| |
––––––––
Combs put a hand up to his mouth, trying to stifle the smell. “That’s disgusting.” One of the uniforms looked green. “You gonna toss your cookies, do it over by the road. I don’t want you contaminating the crime scene.”
It had taken more than half an hour to find the place. After traveling down main highways and turning onto twisty farm-to-market roads, they’d come to a graveled path that took them deeper into the scrub. Gnarly bois d’arc trees and a few honey locusts fought for supremacy among the native cedar elm, mountain ash and burr oak. He hadn’t a clue how the gleaners found the cluster of pecan trees. Maybe they passed the information down the family line the way granny’s pecan pie recipe became an heirloom.
As if reading his mind, Gonzales said, “Won’t be thinking about pecan pie the same way ever again.” He spoke through a paisley bandanna.
“Love the new style. Like you’re ready to bushwhack a stagecoach.” Combs coughed, his eyes watered. “Yee-haw. Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra?”
Gonzales shook his head, and the bandanna covering his mouth and nose rippled when he spoke. “But I got some Vicks.”
“Gimme.” Combs accepted the small bottle and liberally smeared his upper lip. It didn’t help. “Don’t know how the ME handles it.” He acknowledged the little man crouched over the remains.
“Nose transplant. You think?” Gonzales led the way over to the small group of onlookers, the pecan-gathering group who stumbled across the body. Literally. “Which one of you called?”
The older woman raised her hand. “I did.” She had a young girl of perhaps twelve clutched tight under one arm, and a lanky pimple-faced teenage boy stood nearby trying to pretend he was bored and failing. All three shared the same dark uni-eyebrows, upturned freckled noses and tiny gray eyes. “Daddy found it.” She pointed at an even older man standing with his back braced against the tree. “I got the only phone, for emergencies. This qualified.”
“I’ll say.” The teenage boy wiped his runny nose on his coat sleeve.
Combs noticed none of the family acted bothered by the smell. Maybe long-term exposure deadened smell sense the way overuse of perfume made some women overdo the cologne.
“What’s your name?” Gonzales took the lead. The wind had picked up, which made audio recording iffy, so he took notes on the small pad.
“Feeny. Glory Feeny. This here’s Gina. That’s George Junior, and over there’s Daddy. My dad, that is, George Feeny, Senior.” The little girl shivered, and Glory gave her shoulders a squeeze.
“You called right away?” Gonzales scribbled the names.
“Yep. Soon as Daddy uncovered the boot. First off, thought some hunter done tossed out an old pair, and Daddy needs new ones so he tried the size. ‘Cepting the feller was still wearing them.”
“Touch anything else?” Combs took in the family’s worn clothes, and the loose fabric bags at their feet. Or maybe other pickings. “Mind if I take a peek?”
“Help yourself.” She nudged one of the bags with her foot. Dirty, worn tennis shoes peeked from the cuffs of baggy sweatpants. “All you’ll find is nuts.” She didn’t sound angry, only resigned.
“The pigs got him.”
Combs glanced up. The old man stood with eyes closed, loose lips mumbling maybe in prayer. “What’d you say?”
He opened his eyes and repeated. “Just what I told Glory. Them feral pigs got him.” The old man’s words gave Combs the creeps. “Then when they was finished, the coyotes took a turn. Maybe some coons got in on it. And finally the black birds flocked over top, they’re gleaners like us, take the leavings. This here’s like a trough for the critters, they kin all belly up to the bar.”
“Daddy, that’s enough.” Glory gave him a look. Combs wasn’t sure what it meant.
“You’ve known about this place for a while?” Gonzales asked the question before he could. “Other people come out here on a regular basis, do they? I’ll need the names.”
Glory shrugged, but stared daggers again at her father. “Hunters know the spot. Don’t know no names. They keep to themselves, and we do likewise.” She nodded at the trees. “Don’t need no competition for the pecans, and sure don’t have no interest fighting the pigs for that garbage. We’s poor, maybe, but I feed my kids healthy.” Her chin jutted out.
“No disrespect, Ms. Feeny. Just trying to figure out who might have dumped this man out here.” Gonzales pulled down the bandanna so she could see him smile. “We appreciate you being good citizens and calling us. You didn’t recognize him?”
She shook her head. “Like Daddy said, the pigs got him. Nothing to recognize.” She took a breath. “Can I go? Want to get my kids and Daddy back home. We been out here for too long.”
“Just a couple more questions, ma’am.” Combs thought Gonzales was a better man than him, going without the bandanna filter. He licked his teeth, to be sure the smell hadn’t made them melt. “You got out here what time?”
“Don’t have no watch. Early afternoon, though. We ate lunch before we came.”
“And when was the last time you came here for the pecans? I mean, before this.”
“Last week.” Glory turned to her son, and he shrugged. “First day out of school for the kids, so we come up here and scouted around. Not too many pecans that day.”
“Did you pick around this same area? So the body wasn’t here last week. What day was that?” He stared back at the three pairs of tiny gray eyes. The old man wouldn’t meet his eyes. Huh. Something there.
