Blood Reckoning, page 14
Tom Dickinson, the head of Search and Rescue, says, “We’ll keep dragging the river—for at least the rest of this week.”
“Obviously,” Miller says, “we haven’t searched every square inch of the swamp behind the cabin, but we’ve done a pretty damn thorough search, and she’s just not here. Dogs say she’s not. Our searches haven’t turned up a single sign that she’s out there—or ever was.” He looks at me. “I know you’d like for us to keep searching, but . . . I just feel our resources would be better spent . . . elsewhere.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Meeting in my office first thing in the morning to discuss that,” he says.
Michelle Quinn says, “It’s important to remember this doesn’t mean our search for Carla stops. It just stops in this location. And with all the evidence pointing to her not being here, searching other places and intensifying the investigation puts us in a better position to find her.”
I nod. I don’t disagree with what they’re saying, but they’re arguing their points as if they have to talk me into it.
“Okay,” Miller says. “Let’s get back to work. Make today count. End strong here. And be thinking of where the investigation and search needs to go next. Bring your ideas to the meeting in my office in the morning.”
Everyone disperses—some to the back of the house and the search still taking place there, others leaving by boat, returning to the landing.
Eventually, I am alone on the dock.
Taking several deep breaths, I attempt to clear my head and empty my mind.
I look out at the wide river. The midmorning sun emphasizes the greenish hue in the otherwise light-gray and brown waters.
Beyond the smooth surface of the water meandering toward the bay, the dense river swamp on the opposite bank is untouched and impenetrable.
Where are you?
I look back down at the water as it swirls around the pilings of the dock I’m standing on.
Are you somewhere down there? Are you floating toward the bay? Or are you far away from here? Locked in some monster’s basement or buried in an unmarked and shallow grave?
I think about where we found her vehicle and what it could mean. I think about the seat being set back to accommodate a driver far taller than Carla.
Disposing of her vehicle where he did means he has something to hide and had to act fast.
Was what he did with Carla just as rushed? Was it unplanned, unexpected? Was his coverup just as impulsive and improvised? If so, why haven’t we found her?
My line of thinking lets me know that whether I want to admit it or not I believe someone has abducted or killed her—most likely the latter.
So I’ve just killed her. Didn’t intend to. Didn’t know I was going to. It just happened. What do I do? I have to act fast. What do I do? I burn her clothes and mine. Destroy any evidence linking me to her. I . . . I’ve got to get rid of her body. Do I throw it in the water? Weight it down with something or just toss it in and hope it floats far away or that a gator gets it?
Or do I look for a quick place to hide it? Where? Where would that be?
When I look up again, I see where that might be. Across the river at about a fifteen degree angle from where I’m standing on the Hayes’s dock, there’s a small access area to the thick jungle-like swamp on the other side.
Hoping I’m wrong, I jump into the boat nearest to me, untie it, crank the motor, and back away from the dock.
I’m not sure whose boat it is, and I don’t want to take the time to find out or to ask to borrow it.
Crossing the nearly two-hundred yards wide river, I pray and beg and plead not to find what I think I’m going to.
When I reach the other side, I pull onto the bank and tie the boat to the wooden frame holding the large plastic culvert.
It has been three days, with lots of rainfall, but I still look for footprints in the mud.
There are a few deep boot prints—perhaps from a very heavy man or someone carrying a body.
I avoid them as I make my way up the incline to the top of the bank.
The path I take, the path the boot prints follow, runs along the large black plastic drainage pipe.
Both sides of the pipe are lined with trees, dense with undergrowth. The path of the pipe is the only clear way to quickly walk through this part of the swamp.
The smell hits me first.
I’m only about twenty feet or so in when I smell the smell that is like no other, the smell of despair, of decay, of death.
I don’t have to go any farther to know what it is.
It could be an animal, but I know it’s not.
It could be someone other than Carla, but I know it’s not.
I could turn around now and go notify the others and never have to witness the horror that is somewhere close by, but I can’t do that.
As much as I wish more than anything at this moment that Carla wasn’t dead, as much as I don’t want to see the condition of her body after three days in the swamp, I have to, and not only to be a witness or to be her person in this moment, but to give me my best chance at catching whoever did this to her.
Before moving on, I pause for a moment to prepare myself as much as possible, to make sure I’m not just a friend and father figure who cares deeply for her, but an investigator who needs to see the scene in a certain way.
I want to take some deep breaths, but because of the smell I am unable to.
I continue up the slight incline, following the drainage pipe and the deep boot prints.
In another ten feet or so I see one of the most disturbing and horrific sights I ever have.
There to the right of the path, hanging by a pair of jumper cables from the branch of a swamp tupelo tree is the naked, decomposing body of someone I had cared for and taken care of since she was sixteen years old.
CHAPTER
FORTY-EIGHT
I have no doubt that it’s her, but the body before me bears little resemblance to Carla.
