Walking the Bones Page 8

  “Why is it gone?”

  “Would you recognize the name Eli Royce?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” DeMarco said.

  “He was the pastor here till they tore it down. Up in Evansville now. Calls himself the voice of the people. Once a charlatan, always a charlatan.”

  There was something broken and surreal about the conversation. DeMarco wondered if maybe he was still dreaming. “So this Royce fella… Not a real pastor?”

  “A degree in divinity does not make one a man of God. You should know that, sir.”

  “I should?”

  “You are Miss Matson’s beau, are you not? Former colleagues from the Keystone State?”

  DeMarco’s eyes narrowed even more. “How would you know that?”

  “Small-town grapevine. Faster than ever thanks to email.”

  Was that a smile Hoyle gave him? Hard to tell beneath those heavy jowls. DeMarco had a peculiar feeling the man had been lying in wait for him. But how could he have known DeMarco’s jogging time and route?

  “Okay,” DeMarco said. “So what does Eli Royce have to do with the church being gone?”

  “That is precisely what I have been standing here pondering.”

  DeMarco blinked and blew out a sour breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hoyle. But I had a rather difficult day yesterday, and no coffee yet this morning, and I’m having a heck of a time understanding where this conversation is headed.”

  “Seven young females reduced to bone,” Hoyle said. His eyes remained fixed on DeMarco’s. “Seven skeletons in a four-by-fourteen-by-ten-foot space between walls. Each one cocooned in clear plastic sheeting. The kind painters use to cover a floor. Each cocoon sealed with silver duct tape.”

  “And Eli Royce was responsible for this?”

  “No responsibility has yet been assigned.”

  “But you think it was him?”

  “My thoughts are my own business, Sergeant.”

  “Then why am I standing here talking to you, sir?”

  A few moments passed.

  “Just Ryan,” DeMarco said. “I’m on leave from the department. But you already know that, don’t you?”

  Now Hoyle averted his gaze to stare at the weedy mound. “It was 2014 they were discovered,” he said. “Mid-July. Hot as Hades. Just like now.”

  “It is hot. I’ll give you that.”

  “Are you familiar with the homilies of Mr. Samuel Clemens?”

  “I’ve read a couple of his books.”

  “Everybody complains about the weather, he said. But nobody ever does anything about it.”

  Hoyle followed this remark with another attempt at a smile. Then followed it, jarringly, with, “If not for the termites, the poor girls might never have been found. Each skeleton meticulously flensed, probably through cold water maceration.”

  “Jesus,” DeMarco said. “That will remove everything? Strip the bones clean?”

  “Ninety-eight percent. The rest can be easily picked away. A short bath in a Drano solution is equally effective.”

  DeMarco winced.

  “Or they might have been buried for a while. Let the maggots do the work.”

  DeMarco tried to push the image away by staring at the grass. “All of similar age?” he asked.

  “Fifteen to nineteen.”

  DeMarco stood there thinking. Too few pieces. How to make them fit?

  He asked, “Have any of them been identified? Any DNA matches?”

  “Each and every one.”

  “And the dates of their disappearance?”

  “1998 through 2004.”

  “Seven years, seven bodies. One per year?”

  “Interesting, is it not?”

  “So whoever did this,” DeMarco said, “he stopped after ’04. Maybe he died.”

  “Or found a different place to hide the bodies.”

  A shiver ran up DeMarco’s spine. “All local girls?” he asked.

  “None within two hundred miles of here.”

  “Good Lord,” DeMarco said. “And you think this Eli Royce is involved?”

  Hoyle lifted his gaze to the horizon then, out across the rooftops. “I frequently doubt my personal assumptions unless verifiable by fact. I do dislike the man intensely. The opinion of an acquaintance of mine, however, a lawyer, is even more pertinacious.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Royce is an agitator. Uses his pulpit to incite racial discord. From which he profits handsomely.”

