Katherine Page - Body in the Bog

An animal, she’d told the children, to protect them from the horror of the truth. What if she hadn’t been first in line? She shuddered. An animal. But Joey was not an animal. He was a proud new father, a husband, a son, a human being. She thought of Bonnie and little Joey.

Tom found her in tears a short distance from the body. She threw herself into his arms.

“Oh, Tom, it’s Joey Madsen. He’s dead. There’s a knife in his chest. I had gone ahead. The children didn’t see. Oh, what will his poor wife do!” She sobbed. Tom held her close and stroked her hair. She lifted her tear-streaked face to his. “Who can be doing all these terrible things? First Margaret, then Nelson, now Joey! Who will be next? I’m scared!”

“Me, too,” Tom said.

They held each other in silence for a few minutes; then Tom asked, “Are you okay? I want to go a little closer.”

Faith nodded.

“Tell me how far you went.”

“See that bush by his foot? Up to there.” Tom walked carefully in his wife’s tracks and knelt by the bush. Staying where she was, Faith said her own prayer for Joey—and for the rest of the town.

Tom came back and they stood holding hands, waiting for the police.

Charley arrived first, crashing out of the woods, followed by two patrolmen. “What’s going on?” Faith pointed to the body. “It’s Joey Madsen and he’s dead.”

“What the hell!” Charley started to go over to the dead man, then stopped. “Who else besides you two has been here?”

“Nobody, except Joey and whoever did it, so far as I know.”

Charley considered the lifeless form a few feet away. “Face up,” he commented out loud. “Didn’t think he had anything to be afraid of, even way out here. Now what was he up to?”

The shock was wearing off and Faith had started to think along the same lines. Did his death have anything to do with his outburst at the POW! meeting last night? Tom had quoted Joey’s threat: “I’m going to get you, even if it takes the rest of my life.” Did whoever cut the hoses on the excavator get him first?

“Joey is ready to kill somebody.” Where did that come from? Lora, speaking of Joey’s outrage. Was it a question of kill or be killed for the murderer? But Joey wouldn’t have come to this isolated spot to confront an enemy—unless he was armed himself. And Faith wouldn’t know that until the police told her— if they would tell her.

Charley was asking her what time she’d found the body and what she was doing here in the first place.

As she began to relate the morning’s events, Detective Lieutenant John Dunne arrived with his partner, Detective Ted Sullivan, and the rest of the CPAC unit from the state police. The medical examiner was on the way from the Framingham barracks, Dunne told Charley before turning to Faith. Both Sully and Dunne did not seem surprised to see her there; Charley must have told them, of course. On the other hand, neither looked pleased at her presence. John strode over closer to the body and Faith now knew exactly what a quaking bog was. He returned, conferred with Sully, who already had his camera out, then walked over to the Fairchilds.

“Taking a nature walk?” he asked Faith.

“No, I was one of the helper mothers, the chaperones, for the Pussy Willow Walk Lora Deane’s class was taking.”

Dunne wrote it down in his notebook. Cases where Faith was involved always introduced concepts and words he had to ask his wife about. Snuglis, now Pussy Willow Walks.

“Have you touched the body, moved anything near it?”

“No to both. I could tell immediately he was dead.” The eyes. The eyes would haunt her waking and sleeping hours for a long time to come.

“Be sure to get shots of the footprints, and we’ll make the casts right away,” he called out to Detective Sullivan. The rest of his men were combing the area for evidence—anything. The knife handle was being dusted for prints.

“You two going to be home today?”

“We are now,” Tom said, and John nodded. He knew what they must be feeling—shock, fear—and this was all before the delayed reaction.

“Did you know him well?”

“Not well, but we knew him,” Tom answered.

And even more about him, Faith finished silently.

She wanted to go home.

After a few more questions, Dunne told them they could leave.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Faith. She knew what he was trying to say and was grateful.

“Thank you.”

The Fairchilds went back up the slight slope into the woods, retracing their own steps—and the path the murderer had taken. There was only one way in and one way out. Joey had come that way, too—and Miss Lora’s class. It had been a busy morning in the bog.

“You get Amy and I’ll get Ben?” Faith suggested.

“No,” Tom said. “I want to stay with you. We’ll get them together.”

They walked quickly away from Beecher’s Bog.

Joey had died on the first warm, sunny day of the year, beneath a cloudless blue sky. The air was filled with birdsongs. Margaret would have known what they were. She’d been alive ten days ago. Joey had been that morning. Their deaths were linked. Faith was sure of it and she knew she had to try to find out before there was another.

The Fairchild family was sitting around their large kitchen table, eating lunch. Amy was in her high chair, feeding herself after a fashion. She’d recently displayed an independent streak when it came to food, grabbing the spoon herself and taking great joy in picking up such things as linguine, one strand at a time, with her tiny fingers. While Faith was happy to note these beginnings that promised a lifelong interest in food, it made feeding Amy in a hurry difficult. Today there was no rush and the toddler was delicately picking out the peas from the chicken potpie with puff-pastry crust that filled her bowl.

Ben had finished his and asked for more.

“Did they move the animal?” he’d wanted to know earlier, as soon as he’d seen his mother.

“They will soon.”

“Then we can go for our walk tomorrow?” It was going to be a while before Faith willingly entered the bog and she’d resorted to that useful catchall, “We’ll see.”

Now, being together felt good. Faith had the feeling that she and Tom had gone through something akin to an earthquake or other disaster. Afterward, you just want to hold on to those closest to you.

Comfort yourself. Feel blessed. She could tell Tom was experiencing the same emotions. His chair was so near Amy’s that she was getting potpie on both their clothes.

Faith wasn’t hungry and had been picking at her food. She was nervous, expecting the phone to ring, or a knock on the door.

The phone was first.

“Faith! My God! I just heard!” It was Pix. “We were finishing the mailing and Ellen Phyfe came bursting in, shouting that Joey Madsen had been murdered in the bog and that you’d found him.”

“How did she find out?” Aleford really was incredible.

“She was in the camera store, and you know they listen to the police band all the time.” Faith did know. The group at Aleford Photo was an interesting crew, who gave new meaning to the term moonlighting . Bert, for example, was a licensed undertaker, had two paper routes, restored old cars, sold crucifixes and other religious articles by mail, had a houseful of foster children and his own kids—and worked in the store. By comparison, Richard was a sluggard, working only three jobs: at the store, as an auxiliary cop, and as a professional race-car photographer. If you wanted to know the latest in either photographic techniques or local larcenies, Aleford Photo was the store to frequent. They were pretty good for car advice, too.

“I have to take Danny to soccer; then I’ll be right over,” Pix said. “And we didn’t send out the mailing.