Marcia Talley: Sing It to Her Bones

“What’s an obstetrician doing identifying bodies?”

“He’s a GP, Hannah. We elect our medical examiners in this county. Probably the last county in Maryland that hasn’t switched over to forensic investigators. No special qualifications needed for medical examiners, either. Hell, you could be a medical examiner if you could muster enough votes.”

I watched the doctor climb out of his car. He looked to be in his thirties, handsome in a baby-faced sort of way, and prematurely bald. “He looks competent enough.”

“He is,” Connie told me. “Although I don’t think Frank entirely approved of his old man. Frank is all modern equipment and newfangled remedies. Goes off to medical conferences all the time. His father was more old-fashioned; he mixed modern medicine with herbal remedies and homeopathy. Even kept a herb garden behind his house.” She waved at Dr. Chase, and he saluted in return. “Of course it’s sadly neglected now.”

After Dr. Chase’s arrival the scene throbbed with renewed activity. The police evidence unit and photographers moved back and forth between the cistern and their vehicles. Dr. Chase disappeared for a long time behind the house, then reappeared carrying something in his hand. He knelt down and bent over an object on the ground, then made a call on his cellular telephone.

Meanwhile, the fire department had rolled out two lengths of hose, coupled them together with some other equipment, and dragged the whole awkward contraption up the driveway and behind the house. At a signal from a fireman stationed at the rear of the house, an engine sputtered to life and gallons of greenish brown water began cascading down the drive.

“They’re pumping out the well.” The reedy, high-pitched voice came from behind me. It belonged to the same towheaded boy who, moments before, had tried to slip by Officer Braddock.

“They are?”

He met my gaze with a directness unusual for someone his age, which I guessed was about nine. “They’re looking for clues. There’ll be rings and clothes and things at the bottom. And body parts.” He grinned at me, ghoulishly.

I tried not to give the boy the satisfaction of looking shocked. “Why aren’t you in school?” I asked instead. “Don’t they have school on Wednesdays anymore?”

“I come with my cousin over there.” He pointed toward the fire truck, where a young man in a tattered yellow slicker leaned negligently against the bumper. “He’s running the pump.” The boy rolled a stone around on the blacktop with the toe of his tennis shoe. “I’m ’sposed to be home sick. But I’m better now.” With a swift kick, he sent the stone skittering across the pavement and into the ditch. “Bye!”

“Bye.” I watched as he dashed across the road and joined his cousin, who was mopping his brow with the back of his hand.

It was nearly two o’clock, and the temperature had climbed into the high eighties. Reporters from the local weekly appeared, trailed closely by the Washington Post and the Baltimore Sun . They stationed themselves along the fence line, camera bags slung carelessly over their shoulders, screwing on, switching and adjusting various telephoto lenses. I watched while one hapless reporter in shorts stepped with exaggerated care through the high grass of an adjoining field, pausing every few feet or so to massage his exposed legs. The day had turned into a carnival. I expected a concession truck would arrive any minute and start selling coffee, hot dogs, french fries, and Coca-Cola.

An attractive man in a dark gray suit, his sandy hair receding slightly at the temples and combed straight back, strode down the drive, keeping far to the left to avoid the water. Where had he been hiding? He spoke briefly to Officer Braddock, lifted the yellow tape, and ducked under it. His eyes took in the crowd; then he surprised me by coming up directly to Connie and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, Connie. How’s it going?”

“Fine, Dennis. Considering.”

Dennis extended his hand. “Hannah, isn’t it? You probably don’t remember me, but we met at Craig’s funeral.”

“Of course I remember!” I didn’t, of course. The funeral had been a merciful blur. I doubt I would have noticed if Ronald Reagan had happened to stop by to offer his condolences. With Nancy.

Dennis smiled, revealing even white teeth. “I’ll be back with you in a minute.” He turned to address the crowd. “There’s nothing to see here, folks. Why don’t you just go on home now and read all about it in the papers tomorrow?”

Connie came to my rescue. “That’s Dennis Rutherford,” she whispered. “He and Craig went to high school together, then joined the police force at about the same time. Dennis is a lieutenant with the county’s criminal investigation division. He must be in charge here.”

The crowd retreated slightly, but only to keep their feet dry and to clear the way for the recent arrival of a hearse with “Sterling’s Funeral Home” elaborately etched on the side windows. We observed in silence as two officers emerged from behind the house, carrying a white body bag. They deposited it on a waiting stretcher, then helped the driver lift the stretcher and slide it into the hearse. Officer Braddock climbed into the passenger seat and watched carefully in the side view mirror as the hearse backed down the drive, turned, and disappeared up the road. Dr. Chase followed in his own car. It would be a long ride from Pearson’s Corner to the State Medical Examiner’s Office up in Baltimore.

“What did Dr. Chase say?” Connie asked Dennis when he reappeared at her side.

“He thinks it’s a woman, but the body’s badly decomposed. It began to fall apart the minute we tried to move it.”

I shuddered. “Was she murdered?”

“Murdered? Well, I’m no expert, but people don’t usually shoot themselves in the head, then strap cinder blocks to their waists with baling wire before flinging themselves into wells.”

Connie closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. “Everyone thinks it’s Katie Dunbar.”

“I don’t know, Connie, but if it is, I have a hunch we won’t have to look very far for her murderer. We did a thorough investigation when she disappeared back in ’90. That Lambert boy is going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

Dennis touched Connie’s elbow and hurried us both up the drive. He unlocked the Taurus on the passenger side, opened both doors, and motioned us inside. “I’ll give you a lift home, but you’ll need to hurry. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that’s the Channel Thirteen Eyewitness News team just cresting the hill, and I’d rather not deal with them just now.”

In one smooth motion, Dennis folded his long legs into the driver’s seat, pulled the seat belt across his chest, and started the engine. He turned to look at Connie. “You still make a mean cup of tea?”

We eluded the press by the simple expedient oftaking Dennis’s unmarked Taurus and driving it hell-bent for leather in the opposite direction. We whizzed past the folks from Channel 13 as they rounded the curve near the pond, sending ducks and chickens squawking and flapping from the grassy berm and into the muddy water.

Twenty minutes later I was standing in Connie’s kitchen, holding the lid on the teakettle with one finger while I poured hot water into Dennis’s cup. “What was that you were saying earlier about the Lambert boy?” He ignored my question, and Connie shot me a sudden sideways glance that said, plain as day, “Hannah, do shut up.”

I tried to act grateful. Lieutenant Rutherford had, after all, saved me and my butt from a cold, hard plastic chair in the Chesapeake County Eastern District Police Station by deciding to interview us late that same afternoon in Connie’s bright kitchen, where the sun, low in the sky, slanted through the decorative shutters Paul had installed for her last winter.