Like most decomposing bodies I’ve seen, it bears little resemblance to any living person.
Her head is slumped over the jumper cables to the right, and her hair hangs down to cover part of her face. There’s a foamy bloody substance in and around her nostrils.
Her body is bloated and has a greenish-purplish hue, the swollen veins beneath it pressing up to create marbling.
The lower parts of her legs and feet are a deep, dark purple-plum color from where gravity has caused her blood to settle there.
Her skin is blistered and slippage has begun.
Though insects have long since gotten to work on her body, surprisingly, mercifully, no scavengers have yet.
Having to see her without clothes, in such a sad vulnerable position, knowing the extinguishing of the flame of her life was neither peaceful nor pleasant would be bad enough, but to see her hanging from a tree after three days of decay and decomposition is disturbing and devastating beyond description, and something deep inside me breaks.
Trying to take as much in as possible, I study the scene and take pictures with my phone.
There’s not much to go on.
It seems obvious that she wasn’t killed here, and I doubt very much she was killed by hanging. That bit of staging is perhaps the biggest clue of all.
CHAPTER
FORTY-NINE
“I’m sorry as hell,” Fred Miller is saying.
“We all are,” Michelle says.
Miller adds, “I was holding out hope that we’d get a better outcome. I know she was like . . . family to you. I’m just . . . so, so sorry.”
Arnie Ward nods. “Anything we can do,” he says. “Anything at all. Just let us know.”
We are standing on the bank of the river near the drainage pipe, watching and waiting as FDLE processes the scene and the medical examiner’s investigator processes Carla’s body.
At the moment, I don’t feel much of anything and feel as though I’m experiencing everything from a great distance away.
“You go on home and do what you need to do,” Miller says. “We’ll take care of everything here.”
I shake my head. “I’m not leaving until she does. I have to be here with her.”
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “That’s fine. But once you do go home, you take as much time as you need to—”
“I don’t need any time,” I say. “I need us to find who did this to her.”
“We will. You have my word on that. Don’t you worry.”
“We will,” Arnie says.
They both say it in a way that lets me know the “we” doesn’t include me.
“Obviously, you can’t work this case,” he says, “so here’s what I want you two to do. I want you to swap cases. Arnie, I want you taking over Carla’s case. John, I want you taking over the Nelson woman’s case. Y’all meet with each other and share everything and transfer the files and—”
“I’ve got to work Carla’s case,” I say.
“You can’t,” Miller says. “Even if you were able to—mentally and emotionally. Even if it was possible for you . . . You can’t because we’d never get a conviction if you . . . A defense attorney would have the case thrown out before it even got started.”
“I’ve got to work it,” I say. “For her. For me. This is what I do, what I’m . . . there’s no way I can’t do this for her.”
“I understand you wanting to,” Miller says, “but it’s just not possible. I know you don’t want whoever did this to get away with it. And that’s what would happen if you work on it.”
“I have to work her case,” I say. “I can do it as a private citizen if I have to.”
“Whoa,” Miller says. “Wait now. Don’t throw your career away. Don’t wreck your life. Don’t—”
“I don’t have a choice. I’m not trying to . . . It’s not a . . . lack of trust in Arnie or anything else. It’s just something I have to do. I’ve spent my life doing this. It’s Carla. I have to do it for her.”
“Give me a minute to . . .” Miller says.
I do.
He takes a few moments and appears to be thinking.
“I don’t want to see you lose your job over this, and I don’t want to lose you. Okay . . . How about this? Both of you work both cases. But Arnie is lead on Carla’s case, and you are lead on Olivia Nelson. Okay? And I mean it. Arnie is lead on this case. You can help him. You can work it. But it’s his case. He has to be included in everything. He’ll be the one taking the case to court. Understand?”
I nod.
“I mean it, John,” he says. “I’m going out on a limb on this for you. Doing you a huge favor. Don’t make me regret it. Don’t do anything to keep us from being able to get a conviction.”
“I won’t. And I really appreciate you allowing me to keep my job and work for her. You won’t regret it.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY
All I want to do is get home and be with my family and comfort John Paul, but I have to go to Rudy’s to tell Carla’s father first.
Rudy’s is a small town diner on a rural highway outside of Pottersville.
It glows brightly against the dark night on the side of the empty highway.
I pull into the parking lot, remembering how many times I had done so before—nearly all of them with Carla waiting inside, wanting to talk, needing to sleep.
Allegedly open twenty-four hours, every light is on and the door is unlocked, but no one is inside, and it’s a safe bet that Rudy is passed out in the back.
Since Carla stopped covering the overnight shift, Rudy’s had not really been open much beyond an early dinner hour.
The cold, brightly lit diner feels creepy and abandoned, especially when, randomly, the jukebox comes to life and begins to play.
As if the universe is mocking me, the song that begins to play is “How to Save a Life” by The Fray.
As the familiar piano notes start, I quickly make my way through the diner to the back.
