Jeff Carson - Foreign Deceit

“Anyways, it’s obvious that Cezar is running some sort of electronics fencing and drug operation, and Vlad’s complete reign of a respectable, European agency’s shipping and logistics operation is a perfect means to transport the stuff wherever they want. The Albastru International Shipping Company and the European Astronomical Confederation . It’s a perfect marriage.”

“So how does your brother fit in?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out, today.” He jabbed his finger into his knee. “I want to talk to these guys. I think it might be best if I go about this alone.”

She laughed, and looked over at Wolf who was staring out the window.

She turned back to the road. “I will help you.”

“I don’t want you getting in trouble, Lia. I plan on getting the truth today. I don’t have any time left.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way.

At the morgue, his brother was packed and ready to go in a heavy duty plywood box with metal latches and handles. A large gray and black stenciling saying “Handle With Extreme Care” in English was scrolled along the side diagonally.

An Air Tray. He’d seen plenty in the Army, all of which stabbed his heart, but none like the sight of this one. He gave it quick jolt with his palms to check the quality of construction — an unconscious maneuver that told him nothing.

They pointed where he needed to sign, and he signed. He took his brother’s bag of belongings, and they wheeled him away to the truck waiting out back. Wasting no time. That was good. He was on his way. Wolf had accomplished half of what he came to do.

They left the morgue and drove to the Caribinieri station. The underbelly ground floor was devoid of people, the faint odor of sweat still thick in the stagnant air. Friday mornings off .

Lia turned the corner at the top of the stairs and almost slammed into an officer jogging out of Colonello Marino’s office. “Che cazzo!” She twisted, coming to a stop.

A silence fell over the room as Wolf and Lia entered.

“What the hell’s happening?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s go talk to Paulo.”

They walked on and everyone resumed their talking, looking towards Wolf and Lia. Lia led them to the computer geniuses desk in the back room.

“What the hell is happening Paulo?”

“Oh, good morning.” He didn’t smile, looking between Lia and Wolf. “I couldn’t trace Dr. Rosenwald’s phone. I found that his latest credit card transactions were normal enough. Groceries and then a payment to the Albastru Pub on Friday night at 10:43 pm. His car is missing at his apartment building. We are looking for it.”

Wolf and Lia looked at each other.

Paulo shifted uncomfortably, now speaking at a million miles an hour. “His passport had no activity on it. Rosenwald doesn’t seem to spend much time online. Anyways, we don’t need to worry about it anymore.”

Lia folded her arms. “And why is that.”

“Because they just found him?”

Wolf’s eyes widened. “Where?”

“Near the lago by the Osservatorio di Merate. Lying in some long weeds.”

Lago Sartirana was a good sized lake to the eyes of a Coloradan — described as a retention pond by Lia. It was surrounded by dense vegetation and hills on the north side, where a bright yellow villa stood shining brightly in the morning sun. A trail circumnavigated the oval lake, the main access point being at a straight outflow canal that was fifty feet wide.

To the left of the straight canal stood some locals — some curious onlookers, some un-curious fisherman throwing in their lines. To the right, local Poliziotti stood. Lia and Wolf walked by them without receiving a single glance.

The path was well worn. Fisherman’s trash was strewn about, hooks, weights, old brightly colored lures, brittle knotted line, and lots of cigarette butts.

The lake shore itself didn’t look much cleaner. Plastic and galss bottles bobbed above the water line. A thick film of green algae had blown up against the rocks and mud, piling on itself in small waves. The smell was that of stagnant lake water with a whiff of raw sewage thrown in every ten breaths. It wasn’t a swimming lake.

After two hundred yards they came around a bend. The main trail veered to the right, away from shoreline. To the left, the shoreline turned wilder, dense with marshland. There, the Caribinieri were milling about.

They took the narrower, less traveled path, stepping on roots and rocks to keep out of the thick mud and puddles.

Rossi was bending over to the left of the trail ten yards away when they approached. He saw them and walked over.

“Ciao.”

“Ciao.”

Wolf looked behind Rossi, “Hi. What’s the situation?”

“We have found our elusive Dr. Rosenwald. A few hours ago an anonymous tip was called in.”

A handful of Caribinieri officers stood about smoking cigarettes. Wolf and Lia stepped under the perimeter tape toward an officer in heavy-duty rubber overalls who bent over taking pictures of something on the ground.

The body was well hidden. Whoever found it couldn’t have been on the narrow trail into the marsh they just came in on. They had to have come all the way in to the underbrush to see. Maybe chasing a dog. Or looking for a secluded spot to make out. Or maybe a million other reasons.

The first piece of the body Wolf saw was a Converse Chuck Taylor poking out from the dense foliage. It was light gray with mud, the original dark blue hue underneath.

Wolf let his eyes move upward from the shoe. Jeans, button up white shirt strewn with dried mud and blood. He looked back at the jeans. The knees . They were darker, similar to John’s circular mud patterns, though much less pronounced.

Wolf steeled his nerves and allowed his eyes to keep traveling towards the face. He’d seen many dead bodies in his time, and it never got any easier for him. Depending on the time of death, cause, and climate, he’d seen some disgusting, mind-branding scenes.

The left side of Dr. Rosenwald’s head was caved in. It was a blow much at the same angle as his brother’s bruise, but obviously given with a force that didn’t result in mere unconsciousness. He figured Rosenwald had received at least two blows. He narrowed his eyes. Three or more blows was more likely. The first hit had probably opened a wound that gushed with blood. The second, third and other blows had occurred in the same spot with the blood on the blunt object, leaving some spattering on the clothing.

The channel in the skull was deep. There was serious aggression behind the blows, pounding the same spot over and over again. Gray brain folds were visible.

Wolf moved his gaze to the scene. “How many people have been walking in here?”

“Ricardo and I have been taking care of forensics for the last hour. The anonymous caller must have been in here, and who knows how many people he was with. We’ve had no officers come in here, on my order. But there are footprints everywhere.”

Wolf agreed with that, surveying the immediate vicinity. Little yellow A-framed plastic evidence indicators were strewn about in an illogical display — a bent twig here, a foot print there, a cigarette-butt obviously too old to be relevant.

But no matter what Wolf thought, he had to admit this was a difficult, if not impossible scene to read. The rain storm that drenched the area while they ate pizza yesterday obviously hit this area as well. It was sopping wet. The deluge of rain could have washed away any number of pieces of evidence. But nonetheless there were a few things that caught Wolf’s eye.

The most definitive being two cattail reeds at Rosenwald’s hip. They were bent twice, which was completely unnatural — physically impossible without the help of human intention — bent once when the body fell on them, and another time when the killer bent them back up, undoubtedly to ensure better concealment of the body.