbols could be clearly seen, in an unreal pinkish hue. I couldn't connect them with anything I knew.

The Nebraska State Patrol has formally requested our cooperation.

I dropped the picture on my superior’s desk, as if it were a heavy load I had been carrying on my back for miles through the desert. Now I had no doubt about why I had been called to that office. Peter… I hesitated, shaking like a little boy whose parents have just told him they will have to move to a different city.

We have a nightmare of a case on our hands. The perp is not your everyday murderer, and I think you’re already figuring that out. I know you.

But my boss didn’t know me as well as he thought. The truth was that I was thinking about my own projects and intentions, thinking that the scaffolding that I had thought was solid like steel was rapidly collapsing under my feet.

Well, the truth is that right now I don’t know what to say, I mumbled, with the useless hope that perhaps my unenthusiastic tone might change matters.

"Ethan, we thought of you. I think these people need somebody especial. To be honest, we think they need you. Nobody else will do."

Chapter III

The second body was found during the Christmas season. The morning of the 26th of December 2015, a couple of kids were playing on an esplanade, throwing and catching a brand new football. It had been one of the presents Father Christmas had left under the tree for one of the boys.

Spurred on by the laughter, and pushed by the cold air, the sturdiest of the boys had completed an incredible throw that had hurled the ball into a dried up and frozen corn field.

What on Earth did you have for breakfast this morning?

It was good, eh?

It was terrible; you’ve sent it out of the Memorial Stadium. Not even the best quarterback in the Nebraska Cornhuskers’ history would have managed such a great pass.

Come on, stop moaning and let’s go and get it before I end up frozen stiff.

The two kids ran up to where they guessed the ball had fallen. They got there laughing, pushing each other, without a worry, convinced that they lived in a county where nothing bad ever happened. But they both stopped dead when they reached it. Right at the border edge of the barren corn field, a handful of shiny, whitish and clean bones were barely showing.

What’s that?

I don’t know, but something bad, very bad, I’m sure.

Perhaps they are the bones of a dead animal…

I don’t know, man. These bones seem very clean to me. Somebody must have left them there. They weren’t here a few days ago, I can swear to that.

Then we have to leave.

And the ball?

To hell with the ball! Do you want to get us killed? Run!

The county police had cordoned off the zone less than an hour after the boys’ find. A pathologist established that the remains were human, although a large part of the skeleton was missing. In fact, what was missing was what would have been most helpful in the task of identifying the body: the cranium.

Do you have any clues as to how long have those bones been here? the sheriff asked, perplexed. His head was full of the terror that he knew would grab hold of his entire community just a few hours later.

Not long. And one of the boys has told us that he comes for walks in this area often and they weren’t here a few days ago.

But this stiff croaked some years ago, don’t you think? asked the sheriff, pointing at what looked like a tibia. Never in his life had he seen such a thing, and it perturbed him.

The pathologist looked at the grayish sky, where clouds were growing and thickening threatening to release a good downpour. But that storm would only be a child’s game in comparison with what was hanging over the county where he lived.

I don’t know, he replied, laconic.

What do you mean, you don’t know? asked the sheriff, who felt he’d got a completely senseless answer. These were the remains of a skeleton; therefore one didn’t need to be an eminence in medicine to deduct that the guy, no matter who the hell he or she was, would have stopped breathing a very long time ago.

These bones have been thoroughly cleaned. They have been manipulated. Without studying them in detail, right now I can’t tell you if the owner died yesterday or over ten years ago.

Chapter IV

Peter Wharton preferred that I arrive in Lincoln, Nebraska’s capital, to join the State Patrol’s team of detectives and investigators alone first, to avoid misgivings and suspicions. Although I told him I’d much rather land there with Liz, Mark and Tom, he advised me to try and win them over first. There would be enough time to ask for my team’s cooperation later.

During the commercial flight I had gone over the most important aspects of the case, though without examining them in great detail. Whilst doing that I couldn’t help but think about Liz and how she’d warn me, giving me her trademark blaming look, that I should study them in depth. But, for the time being, I’d rather continue to follow my own, and in most cases wrong, rules.

From the first moment I was convinced that we were embarking on a relentless battle with an extremely intelligent and diabolically organized individual. I had to smile; I was already creating a preliminary profile and I hardly knew anything. In my previous case I had been unable to do so. I had found it impossible. This looks more like what you’ve already experienced in Detroit’ I told myself, trying to talk some positivity into myself to increase my confidence in preparation for the hard task I knew lay ahead.

Detective Randolph Phillips, a pleasant-looking man with an intense gaze, came to pick me up at the airport. Did you have a good trip, Agent Bush?

I felt the polite question, which followed the requisite introductions, was too formal. I thought the detective must either be a very bureaucratic person or he must have been brought up in a fairly traditional family. Randolph, I have the feeling that I’m going to spend some time here. The sooner we call each other by our first names, the sooner we’ll become friends, I replied with my best smile.

Did you have a good trip, Ethan?

