Break No Bones (9 page)

"The cops suspected suicide?"

Emma nodded. "No note or body was ever found. My investigator thinks this could be him."

"Let your investigator handle the recovery."

"There's no margin for error on this one. Daddy's a local politico. Guy's angry, vocal, and hangs with the power boys. That's a dangerous combination."

I wondered again if blowback from the cruise ship incident was affecting Emma more than I knew.

"What tipped your investigator?"

"The remains are hanging from a tree. The tree's less than a mile from the kid's last known address."

I pictured the scene. That picture was al too familiar.

"Has Daddy been told?"

Emma shook her head.

Plan B.

"How about this?" I proposed. "Tel Daddy that his son's disappearance is being given top priority. A body has been found, but three months' exposure complicates analysis.

Outside expertise is needed to make an identification."

As usual, Emma got it right off. "The coroner's office wants the best, and cost is no obstacle."

"I like the way you think."

Emma smiled a weak smile. "You'l realy do it?"

"You have the authority to bring me into the case?"

"Yes."

"I'l do it if you promise to go straight home to bed."

"How about this?" Emma counterproposed. "I deliver the NCIC forms to the sheriff, get him working on the Dewees skeleton. You supervise recovery of my hanging victim. We keep in touch by phone."

"After your nap."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Sounds like a plan."

9

THIS IS WHAT EMMA KNEW.

Matthew Summerfield IV was a troubled kid from a family that didn't tolerate imperfection. Mama was Saly, nee Middleton, of the First Continental Congress Middletons.

Daddy was a Citadel grad and reigning monarch on the Charleston City Council.

Matthew IV tried foot-stepping Matthew III, but got bounced for smoking pot as a plebe. Deciding on tough love, Daddy booted Sonny from the family homestead.

Matthew IV bunked in with friends, made spare change by buying rice and dried beans at the Piggly Wiggly and repackaging them as thirteen-bean soup and hoppin' John mix for the tourists. On February 28, young Matt left his stal at the Old City Market near East Bay Street, walked to Meeting Street, and vanished. He was eighteen.

Emma's directions sent me over the Wando River and north to the Francis Marion National Forest, a quarter-milion-acre triangle of coastal plain bordered on the north by the Santee River, on the east by the intracoastal waterway, and on the west by Lake Moultrie. Slammed hard in '89 by Hurricane Hugo, the flora in the Francis Marion had rebounded with al the vigor of a Brazilian jungle. The whole drive I worried about finding the action.

I needn't have. Vehicles lined the shoulder. Cruisers with their lights flashing. A coroner's van. A park ranger's Jeep. A battered Chevy Nova. Two SUVs, their occupants bumper-leaning in tanks and cutoffs, faces bearing identical expressions of eager curiosity, already teling the story in their heads.

I was pleased to see no media trucks, but, given the crowd, doubted that would last.

Besides the gawkers, the only people visible were a uniform and two black kids. Grabbing my pack, I climbed from the car and headed toward them.

The boys had shaved heads and looked about sixteen. Both were gangstered up in enormous basketbal jerseys and butt-hanger jeans. From Emma's report, I guessed this was the lucky pair that had blundered upon the body.

The cop was a smal man with brown-black eyes. His name tag said H. Tybee. Despite the oppressive heat and humidity, Deputy Tybee's creases were razors and his hat sat perfectly squared to his brows.

Hearing me approach, Tybee stopped his interview and looked up. His nose was pointy with a high, narrow bridge. I imagined his buddies caling him "Hawk."

The kids regarded me with arms crossed, heads canted so their ears almost touched their shoulders. Tybee kept his expression neutral so I could read it any way I chose. I read it as arrogant.

Three boys acting tough.

I introduced myself and explained my connection to the coroner.

Tybee crooked his head toward the woods.

"DOA's yonder."

Yonder?

"These homeboys claim they don't know squat."

The homeboys shifted their slouches to smirk at each other.

I spoke to the taler of the two. "What's your name?"

"Jamal."

"What happened, Jamal?"

"We already tole him."

"Tel me."

Jamal shrugged. "We seen something hanging from a tree. That's it."

"Did you recognize the person hanging from the tree?"

"Dude's messed up."

"Why were you in the woods?"

"Enjoying nature." Traded smirks.