  “A white supremacist preacher?”

  “Anti-white supremacist.”

  DeMarco nodded. He knew the type. “But you, unlike your lawyer friend, you have other suspicions?”

  Again Hoyle faced him. “The world is full of suspicious individuals, sir.”

  “That it is. What is it you do for a living, Mr. Hoyle?”

  “For a living? I breathe, I eat, I defecate, I keep myself well hydrated. In this heat, the last is a necessity. You should carry water when you exercise.”

  “I’ll remember that. In the meantime—”

  “If, on the other hand, you mean to inquire how I provide for myself financially, I was the coroner of Graves County for a number of years.”

  “Graves County? Really?”

  “It is droll, isn’t it? The coroner of Graves.”

  “Are we in Graves County now?”

  “We are not. Though it is contiguous to our east.”

  “And you are now retired from that profession?”

  Hoyle’s half smile spread to three-quarters. “Your skills as an interrogator are much in evidence, Sergeant.”

  “My apologies. Old habits die hard.”

  Hoyle waved the apology aside. “What you are wondering is if my interest in this case is merely that of an aesthete.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not certain of the definition of that word.”

  “If I find a certain art and beauty in the details of this heinous crime.”

  “That’s not what I’m suggesting.”

  “That’s unfortunate, because you would be correct. To a certain extent. One has to admire, even respect, a seemingly perfect execution in any endeavor. Am I right?”

  “Even when it comes to killing girls? I’m sorry, but I find no beauty or art in that.”

  “The difference in our chosen professions, perhaps. Yours is to apprehend in one meaning of the word, mine is to apprehend in quite another.”

  “All right,” DeMarco said. “I suppose I can see your point.”

  “On the other hand, Sergeant, my intention is never to apprehend in merely one meaning of anything.”

  DeMarco’s squint tightened. “You keep setting me up for the punch line, don’t you? Are you working for Jayme’s family, by any chance? Trying to determine if I’m worthy of her?”

  “I trust that Miss Matson will be the best judge of that.”

  “Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind explaining why you drew me into this conversation.”

  “Are you a believer, Sergeant?”

  “Sir?”

  “You employed the name of Jesus to express disdain, I believe. Earlier in this conversation, into which you feel so involuntarily drawn. Do you subscribe to the mythos?”

  “By which you mean…Christianity?”

  “It’s all lies and distortion, you know. The true Jesus, Yeshua in Hebrew, was an Essene. A gnostic.”

  “I’m a little fuzzy on that denomination.”

  It was then a bright-yellow blur glided between the men, downward past DeMarco, an inch from his nose. He jerked back suddenly, and in the next instant recognized the creature now fluttering past Hoyle’s broad midsection. A butterfly.

  Hoyle had not flinched, had not lifted his eyes off DeMarco’s. “Is this conversation making you tense, sir?”
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br />   “You might say that.”

  “Then here is the interesting part,” Hoyle said. “Not a single Caucasian girl in the bunch. African American one and all. Light-skinned. What do you make of that?”

  DeMarco felt like he was getting whiplash from Hoyle’s sudden changes of direction. “Well,” he said, “either a fetish for girls of color…”

  “Or?” Hoyle asked.

  “A hatred of them.”

  Hoyle smiled, a real smile this time. And then he looked away, following the butterfly as it floated across the quiet street to land on a summersweet bush. “Cloudless sulphur,” he said. “Phoebis sennae. Female.”

  He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his face and scalp. “Butterflies and hummingbirds,” he said. “Every summer we suffer the same infestation.”

  And then he did, to DeMarco’s eyes, the oddest thing. Extending both short, heavy arms, one hand still holding by finger and thumb the white handkerchief, Hoyle moved his arms in a slow and sensuous wave, as if hoping, against all odds, to lift himself, too, aloft. And in fact, he did begin moving, walking leisurely toward the street, up and over the weedy mound, his arms still waving.

