Bone Box Page 2

  “Okay . . . hold on.” He took out his phone and checked the names against a list that was e-mailed to him by Kevin yesterday. “I have Delilah Occum at the top of the heap.” He looked down. “I don’t have Yvette Jones, but the list only goes back five years.” He showed Rina the compilation of names.

  “Wow, that’s a lot of people.”

  “It’s from upstate and down through the greater tristate area. It does not include New York City, which is an entity to itself. When did Yvette go missing?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Hold on.” He took out a laptop and plugged her name into the search bar. A moment later, the results popped up. “Seven and a half years ago.” He read the article. “She was coming back from a free lecture at Morse McKinley and never made it back to her dorm.” He pressed several buttons and closed the laptop. “I’ll check it out once I get to the office. Did Tilly know the girls personally?”

  “I don’t know. We’re having lunch today at the Vegan Palace. I’ll ask her for details.”

  “Thanks. And you told her to keep quiet—”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “It’s probably irrelevant anyway. There are lots of people digging, so the news is bound to hit soon.” He stood up. “I’m off. Have a good lunch munching on rabbit food and tofu.”

  “I will, Mr. Me Want Steak Caveman.”

  Decker smiled. “You’ve got my number down.”

  “We can do a barbecue tonight while the weather’s still warm. Invite Tyler. He is also a steak man.”

  “Is he worth a ribeye?”

  “I suppose it depends on what he produces today.”

  “The kid’s been okay. More than okay.” Decker slipped on his jacket—more for professionalism than for warmth. The mercury was predicted to be in the low eighties. “I was reading an article in the Wall Street Journal. Do you know what the top firms pay Harvard interns for the summer?”

  “Around three grand a week.”

  “For ten weeks. That’s thirty grand. You know what he made this summer?”

  “Around ten grand?”

  “Not even. What a fool.”

  “Look at the workload, Peter. I dare say that the two of you have been spending way more time on the Xbox than at the station house.”

  “Not anymore. Cold cases are a bitch. If it’s one of the college girls, that means she’s not local. I’m going to have to track down people who probably won’t remember much. Students are transitory. Professors leave for better opportunity. Evidence—if there was any to begin with—gets old and lost.”

  “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

  “You’re such a cheerleader,” Decker said. “Why are you always so positive?”

  “Inborn genetics, supplemented by exercise and the right diet. Try some tofu, Caveman. It’ll not only help your arteries, it just might change your disposition.”

  Once the bones were gone, Decker could comb through the grave proper. There was nothing much retrieved for his effort except sweat. No ID, no purse, no wallet, no cell phone, no laptop. No books or schoolwork. No intact clothing, but there was a piece of cloth; one small, silver hoop earring; and one light gray button that might have been white at some point. He handed them over to the Scientific Investigative Division for analysis.

  All morning, Decker, along with Greenbury PD, searched the surrounding area, looking for something that perhaps the killer dumped or lost on the way to the victim’s burial. There were lots of rusted beer and soda cans, cigarette butts, and snack wrappers left over from summer hikes and picnics.

  After the items were bagged and tagged, Decker and McAdams drove to the station house. Once there, Decker turned on the computer and read about Delilah Occum: she had disappeared from Clarion College three years ago.

  “She was a brunette so she’s definitely in the running. She was last seen wearing a black coat, a red mini dress, and heels.” Decker looked up and directed his question to McAdams. “Did the fabric look red to you?”

  “I couldn’t tell a color, pard. Too dirty. The button doesn’t look like it came from a black coat.”

  “Which would make sense,” Decker said. “It’s hard to bury a body in winter. The ground is frozen.” A pause. “When did Delilah disappear?”

  “Lemme look it up.” McAdams clicked onto her file. “Right after Thanksgiving vacation.”

  “I wonder what the temperature was.” Decker clicked the keyboard. “Huh . . . first snowfall wasn’t until almost Christmas. I suppose theoretically you could bury a body, especially if the forest floor was covered with stuff to keep out the cold.”