Hearing a motor, we al checked the road.

A white Ford Explorer with a blue star on the side panel was rounding the curve. We watched it pul to a stop behind one of the cruisers. A man got out, folowed by a dog.

The man was tal, maybe six-two, and broad-chested, like a boxer. He wore pressed khakis and aviator shades. The dog was brown and had retriever somewhere in its parentage.

I was beginning to feel underdressed. Next outing, I'd bring Boyd.

The man strode toward us, carrying himself like someone who might speed-dial the governor. The words "Sheriff Junius Gulet" were embroidered on the left of his crisp The man strode toward us, carrying himself like someone who might speed-dial the governor. The words "Sheriff Junius Gulet" were embroidered on the left of his crisp white shirt.

Jamal uncrossed his arms and shoved his hands downward. Only the fingertips went low enough to take cover in the pockets.

"Afternoon, sir." Tybee touched his brim. "Lady says she's with the coroner."

"Spoke to Miz Rousseau." Gulet pronounced the name "Roosa." "And such would appear to be the case."

The dog moved to the edge of the woods and lifted a leg at each of several trees.

Gulet's eyes flicked me up and down. Then he thrust out an arm, and his hand swalowed mine in a bal-breaker grip.

"You're the lady doc from Charlotte." Gulet spoke without intonation.

"Anthropologist."

"Miz Rousseau usualy uses Jaffer."

"I'm sure she told you, he's out of the country."

"Bit out of the ordinary, but it's Miz Rousseau's cal. She give you background?"

I nodded.

"Kid lived less than a mile from here with a houseful of baseheads." OK. The sheriff wasn't one for gushy intros. "Seen the body?" Flat.

"I just arrived."

"Dude's worm food." Jamal's smirk went wider than his face.

Gulet's face came around slowly. It was without expression, almost bored. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then, "You get off on disrespecting the dead, son?"

Jamal shrugged. "Man, that dude's head—"

Gulet hit him in the sternum with one beefy finger. "You want to shut your mouth long enough to listen? That 'worm food' is one of the Lord's own souls, just like the rest of us." Gulet withdrew his finger. "Maybe even you, son."

Both boys developed an intense interest in their sneakers.

To me: "Yonder's a trail leading to swampland. This part of the park isn't a hot spot for locals or tourists. Nothing much to fish. Too buggy to camp."

I nodded.

"Hope you're ready for this."

I nodded again.

"Nothin' shocks this old boy anymore."

The dog scampered ahead. I folowed Gulet.

Walking into the woods, I channeled my mind into death scene mode. From this point on I would tune out the extraneous and focus only on the relevant. I would notice every overly lush plant, every bent twig, every odor, every insect. The human melee around me would become white noise.

Here the forest was a mixture of lobloly pine, sweet gum, hemlock, and beech. Dogwood, witch hazel, and sweet shrub packed the under-story, tinting the air with sun-baked sweetness.

Gulet set a swift pace. Sun slipped through the lattice overhead, creating a wild geometry of light and shadow. Now and then leaves rustled, tattling on some startled creature. Underfoot, the soil felt soft and moist.

Twenty yards in, the trees yielded to a smal clearing. On the right lay a bog, its black glass surface disturbed only occasionaly by a dragonfly or some water-striding insect.

Pond pine and lobloly bay rimmed the water. The trees looked stunted, primordial, their trunks disappearing into inky darkness, their roots gnarled and mossy green.

Five yards from the water's edge stood a single white oak. A body dangled from the oak's lowest branch, toes barely clearing the ground.

Closing in on the gruesome tableau, I wondered what black vision had led to such an end. What tortured state of mind drove this anguished soul to fashion a noose, tie a rope, and jump?

Men in uniform and civvies stood talking, shooing flies, slapping mosquitoes. Every shirt was limp, every armpit rimmed with a dark sweat crescent.

A woman shot video. Two stil cameras hung from her neck. The Charleston County coroner logo decorated her shirt.

I crossed the clearing and introduced myself. The woman's name was Lee Ann Miler. She was built like a lumberjack, with copper-red curls that came straight from a bottle.

"Mind if I check the body?"

"Jump right in, darlin'." Lifting her hair, Miler beamed a smile as wide as Charleston Harbor.