  “I suggest you begin your deindoctrination with The Gospel of Thomas,” Hoyle called without turning his head. “In the original Coptic, if possible.”

  DeMarco’s head was spinning. He took a few steps in pursuit of the fat man, but then paused, sat down atop the mound, and waited there for Jayme’s return.

  TWENTY-SIX

  DeMarco lay on his back atop the low mound, hands crossed over his stomach. He had thought briefly about getting up and jogging so as to meet Jayme on her return, but doubted he would get far, and she would scold him nonetheless for his lack of progress. So he went horizontal instead and sent his gaze into the depthless blue. The sun on his motionless face and hands felt kinder than it did bearing down on the top of his skull when his brain was bouncing up and down.

  There had been a time when he used to love running, as fast and far as he could. As a boy he would race the school bus home the last quarter mile from the bus stop, and often he would keep running long after passing his home, especially if his father’s profile could be spotted through a window. If it was summer and his father was nowhere to be seen, he might continue running until he came to the wild tiger lilies that grew up through the guardrail, and he would pick two or three newly budded and take them home to his mother, who would put them in a jelly glass or Mason jar filled with water and set them on the windowsill above the sink.

  At sixteen he was still fleet of foot, and by then had gotten a name for himself as a street fighter thanks to his quick hands and footwork. His knuckles were still scarred from some of those fights.

  In the army he could do five miles with a full pack and still be the first man to the showers. But he had been forty pounds lighter then. And unburdened by the elephantine weight of a conscience that rendered all unnecessary movement futile.

  These days all the important movement took place inside his head. And to keep that movement from devolving now into a dark downward spiral, he thought about the girls. Seven unfortunate girls of color, all from miles and hours away, all ending up here in quiet little Aberdeen with the butterflies and hummingbirds.

  He wondered if Hoyle had been aware of the metaphor he had created by describing the girls as cocooned in plastic sheeting. Hoyle, as strange as he was, did not strike DeMarco as a man who chose his words lightly.

  And it made DeMarco sad to think of those girls as unformed butterflies. They had never been given their wings, had never tested the sky. And now every time DeMarco saw a butterfly, he would think of those girls.

  He had failed to inquire as to the cause of death. Hoyle’s sudden shifts of topic had unfocused his concentration. But now everything was quiet and still. He did some of his best thinking on his back.

  Precise identification of the cause of death is problematic with skeletal remains, he reminded himself. Approximate stature and sex can be identified with greater probability than ancestry, which is suggested by skull morphology. Sexual dimorphism is most prominent in the skull and pelvic bones. Approximate age can be determined from bone development.

  Using known age, stature, and sex, investigators would have compared that data to missing persons reports, then narrowed down possible matches to a fairly long short list. Dental records, X-rays, and other nutritional or skeletal anomalies would have resulted in a presumptive identification. Finally, DNA from the bones would have been matched with familial DNA, leading, eventually, to positive identifications.

  It must have been a painstaking process, DeMarco thought. Painful for everyone involved. It was painful for him to contemplate.

  And what about cause of death? When working only with bone, he told himself, perimortem trauma by projectile, sharp force, or blunt force are easiest to identify. Strangulation can be identified too by damage done to the tiny hyoid bone in the neck. But not all cases of strangulation break the bone. Or a choke hold could have been used. Or a garrote. The girls would have been unconscious in fifteen seconds, dead a few minutes later.

  And now DeMarco winced remembering how he had teased Richie at the convenience store. Teased and threatened. It hadn’t been a very mature thing to do. He started replaying the incident in his head, thinking of better ways he might have handled that flare-up of jealousy, but then reminded himself that this was precisely the kind of thinking he needed to avoid, this constant analysis and rescripting, as if the past could somehow be rewritten.

  Cause of death, he told himself. How else might the girls have died?

  There is poisoning, drug overdose, smothering…a thousand and one variations on the theme. Too many ways to die. Sometimes the bones talk, and sometimes they hoard their secrets.