  McAdams said, “To me, the button looks like it came from a blouse or a shirt.”

  “I agree. What about the other college student—Yvette Jones?” Decker brought up the file on his computer. “Also a brunette.”

  “So she’s a contender.”

  “Yep. Yvette’s roommate remembered seeing her in the morning . . . she was in the dining hall for lunch—cameras caught her leaving at two-fifteen. Then she went to a lecture at Murphy Hall: Investment for the Socially Conscious. She was caught on camera wearing jeans, a light-colored sweater over a light-colored blouse, and sneakers.”

  “The button was light colored.”

  “Yes. Yvette was five four, one twenty-six, brown hair, brown eyes. We have our files obviously, but the school didn’t turn them over to GPD until a few days later. I’m sure they also have their own files with their own information. We should find out.”

  “Think they’d keep old files like that?”

  “If they didn’t, they would be negligent. These are still open cases.” He leaned back in his desk chair. “Let’s see what the coroner has to say. Give him a call. He should have the bones laid out later in the afternoon.”

  “He’s in Hamilton right?”

  “He is. Do you want to grab lunch before we go? We’ve got time.”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m still digesting breakfast.”

  “It’s almost noon. What did you eat?”

  “Three eggs, bacon, hash browns, orange juice, and three cups of coffee?”

  “The Iris Special at Paul’s truck stop?”

  “How would you know Paul’s truck stop, Old Man? There isn’t a shred of food that hasn’t been contaminated with bacon.”

  “I was called out to the place last winter. Two hyped-up truckers got into it. Nothing serious, mostly tired guys letting off steam, but someone thought it was prudent to call in reinforcements. I’m sure I’d be called down a lot more often if the place had a liquor license.”

  “The reason why college kids have passed it up. That and it isn’t in walking distance from the schools.”

  “No, it’s definitely not a college hangout. Do you go there a lot?”

  “All summer long. Paul’s makes an apple pie to rival my own.”

  “Not your usual crowd, Harvard.”

  “Some truth to that. The place is packed with long-distance haulers named Billy, Bud, Bubba, Cletus, Dwayne, Jessie, Jimmy, and lots and lots of Juniors. Sometimes the names are followed by Ray, Lee, or Boy as in Jonny Boy or Billy Boy. But the rednecks and I have reached a real truce. They call me Mr. Lawyer and ask me legal questions so that they can sue their employers for workman’s comp. The waitresses flirt with me and call me honey, and I leave them big tips. The place has Wi-Fi. I sit at the counter and surf the Net. Other than your house, it’s my home away from home.”

  Chapter 3

  Rina was early, but Tilly Goldstein was even earlier. That was a good thing. Vegan Palace was already crowded and it was good that Tilly had snagged a table. The woman had blue eyes, short curly gray hair, and glasses that hung down from a chain around her neck. Today she had on a yellow, summery dress with short sleeves exposing thin arms and baggy skin. Rina slid into the chair opposite Tilly. Immediately they were handed menus by a young woman with blue hair who was studded with piercings and inked with tattoos. She told Tilly and Rina that her name was Sarah and she�
��d be back with water and pita bread.

  When she left, Tilly said, “She has such a pretty face. Why would she want to walk around with pins in her like a voodoo doll? And the tattoos? Do you understand tattoos?”

  “Kids get them to be unique. But when I see them, I immediately think of my parents, who were Holocaust survivors with tattooed numbers. What are you going to have?”

  “What are you going to have?”

  “I was thinking about the tofu curry or the vegan burger deluxe.”

  “Get the curry. I’ll get stir-fry. I like soba noodles.”

  Ten minutes later, Sarah came over to take the order. They made small talk until the food came. Then Tilly put her napkin on her lap.

  “So what’s this about finding a body at Bogat Trail?”

