Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

Liz Wilkinson said, “Am I the only one who finds this freaky?”

Gregor Poplawsky said, “A little Disneyland.”

Milo said, “Creepyland.”

We continued walking, arrived at the wall of forest where brick met up with the dirt floor. Parting branches led to the central opening I’d seen online. Maybe three feet wide. The side accesses were narrower, impromptu gaps between the trees, not actual pathways.

Milo cupped his hand over his eyes and peered in. The earth beneath my feet was paler, tan splotched with gray when overhead branches cut off sunlight. Firm, possibly laced with decomposed gravel.

Milo pointed. The rest of us collected behind him and saw what had captured his interest: a rut running through the central walkway.

I said, “Wheelbarrow?”

“Dr. W.?”

Liz had a look. “Something with a single wheel and enough weight to exert pressure, that’s for sure.”

Gregor said, “Unless someone’s a unicyclist, like in a circus, I say yes, wheelbarrow.”

Liz kneeled, pointed to faint lozenges on both sides of the wheel rut. “Those are shoe prints but too indistinct to tell us anything.”

Milo took pictures with his phone, scrawled in his pad. “You bring casting material, Dr. W.?”

“In the van,” said Liz. “I wanted to get an overview first. If we don’t get better than these, casting won’t be worth it. Though I can do a few to look thorough. The wheel print is interesting. Ideally, it’ll run all the way to the back and you’ll have clear evidence of transport. If there are human remains back there. So let’s stay off this stretch and try one of those side paths. Hopefully there’s at least one that hasn’t been used recently.”

We inspected the gaps. Three irregular ribbons, none exhibiting signs of use. None wide enough to walk through without having to draw back branches.

Milo glanced back at the rutted path. “One-lane highway.”

Liz said, “I love how the earth tells stories.”

The forest was a couple of hundred feet deep, growing denser as we neared the wall that pretended to be a border. Freckles of blue sky sparked through the green-black of old growth. The temperature was ten degrees cooler in here, the acid-sweet of summer fruit replaced by a resinous bite of pines and firs, the yeasty smell of dry needles and pinecones crumbling to dust.

Just before the wall was a belt of dry dirt, six or so feet deep and equally wide. The wooden door was unusually tall, running nearly to the top of ten feet of fieldstone. Substantial thing, the door, with stout vertical oak slats crossed by three horizontal boards. Hints of green paint.

Heavy-duty slide bolt, as well. Bronze, handmade by a long-ago craftsman.

No lock.

I said, “No worry anyone would figure it out.”

Milo said, “Let’s hear it for overconfidence.”

He took a closer look at the area directly facing the door. The wheel rut continued, hooked right for a foot, then resumed its trail. Gloving up, he stepped carefully to avoid marring the impression and freed the bolt. Easy slide. He bent and sniffed. “Been WD-40’d recently.”

A soft push opened the door.

A new smell took over.

Gregor said, “Oh, boy. For sure we know this.”

Liz said, “Go back to the van, please, and get the cases marked A and B. A’s the small tools, B’s the camera and the casting materials.”

“Stakes and pins in there, too?” said Gregor.

Someone else might’ve been put off by the second-guessing, but Liz said, “Smart question. Yes, it’s part of the casting kit.”

“You got it, boss.” Gregor turned and retraced the way we’d come, holding back branches and moving gracefully, not missing a step.

Liz said, “He wrestled in one of the Olympics.” She turned back to the open doorway. “There could be prints on the bolt, I forgot to ask for the print kit, but we can glove up and do it later. I’m also going to get a lot of before shots, so no one can say we set anything up.”

Milo pulled out his phone and began taking photos.

“That’s okay for backup, Milo, but I’m going to use my Leica, get as high def as possible.”

Milo said, “I really want to talk to the gardeners. And the damn landscape architect, she certified the place free of colchicine.”

Liz said, “She could be telling the truth, from her limited perspective.”

“She never went back here?”

“There’s no sign anyone tended to the property behind the formal area. The needles and leaves are piled high in there and the trees haven’t been trimmed in a long time. That could work to your benefit, harder to claim a casual intruder.”

Behind us, branches rustled. “Better than the gym,” said Poplawsky, beaming. He toted a large black case in each hand, clamped a smaller box under his arm. “I also bring the fingerprint kit. For the door and what else could happen.”

“Good thinking,” said Liz.

“I need to prove myself.”

Dozens of photos taken at various angles, the bitter-swill stench growing stronger.

One of the cases contained tightly folded white paper suits and booties that the four of us donned, along with latex gloves. The color contrasted nicely with Liz’s chocolate skin. The rest of us looked like ghosts.

Gregor was eager to try out his fingerprinting skills, but Milo said, “Let me.”

He’s adept at lifting latents, sometimes takes over when techs are overburdened or moving too slowly. He pulled up several from the bolt but none from the wood or the bordering stone. “Ready, Dr. W?”

Liz said, “Couldn’t be readier.”

Experienced up close, the rectangle felt like a miniature walled graveyard. We began by examining the border shrubs, using color photos Dr. Ben Haroyushi had sent me, for comparison.

The graceful, crocus-like, lilac flowers of meadow saffron sat at the front of the beds, alongside the lovely, purplish-blue blossoms of wolfsbane. At either end, ephemeral white lily of the valley buds sprouted, at the rear stood the taller plants, both evoking hollyhocks: foxglove with its bright pink saucer-like blooms and a riotous mix of larkspur in white, blue, and mauve.

“Pretty,” said Gregor. “Arranged nicely.”

“Get ready for the garden show,” said Milo. “Look but don’t eat.”

Liz, back at the center of the rectangle, pointed to impressions in the dirt. “This is going to go quickly.”

A pair of lumpy, careless heaps, loose dirt scattered nearby, the rut from the forest running straight to the nearer one. Lots of shoe prints, deeper than those in the forest, mottled the immediate area.

Liz said, “Two sets, one larger than the other, both look like tennis shoes... a couple look clean enough to print. Great!”

She directed as Gregor poured and cast. Once he’d found his rhythm, she returned to the lumps. As she whisked away soil with a brush, the reek grew stronger and she wrinkled her nose and put on a face mask.

Milo said, “Good idea,” and got three masks.

Gregor said, “I’m okay. I want to experience.”

Liz began troweling surface soil, working slowly, meticulously.

Milo walked back to the poison garden, where he squatted and scrawled, Gregor continued casting shoe prints, and I stood around with nothing to do.

My wandering eye spotted a scrap of paper in a far corner and pointed it out. Liz got up and tweezered.

“Gum wrapper,” she said, holding the scrap up to the light. “Oh, you’re kidding — Louis Vuitton makes gum?”

“Fresh breath for the privileged,” said Gregor.

“Something that unusual, let’s bag it. I suppose it could’ve blown in by itself — from that hedge-fund neighbor. But there hasn’t been much wind recently and nothing else has drifted over.”