Ridley Pearson - The First Victim

Boldt took the signal and walked the boxes two feet apart. He looked up, awaiting his next command.

LaMoia nudged Boldt and said in a whisper, ‘‘We’re losing the world to geeks. You realize that? Think about it. The geeks run the computers and the computers run everything from long distance phones to ICBM missiles. I’m telling ya: We’re not safe no more with these people behind the dials.’’

‘‘We can’t exhume without evidence of an unexplained body. That’s the way the warrant reads.’’

‘‘I understand that,’’ LaMoia complained. ‘‘I’m just saying. . anyone who knows how this shit works. . especially a woman! I mean, anyone who could think this stuff up. . Who wants them in charge?’’

‘‘You’ve been watching too much TV.’’

‘‘In all my free time,’’ LaMoia quipped.

The woman called out to Boldt, ‘‘Okay, Lieutenant. Let’s try four feet.’’

Boldt approached the two boxes and moved them farther apart, LaMoia following him like a trained dog. Boldt said, ‘‘Her name is Heidi Mack. She was recommended by Necrosearch out of Denver.’’ Boldt moved the two antennae a few feet apart and looked up. Mack lifted onto tiptoes to see over the computer gear, and gave Boldt another thumbs-up.

‘‘She’s cute,’’ LaMoia said.

‘‘Keep it on the job, Sergeant.’’ After several more ‘‘sets,’’ Boldt led LaMoia over to the woman.

He was right, of course. LaMoia could spot the good-looking women from any distance. In a heartbeat. He could love them and leave them just about as quickly. Heidi Mack had warm dark eyes, a strong face, and a runner’s body. Boldt found her eyes and mouth captivating to where he caught himself staring. He averted his attention, looking at the equipment instead. On the computer screen he saw a color image that vaguely resembled a sonogram.

‘‘The stuff in Jurassic Park?’’ she said, in a voice smooth and sensual. ‘‘The movie, I’m talking about, not the book. . It can’t be done. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one of these days. In the meantime, this is the best we’ve got.’’ She worked the computer mouse, sharpening the image. ‘‘We call it forensic tomography. Ground Penetrating Radar is a geophysical method which is an outgrowth of technologies developed for the petroleum industry. We can determine depth of ground disturbance. But actual contents is way trickier. And we’re lucky we’re up here on a hill, because any saline-saturated soil wreaks havoc on GPR. This program we’re using is in Beta phase. It’s all in the software, okay? Sure it’s experimental, but it’s also cutting edge.’’

‘‘What’d I tell you?’’ LaMoia whispered to Boldt, nudging him.

Boldt pointed to the screen. ‘‘This?’’

‘‘Good eye, Detective. Yes.’’

‘‘My wife had sonograms with both children.’’

‘‘Are you married?’’ LaMoia asked her.

Both Mack and Boldt looked over at him at the same time. Mack replied, ‘‘I have a girl, six, and a boy, three.’’

‘‘Why don’t you call SID, Sergeant?’’ Boldt ordered. ‘‘Will we be digging?’’ he bluntly asked Heidi Mack.

LaMoia stood his ground. Mack pointed to the screen where squiggles and loops of different colors were grouped in three distinct lumps. They reminded Boldt of Sarah’s crayon drawings back on his office wall. ‘‘We’ve got a good read, a good look at all three grave sites you indicated.’’ Her finger directed them to a rough yellow green at the bottom of the middle of the three. ‘‘This area is deeper and badly disturbed, especially when compared to these other two. It could possibly be explained by hand digging-shoveling, rather than a backhoe. You see how these other two are less busy? The backhoe doesn’t disturb the walls nearly as much as hand shoveling.’’

‘‘Bones?’’ Boldt asked.

‘‘Necrosearch has been burying pigs for years.’’

‘‘Pigs!’’ LaMoia blurted out.

‘‘Pigs,’’ she answered. ‘‘And working on imaging systems to identify bone mass. They’re still a long way off from anything close to perfect. About the best we can do is make educated guesses based on some of these trial experiments.’’ She waited for another LaMoia exclamation, but he withheld his comments. She continued, ‘‘Typically, bodies are buried about two feet down, and that’s the depth of the experiments. This is much trickier-six to eight feet in depth. But these shadings here, and these returns here,’’ she said, fingertip to the screen, ‘‘are your best bets. The coffin registers here: This sharp straight line and these unexplained returns are most certainly below that line. They’re not rock. Sticks, maybe. Bone, maybe.’’

‘‘Am I picking up reservations?’’ Boldt asked.

LaMoia fired off, ‘‘You don’t need reservations to book this room!’’ The joke fell flat.

Heidi Mack answered Boldt. ‘‘Yes, I suppose you are. Definite reservations. My problem is this. I’ve seen dozens, maybe hundreds of GPR returns on all sorts of experimental burials. You learn to spot the anomalies.’’ Again, she indicated the screen. ‘‘The problem here? The problem you’ve got? We’ve got way too many returns, and they’re layered. You see this? One. . two. . maybe three different strata.’’

‘‘Three?’’ Boldt whispered.

‘‘What the hell’s going on?’’ LaMoia blurted out.

Boldt turned to him and said, ‘‘Ms. Mack?’’

‘‘If I’m right,’’ Heidi Mack explained to LaMoia, ‘‘you don’t have one, you have three other bodies buried down there.’’

‘‘We have indications the tissue has been frozen!’’ Doc Dixon called up from the bottom of the open grave. 2:00 A.M., Saturday morning. Day twelve. Another bank of halogens to combat the multiple shadows so deep. Heidi Mack had stuck around at Boldt’s invitation-every piece of data collected would be added to the Necrosearch database in Denver. ‘‘Moderate decomposition. When was this grave dug?’’

‘‘Five weeks ago,’’ LaMoia answered.

‘‘That fits.’’

‘‘The bottom of their feet?’’ Boldt asked.

‘‘What feet? There’s little to nothing left,’’ Dixon replied. ‘‘SID will have to sift this soil for debris. You’re hoping for fish scales?’’

‘‘Be nice to find,’’ Boldt admitted.

‘‘Fish scales?’’ Mack asked.

‘‘You didn’t hear that,’’ Boldt told her, having warned her that some of what they would discover would be off-limits for a while. She nodded.

‘‘Can we have someone dig at this end?’’ Mack said, pointing on her screen to the area that lay away from the headstone. ‘‘Into that dirt wall there?’’

‘‘What’s up?’’ Boldt asked her.

‘‘Another anomaly I’d like to verify for the sake of the software. Could be anything.’’

‘‘Dixie? You mind working a shovel for a minute?’’

‘‘It’s not in the job description!’’ the medical examiner complained from the bottom of the hole.

Boldt handed him down a shovel.

‘‘Where?’’ Dixon asked.

Mack returned to her equipment, walked over to the open hole and pointed out an area in the very corner. ‘‘It should only be a few inches lower than the grade where you’re standing. A foot at most.’’

Dixon planted the shovel into the mud and began digging. He stuck something on his second attempt. ‘‘You’re good!’’ he called up to Mack, his gloved hand reaching down and extricating the treasure. ‘‘It’s a rope,’’ he called out. ‘‘Check that,’’ he said, studying it more closely. ‘‘It’s a chain!’’ He knocked off some of the dirt and held it up for all to see.

But Boldt didn’t need to look. He’d seen it already in the digital videotape-a chain used to bind an ankle to a sewing machine.