They stood over the table looking down at the line of stark-white right tibias. Sherlock picked up the only smaller one. “He murdered a child, didn’t he?”
Dr. Thomas said, “A teenage girl, actually. I’ve only begun to examine the bones closely for trauma, anything to indicate cause of death. One of the skulls appears fractured, but that’s hard to say without closer examination.” Dr. Thomas paused, ran his hands through his hair, thick brown with gray strands on the sides that made him look professorial. Rich was lean, a runner, Sherlock knew, with two kids and a wife with a local cooking show on TV. They were lucky to have him. He lived and breathed his work. And worshiped his wife’s lasagna. He took off his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt. “I’ll have done an examination in the next couple of days, then hopefully I’ll be able to tell you what killed some of these folks.” Dr. Thomas looked over at Sala. “You called me about some big break. What is it?”
Sala pulled the gold Star of David belt buckle out of a bag and handed it to Dr. Thomas. “I’m thinking it’s fourteen-karat gold,” Sala said, “which means lots of moolah was spent on that adornment. It might get us identification if the man was a local. I was wondering why the Serial didn’t take it. I mean, he could have fenced it for at least a couple thousand.”
Dr. Thomas fingered the belt buckle. “It’s very beautiful and yes, unique.” He said to Ty, “I know you want answers, Chief. Tomorrow, our people will start examining the bone marrow for traces of DNA. But you know, it will take time.”
He handed the belt buckle back to Sala and looked over at the skulls. “Our artist Jayne will start the facial approximations tomorrow.” He gave them a lopsided grin. “Although truthfully, they’re not very useful yet. But hey, maybe in a couple of years, who knows? You could set MAX on it, Savich.”
Ty picked up the Star of David belt buckle, studied it again. “When can we show this on local TV, Dillon?”
“Tomorrow,” Savich said.
Ty said slowly, “Rather than some local police chief going on TV, namely me, I think the FBI would get more attention. Dillon, you should do it.”
Sala added, “She’s right, Savich. You and Mr. Maitland could appear together. It would give the announcement more gravitas, maybe more of the stations would run it, especially if you do it in Willicott. The belt buckle of a murdered man who lived in the area.”
“I’ll call Mr. Maitland, see if that’s how he wants to run it.” He looked over at the bones, at people whose lives had been ended so cruelly by an individual with no conscience, felt no remorse, who had probably felt nothing at all, except pleasure.
25
* * *
MARAUDER STATE PARK
NEAR PLUNKETT, MARYLAND
SUNDAY EVENING
I’m tired, Victor, and my stitches hurt. This place is pretty, I’ll give you that, but why’d you want to come to another park in the same state?
“Lissy, think a minute. Nobody pays you any mind once you’re cleared into a park. You walk past all the campers and the people with their tents and their kids and their barbecues, and it’s nice and quiet. No one watching TV, not like that old buzzard at the bait store.”
I can hear it in your voice, Victor. You’re still peeing your pants, aren’t you? That’s because you didn’t put out that old coot’s lights like you should have. Stupid, Victor, and now you know he’s already told the cops where we are. And he saw the car, and they’ll track us. You know the dude couldn’t wait to call them. That was a bad mistake, Victor, really bad. I’ve told you, I don’t want to go back to that brain-dead psych ward. And you dropped my box of Milk Duds, you were so scared. My mama never ran from anything.
“Shut up about your stupid mama! I don’t want to hear about her anymore. Look, it took me by surprise, that’s all. I mean, seeing myself on TV—I couldn’t believe it. How’d they find out about me? How? And so fast? I was careful, scrubbed everything. You know that. You were watching and telling me how to do it. I wish we could get those staples out of your belly. They’re ugly, and I don’t like to see them, especially when you’re scratching at them.”
You think they’re ugly? Poor you. It’s always you, isn’t it, Victor? But what about me? They’re clamping my guts in. I hate them. They pull and stretch and ache all the time.
“It’s because that bastard Savich kicked you so hard they had to cut you open and make repairs. Why’d you want to kill Savich so bad that first time when you saw him in the bank? I mean, he was lying there on the floor like the rest of the customers, right? He couldn’t hurt you.”
Lissy pulled out a slice of white bread and opened the jar of crunchy peanut butter. I’d seen him on TV, realized he was that big important FBI agent, and I had this great chance to kill him.
When I was with it enough to watch TV after the surgery, the news programs were still going on about how Savich had been some sort of hero, saved some worthless sods’ lives. I hate him. I want you to kill him, Victor. Hey, there’s sugar in this peanut butter. Why didn’t you get natural? You know that’s the only kind Mama ever bought.
“Peanut butter tastes better with sugar. Give me a slice, too, Lissy. And I want some of those Fritos and some bean dip.”
The only fresh thing you bought are those limp carrots, probably older than that old coot, Norm. You should have looked closer before you bought them, Victor. They look like they’ll taste nasty. And I don’t have a peeler. Hand me that water so I can at least give them a wash. Then give me your new Ka-Bar. I’ll scrape them down.
“Yeah, here’s the knife. Look, even if I’d shot that old guy at the grocery, his wife was there, too, and she saw me. People could have come in, could have seen me. I had to run. You would have, too.”
Me, run? You know better than that, Victor. Mama didn’t raise no lame-butt coward. Pop! Pop! And the problem’s solved. And you get the money in the cash register, and you wouldn’t have to drive all day long, so scared you were sweating bullets. Look at you, happy now you’re eating your peanut butter, with all that sugar on that poopy white bread.
Now they know who we are. You gotta be smart, no more making up things as you go along, like that stupid chocolate bar at the book festival, no more going cowboy. You could have got yourself caught, Victor. That agent, Sherlock, she got too close.
“How many times do I have to tell you? I followed them from Washington. They never saw me. I got this idea, thought I could get the kid. Why not? I would have gotten him if things had been different. How long are you going to rag on me about that, Lissy?”
All right, so you tried. Now we’ve got things to do, places to go. I’m thinking it’s time to get Buzz Riley, that security guard who killed my mama. I’ll never forget his name as long as I live. I want to shoot a bullet right up his nose, Victor. Okay?
“I’ll think about it, Lissy. I’ll buy you some natural peanut butter tomorrow.”
26
* * *
WILLICOTT, MARYLAND
SUNDAY EVENING
Savich and Sherlock sat across from Ty and Sala in a booth, three of them eating Congo’s famous meatloaf, Savich a corn-on-the-cob and three-bean salad, prepared for him by Congo himself. It was his granny’s recipe from before the big war in Europe, he’d said. Ty had wondered if Congo was a nickname or if his parents had given in to whimsy or visited Africa at the time of his conception. Since Sean was at his grandmother’s, Savich and Sherlock had wanted to come back to Willicott to touch base with Sala and Ty. And where they were touching base was at Bliss’s Diner, a local landmark, Ty had assured them.
Congo sauntered to their table again and beamed a hundred-watt smile. “Well, now, what do you think of my special salad for you, Agent Savich? The beans are fresh, right out of my own garden.”