We both laughed. I’d managed to break the ice, at least.

So, so. I’ve been going over the reports. I think this case might send us crazy.

Welcome to the madhouse, buddy.

Phillips surprised me taking me in his personal car to the headquarters of the Nebraska State Patrol in Lincoln. On the back seat I saw some fluffy toys, and I immediately imagined a gentle family life in a pretty single-family house somewhere in the outskirts of the capital. Before I had time to add any more details to my reverie, we were already parked next to a simple and modest one-story building, full of austere windows and finished with a blue strip at the top.

Are we there yet?

Yes, we are, Ethan. We’re right next to the airport.

Fab. But, excuse me, Randolph, are these the headquarters? I tried not to sound too arrogant or too scrupulous, although I suspect that was not the impression I gave the detective.

They are somewhat plain, it’s true. We’re like that, around here. We have other buildings in the region, but answering your question: yes, they are.

Phillips showed me inside the building. I couldn’t help but think that I had been in the offices of sheriffs of small counties that were better equipped than that place. I followed him through a long and narrow corridor that led to a door. As we went, the detective greeted several people, and I inferred that the atmosphere there was friendly and familiar.

We opened the door without knocking, to my surprise, and sitting at an imposing table there was a huge gray-haired man who seemed as if he’d been waiting for us since time immemorial.

Captain, may I introduce you to Special Agent Ethan Bush of the FBI. Ethan, Captain Frank Cooper.

Cooper stood up slowly and when he reached my height he squeezed my hand hard. From his look I deduced he had expected to meet somebody much older. Welcome, son. We find ourselves in a big mess. We are up to our ears in shit, you know what I mean. I hope you can help us solve this case quickly.

I was surprised that the captain talked to me in such a friendly and informal tone off the bat, but I tried not to show it. That’s what I’ll try with all my heart.

Are you familiar with the details of the case? Cooper asked, taking refuge again behind his table.

I’ve been browsing the reports you sent to Quantico. But the truth is that I prefer to have information first-hand, to be able to talk directly to the people involved in the investigation.

Papers are too cold, aren’t they?

I knew it was a trick question, but I wasn’t sure what type of answer that man, who seemed to have come out of an old Korean or Vietnam War movie, expected.

I miss the nuances, the gestures, the tone of voice, the emotion…

I talked to your boss, Peter Wharton. I begged him to send me one of his best men. When I saw you come into my office I thought that surely that damned bureaucrat from Washington had sent me a greenhorn. You look like a child, my son, but I know you aren’t. I am sure that young and suntanned face cleverly hides a brilliant mind. I am a bit old, quite rough and a bit messy, but I’m nobody’s fool. Welcome to our team, Ethan.

Chapter V

They booked me into The Cornhusker, an elegant Marriot Hotel on Thirteen Street, Lincoln, in the heart of the city center. On the one hand I was grateful for their deference, but on the other I realized they wanted to keep me as far away from their headquarters as possible, as it was almost impossible to reach them on foot, something I would have liked.

After introducing me to the investigators and the detectives working on the case, they had quickly gone over some of the details of the leads they were following. So far they had focused on ruling out the criminals with a record who lived in the counties where the remains had been found. To those unfamiliar with these kinds of formalities it would seem too obvious and perhaps even an unnecessary step, but a good number of homicides and minor crimes are solved thanks to this simple but effective technique. Unfortunately, although many convicts are rehabilitated successfully back into the community and leave behind their troubled past, many reoffend once and again, as if it were written in their genetic code and they were unable to do anything else.

I had brought a hefty pile of photographs, from the places where the remains had been found, with me to the hotel. Many of them showed the strange symbols carved on the left femur (the right one had never been found, like many other bones belonging to the victims). One of the investigators, a geeky-looking young man with the typical thick-rimmed glasses fashionable at the time, suggested to me that it could be a variation of one of the elfin languages, as the inscriptions vaguely reminded him of the tengwar writing, and perhaps the murderer was addicted to ‘The Lord of the Rings’. I deduced that the one who was a true fan of Tolkien and his works was him. Without having to ask him, he wrote an inscription in a piece of paper and immediately connected it with what had been found carved on the femurs. In truth I didn’t find that many similarities, but I wrote down his comment in one of the four Moleskine notebooks I had brought with me. We never know where we might find a clue that guides us to a totally unbalanced mind.

The fact that the individual we were looking for, and of that I was quite clear (that we were only fighting against one person), repeated such a clear pattern revealed some interesting clues about his obsessive personality. The question was to find out what the hell those inscriptions meant, and what he was trying to communicate with them. That was something I had been obsessed with from the very beginning, and now that I was in the thick of it, my determination to solve the mystery had done nothing but increase. Sometimes serial killers do certain things to send a message addressed to those investigating the case, but at other times they did it as part of a ritual that gave them release or satisfaction. It was too early to reach any conclusions as to his intentions.

After spending close to an hour meticulously analyzing each picture, I felt a sharp twinge in some innermost part of my brain. There was something more to