Chuck Logan - Vapor Trail

“Oh c’mon,” Sally said.

Broker put on a stern expression and said, “You ran a red light back there in town.”

She sat up straighter and hung her head, mostly getting her defiant voice under control. “I’m sorry, officer; I thought I had the amber,” she said, and Broker could almost hear her dad instructing her as a teenager. Even if the cop is a total asshole, always show respect; always call him sir or officer.

Struggling to maintain his stern expression, Broker continued. “Plus you’re driving erratically. I could write you up for operating a motor vehicle while under the influence of journalism. That’s a pretty serious offense in Washington County.”

Sally stared at him.

Finally, Broker couldn’t hold back the grin. “So what’s up?” he asked.

Exasperated, she shot him a sidelong glance. “Not much. Just that the whole Catholic Church is under siege, and you got a dead priest, as in shot-in-the-head dead, in his confessional to boot.”

Broker squinted at her. “Has somebody been tipping you, like anonymously?”

Sally batted her eyes. “You mean, like calling me up at odd hours?”

“Yeah.”

“C’mon, that only happens in bad novels and B movies.”

Just then a dark blue Stillwater squad and two white county cruisers zoomed past and headed north with their flashers turning but no sirens.

Sally didn’t even say good-bye. She dropped the Volvo in gear and left Broker in a shower of gravel as she pulled back on the road and headed out after the cops.

Broker turned into the driveway right after Sally. He saw at least five other police cruisers, a couple unmarked Crown Vics, and a green ambulance from Lakeview Hospital.

Several cops were fanning out in the densely wooded area around the house, which was a basic St. Croix River place: basement built into a slope, one upper story, wraparound deck. Broker watched Sally get out of her car and approach the house. Several cops saw her but didn’t stop her, so she continued around to the back. Broker saw Mouse standing in the shade of a basswood tree. He got out and walked over.

“Hey Mouse, what’s up?”

“Go look.”

“Is this a crime scene or a county fair?” Broker said.

“I’m, ah, relaxing the rules a little,” Mouse said. Sweat soaked his face.

“I guess. . you just let Sally Erbeck go traipsing through. I thought the general idea was you don’t want civilians messing it up.”

“We may have caught a lucky break here in a ghoulish sort of way. Appears this guy had a heart condition and caught the Big One in his yard. The neighborhood dogs were roving in a pack and found the body, probably twenty-four hours ago. There’s no way to mess this one up any more than it already is. Go look. But, ah, watch your step.”

Broker walked around the house and down the lawn to where a knot of Stillwater and county patrol coppers had gathered to direct traffic around points of interest strewn in the grass. Sally backed away from the group, walked over to a lawn chair, and sat down. Her face was pale and queasy.

Then Broker got a whiff of the rotten-meat stench plumped up on a platter of heat. A few more steps, and he glimpsed literally flesh and blood on the grass and what could be a gut pile. His first impression was: the cadaver of a road-killed deer.

But they were a long way from the road.

He took a few more steps and saw that the remains were human. One of the cops walked stiffly away, ducked into the bushes, and lost his breakfast.

The corpse lay on its back and was distorted by the mutilation of genitals, belly, and face. Entrails had been chewed and jerked out in red, white, and purple ribbons across the grass. Eyes gone, no mouth. The face had been gnawed down to the bone. All the exposed meat was coated with a glistening swarm of green flies that hummed like a small hardworking motor.

“Dogs,” said one of the cops. “Regular old Rover and Spot.”

He pointed through the trees at a house over two hundred yards away. “The neighbors had been up north on vacation. They came home last night and heard dogs scuffling in the woods, didn’t think much of it. Then this morning they heard them again and the man came to investigate. He thought maybe the dogs had run down a deer.”

“Wild dogs?” said Sally Erbeck. Like a good soldier, she had returned.

“Nah, just your everyday faithful Fido. They’re probably at home nuzzling the kids.” The cop, a husky sergeant, smiled at Broker. He was enjoying his moment with the white-faced reporter.

“And all those flies?” Sally said.

“Bluebottles, they show up fast in the heat, when a body starts to release gas and fluids. Now if this guy hadn’t been chewed on by dogs, the flies would settle into the orifices; eyes, nose, mouth, and the genital anal region-but as you can see, there ain’t no eyes, nose, mouth, or. .”

“I get the picture,” Sally said, walking away.

“What’s going on?” Broker said to the sergeant.

“Mouse said to let the press take a good look, no restrictions, long as they don’t actually step in it,” the sergeant said quietly. Then his heavy features composed into a swoon of pure delight. “Oh my,” he said.

Broker turned and saw a blond television reporter in a lime green pants suit striding toward them with her cameraman in tow. Her perfect features were clenched in an enamel Botox smile.

“Margo Shay, Channel. .” She got a look, and her smile clotted into a gag reflex.

“It ain’t exactly ashes to ashes, dust to dust, is it?” the sergeant said, striking a thoughtful pose.

Broker left the sergeant to his forensic epiphany and went back toward the house, where he found Mouse facing another camera crew and several print reporters. Mouse shifted from foot to foot like an old lion gathering himself to jump through yet another ring of fire.

“We’re still waiting on the medical examiner, so anything I say is strictly off the record and for background. But we found a whole cabinet full of medication, so we speculate this person might have suffered a heart attack in his yard at least twenty-four hours ago,” Mouse said.

“What kind of medication?” a reporter said.

“Lessee.” Mouse consulted a small spiral notebook. “Lasix, Bumix. Some digitalis and, ah, I think it’s Coumadin-that’s a blood thinner, basically rat poison is what it is.”

“Rat poison?”

“Yeah, really thins out the little fuckers’ blood so when they squeeze through itty-bitty cracks they start really gushing inside,” Mouse said.

“So the dogs didn’t kill him?” another reporter said.

“Highly doubtful. Almost certainly not. Usually, domestic dogs will feed on a corpse only if there’s fresh blood. So maybe he had a nosebleed or something; that might explain the pattern of mutilation from the face down the front of the torso,” Mouse said.

“Are we talking regular dogs, house pets?” a reporter asked.

“The neighbor who found the body this morning chased off five or six dogs, two of which he recognized,” Mouse said. Then seeing Broker, he waved off the reporters. “I think it’s better to wait on the Ramsey County medical examiner.”

Mouse took Broker by the arm and walked him into the shadows under the deck. “Lookit this. We put the dog stuff over the radio, and there’s sheriff deputies here from St. Croix County, Wisconsin, Forest Lake, Cottage Grove. And, ah, it must be a slow day in St. Paul because the ‘A Team’ from BCA just arrived.” Mouse pointed at two guys in suits who were striding down the driveway.

A Stillwater cop and county patrol sergeant Patti Palen were standing a few feet away. The Stillwater cop said, “The tall guy in the blue suit with the dark hair, is that. .?”