Carol O'Connell - Bone by Bone

Harmless indeed.

Sally Polk approached the porch, and the judge stood up, as he would for any woman, lady or sociopath. And his tone was civil when he addressed her. "So you've come to vandalize the rest of my house."

"Oh, no. Today I'm on best behavior." Slinging her purse strap over one shoulder, she climbed the steps and paused to glance at Hannah's rocking chair. She waited for a nod from her host, and then she sat down. "Judge, I know you pulled the strings to take those homicides away from me."

"You don't know anything of the kind." And now that he had called her bluff, he matched her smile and made his wider. He remained standing, a pointed suggestion for a short visit.

She settled her handbag on her lap, a sign that she was not leaving anytime soon. "I know you've got a vested interest in a backwoods investigation."

"You mean Cable? He's the one with jurisdiction. The state of California has no interest here. My son's grave is on private land-a county matter."

"Only because Mrs. Straub's government lease was rescinded. I hear the paperwork to kill those old mineral rights went through in one day. Well, let me tell you-that gave heart attacks to a pack of bureaucrats down in Sacramento. They've never seen paper fly so fast. I'm guessing that's thanks to you. Oh, and Addison, too. He seems to be everybody's lawyer this week."

"I'm sure the sheriff will make a competent investigation."

"We both know that's a lie." She opened her purse and pulled out a photograph. "Maybe you forgot. Your son shared that grave with someone else." She held out the picture, leaving him no choice but to take it. "That's Mary Kent. A common name-easy to forget."

He looked down at the face of a girl-so young-with long blond hair, immortal when she smiled for the camera, smiling down a long hallway of doors opening, life unfolding. At this frozen moment, she could never have imagined her death.

"That's an old passport photo," said Sally Polk. "She was in her mid-thirties when she died."

"But you thought this photo of a youngster would make a much better inducement for cooperation."

"No, that's not it. I couldn't find any family albums with a more recent picture. There's no family. No close friends, either. So you got lucky, Judge. No one's gonna care if Cable Babitt screws up this case. Mary Kent's got nobody to fight for her."

He handed the picture back to Sally Polk, but the CBI agent waved it away.

"No, sir. You keep that." She settled back in Hannah's chair, rocking slowly, and the floorboards creaked. "The County Sheriff 's Office has a team of investigators, but Cable's working this case on his own. That's the way you wanted it, right? A bumbling idiot in charge? That smells of collusion. It reeks." She looked out over the meadow, rocking, rocking. "What pretty wildflowers." In the same harmless tone, she said, "I think you're protecting Oren. I've seen his Army record. He's more than just a world-class cop. That boy knows how to kill."

The judge lowered his eyes. "Oren loved Josh more than his own life."

"I believe that. Oh, did you think I was accusing him of murder?" The rocking stopped, and she leaned toward him. "While you've still got one son left, you better hope I solve this case before Oren does."

The judge shook his head. Despite the military record, he could not see his son taking human life by choice-not on Josh's account. Twenty years of sorrow had a tempering effect. With great care, he had watched the returning soldier for signs of unraveling, and he had waited with his safety net to catch the boy when he fell. But Oren had come shining through, his character intact-if not his heart. And the pride of Henry Hobbs was enormous. "You can depend on my son to do the right thing."

"You mean act like a cop?" Once more the floorboards creaked beneath the chair's rockers. "When a child is murdered, cops always look at the parents first. I wonder if Oren took a hard look at you. Does he know what you did in the Korean War? So many medals. You were a damned death machine. As a soldier, you killed more people than I've arrested."

"I'm a pacifist. I sickened of killing as a very young man." And now the judge felt the need to sit down. He settled into the chair beside hers. "I did not murder my son."

The dog lifted his head, awakened by the inflection of pain in an old man's voice.

"I'd like to believe you," said Sally Polk. "But you can see my problem, can't you? Most parents-the innocent ones-they want a case solved. They want justice for the dead child. But you don't." The rhythm of the creaking floorboards was faster now, as if a rocking chair could take her somewhere. "That only makes sense if you already know who killed your son. Rumor has it you're an atheist. So I know God's not telling you to leave the vengeance to Him." The rocking stopped. "If you know who did this, tell me."

"Vengeance is thine, Sally Polk?"

"You bet your sweet ass, old man." She reached out to tap the photograph in his hand. "Mary Kent's skull was caved in with a rock. She died quick. The killer spent more time with Josh. It was hands-on torture. No other way to say it. Broken ribs, a fractured jaw, cracks in his leg bones, breaks in the arms. And then there's the damage to Josh's hands. My expert says one trauma can't account for all the broken fingers. They were snapped like twigs-one by one. The boy's pain just went on and on."

The judge looked down at the dog's brown eyes, wells of solace. "I don't know who murdered my son. If you find out, don't come back here expecting thanks. And I won't thank you for that litany of Josh's suffering-those terrible pictures you put in my head. Now I can see his fear-I can feel it. I can even hear the bones breaking… my child crying. Is this what you wanted?"

He turned to her with all his pain, all his sadness, and it drove her away.

"I'm not an invalid." Swahn waved off assistance as he settled down on the couch in his library. He reached out to an end table and picked up a stapled sheaf of papers. "This is the final report on the bones."

"You didn't get that from the sheriff." Oren sat on the floor and prowled through a box of food delivered by the cleaning woman. He pulled out two roast beef sandwiches and handed one to Swahn. "Who sold you the coroner's report? Dave Hardy?"

"No, I never paid a dime." Swahn bit into his sandwich and nodded toward the box. "There should be a carton of beer in there. And I've got better sources than the deputy. I know Dr. Brasco. He's the anthropologist they called in to examine the bones. I may have misled him. He thought I was consulting on the case. So he faxed me his own results. He also passed along his condolences and regards. Dr. Brasco tells me the two of you go way back to the mass graves of Bosnia. He said you were an uncommon man-his highest praise. He couldn't understand why you left the military. Especially now when-"

"Good job. I found it." Oren pulled out the six-pack of beer cans. "What was Brasco's finding?"

"The female victim died quickly. Josh's death was more drawn out." Swahn reached down to accept a warm beer and popped the tab. "That makes your brother the most likely target. The woman was probably a witness."

Oren could think of other scenarios, but he said nothing.

"That kills the theory of a murder for hire," said Swahn. "A professional would've been more… efficient. The killer's violence toward Josh suggests immaturity, control issues."

"Like somebody who knocks his wife around?"

"I wouldn't rule out spousal abuse. Your brother's killer might have a history of violence, but he certainly had something to hide. Find the secret, something photographable-that's the motive. It's most likely a shameful thing, and that's where the rage comes in."