C. Lawrence - Silent victim

Vines, twigs, and leaves had been piled on top of his body, some arranged in such a way that they looked as if they were growing out of his mouth and ears.

"Okay, Doc," Butts said, looking at Lee. "What's with all the foliage? What does it mean?"

All at once, Lee realized saw the connection.

"He's the Green Man," he said. "His killer is mocking the whole idea of it, by turning Perkins into one after killing him."

"Oh, yeah," Butts said, bending down to examine the body. "I think you're right."

What Lee wasn't prepared for was the smell. The odor of blood-so much blood-was unlike anything he had experienced. It seemed to penetrate a part of his brain, causing an aversion, a deep-seated feeling of distress that he thought must be genetic, ancestral. Ancient hominids, coming across this terrible and terrifying smell, must have taken flight immediately, knowing instinctively that death lurked around the corner. But he couldn't flee, much as he wanted to. He continued to stare at the body until he heard Officer Anderson come up behind him.

"Jesus," Anderson said softly, and Lee realized this was his first murder scene. He looked at Butts for help, and the burly detective took charge at once. He beckoned them all to stay out of the room; putting his gun back in its holster, he proceeded to investigate the crime scene.

Butts was in his element. Lee watched with admiration as the detective examined the body without touching anything, then managed to move around the room without transferring any of the blood to his shoes or in any other way compromising the evidence.

After a few minutes he joined the rest of them in the hall.

"No sign of the murder weapon," he said, "though from the shape of the blows I'd say it was somethin' long and narrow-a cane, or a thick stick of some kind. No sign of defensive wounds-looks like he wasn't expecting this attack. You got CSIs on duty around here?" he asked Anderson.

"Uh, in Trenton-that's the nearest city," the young officer replied, obviously shaken.

"Then I suggest you call it in ASAP," Butts said. Looking down at Perkins, he shook his head. "Whoever did this wasn't looking to make a statement," he said. "He just wanted Perkins dead."

Looking at the body sprawled on the floor in front of them, Lee had to agree. If ever he had seen a rage-driven homicide, this was it. Whoever had killed Martin Perkins was now spinning dangerously out of control.

"What now?" Diesel asked as the three of them stood looking at the body while Officer Anderson reported the murder to his station house, which would then call the crime unit in Trenton. Butts had already called Chuck Morton to inform him, though there was little he could do at this point.

"I think whoever did this has Charlotte Perkins," Lee said.

"Unless she did this," Butts remarked.

Lee had to admit that wasn't completely unrealistic. She obviously had great resentment against her brother, with good reason-and it wouldn't be the first time a victim of domestic abuse snapped and murdered her abuser. Lee wasn't sure their relationship fit the legal definition of abuse, but he didn't like what he'd heard from her. And so now Perkins was dead-Serves him right, he thought uncharitably-but where was Charlotte? And even more puzzling, assuming she was still alive, where was Krieger?

"You think a-a woman could have done this?" Officer Anderson said, with a naivete that was touching.

Butts frowned at him. "Kid, one thing you learn when you've been a cop as long as I have is that anyone can do anything to anybody."

Anderson's pale eyes widened. "But-I mean, wouldn't it take a lot of force to deliver blows like this?"

"Yeah," Butts said. "But when a person's angry enough, you'd be surprised how strong they are."

"I don't think Charlotte did this," Lee said, looking at the body. "She wasn't angry-she was frightened."

"Okay," Butts replied. "But I'd sure like to know where she is."

"So would I," Lee agreed. "Let's have a look at his patient files. Perkins is dead now-we don't need a warrant," he added in response to Officer Anderson's inquiring look.

"Yeah-yeah, I guess you're right," the young policeman agreed. "Where do you suppose they'd be?"

"Well, I kept mine in a filing cabinet in my office," Lee answered.

"So all we gotta to do is go back to his office," Butts remarked, leading the way back downstairs to the consulting room at the back of the house.

The room's proximity to the kitchen made Lee guess it was originally a maid's bedroom. Though not as large as the upstairs bedrooms, it was a decent size, as elegantly furnished as the rest of the house, and with the same obsessive sense of order. The books were lined up on the built-in bookcase so that the spines were exactly even, and on the desk, not a thing was out of place. Lee's office was full of mismatched pens, pencils of different lengths and various stages of working order, all tossed in with dried-up Magic Markers and paper clips. Perkins's desk had two pewter mugs (antique, no doubt): one for pens, and one for pencils. All the pencils were exactly the same length, sharpened to perfect points, a circle of tiny spears jabbing toward the ceiling.

"Jeez," Butts said, looking around. "Was this guy anal or what?"

"I wonder if his underwear is alphabetized," Diesel remarked, and Officer Anderson giggled nervously.

"Yes, it does appear he had a case of OCD," he said.

"Try not to touch anything," Butts admonished Anderson as he ran a finger over the shiny surface of a table, apparently amazed at the lack of dust. The young cop jumped as though he'd been stung, and gave another nervous laugh.

"Yeah, right," he said, and pulled a pair of rubber gloves from his uniform pocket.

"Got any more of those?" Butts asked.

"Uh, no-sorry," Anderson said.

"Go into the kitchen and see if you can find more rubber gloves," Butts instructed him. "Surgical would be best, but kitchen gloves are okay."

"You think that's necessary?" Lee asked.

"The whole house is a crime scene," Butts replied. "We have to avoid destroying evidence of any kind, and that includes prints, trace evidence, that kind of thing." He regarded Diesel, chewing on his lip. "You shouldn't be in here at all. You said your dad was a cop?"

"Yes, he was," Diesel replied, crossing his powerful arms over his chest.

"Okay, tell you what," Butts said. "Why don't you go out and stand guard and make sure no one gets into the house? And when the boys from Trenton arrive, you can explain things to them, okay?"

"You don't have to treat me as though I'm ten," Diesel replied, frowning. "I can just sit in the car."

"No, no-it'd be really helpful," Butts said earnestly. "I don't want the locals getting too curious, y'know?"

"Very well," Diesel said. Drawing himself up with a dignified scowl, he left the room.

Officer Anderson appeared with a box of surgical gloves, holding them out to Butts with the pride of a child who has done a very clever thing. "Will these do?" he said eagerly. "I found these under the sink-a whole box of them!"

"Fine," Butts said, taking the box and handing a pair to Lee, while he put on another himself.

Officer Anderson looked disappointed, as if he had expected a pat on the back, or perhaps a lollipop.

Butts started looking through desk drawers, while Lee went to the wooden filing cabinet next to the desk. Starting at the top, he slid open the heavy oak drawer, and studied the folders inside. The top drawer was mainly about finances: the tabs, perfectly organized-and alphabetized-read, BANKING, followed by BILLS, PAID, and BILLS, UNPAID, and so on.

Meanwhile, Officer Anderson roamed the room restlessly, not touching anything, looking out of place and apprehensive.