I find Rudy passed out in a lonely old recliner in front of a TV playing a black and white western with the sound turned down.
Next to the recliner is a nearly empty bottle of gin.
“Rudy,” I say.
He doesn’t stir.
“Rudy,” I say more loudly and shake his shoulder.
“Huh? What? What is it?”
He blinks several times, but when he sees that it’s me his eyes open wide and he jerks up.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he says.
I nod. “I’m sorry.”
“Where? How?”
“Don’t have a lot of details yet,” I say. “I wanted to come let you know as soon as possible.”
“Where did y’all find her?”
“On the river.”
“Drowned?”
“We don’t know the cause of death yet,” I say, “but I don’t think she drowned.”
“Was she . . . Did someone kill her?”
“It’d be speculating—”
“Then speculate, goddamnit. I know you know more than you’re tellin’ me.”
“I honestly don’t know much yet, but it’s definitely a suspicious death. I’ll let you know more when we do.”
“My little girl,” he says, starting to cry.
“I’m very sorry.”
“She always thought you were such hot shit. Good guy. Super cop. You couldn’t even protect her. Couldn’t even keep her alive. What kind of super cop are you? You’ve got her and everybody else fooled, don’t you? You’re nothing. A fuckin’ fraud. That’s all you are. Couldn’t even protect my little girl. Why’d you take her away from me if you weren’t goin’ to take care of her? Get out of here, you worthless . . . son of a bitch. You . . . And don’t you dare think you’re going to . . . You took my daughter away from me. You’re not going to get my grandson. I promise you that.”
As I walk through the diner, Springsteen’s “The River” is playing and it continues to play in my head long after I can no longer hear the old juke box playing it in the empty roadside establishment that is now haunted for me.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
Anna meets me in the driveway, tears streaming out of her red eyes and down her cry-swollen cheeks.
Wordlessly we hold each other, grieving beneath a waning moon out of view of the children.
For the first time since I had found Carla, I let myself really feel the loss, the tragedy, the horror.
Safe in Anna’s arms and away from the rest of the world, the dam inside me breaks and I begin to sob, grief pouring out of me in deep, gut-wrenching waves.
Part of me is grieving for Reggie too, and all of me is grieving for John Paul, a little boy who we have to give the worst news imaginable to in a few minutes.
Right now John Paul is inside our home playing, having fun, with no idea that his little world has already been irrevocably altered, utterly and completely changed forever.
After I few moments, I begin to pull it together.
For now I’ve indulged my grief enough. I have two missions that require all of my focus and attention, that demand I be clearheaded and locked in—taking care of John Paul and figuring out who took his mother from him.
As we enter our home, this safe haven and sanctuary, I think about the two other children who live here who have experienced similar losses. Taylor lost her father before ever getting to know him, and Nash is with us because his mom was murdered. We had helped them deal with their devastating losses, and we will help John Paul deal with his. And I suspect they will help him too.
We gather the family into the living room.
Detecting our mood and manner, seeing that we have been crying, they are instantly quiet and somber.
All four kids are on the couch, and Anna and I are kneeling on the floor in front of them.
Nash is on the left end, then John Paul, Taylor, and Johanna. They are all touching each other. Nash has his arm around John Paul. Taylor is holding hands with him and Johanna.
They’re preparing themselves. They know what’s coming.
“We love you all so much,” I say. “And we always will. We will take care of you and protect you. You can always count on us. Always.”
Anna nods. “We are a family. All of us. Each of you are part of this very special and loving family.”
“There’s nothing we can’t get through together, nothing we can’t help each other deal with.”
“I am here for you. I’m not going anywhere. Anna is here for you. She’s not going anywhere. And y’all have each other. And always will.”
I look at John Paul. “I love you so much, little buddy. And I’m so, so sorry. But we just found out that your mommy has gone to heaven.”
He breaks down and starts crying, and soon we all are.
“She didn’t want to go,” I say. “She didn’t want to leave you. Some bad person made her do it. She never ever would have left you if it was up to her, but it wasn’t. A very bad person took her from us.”
“Mommy,” he cries. “I want my mommy.”
Everyone moves in and gathers around John Paul, all of us in a kind of group hug with John Paul in the center, all of us crying with him, consoling him and each other.
“My mommy’s dead,” John Paul says in a tearful moan. “I miss my mommy. I want her back.”
I’m so proud of how the other kids are responding to John Paul and his devastating sorrow, and I can tell for Nash part of what he’s doing is grieving the loss of his own mom. His experience of loss has given him the ability to practice compassion and empathy on a profound level, particularly for what John Paul is going through.
I lean over and hug him extra tight. “So proud of you,” I whisper.
“Mommy,” John Paul wails again. “I want my mommy.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-TWO
That night we sleep as a family on the floor of the living room with John Paul in the center.
Once everyone is asleep and I know they are okay, I ease up and slip out of the house.