  “They found bones. Actually, I found bones.” Rina brought her up to speed. “Of course, the immediate thought was that it might be one of the missing girls from the colleges. Since you’ve been there for a while—”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Rina pulled out a small pad. “What can you tell me about them?”

  “I remember Delilah better than Yvette because Delilah was more recent. It was very sad. She was coming home from a party about three years ago and never made it to her dorm at Clarion. Her disappearance caused this whole brouhaha about lax campus security especially at night. The colleges agreed to post more guards. The board also instituted this walk-home policy that if anyone—male or female—felt the need to be accompanied anywhere on the campus at any time, day or night, there would be someone available to them.”

  “Is the service used?”

  “All the time. It was said that Delilah had to be the sacrificial lamb before the colleges wised up that sometimes campuses can be unsafe places.”

  “I agree. But it seems like they’d have to hire an awful lot of guards to keep up with the demand.”

  “No, no, no. It’s like Uber. We have a huge list of students from all the colleges who are willing to walk other students to and fro for pocket change. A person calls the office and we check around to see who is available at that time. We usually have at least forty to fifty students on call.”

  “And how well are the students vetted?”

  Tilly looked perturbed. “Honestly, they probably aren’t vetted. But the security office does have a list of the students from the call logs. If there’s a problem, someone knows who was called out.”

  “Have there been problems?”

  “I haven’t heard, but if there were, I’m sure they’re not publicized.” Tilly dug into her stir-fry. “Hmmm . . . good.”

  “Yeah, the food’s really good. I can’t get my husband interested in vegetarian food.”

  “That’s just men,” Tilly said. “You know, your husband could probably talk to the colleges about the Delilah Occum disappearance.”

  “I’m sure he will.” Rina smiled. “What do you remember about Yvette Jones?”

  “She also disappeared at night. I don’t remember the circumstances, Rina. Just that she never made it back to her dorm room.”

  “I heard she was coming back from a lecture.”

  “A lecture?”

  “Something about socially conscious investing?”

  “Ah . . . that sounds like Hank Carter. He gives free lectures bimonthly. They’re usually packed.”

  “This happened over seven years ago. He was giving lectures back then?”

  “He’s been at Morse McKinley for years. I’ve gone to a few of his talks. He’s a great speaker.”

  Rina wrote down the name. “When you say packed, like how many people?”

  “They’re at Murphy Hall, which holds at least three hundred students. He’s not the only one who gives free talks, but socially conscious investing is his topic. He’s been mining that pipeline for years.”

  There was a lull in the conversation as Rina scribbled a few notes.

  Tilly said, “Bogat Trail. That isn’t far from town.”

  “About fifteen minutes,” Rina looked up. “The hike isn’t exactly strenuous, either. It’s around two miles before you hit a fork. Then there’s a switchback or you can go farther, and I think that one trail is a four-mile loop. I’ve never taken that road. It’s too deep in the woods for my taste.”

  “I think you’re fearless just walking out there by yourself.”

  “I had a gun in my purse when I found the bones, but to tell you the truth I forgot about it.”

  “You carry a gun?”

  “It’s for protection, Tilly. The woods have critters. Haven’t you ever read Stephen King?”

  Tilly smiled. “You actually know how to shoot a gun?”

  “I do.”

  “You could actually shoot another human being?”

  “I’ve never been tested so I don’t know. I probably should go to the range, though. Hone my skills.”

  “I can’t believe you own a gun.”

  “My husband is a police officer.”

  “Yes, he is. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s just you’re . . . we’re Jewish. What do we know from guns?”

  “Israel does have an army. And women are drafted. It’s where I first learned how to shoot. My pedigree goes long and deep.”

  The bones were assembled on the metal table, disarticulated but arranged as a human skeleton. Decker and McAdams were standing in a small room that was used for hospital autopsies, very different from the multiple-roomed L.A. morgue. What was persistent and all too familiar was the smell—decayed, cloyingly sweet, and medicinal. It was an odor that stayed in the nostrils long after the visit.

