Читать книгу Edge of Midnight - Leslie Tentler, Leslie Tentler - Страница 12

5

The decomposing body of a female lay near the water in an unzipped body bag, shielded from view by a partially raised canvas. Eric stood nearby with his hands on his jeans-clad hips, his heart heavy as he squinted against the harsh mobile lights set up by Forensics. He breathed through his mouth, the stench nauseating. The corpse had been in the water too long to make a visual ID, but the wet hair matted to the skull was blond, and a portion of a tattoo on the right shoulder—a small, delicate butterfly—was still somewhat visible.

It was the same as the one Pauline Berger’s husband had described.

If a numeral had been carved into the abdomen, it was no longer discernible since fish and other aquatic wildlife had been gnawing at the bloated flesh. But the fingernails were all missing, and he suspected the M.E. would find several teeth had been removed, as well. He looked out to where two men in wet suits and scuba gear were raking the floor of the St. Johns River, searching for evidence.

“A crabber with a spotlight found the body when he went out to check his traps,” Cameron said, joining him near the boat ramp. He nodded in the direction of the crabber, an elderly looking African-American man who stood with several JSO deputies. The man appeared visibly upset by what he’d found.

“When’s the last time he checked his traps?” Eric asked.

“He says two days ago.”

A rope around the corpse’s abdomen indicated it had been anchored with some type of weight to keep it from surfacing, but it had somehow broken free. Based on the decomposition, Eric estimated she’d been dead for about a week. The putrefaction was advanced but warm water tended to speed up the process.

“I’m guessing this isn’t the original dump site, since the body’s been moved downstream by the current,” Cameron noted. “Still, it probably wasn’t too far from here since the St. Johns has a decline of only about an inch per mile. It’s one of the slowest moving rivers anywhere.”

Eric’s T-shirt was damp from the humidity and a mosquito buzzed near his ear. He looked around the crime scene, which was one of organized chaos. Squad cars from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office blocked the entrance to the boat ramp’s gravel parking lot, their lights flashing into the tar-black sky. Crime scene specialists went about their jobs while deputies controlled the area, waving on the civilian vehicles that had slowed out of curiosity on the adjacent road. Several FBI field agents were there, as well—men who Eric was supposed to meet officially the following morning. Detectives Boyet and Scofield stood nearby, conferring with the deputy who had been the first responder to the 9-1-1 call.

“We could drag the water upstream and see what turns up,” Cameron suggested as they moved farther from the corpse. Behind them, the river glistened like wet obsidian. “We can have a larger dive team out here in the morning.”

Eric nodded his assent. “I’d like to have deputies perform a grid search of the land around here, also. Until daybreak, keep the area sealed off.”

“I’ll coordinate with Boyet…” Cameron paused as he looked off toward the road. “I don’t believe it.”

Eric followed his gaze. Mia Hale stood on the periphery with two deputies, obviously trying to talk her way up to the barricade. He called, “Let her through.”

Walking over, he took her arm and shuttled her a few steps from the crowd. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard on the police scanner—a ten-fifty-five with federal jurisdiction.” Her brown eyes appeared pained as they moved from Eric’s face to the raised canvas that sat about thirty feet away. He could see the shallow rise and fall of her chest. “Is it one of the missing women?”

“We don’t have a positive ID yet,” he said gently. “The body’s been in the water for a while. We’ll know more following the medical examiner’s autopsy.”

Mia held her press card in her injured hand, although a reporter for the Jacksonville Courier was already there. When she saw where Eric’s gaze had fallen, she explained, “I’m not here in a professional capacity. I…just had to…”

She halted, her voice sounding frayed.

“Come inside.” Eric placed his hand on her back, guiding her into the containment area. Allowing media to enter was rare, and he noticed Cameron watching as he escorted her closer.

“I—I need to see her.”

He felt a wave of guilt as he allowed her to walk to the other side of the raised canvas. Eric let her take the remaining steps alone. She looked down and he saw her features go slack, her eyes filling with sympathy and horror. Retreating, she covered her nose and mouth with the inside of her right forearm in an attempt to defuse the odor.

“You really shouldn’t be here, Ms. Hale,” Cameron said, reaching her. Eric stepped in.

“I’ll take her back to her car.”

Cameron’s questioning gaze met Eric’s as he passed her over. Appearing pale, Mia walked stiffly beside him in silence, and he cleared their way through the dense line of deputies. The reporter from the Courier called out to her, but she ignored him and continued on until they reached an older-model Volvo that was parked farther down along the shoulder of the road. Eric observed a miniature Indian dream catcher hanging from her rearview mirror.

“The blond hair,” she whispered. “It’s Pauline Berger, isn’t it?”

He didn’t respond, instead asking, “Are you okay to drive home?”