"I don't mind waiting until you've finished shooting."

"I can't work around your skinny little butt, I'm in the wrong line of work." Miler fanned her neck and again flashed the harbor smile.

Despite the circumstances, I grinned back. Lee Ann Miler looked like a woman folks went to when seeking comfort. Or advice. Or just a good laugh.

As I moved to the tree, Gulet spoke to one of the other players. I paid little attention. I was taking in detail.

The body was hung with a yelow three-strand polypropylene rope. The noose was embedded deep in the neck, around the level of the third and fourth cervical vertebrae.

Above it, the head and top two cervical vertebrae were missing.

The bones were overlain by fried and putrefied connective tissue. The clothing looked flat, as though hung on a scarecrow. Black pants. A denim jacket, suggesting the hanging had occurred during cooler weather. Brown socks. Scuffed boots.

Boot.

I looked around. The right leg bones lay ten feet east of the body, marked with a smal yelow flag.

I walked over. The foot bones and the distal ends of the tibia and fibula remained firmly in the boot. The proximal ends were missing, and the shafts were cracked and splintered. A piece of the femur showed similar damage.

"Explain that." Gulet was at my elbow.

"Animals are opportunists. Most wil scavenge if given the opportunity."

A mosquito driled my arm. Slapping it, I moved on.

The skul lay six feet downslope from the tree, nestled against one of the roots snaking from its trunk. It, too, had been flagged.

It, too, had been scavenged.

"No animal climbed up and chucked that down." Gulet was staying with me.

"In hangings, exposure often causes the head to fal off." I heard flapping overhead, looked up to see a crow settle onto a branch. "Birds might have helped. And scavengers yanking on the legs."

As I spoke, I scanned for the mandible.

"Jaw's missing," I said.

"I'm on it." Matter-of-fact.

While Gulet questioned Miler, I squatted for a closer look at the head. For reasons of his own, Gulet's dog joined me. No way I'd have tolerated a canine compromising While Gulet questioned Miler, I squatted for a closer look at the head. For reasons of his own, Gulet's dog joined me. No way I'd have tolerated a canine compromising

"my" crime scene, but this was Gulet's baby. I knew better than to chalenge Sheriff Shockproof.

Gloving my right hand, I made mental notes. Little hair remained. The bone was sun-bleached, but subtly variegated where rootlets had clung to the surface. Tiny beetles stil roamed the geography of the empty features.

Using one finger, I gently roled the skul.

Patches of tissue clung to the left cheek and temple, mottled by the ground cover on which it had lain. One eye remained, a black raisin in a socket packed with dirt and moss.

As I alowed the skul to settle back into its original position, a lone cloud slipped over the sun. The day dimmed, and the temperature dropped. I felt a chil. I was staring into the remains of overpowering despair.

Returning to the body, I inspected the soil directly below the feet. No maggots, but puparial casings attested to their passing. Puling a plastic vial from my pack, I colected a sample.

Gulet's dog watched, tongue drooping from the side of its mouth.

"No jaw." Gulet was back.

I got to my feet.

"How about having some searchers fan out and check the woods."

While Gulet gave the order, I stored more detail.

No animal scat. Yelow jackets, flies, beetles, ants. Nicks on the tree trunk, abrasions on the limb. Rope frayed on the ends. Noose knot at the back of the neck.

"Miler wants to know how much more time you'l need."

"I'm finished," I said.

Gulet's voice boomed, and he circled a hand in the air. "Good to go."

Giving a thumbs-up, Miler crossed to the point at which we'd entered the clearing and spoke to one of those watching. The man disappeared.

With the aid of another watcher, Miler carried a gurney to the tree. Then she unbuckled and dropped the security straps over the sides, unzipped a body bag, and laid back the flap.

The first watcher joined us with a colapsible ladder. Gulet gestured him up the tree.

Spreading the ladder as wide as possible, the man climbed the treads, steadied himself with his arms, and straddled the branch. Gulet moved in to act as spotter.

The others watched from afar, their eyes silently fixed on the corpse.

Miler handed up a pair of long-handled pruning shears. Then, with her helper, she repositioned the gurney, gingerly eased the victim's leg into one end of the bag, and raised the other end so it paraleled the hanging body as closely as possible.