“His head’s not in his head anymore,” Kittredge pointed out.
“Teeth are tough,” Bohanan persisted. “They might be somewhere in this mess. Some of ’em, anyhow. Parts of some of ’em. A bit of bridgework, maybe, or a weird-shaped filling.”
“What about DNA?” said the detective. “Everything I read these days goes on and on about how great DNA is. Genetic fingerprints, no two alike. The future of forensics, supposedly.”
“Exactly,” said Bohanan. “The future. Sure, it’s possible, in some fancy-schmancy genetics lab. But routine forensic casework, in Knoxville, Tennessee? That’s five years down the road. Maybe ten.” Bohanan rocked back on his heels, studying the corpse. “We got anything else to base an ID on? Anything that doesn’t require, you know, a head or hands? Surgical scars, tattoos, six toes, anything?”
Kittredge snapped his fingers. “Damn. Yeah—he’s got tats. Both forearms. A snake on one. A devil’s pitchfork on the other.”
Bohanan lifted the handless right arm and slid the shredded sleeve up to the elbow. On the inside of the forearm was a crudely inked image of an eagle, its wings spread, its talons clutching a ship’s anchor and a three-pronged spear. “Not a pitchfork,” Bohanan said. “A trident. Symbol of Neptune—god of the sea. I’ve got an uncle with one kinda like this. He was a SEAL during the Vietnam War.”
“That fits,” said Kittredge. “Let’s see the other arm.”
Bohanan reached across the recliner and raised the left arm. Stretching upward above the shredded remnants of the wrist was a snake. Like the man, the reptile had been decapitated by the blast.
“Bingo,” said Kittredge, reaching for his radio. “Cap? It’s him. . . . ID in his wallet, tats on his arms. . . . Yeah, both tats, exactly like she described.” He glanced again at the snake. Burn in hell, asshole, he thought.
CHAPTER 44
Brockton
TWO POLICE CARS WERE idling outside my house when I arrived—the officers who’d kept watch over Jeff and Kathleen—and I stopped in the street and got out to thank them. Behind me, my watchdog, Maddox, eased his cruiser to the curb and parked. As I eyed the three police cars, I wondered what the neighbors must be thinking. Quite a fight, I pictured the crone across the street murmuring as she peered out her window. Mind your business, woman, I imagined her withered husband admonishing from the couch, then adding, I told you that Brockton fella had a mean streak in him, didn’t I?
My family’s guards, whom I hadn’t met, got out and walked toward me in the twilight, greeting me by name and extending their hands to shake mine. “I sure do appreciate y’all keeping an eye on my wife and my son,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much that helped my peace of mind.” Behind me, I heard Maddox’s door open and close, then heard his footsteps on the darkened asphalt.
“Glad to do it,” said the one who’d been assigned to Kathleen. “That dude was some bad business.” The other two nodded.
“I just got an update,” Maddox said. “They’ve got a positive ID on him now. It’s over.”
I didn’t know whether to cheer or weep. Instead, I asked, “How?”
“Driver’s license,” he said. “And tattoos.”
“And burns? Seems like I remember hearing that he had scars on his arms from cigarette burns as a kid.”
He shrugged. “I guess, but I’ll ask, if you want. They said it was positive, so if he had ’em, they must’ve seen ’em.”
“I trust y’all,” I said. “So I reckon we’ve seen the last of y’all for awhile?” He nodded. “Y’all can call your wives, tell ’em you’ll be home for supper after all.”
Maddox glanced at the other two, then back at me. “Actually, some of us are getting together at Patrick Sullivan’s Saloon,” he said. “That was Boomer’s favorite hangout. Come join us, if you want to.”
“I appreciate the invitation,” I said, lifting my hand in farewell and turning to go. “But I ought to stay here, be with my family. They need me right now.”
Was that true? I didn’t actually know, I realized as I clambered back into my truck and turned into the driveway. What I did know was that I needed them.