Mia gave a faint nod. She still wore the skimpy tank top and cargo pants she’d had on earlier, although he noticed that she’d pulled her dark, glossy hair into a short ponytail. They were far enough from the crime scene that the faint chirp of cicadas could be heard coming from the woods. A van passed them on the side of the road with the call letters of a local television station printed on its side. Eric realized it was only a matter of time now before the story broke wide-open, before a reporter made the official leap from kidnapper to a serial killer at large.

“Are you going to give a statement to Walt?”

He knew she was referring to her coworker at the paper. “Agent Vartran spoke to him earlier. He confirmed only that a female body had been found.”

She took a tense breath, appearing to gather her courage. “I want to try the memory retrieval therapy… I’d like to start as soon as possible.”

The determination in her eyes was mixed with a vulnerability that made him feel guiltier. He’d known the feelings seeing the body would evoke, but he badly needed her help. “You’re sure about this?”

“I want this bastard caught, Agent Macfarlane—”

“It’s Eric,” he said quietly. Their gazes held for a long moment, until he moved closer and opened the driver’s side door for her. He briefly touched her upper arm, wanting her to know she would have his support.

“I’ll contact Dr. Wilhelm at the NAS in the morning,” he said. “I’ll be in touch. Go straight home, all right?”

She nodded and slid inside the vehicle. Eric closed the door. He remained rooted in place until she had driven off into the night.

As a reporter, Mia had been exposed to dead bodies before, in countless photos as well as crime scenes where she had caught glimpses of death from behind the police barricades. But it was Pauline Berger’s water-ravaged corpse that would remain branded in her mind forever. The woman’s facial features had putrefied; her eyes were missing, the bones protruding from where her right cheek should have been. Mia’s hands tightened on the Volvo’s steering wheel.

It could have been me.

She wondered if Eric Macfarlane had seen his wife’s body—desecrated, lying somewhere like discarded, spoiling meat. The possibility sickened her. As apprehensive as she was about the experimental therapy, tonight had made up her mind. If there was even a chance she could remember something that might be of use…

She traveled across the Fuller Warren Bridge headed back to San Marco. The St. Johns flowed beneath her, the same languid body of water that had given up Pauline Berger’s remains on the other side of the city. As she passed under the bridge’s steady sequence of overhanging lights, she glimpsed brief reflections of herself in the windshield. Even in the faint mirror image, she saw her mother’s Spanish and Portuguese heritage tempered by her father’s delicate Welsh genes. They were the only things her parents had ever really given her, other than life.

Mia also saw fear in her eyes and she tried hard to squash it down.

The traffic had been heavy on the bridge, but it began to thin as she made her way into San Marco. She turned onto Atlantic Boulevard, traveling past picturesque Balis Park with its fountains and moss-draped live oaks that comprised the heart of the square. White lights had been strung up around the vintage bandstand in preparation for a weekend arts crawl. At least here she was on familiar ground.

As she went deeper into the residential side streets, Mia noticed the headlights of another car trailing behind her. For a time they seemed to be the only two cars on the road. She didn’t think much of it until the vehicle made all the same turns she did, three in all. Watching in her rearview mirror, she noticed that it seemed to keep a consistent distance even when she decelerated or sped up.

Her nerves were on edge, she knew that. Still, she tried to get a look at the vehicle, but it was difficult to make out much through the hard glare of its headlights. On Alhambra Avenue, Mia pulled into the shadowy, circular driveway in front of her apartment building.

The car never passed by on the street.

She felt a tingle of panic. Hulking camellia shrubs at the property’s rim made it impossible to see if the automobile had turned off somewhere, or whether it had killed its lights and was sitting there, its occupant waiting for her to emerge. Despite the air-conditioning, perspiration broke out on her skin.

Will and Justin’s residence was on the ground floor. Making an impulse decision, Mia pressed on the Volvo’s horn and began flashing its high beams. As lights came on in the apartment in response, she saw a car go past. It was a compact, four-door sedan, dark in color. Innocuous-looking. Was it the one she thought had been following her? She couldn’t tell for certain. Tall, swaying palm trees obscured the streetlight.

Startled, she cried out at the sudden knock on the driver’s side window. Will peered at her through the glass, wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants. Black-haired Justin was behind him, dressed only in jeans and wielding a wooden baseball bat.

“Mia, what the hell?” Will pulled her from the car as she unlocked and opened the door.

“I’m sorry.” Her knees felt shaky. “I…I thought someone was following me.”

“Were they?” With a worried expression, Justin moved around the car and glanced out on the street.

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I’m not sure.” Mia passed a hand over her face, rattled and increasingly uncertain. “I went to a crime scene. I think I probably just spooked myself, that’s all.”

Will shook his head in rebuke. “Tell me you’re not already back to work.”

“No. And I don’t want to explain it right now, okay?”

He and Justin exchanged a look. As the two men walked her upstairs, Mia glanced back over her shoulder. The night was quiet. Peaceful. Feeling skittery and foolish, she began to believe it really was only her overactive imagination.