“Monday last. Nobody here that day but us.” She crossed her arms. “Can we go?”
“Thanks for your time. Yes, you can go. We may have more questions later, so don’t leave town.” Gonzales paused. “I need your address.”
“Where would we go?” She huffed, but readily gave Gonzales the address of the low rent apartment complex where they lived. “Just so ya know, the phone’s disposable and almost done. We ain’t got a line at the house so you’ll have to catch us when you can.” She stooped and scooped up the pecan bag, and the teenager grabbed the other two before they all made their way to a distant rust-bucket sedan.
Gonzales tugged the bandanna back into place. “Doesn’t help a damn. But I look so cool.” He cocked his head at Combs. “You look like a snot-nosed kid.”
“It’s a choice. Not a good one, but what can you do.” Combs breathed through his mouth for a minute, and the wind in his face also helped. “What do you think?”
“The old guy knew more. Glory knows Daddy could get in trouble and wants him to shut his pie-hole.” Gonzales closed his eyes. “Damn, and I used to love pecan pie.”
Combs shrugged. “So we’ll follow up with Daddy when Glory isn’t around.” They waited for the ME to approach. “Sly disappeared from September’s place on Thursday morning and hasn’t been seen since, after she claimed to see his dead body. So somebody flew in and scooped him up after she saw him—”
“—or he walked out under his own power and got transported later.” Gonzales shuddered. “Hope to God the man was dead before they dumped him. Feral pigs, nasty beasts. Sure do fast work.”
The ME ambled up to the detectives, wheezing from the climb out of the trough. “Sometimes I hate my job.”
“Only sometimes?” Combs sounded like he had a cold, and tried again. “What’s the word?”
“Dead before he got here.”
Gonzales let out his breath. “Sly was a low-brow gossip monger, but even he didn’t deserve this.”
The ME went on. “Several blows to the torso, and the COD appears to be a baseball bat to the head. A Louisville Slugger, to be exact.”
“Got your crystal ball mojo going, do you?” Combs forgot and breathed through his nose, and nearly gagged.
“Nope, nothing so woo-woo. Found the baseball bat. Under the body.” He motioned over his shoulder to where the CSIs continued to process the scene. “It’s pretty distinctive, has the words King Thwacker wood-burned into it. Yep, it’s an old fashioned wood bat, not a new-fangled modern aluminum or whatever the hell the Rangers use these days. A lot of good that does ‘em,” he said.
Combs didn’t let his surprise show. He grunted. “September’s bat. Must have come from her place. She said they had words.”
Gonzales picked up the thread. “More than words. Somebody heard or saw the argument, and took the next step. Doesn’t look good for her.” He held up a palm to stop Combs’s reply. “Just saying. Whoever whaled on Sly meant it to incriminate her.” His phone rang, and he frowned as he listened.
The ME continued. “We’ll have to confirm ID once we get him back to the morgue.”
“I thought the responding officer found his wallet?” Combs raised his eyebrows. “No?”
“Wallet’s gone, whoever killed him probably disposed of that. Even cut off his hands and bashed in his teeth, obviously trying to hide who he was. And the critters took care of the rest.” The ME shrugged. “They missed his press badge, on a lanyard under his shirt. Sometimes we get lucky, when others get stupid.”
Gonzales hung up the phone and crossed back to them. “Found September’s car.”
“Where? She okay?” Combs breathed through his nose again, but this time he was prepared. Damn, he must be getting used it. He wondered if his sense of smell would be permanently damaged.
“At a park next to Heartland Middle School. She’s not there. But get this: they found her gun, and it had been discharged.”
“Shit.” Combs started running toward their car. “Anything else, tell me while I drive.”
Gonzales jogged after him, and swung into the car in the same synchronized motion as Combs. “They found a stocking cap on the ground, weird colors. Somebody recognized it. The characters from that reality hog hunting show wear them.”
“Hog hunting?” Combs jammed the keys into the ignition and shoved the car into gear. He didn’t watch reality TV and had enough of guns during his day-job. “Hogs, like feral pigs?” The car bucked over the uneven gravel road, but began to make better progress once back on the paved FM highway. “There’s a whole film crew in town, I think the actors are local but betcha there’s some out-of-towners. Wonder if any of them joined the party since Thanksgiving?”
“Haven’t had time to canvass motels. But I got a list of possibles, right age bracket and name match to Victor Grant or close derivatives.” Gonzales swerved around a squirrel and nearly went off the road. “Damn tree rats,” he muttered, and then louder. “Any word from the Chicago PD or from South Bend?”
Combs shook his head. “Not yet. Like you said, it’s the holiday. Case moving too fast.” His phone rang and he grabbed it and tried to answer, but nobody was there. It tweedled again, and his eyes widened. It wasn’t his phone. “That’s September’s phone.” He dug it out of his pocket, and handed the phone to Gonzales to answer. “Put it on speaker.”
“It’s an unknown local number.” Gonzales punched it on. “Hello? Who’s this?”
A man’s baritone spoke, cheerful and excited, while in the background a dog barked and yelped. “Hey man, I got great news for you. I found your dog Shadow.”
