Start with Chapter 1
CHAPTER 3
After the sound of Wayne’s steps disappeared and his final, “Come on Dot,” Dean remained standing where he was but took in the clearing. Perhaps a quarter of an acre, the ground rose at a small angle to a point in the center. Tips of tall, brown grass stuck through the snow, which was as fine and powdery as that in the woods itself.
The wind had blown the snow eastward giving the clearing the appearance of being tilted in that direction, like someone holding a glass of water and leaning it to one side.
He returned his attention to the body and then looked down at his feet before taking a step toward it. A number of prints—both human and animal—were visible around the body, so he decided for the moment to remember where he stepped and not to mess up any of the others, which would prevent his examining the corpse from all sides. But Dot and other wildlife had left tracks around the body so numerous they had contaminated the area in the snow.
He also knew the body was frozen. Snow and ice clutched at the ear lobes and the back of the head. The body had warmed up during the day in the sun, letting the snow melt and drip down before refreezing at night. Other than the smear of brightness in the sky, Dean was not sure when the last clear or partially cloudy day had been. A uniform grayness seemed to have dominated since before Christmas. Temperatures had not broken the freezing point since the day after Saint Nick’s bounty was opened by families across the county.
He did not recognize the man, but that may have been because of the animal mutilation. No eyes and the missing pieces of flesh and the frozen state made visual identification difficult. Dean patted the outside pockets of the victim’s coat. He could not feel anything, but his gloves were thick and the coat thicker. He pulled up on the top panel of the coat, which lifted, but then he stopped himself. No need to rush this. Wait for the assistance. He needed a camera to document the scene. A flood of to-dos and steps jumped up at him from his days in New York City as a homicide detective.
He knew it sounded strange to people, but he was fond of those days. He felt a purpose in life stronger than he had ever felt before and he did not understand that until it was gone. Only then did he comprehend what people meant when they said, “I just want to do something meaningful.” Solving murders had been Dean’s meaning.
Zion’s crime consisted of petty theft, rowdy teenagers, some domestic violence, and speeding. He could not remember when the last time someone died a violent death at the hands of another person in the town.
He stood up and walked back into the woods to get moving again, to try to warm up. He looked northward. Canada was only a half-mile away. From this position, looking across the clearing, he thought he saw what looked to be impressions in the snow leading north. Perhaps footprints partially filled with blowing snow. Maybe not. It seemed that way, but he knew he might be trying to find a pattern where none existed.
He shook his head. He looked north toward Canada and thought back to his days in New York City and wondered how, despite all his efforts, his path through life landed him smack back in the middle of his hometown.
* * *
Dr. Miles Cotton had been the coroner for the county for twenty odd years. He owned the Cotton Brothers Funeral Home on High Street, as well as ran a small family practice next door to the funeral home. Miles, in his early sixties, carried a few extra pounds around the waist, though wrapped in the heavy, brown coat with a faux-fur trimmed hood, it was not noticeable. His large, brown plastic-framed glasses seemed ever ready to slip off his small nose. He kept pushing on the bridge with his right index finger. His wavy light brown hair stuck out along the edges of the hood, which kept blowing back in gusts.
Officers Zach Adams and James Ridge were walking the edge of the clearing as instructed by Dean. Both had cameras and were taking photographs of the larger scene along with specific photos if they saw something of interest. Dean had said to take more photos than not enough.
The coroner stood next to the body in footsteps Dean had created. “Well, I can’t say for certain yet what killed him, but it’s either the bullet through the brain or the cold weather. Tough call, but I guess the people will expect the bullet done the killing.”
Too focused on the scene, Dean missed the joke. “We’ll need to know eventually for when this thing gets to court.”
“Mmmmm. Do you want to help me move him?”
“Sure. Do you know who it is?”
Miles rubbed his chin. “He looks familiar, but I can’t say for sure.” He pointed behind Dean. “Let’s preserve this as best as possible by putting him directly in the bag I brought.”
Dean had ignored the thick, black plastic bag just beyond the edge of the clearing. He had seen plenty of them over the years in New York and even as a cop in Zion for car accidents and suicides. Of the many millions of things he wished he could forget about Vietnam, body bags would be near the top of the list. He also knew he could not forget, ever. He stepped over, grabbed the bag, unzipped it and took it back to the body. Miles seized one end, and they set it down where they had photographed and already disturbed the scene.
Miles walked behind the victim’s head and waved Dean toward his feet. The sounds of rubbing fabric on the coats. The crunch of them stepping in the snow. “The back of his head is frozen to the tree, so let me loosen that.” The doctor grabbed the head and applied a back and forth pressure, rocking the head sideways. What sounded like snapping icicles and a crunch of bark rose up. “Okay.”
Dean lifted the feet, and Miles lifted the body by the shoulders. Rather than flopping legs and arms and a rolling head, the body remained fixed as they set it on the body bag.
Miles knelt down and opened the man’s coat. Dean looked at the tree. Where the man’s head had been, frozen blood and brain matter. Icicles of blood rose up from the tree.
“Here.” Miles handed him a wallet before turning back to the tree. “I want to take this part of the tree back with me.” He pointed to the tree where the man’s head had been attached.
“Sure. I’ll get Zach to borrow a chainsaw from the Pratts.” He looked at the wallet. A black tri-fold. A generic looking brand. The smooth sheen of the leather rubbed down on the edges and corners. Part of the stitching was coming loose at the top inside fold. He opened it. A number of business cards filled the slots. A collection of photographs in clear vinyl sleeves. He skipped over those for now. In the fixed clear plastic window, a driver’s license. “William D. Nimitz.”
“Billy. Ah, I see it now.”
“Billy?” Dean could not abide adult men being called by youthful versions of their name.
“Yeah, Billy. He worked down at McCord’s Body Shop.”
“So you knew him.”
“Knew of him. Saw him when Sally got hit on the square, and we had to get some body work done. Damned insurance wouldn’t cover all of the costs.” Miles sighed.
Dean flipped open the money portion of the wallet. Three dollar bills and a slip of folded paper. He pulled that out. The paper was a torn piece of an envelope, the precise cut of the flap and a thin strip of dried glue, yellowed from use. On the surface that would have faced the interior of the envelope was written in nice flowing cursive, “I love you.” On the backside, a partial address was visible:
mitz
ckson St.
, NY 55768
Dean slipped it back into the wallet.
“Well, that’s interesting,” said Miles.
“What’s that?”
Miles handed Dean a thin book, which could have even passed for a pamphlet. “Found it in the front upper pocket of the coat.”
Dean took two steps back. “Zach, come here.”
Zach looked up, nodded, and started walking back. He and James had nearly completed their circuit around the clearing.
Dean looked at the book in his hand: The Communist Manifesto. What was this? He tried to open it, but his gloves were too thick. He shook his head and bagged it.
Dean took one more step back and felt something under his foot. Hard. Not natural. He lifted his foot up and looked down. Where he had crushed the snow down, he saw the exposed polished black metal of a pistol decorated with snow and slivers of brown grass.
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