  And what about the killer? How much could be known?

  In all likelihood, a male. Someone who knew about the false wall in the church. And about how to access it. So either a local or a regular visitor, or, as Hoyle had implied, the pastor. Or maybe the false wall was well-known throughout the community. That would be easy enough to check out.

  But the girls themselves were not local. The investigation team would have created a map. Maybe Hoyle had seen it.

  One a year for seven years. Very odd. A rigidly disciplined sexual predator? Or were there more bodies in other places?

  He wished he had questioned Hoyle more. The man hadn’t been easy to talk to. DeMarco thought maybe he could visit the local police department, request a copy of the forensics report and any additional information. But even if they allowed him access…

  Then what? he asked himself. What makes you think you can do what dozens of others have already failed to do? And don’t forget, you’re on vacation. You’re just traveling through, final destination unknown.

  And then her voice. “Hey!”

  He turned his head to the side. Jayme was jogging in place out on the street, skin glistening. “Is that all the farther you got?” she called.

  He rolled onto his side, rose onto hands and knees, pushed himself up. God, what a blob, he thought. He walked out to the street, feeling fatter than ever.

  Jayme kept jogging in place. “Seriously?” she said.

  He offered a sheepish smile, but received no smile in return. Then he too started jogging in place. “Up here?” he told her, and pointed at his head. “I’ve already run a marathon.”

  “Right,” she answered. “So now I’m going to use all the hot water.”

  She turned away and sprinted, and he followed at a ponderous jog, punishment accepted.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Late for brunch, DeMarco and Jayme had little time for conversation. She, as promised, had used up most of the hot water by the time he came shuffling inside. His body was covered with goose bumps when he stepped out of the shower stall after only five minutes of f
rantic scrubbing.

  “How was it?” Jayme asked from behind the table, which she had claimed for her makeup and mirror.

  “Refreshing,” he said as he toweled off before the bathroom mirror. “Like a spritz from a garden hose in a broom closet.”

  She chuckled. “Think of it as behavioral therapy.”

  He spread a handful of shaving cream over his face. “I was waylaid,” he told her.

  “You were what?”

  “Waylaid. By a man named Hoyle. You know him?”

  “Hoyle?” She paused to apply her eyeliner. Then, “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Retired coroner. Graves County.”

  “Still no bell. What did he want?”

  “Yesterday at your grandmother’s house,” DeMarco said, talking between strokes of the razor. “Did you mention to anybody where and when we’d be jogging this morning?”

  “Somebody suggested the route, I don’t remember who. I was going to take you to the high school track. But this was better, don’t you think? The last mile especially. Fields and trees all the way. Lots of shade. Too bad you missed it.”

  DeMarco grumbled to himself and finished shaving.

  A few minutes later, with one towel wrapped around his waist and another draped over his shoulder, concealing as much of his chest as possible, he hurried past Jayme and into the bedroom.

  She asked, “So who’s this Hoyle person you mentioned?”

  He stuck his head out of the bedroom. “Do I have time to iron a shirt and slacks?”

  “Lickety-split,” she said. “Just do the front of the shirt. Nobody will see the rest.”

  “I didn’t bring a suit,” he told her.

  “A sport coat?”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t counting on a funeral.”

  “A white shirt at least?”

  “Yellow oxford?”

  She stared at herself in the mirror, asking herself, he assumed, What was I thinking? Then she said, “Did you at least bring a tie?”

  “I won’t roll up the sleeves,” he told her.

  On their walk to Grandma’s house he filled her in on the conversation with Hoyle. Jayme admitted to having heard about the discovery at the church a few years earlier. Some of the residents had wanted the church burned down, the scandal and shame obliterated by fire, but the town council could not come to an agreement. A few days later an unknown individual or individuals torched the church. The volunteer fire company, housed only minutes away, arrived too late to save the building.