P. Parrish - South Of Hell

Louis shook his head.

Brandt finally said the magic words: I want an attorney . Bloom cut off the interview and left the room through a side door. He appeared in the hall with Louis and Shockey a few seconds later.

Bloom was a big man, his face ruddy from the Michigan winters, his golden hair cut square on his head. He wore a yellow dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a gold badge on his belt.

“I thought I smelled something out here,” Bloom said.

“Cut the crap,” Louis said. “What are you going to do with him?”

“I have to let him walk,” Bloom said. “That should come as no surprise to either of you. Illegal search, police brutality, trespassing. Anything else happen out there you want to tell me about?”

“That’s about it,” Louis said.

Bloom eyed Shockey and shook his head. “I understand how Kincaid could pull this stunt, but you’re a law-enforcement officer, Detective Shockey. Fifteen years in. How could you possibly think you’d get away with this?”

“Took a chance,” Shockey said. “The way I read it, that little girl had every right to be there. And all she did was invite us in that gate with her.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe so,” Shockey said, looking back at Brandt.

Brandt was staring at the window. Louis knew Brandt’s side was mirrored and he couldn’t see Shockey, but still his stare was unnerving.

“Can I ask you how that girl knew where to tell you two assholes to dig?” Bloom asked.

Louis and Shockey exchanged glances.

“Well?” Bloom asked.

“She had a dream or a memory or something,” Shockey said. “Being in the barn must have brought it all back.”

“And she was how old when her mother disappeared?” Bloom asked.

“Four,” Louis said. “We can’t find any records for her and-”

“She’s smart,” Shockey interrupted. “She’s real smart, but she’s also kind of strange sometimes.”

Bloom raised an eyebrow.

“I think she might be a little psychic, too,” Shockey added.

Louis looked at Shockey quickly. Psychic?

“And I think you’re nuttier than a squirrel turd,” Bloom said. “Stay here, both of you.”

Bloom left them. Louis finished the coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby can. His thoughts, as they had done last night until about three a.m., started to drift again. Away from Amy and Jean Brandt and back to Lily. Eric Channing still hadn’t called him. As much as he wanted to see Lily, he was afraid he was bringing Kyla more pain. He didn’t want to break up her marriage. It seemed to be a pretty good one.

“Damn it,” Shockey muttered.

“What?”

“My pager again,” Shockey said, angling himself so he could see the display of the beeper on his belt. “My lieutenant’s been paging all morning.”

“You didn’t call him last night?”

Shockey shook his head. “Nope. But I’m sure Bloom did. Bad part is, you know how I told you getting inside that barn was all my lieutenant’s idea?”

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t. He didn’t even know we were going.”

“Jesus, Jake,” Louis said. “Why don’t you just mail your badge in now?”

Shockey looked again to the interview room. Bloom was holding the door open for Brandt. Brandt gave a sneer and left the room. Less than a minute later, Brandt appeared down the hall, emerging through another door. He still wore the same dark T-shirt, denim jacket, and filthy jeans Louis had seen on him two days ago.

He came toward them, his eyes locked on Shockey. Brandt stopped in front of Shockey, hiked up his pants, and smiled. Louis braced himself for a confrontation.

“I know who you are now,” Brandt said. “You’re a cop. You live in Ann Arbor, and you were fucking my wife nine years ago.”

Louis put a hand on Shockey’s sleeve. The muscle was tight, but he didn’t think Shockey was going to swing at him. Not here in the state police station.

Brandt shook his head, his eyes moving over Shockey’s body disparagingly. “She had real lousy taste.”

“Get out of my face before I rip your fucking tongue out,” Shockey said.

Brandt was unfazed.

“Go, Brandt,” Louis said. “Get out of here.”

“I didn’t kill my wife,” Brandt said, “but if there was ever a bitch who needed to die, it was that slut.”

Shockey started to lunge at him. Louis stepped between them and gave Brandt a shove.

“Get the hell out of here,” Louis said.

Brandt walked away. Louis kept a hand on Shockey’s chest until Brandt had turned a corner. Shockey pushed away from him.

“Sonofabitch,” Shockey hissed.

Louis headed down the hall and through a door that led outside. Brandt was climbing into the green Gremlin. Margi Ames was behind the wheel, and when she leaned over to give Brandt a kiss, he pushed her away and made an irritated gesture toward the street.

“Hey, Kincaid,” Bloom hollered.

Louis turned. Bloom was walking toward him. He had put on a brown jacket.

“The ME wants to see me,” Bloom said. “You and dickhead want to come along?”

Louis almost shot back a smartass response, tired of Bloom’s crap. But he suddenly realized that Bloom didn’t have to offer the invitation at all. In fact, Bloom could have confiscated his gun and probably locked him up for a few hours on trespassing charges. In exchange, Louis knew Bloom probably wanted to save himself a few hours of reading by having them bring him up to speed on Jean Brandt’s history.

“Yeah,” Louis said. “We’d appreciate that.”

“It’s only a block, so we’ll walk,” Bloom said. “You up for that?”

“Let’s go.”

There were two hundred and six of them. That’s what Joe had told him. Two hundred and six bones in the human body.

Louis looked down. The brownish-yellow bones were laid on a stainless-steel table, forming a disconnected but perfect skeleton. There was no quick way to count, but Louis guessed that all — or almost all — of Jean Brandt’s bones were here.

They were waiting for the ME to join them, and Louis took the time to look for signs of a fracture on one arm bone. Shockey had told him Jean had endured two broken arms. He finally turned away and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to capture a minute of lost sleep.

The double doors bumped opened, and the ME came in. His name was P. Ward, according to the sign on the wall. He was fiftyish and slim, with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair matching a Van Dyke beard. He wore green scrub pants over an old T-shirt that said WET WILLIE ’74 TOUR: “KEEP ON SMILIN’ THROUGH THE RAIN, LAUGHIN’ AT THE PAIN.”

“Detective Bloom,” Ward said. “Nice to see you again.”

“Ditto, Phil.”

“Phillip.”

Bloom stared at him. “What?”

“Phillip. My name is Phillip.”

Bloom tried hard not to roll his eyes. “Yeah, right. So what’s the word here, Doc?”

Ward looked down at the bones. “Exquisite, aren’t they?”

“They’re bones,” Bloom said.

“Yes, but it’s not often we find every one. The techs did an exceptional excavation. Please give them my praises.”

Louis heard something of the South in Ward’s melodious voice. Maybe it was the cadence or the choice of words, but Louis’s stay in Mississippi had been long enough and he had spent enough time at his old boss Sam Dodie’s home for him to develop an ear for the Delta’s special music.

“So, is it our victim or not?” Bloom asked.

Ward turned and flipped the switch on a wall-mounted light box. He shoved the copies of Jean Brandt’s dental X-rays into the clip. Then, next to it, a larger X-ray of the skull.

Louis stepped closer.

They didn’t match. It was so obvious even he could see it. The skull from the barn had a wider jaw and large teeth — a perfect full set. Jean’s teeth were small and uneven, with several missing in the back.