Maela Lombardi sensed intrusion to her home as soon as she closed the front door behind her, as though all her furniture had been shifted slightly in her absence, and the wattage of the bulbs reduced. A smell of pickles invaded her nostrils, and beneath it an odor that was almost male, a stink she associated with teenage boys careless in both habit and hygiene. But before she could react, a cloth had been placed over her mouth and nose, and the pickle scent overwhelmed all else.
And Maela Lombardi succumbed to the dark.
38
Parker drove back to Scarborough in a silent car. He neither wanted nor needed the distraction of the radio. He desired only to think as the light faded around him, and the dig was left behind.
Someone local had put the woman in the ground. The route to the burial site was not one to be taken by persons unfamiliar with the terrain. For a start it was too arduous: trees overhung the secondary road that led to the grave, so even in daylight it would be shadowy and difficult to navigate. In addition, someone ‘from away’ could not be certain that the road did not lead to a cabin or camp, or cleave through territory favored by hunters and hikers, or monitored by foresters. And there was the ground itself: soft, easy to break. Spruce roots didn’t run deep, and a cursory search, combined with a little knowledge of woodland, would have enabled the person digging to find a relatively clear spot.
Finally, some common sense had to come into play. Even the coldest of individuals would feel concern at driving any distance with a body concealed in the trunk of a car, or hidden in the bed of a truck. The aim would be to rid oneself of the remains as quickly as possible, which meant that no one unfamiliar with the land on which the body was found would have chosen it as a dumping ground. It was not just secluded; it was too secluded. No, only a local would have adjudged it appropriate for a secret burial.
Then what of the child? Assuming it was not interred near the mother – and Parker was increasingly tending toward the belief, shared by Allen and Hubbell, that its absence from the mother’s grave offered some prospect of its survival – then whoever dug the hole was either still in possession of the child, or knew where it was. This wasn’t necessarily a positive development: there were men – women, too, but they were rarer – whose depravity could be fed by a baby. Either way, the mystery of the lost child was likely to be solved in the region. Someone from Piscataquis or its immediate environs knew its fate.
But it was possible that some fresh information might emerge as a result of the press conference scheduled for the following day, one the local news services would be encouraged to pitch to the nationals. The infant was the hook. The body of a woman found in the woods would not be enough to draw out-of-state interest, but add a narrative in which she was not simply another Jane Doe buried in a shallow grave (and what did it say about humankind, Parker thought, that this was not considered sufficiently worthy of attention?) but a new mother, one whose child was still missing, and the media would have a mystery.
What did appear certain, though, was that the anonymous woman was not from Maine. The state currently had fewer than thirty ongoing missing persons cases being investigated by the Major Crimes Unit of the MSP, most of which involved males. Of the cases involving women, none fit the time frame or the age profile of the recovered body.
By the time the lights of Portland appeared in the distance, Parker had put together a plan of approach, but he knew he was likely to be either one step behind or ahead of the state police in everything he did, because they would be following the same investigative processes. For once, Parker was not in competition with law enforcement, or working to protect a client whose interests might not be best served by exposure to a police investigation. Yet neither did he feel entirely comfortable taking Moxie Castin’s money for a job that the police were qualified to do equally well, if not better.
He called Moxie and gave him a rundown on what he had learned so far, which wasn’t much at all. But Parker did share his belief that the person responsible for burying the woman was native to Piscataquis County, although it didn’t necessarily mean that he or she – or the child, if it still lived – remained in the area, or even the state.
‘Do I detect a note of unhappiness?’ Moxie asked.
‘Call it a pang of conscience.’
‘Over what?’
‘I get the feeling the police are on top of this one, which means I’m uncomfortable about taking money for walking the same ground.’
‘You’ll never make a lawyer if you start having qualms.’
‘I’ll try to hide the pain those words have caused me. Otherwise, I think we should see what comes out of tomorrow’s press conference. If all the police get is an echo, we’ll talk again. If we’re operating on the assumption that the child is alive, I already have some thoughts on how to proceed, but it’ll be time-consuming, and unpleasant.’
Parker had made a call to Walsh on the way back to Portland. According to the detective, the investigators were probably going to wait for the completion of the search, and confirmation of the presence or absence of further remains, before taking the next step, which would involve a general approach to the state’s medical professionals, and pediatricians in particular, seeking information on any unexpected postnatal consultations corresponding to the time of Jane Doe’s death. It was possible that this might produce some leads, but the end result would still be as Parker had suggested.
‘Because nobody wants a stranger knocking on their door and asking if their child is really blood to them?’ said Moxie.
‘That’s it exactly.’
‘I appreciate your honesty, even if it means you’re going to die poor. I’m not only paying you to look into this, but also to shadow the police. Bill me for a few hours each day, at least for now. I’d prefer you to stay on top of it.’
‘There is one other thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘I had a visit from Bobby Ocean.’
‘He’s persistent.’
‘He’s more than that. He seems to be of the opinion that I bear some responsibility for the destruction of his son’s truck. He also referred to you as a “Semite,” and in a tone that leads me to suspect he may not have been serious about putting business your way. He came to you because of me. Oh, and he doesn’t care much for blacks and homosexuals either, although he didn’t express it in precisely those terms. He suggested I tell the “Negroes and queers” of my acquaintance that a new order was rising.’
‘The Negroes and queers of your acquaintance?’ said Moxie. ‘At least you’ll only have to make one call. So the son learned at his father’s knee?’
‘I may have indicated something along those lines to Bobby Ocean.’
‘I bet he took it under advisement. Fortunately for you, he’s completely mistaken about your involvement in the immolation of the truck.’
Moxie never conducted any conversation over a phone line that he wouldn’t be unconcerned to hear played back to him in a court of law, or in a police interview room.
‘He is, but I may have struggled to disabuse him of that notion.’
‘Then let him live with it. Bobby Ocean’s not a criminal. Any retribution he might seek would probably be through legal channels. He’s a bigot, but he’s not a fool.’
‘Unlike his son.’
‘Which begs the question: Why wasn’t Billy knocking on your door seeking restitution?’
‘I don’t think Billy’s father has shared with him any misguided suspicions he might have.’
‘Because if he did, Billy might retaliate with an act of gross stupidity.’
‘Which could result in Billy ending up in jail, or getting hurt – or worse.’