  Most bodies in hospitals died from natural causes. Decker wondered how many actual murder victims Jerome Donner had dealt with in his career. Not that it mattered that much. It was clear how the victim had died.

  Decker said, “The skull is caved in.”

  “Blunt force trauma,” Donner told him. “By how severe the skull is depressed, it was more than one blow.”

  “Any idea of what type of instrument could have done this?”

  “It’s irregular in shape, but repeated strikes could do that. My guess is a rock or a stone maybe. Or even the butt of a gun.”

  “So she died of blunt force trauma?” McAdams said.

  “That’s the cause of death, yes. The she part? Not so fast.”

  “You’re kidding.” McAdams said.

  “Look at the pelvis, Detectives. We’ve got a small pelvic outlet, a forward-tilting sacrum, and the anterior view shows an angle of less than ninety degrees. We’ve got a dude.”

  A moment of silence, then Decker said, “Well, that certainly changes a few things. What else can you tell us?”

  “According to my calculations based on the femur length, I’d say he was easily six feet.”

  “To bash someone who tops six feet, it would have to be a tall person,” McAdams said.

  Decker said, “Or our victim could have been on his knees.”

  “That, too,” McAdams said.

  “The trauma was at the lower end of the parietal right above the occiput. More like a swing to the back rather than on top of the head.”

  “He was ambushed from behind.”

  “Probably. By the way, our victim had thin bones and long fingers . . . piano fingers.”

  “Lanky guy?”

  “More lanky than stocky.”

  “The skull also has a full set of straight teeth,” Decker said. “Any dental work?”

  “Yes, you are lucky because very few kids have cavities anymore with all the sealants. There are two small class-one amalgams. If you have dental records, you can probably do a match with them as well as the roots of the teeth.”

  “Okay. Do you have an approximate age?”

  “Early twenties to midtwenties by the skull sutures and the teeth. See, we have two erupted third molars and these two in the mandible. Those puppies are impacted. And you’re right. The teeth are aligned, indicating good genetics or good dental care.” />
  “Race?”

  “Spatulate teeth . . . no flaring of the nostrils. European. Better known as Caucasian.”

  “A white male with long, thick hair.” Decker raised a finger. “Could be why we only found a single earring—a small, silver hoop. I looked for the mate, but when I didn’t find it, I figured it was lost during a struggle.”

  “He could have been gay,” McAdams said.

  Donner said, “Maybe. Look at the nails on the fingers and toes. There’s some keratin left on the digits.”

  Decker and McAdams leaned over. The tips had a purple glow to them.

  “Nail polish,” Decker said. “Any idea how long he’s been in the ground?”

  “It’s really hard to date once the bones have been stripped of the meat. But since there’s still a lot of hair and a little nail polish, I’d say probably less than ten years. If you get some possibilities, we can match the dental records.”

  Decker looked at his list. Identifying the body was the first order of business.

  Most of the missing people were female between the ages of eighteen and forty-five. But there were a few Caucasian males in the proper age range. Two had been students at the colleges. If none of those fit the description; he’d have to fan out the search. The young man could have been from anywhere and dumped in the woods. Worst-case scenario, if they didn’t get an ID, it was possible to do a forensic reconstruction of the face based on the bony landmarks.

  But he wasn’t complaining too much, because he had something to work with. The height, the age, the long hair, the earring, and the purple nail polish were a pretty distinctive combination. Not too many edgy young people lived in town. The colleges were a car ride away. It was as good a place as any to start.

  Chapter 4

  Fourteen years ago, Byron Henderson, a twenty-one-year-old member of the wrestling team, disappeared from Duxbury College. He went riding on his bike and never came back. He had been five ten with a stocky build and short curly hair, and since he didn’t match the physical description, Decker ruled him out.