Jan Burke - Kidnapped

I wondered what Sheila was doing here, then remembered that one of the things Ben didn’t like about her was that she didn’t wait to be invited to search scenes.

I carefully pulled out again and slowly made my way to a gravel parking lot at the end of the road. The lot lay at the bottom of a slope. Another small access road ran along the top of the slope. Ben and a young man who looked vaguely familiar to me were studying an area along the slope itself-steep, uneven, and muddy terrain covered with trees, rocks, wet leaves and vines. A scattered set of little flags formed a spill of artificial color down one of the gullies in the face of the slope. Evidence or possible evidence had been found at each of those points along the spill.

Despite my bragging about him at the gate, I wondered if the slope had given Ben any trouble. I worry like this even though it pisses him off.

I noticed that the six men at this site all had some of the landscape on their clothing-although Ben and his assistant had been smart enough to don coveralls. I also noticed that the only person who didn’t have mud stains all over the seat of his pants was Ben. He was being careful. I let go of my concerns for his safety.

They had all looked up when they heard the Jeep approach. Vince Adams, one of the homicide detectives who had caught this case, was standing not far from where I parked, going over some notes. A couple of guys in uniform were present, one standing at the very top of the slope, the other down in the lot, having a cup of coffee from a thermos. Ben glanced up at me, then went back to work with a look of resignation on his face.

From what I could see, things were winding up. Several of the flags were near places along the slope that had been dug out-the remains were already on their way to the coroner’s office, and most of what was happening now had the appearance of the end of an initial search.

Vince greeted me warmly. I hid my surprise. Vince and my husband both work in Homicide, and are friends, but Vince is usually fairly tight-lipped around me. I didn’t take his cordiality to mean I was his new best friend. The police were in need of help from the public on this one.

“Your partner not around?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “Back at headquarters, getting some of the paperwork started.”

“So you drew the short straw.”

He laughed and said I must have, too. I explained that I was just here to get some notes together for Mark Baker, who would be writing the story. “He’ll probably call you a little later today.” That was fine with Vince, who began to give me a basic idea of what had gone on before my arrival.

A pair of workers, beginning the task of setting up a jogging path through the woods, discovered that someone had used this slope as a dumping ground-seven mud-coated green plastic trash bags lay scattered down it. As they drew closer, they noticed a strong smell of decay. The nearest bag had torn open, and some of its contents spilled out onto the damp ground-the workers were horrified to see a decaying human hand lying among some leaves not far from it. The hand was not attached to an arm.

“One of them said he almost puked right then and there,” Vince told me. “And I’m glad he didn’t, ’cause I’ve fallen in every other damned thing on this slope.”

Luckily, the workers had called the police without trying to touch or further examine the bags. Training sessions by the police department’s new lab director had paid off as well-the first officer on the scene didn’t do any exploring, either. This meant the search for the remains and evidence could take place with little disturbance to the scene.

The coroner was tied up on the case out at the oil island, but Ben probably would have been called in, anyway. All of the bags contained body parts. Ben thought they were from one adult male victim.

“That’s not for publication,” Ben said, walking up to us. “I haven’t verified that yet.”

“At least one adult male?” I asked.

He hesitated, but Vince said, “Yes.”

“Found his head,” Vince went on, earning a frown from Ben. “We’re hoping a forensic artist will be able to get a drawing out for us. You think the paper would run it?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said. Always a safe answer.

“We may not need to do that,” Ben said, in a tone that told me his patience was worn thin. “We may be able to match dental records with a missing-persons report.”

“Got any other identifying information on him? Age range? Height? Weight?”

“That will all have to wait,” Ben said firmly.

“What else have you recovered up here?”

“Nothing I’m telling you about.”

“Any clues about the killer?”

“Who says there is a killer?”

“I suppose this guy just chopped himself up, stuffed himself into bags, rolled out here, and buried himself?”

“It could be death from natural causes. People have been known to dispose of remains in worse ways.”

Vince, concerned that he was about to lose the paper’s cooperation, said, “Ben’s just joking with you. There’s always a chance it’s as he said, of course, but we are treating this as a homicide. Too early to talk about suspects, though. If we can identify the victim, that will likely take us a lot closer to figuring out who put him here.”

I wanted to ask him more about that, but his cell phone rang and he moved off.

Ben started telling me that I might as well go back to the office.

I looked up at the slope. The young man working there was focusing on something, digging carefully. He was a little taller than Ben, with dark brown hair. “Is that your new graduate assistant?” I asked.

“Caleb-” He caught himself. “No, I don’t think I’ll tell you his last name.”

“For God’s sake, you think I couldn’t find out if I wanted to?”

He considered this, then said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t include his name in any stories about this case.”

“Not up to me. Not my story. Like I told Vince, Mark Baker will be writing it.” I watched his assistant for a while. Ben wouldn’t be acting like this unless his helper was someone who had already been in the news. It took me only a few minutes to connect the name Caleb to a story that had been big news in Las Piernas a few years earlier. “Jesus. Caleb Fletcher. So he’s one of the powerful Fletcher clan, eh?”

“He doesn’t have anything to do with the Fletchers!”

“Not even his mom?”

“Not even his-” He broke off and made a sound of frustration. “Goddammit, Irene…”

But before he could say more, Caleb was calling to him, clearly excited about something he had found.

That wasn’t lost on Vince, either, and he followed Ben up the slope. I would have done the same, but the uniformed officer had finished his coffee break and was now dedicated to preventing me from getting any closer to the crime scene.

I pulled out a camera and took a few shots. Nothing very artistic, but the Express hadn’t spared a staff photographer for this, so they’d have to make do. The uniform called up to Vince before I managed to take more than five or six. The whole group was scowling at me now.

They came down the hill in a pack. Caleb reached me first and surprised me by saying, “You’re Ben’s friend who’s taking care of Ethan Shire, right?”

“Yes, he’s living with my husband and me until he gets back on his feet.” I extended a hand and introduced myself. “How do you know Ethan?”

“Before he was shot, he used to come out and talk to us while we worked on the municipal cemetery case. How’s he doing?”

Ethan had uncovered a scandal involving the reselling of graves, grave robbing, and the mixing of remains at a municipal cemetery. I now recalled that several of Ben’s graduate students had worked on the project of restoring the graves.