Chapter 25

Peaches’ article was reasonably accurate, for once.

She described in intimate, heart-wrenching detail the scene at Logan Pond. Under the direction of the police, the county parks maintenance division was draining the water. It had taken some arm-twisting, but eventually Chief Black had convinced them there was compelling evidence that the remains of Gus Parker would be found there.

Bruno’s psychic viewing of the crime scene had shown him that Gussie had been dumped, unconscious, in a body of water. Whether it was Logan Pond or the Atlantic Ocean, he didn’t know. For cops and other hardboiled types who know about these things, it’s a standing joke that 90 percent of the time a psychic will report that the body’s near water. Then, if they find it buried in a crawl space, the psychic will say, “The basement always flooded when it rained,” or “It was near the hot-water heater.” Ninety percent of everything is near water, so Gary and Nancy and the rest of the force gave Bruno a well-deserved razzing when he burst in, out of breath, from examining the briefcase.

But after further concentrating on the scene, Bruno was able to identify an additional detail: “Something about fossils,” he panted, struggling to bring the images into focus. “Big bones. Dinosaurs, I think. Yes, I think it’s dinosaurs.”

He came out of his trance and realized how ridiculous that must have sounded. But Chief Black and the others appeared to be mobilizing for action—men, dogs, the works. Gardenfield happens to be the site where the first complete fossil skeleton dinosaur had been discovered, more than a century earlier. It was in a marl pit, at the bottom of a ravine, densely wooded, and covered with underbrush. Chief Black organized a search party and invited Bruno to tag along.

As soon as he saw it, the site felt cold to him. It was at the end of a residential street, marked with a small park to commemorate the birthplace of modern paleontology. On a small table, children had placed toy plastic dinosaurs, several dozen of them, like pagan tributes to the creature that had given them so many hours of fun. And, though the ravine itself was heavily wooded, any number of houses overlooked its banks. The spot was hardly private; it just didn’t feel right.

After about an hour the Chief wanted to give the dogs a shot. He’d been holding them in reserve to avoid trampling evidence. “The only tracks down there are deer and raccoon. No sign of digging, no sign of anything. Biff, let the dogs do their thing, but I think this site’s a bust.”

Michelle was perspiring from scrambling up the ivy-covered banks. She was out of breath and appeared to be irritated by something. She took off her hat, wiped her brow and announced, “I never believed this ravine was the actual dinosaur site. Back in the ’80s, some kid who was doing a project for the Eagle Scouts said it was here, but I never bought it. They used to teach us in school that the fossils were found in Logan Pond.”

The Chief shrugged. “The pond is just a couple blocks from here. What do you think, Bruno? Can’t hurt to take a look.”

“I want to see it,” Bruno replied with conviction.

And, even before he saw the pond, as the Chief drove him and Michelle along the twists and turns of Lake Street, a peculiar tingling running up the insides of his arms told him they were on the right track.

Logan Pond is neither large nor deep. But it is muddy, with a weedy bottom and lots of debris and sediment that make it difficult to search. Immediately, Biff wanted to run home to get his scuba gear, but the Chief insisted he groom and kennel the dogs properly.

“Pond’s too murky,” snapped the Chief, reaching for his radio. “We’re going to have to drain it.” Debbie patched him through to the Director of Camden County Parks.

The county’s white trucks arrived quickly, but then things drew to a halt. A group of people—police and parks administrators—stood huddled in a compact group in the center of Lake Street, just below the sluice gates that allow the waters of Logan Pond to drain into the Cooper River. They were focused on a manhole cover, which provided access under the street to the antiquated valve that would open the sluice gates and allow the pond to drain. The parks administrator, a diminutive woman with curly brown hair, was explaining that no one could go down into the sewer system here without proper certification, due to fear of gas leaks.

A lengthy argument ensued, which the Chief finally resolved by calling someone he happened to know in Trenton who was willing to fax over the certification. Now he and the parks director—her name was Dora Goldstein—seemed to be getting along famously.

Two of the brawniest guys from the Parks Department couldn’t budge the valve on their own. So the Chief asked Dora to ignore the fact that he was sending Biff down there to help out.

The machinery shrieked, and Biff emerged brushing the iron oxide from his hands. “Just like poppin’ a cherry—takes a little spit, sweat, and elbow grease, but oh-so satisfying.” The guys from the Parks Department grinned sheepishly—their boss was watching—and shuffled back to their truck.

Dora estimated it would take approximately 24 hours for the pond to drain. She and the chief assigned staff to supervise the site round the clock, and made a date to meet back there, first thing next morning for breakfast.

When they returned, the police had the area cordoned off, yet still there were numerous onlookers. Gussie’s family. The team from the police. The crew from the Parks Department who were doing the actual draining. A paleontologist from the university–just in case. The ecology squad. And, of course, the media.

Peaches described the spring weather. The morning drizzle and the sun popping out around 10:30. The leaf shaped like a dinosaur’s footprint. She noted the robins and the cardinals. Other birds with less conspicuous coloration, she declined to identify. As the pond level lowered imperceptibly, the various crews and teams and squads went about their work. The family chatted almost normally with the police and the maintenance crew.

Then, as the pond emptied, the atmosphere changed. The tension grew palpable. Mrs. Parker started biting a corner of her handkerchief.

Peaches noticed that, in her own case, her anxiety about the fate of little Gussie was intermixed with a strange notion: What if, instead of his body, another dinosaur skeleton emerged? She surmised that others, particularly the paleontologist, must be having similar thoughts.

Then at last, objects on the bottom began to break the surface. The rusted-out frame of an old Buick. A variety of footballs, cinderblocks, fishing tackle, pantyhose, and assorted trash.

Finally, there was Gussie. First there was the profile of his spine, like a whale breeching. He was lying face down. His spiky blond hair was smeared in muck; his exposed skin covered with leeches. His mother screamed and had to be led away. Mr. Parker had to be physically restrained. The paleontologist and ecologists were clearly uncomfortable with this level of emotion. The pond had been drained and examined; there were no important artifacts and the water level was enough to preserve the fish and other wildlife. They just wanted to leave.

The police did their job with professional efficiency. They photographed and labeled and bagged the rescued body. It was taken off in an ambulance without sirens or lights.

Within a few hours, the coroner confirmed Bruno’s vision. Gussie had been knocked unconscious by a blow to the head and tossed into the pond, where he drowned. It looked like first-degree murder.

Peaches’ article noted that Bruno’s speed and accuracy in this case were uncanny. It wasn’t clear that she meant this as a compliment. She quoted a few local residents who said it made them suspicious that he might have committed the crime himself. She neglected to say that this “public sentiment” was derived as follows.

Peaches: Does it make you suspicious that the psychic solved this crime so quickly?

Man or Woman in the Street: Not really.

Peaches: How else could he have known exactly where to look for that poor kid’s body?

Man or Woman in the Street: I hadn’t really thought about it. I figured he was just doing his job.

Peaches: But isn’t it possible he did it himself and then just pretended to see it in a psychic vision?

Man or Woman in the Street: Sure. Anything’s possible.

It took her about a dozen intercepts to get three people whose answers might be construed as yes. That’s a consensus, and Peaches and the Pest were happy to run with it.

When word got out, all of Gardenfield went berserk.