ONE

 

 

April 10th, 2020

Las Vegas, Nevada

 

Retired Detective Bayard Lott ran a hand through his short white hair and sighed. They weren’t supposed to find a body. Lott hated every time they did that. It was never the way they wanted to close missing person’s cases. But more often than not, it was exactly how they closed them.

“Looks like we found Becky,” Retired Detective Julia Rogers said.

Julia stood beside Lott staring down at the skeleton that was slowly emerging from the desert sand and dirt where it had been buried for almost thirty years, as far as they could tell.

Julia had on a light white blouse and a sports bra under it. She wore jeans and tennis shoes and a wide-brimmed white golf hat to keep the sun off her face.

Lott had on a short-sleeved dress shirt, jeans, tennis shoes and a wide-brimmed Panama hat. They had expected to spend time in the sun in the desert to the north of Las Vegas, so they were both also smeared with sunscreen that smelled like they belonged on a beach instead of out in the desert.

They might have looked silly and smelled funny, but he was in his mid-sixties and Julia in her late fifties and they were smart enough to take no chances. At their age, too much sun did not do well on either of them.

The open grave in front of them was being carefully worked by a couple of Las Vegas police’s best forensic lab people. They were in white suits that had to be hot in the morning April sun in the desert. And they were being very careful to brush away sand and then shovel it into containers to be sifted.

Lott could visualize the wonderful college graduation picture of Becky Penn. She had been a beautiful woman with a promising future. She vanished on March 3rd, 1990, on her way to a party to meet her boyfriend.

It was her boyfriend, Paul Vaughan, that had reported to Becky’s mother three hours after they were supposed to meet that Becky had not shown up. He had called concerned that Becky had been sick or something.

Her mother filed a missing person’s report.

Nothing had ever come of it. The detective assigned to the case did some fine interviews, found nothing.

Two months ago, Retired Detective Andor Williams brought the thin file on Becky Penn’s case to the weekly meeting of the Cold Poker Gang.

Lott loved the weekly sessions in his card room in his house. Retired detectives got together, played poker, and talked about cold cases. Then during the week between games, they worked the cold cases.

The Las Vegas Chief of Police had given the Cold Poker Gang special status to carry badges and guns because they had solved so many cold cases and wanted no credit for any of it.

For the retired detectives, it was just the sense of feeling valued that mattered and continuing at their own pace, without paperwork, the job they had loved for decades.

When Julia joined the group, she had retired from Reno because of a shattered bone in her leg where she had been shot. For almost two years, she was the only woman in the gang until six months ago two of Las Vegas’s best women detectives had retired. Both had taken a month vacation and then joined the group.

Now the Cold Poker Gang often had seven or eight people at the table on a Tuesday night. There were eleven official members and every detective on the force liked helping them.

At any given moment, the gang might have eight or nine cold cases they were working in some fashion or another.

“Let’s sit in the car for awhile,” Julia said, turning from the grave.

Lott agreed to that idea. The sun was getting warmer by the minute and there was absolutely nothing they could do to help in that shallow hole. Getting Becky Penn’s remains out of that hole would take time and painstaking work. Lott was just glad he wasn’t doing the work, especially in one of those white suits they wore these days.

Lott got his white Cadillac SUV started and the air-conditioning running as Julia dug them both out a cold bottle of water from the ice chest sitting on the back seat.

Then they just sat in silence for a moment, cooling down and watching the two men in the shallow hole work.

Lott was always surprised at how wonderful cold water tasted after being out in the Nevada sun for a while.

“I can’t believe we found her,” Julia said after a moment.

“We’re still not one hundred percent it is her,” Lott said.

And they weren’t, but that was just a technical issue now. They had figured out where she was buried exactly from notes in a journal left by her boyfriend, Paul Vaughan, when he killed himself twenty years ago.

From what they could tell when they got the journal, still stored with Paul’s things by his sister, that he and Becky had gotten into a fight and he had killed her.

The journal went on to give exact directions to where he had buried her and then what he had done to cover his crime.

Lott had found the writing creepy. Impassionate while being angry. Paul blamed Becky’s death on her, taking no responsibility at all.

Lott had been upset that the guy was dead. But if he hadn’t been dead, there was no telling if they ever would have solved Becky’s cold case. They were lucky in a couple of ways. That he was dead and that his sister had just stored what few things he owned in boxes in her basement.

But something felt off to both Julia and Lott. And Lott couldn’t put his finger on it at all. First, they had no idea why a killer like Paul would write down what he had done, then give exact directions to the grave.

And his sister had told them that Paul hated to write anything, let alone in a journal.

But it seemed, at least on the surface, that Paul had started the journal when he and Becky started dating and they had confirmed with Becky’s mother some of the dates and times in the journal as best as she could remember.

So it all seemed real enough.

The second thing that seemed off was no one knew what had happened to Becky’s red Toyota. The car had simply vanished and Paul made no mention of it in his strange journal. And he should have. Getting rid of that car had to be a lot harder than burying her in the desert.

Something was off on all of this, but darned if Lott could figure out what was bothering him about it all.

Then, in front of them, one of the two men in white suits working in the shallow grave stood up, turned and waved for Lott and Julia to come over.

Then both men climbed out of the shallow grave and one headed for their vehicle, pulling off his white suit as he went.

“Something went wrong,” Julia said as both she and Lott climbed out of the car.

The other man who had waved them over had pulled off the top of his white suit as well and was working on a bottle of water. His face was covered in sweat.

“What did you find?” Lott asked.

The guy just pointed for them to look into the grave and kept drinking.

It took a moment for Lott to see it, but then he did.

Nowhere in any report did it say that Becky had three arms.

“There’s another body with her,” Julia said softly.

“Shit,” Lott said. “Just shit.”