Chapter 1: Midsummer

Location Unknown

August 28th, 2015

I remember the first time I held human bones. Confused by a surge of uncomfortable emotion. The dry, hollow, brittle tan finger bone pinched between my forefinger and thumb. Abhorrent, I thought.

Bones holding bones.

Sad, perhaps. What hands might this hand have held? But mostly – fascinating. The deep grooves of defensive wounds. A fracture’s texture like braille telling a story of pain. So neutered, that bone. Clean from a bin marked with numbers and letters and Guatemala, but nothing more.

The first crime scene was different in the most peculiar way – looking at fresh bones. Bones dressed in clothing. Bones that appeared to have attempted escape.

That time, I was choked with emotions. That time, they seemed more human. Revulsion. Vicks under my nose, I whispered, don’t puke at a crime scene, until the sensation passed.

This time, I don’t have words for what I feel. I turn away for a moment, finding comfort in clean brisk air uncontaminated by the musty smell of flesh-soil. There isn't a better way to describe it; the dark fertile soil cradling four sets of bones imbued with the dissolved flesh of the dead.

Flesh-soil.

It is alive with small bugs disturbed by our presence. Small sprouts of happy seeds are suddenly crushed beneath the boots and cones and tires and evidence markers of investigators surging through the woods. Violence, then peace, now more violence.

My arrival to the scene had given me a few moments to take in what had once been serene. Almost beautiful. Four brown-stained skeletons arranged like spokes of a wheel, their heads touching in the middle, hands clasped together over their exposed sternums like they had been laid to rest with bouquets. Whether by environmental force, shift in the ground, or a perimortem surge of emotion; one of the skulls is turned slightly to the side, as if trying to place its forehead on the temple of its friend. One last look before the darkness consumed them. Did they lay down willingly?

My eyes scan the scene again, the perfect muddy perimeter formed by the dozen agents and photographers walking a wide circle around the now roped-off tableau. The sound of the forest where the victims have been found is a cacophony of voices, snapped pictures, running cars, the crinkle of plastic body suits, and the muffled heavy breathing of faces behind masks. We don't know what killed these people, so every precaution is being taken.

When I received the call, and the pin-drop for the location deep here in the national park, I had expected something sinister looking, something seeping with malice, or that had the lingering stench of something menacing in the shadows. But birds were singing, the sun sparkled through the deep summer-green leaves overhead, and in the distance the songs of foxes screaming their courtship pierced the air. It was vibrant and lovely and a scene from a movie I think I've seen once. Lovers meeting in the woods, falling asleep to the games of faeries, having spent the night before in dramatic and comedic quarrel with the mystical. These four are not going to wake up and realize their hearts' desires.

I look at the bones now and my hand tightens on my forearm, reminding my brain that I remain where I am meant to be - encased in living flesh.


My gloved hand hovers over the phalanges of a right foot, collapsed into a small pile of tiny bones, and the tactile memory of the lightness, the dryness, the small fissures and fractures catching on my fingernail - the touch of human bone - makes the hair on my arms and neck stand on end. I withdraw my hand and let the shiver of horror subside. I stand and back away from the circle of yellow tape, watching the forensic team begin the tedious venture of removing the bodies without disturbing too much.

There is so much information, so much value, scattered around us. One of the techs, kneeling between a pair of boney shoulders, looks up from the camera in their hands and waves me over. I walk counterclockwise until I am closest to their position. They bend again, snap another picture, and then turn and walk backwards from their perch, placing their feet in the exact same prints they left as they entered. They turn the camera so I can see the bright pixels of the most recent snap. It is a wide shot of the four skulls.


They click forward; a close-up of two skulls. They click forward again; a close-up of one skull, with the right socket centered in the frame.

The final image draws my eyes up to the tech, then down to the bodies, then back to the image. There, in the middle of the socket, a small scroll of paper. My eyes move to look at the skeletons again, hesitating as they feel the phantom sensation of a foreign body touching them. The tech catches my eye as they hold up four fingers. Four fingers. Four scrolls.

III.ii.460

***

The drive into Maryland is long. The Wilson Bridge is a parking lot, the flashing lights at the exit to National Harbor identifying where the blockage on the commute occurred. It gives me time to look down at the folders on the seat beside me. I thumb the top one open and take advantage of the stand-still to flip through the medical examiner’s report again. This is not first foray into Prince George’s County, but I don’t want to go, and there isn’t a way to avoid it. The bodies are calling, and the echoes of their faces sit with me in the quiet of my home when I just want to eat dinner and watch TV. The paunchy face of the man in the top file is especially disquieting, for some reason. He looks so much like my neighbor, like the butcher at Whole Foods, like the guy who collects my recycling. The every-man and any-man, familiar and strange.

Aggressive honking draws my eyes away from the ruin of his bloated face, looking at the cars funneling down to the fast lane. I could put on my own lights, force my way through, get to where I need getting faster. The anxiety ball in my chest stops me from doing it. I don’t want to get to the precinct any faster than I must. TV would lead us to believe local PD and Feds get along about as well as cats and dogs. Not true, but the ball of trepidation won’t subside. I am nervous about showing up, alone, to the lioness’ den.

Cars are moving, so I close the folder and start to slowly merge to the left. Someone in a Hellcat feels the need to miss my nose by inches as they go screeching into a microscopic space behind a van, preventing me from getting in front of them. My body flips him off before my brain can reign her back in. He starts honking and yelling. My brain holds up the badge and I am filled with victorious rage as he quiets, puts a hand up in apology, and lets me in front of him. They war constantly, my id and ego.

The rest of the drive is quiet, the ghosts in the backseat scowling in disapproval or contempt. I can only shake my head at them as I ease the Fed-black SUV off exit 4b and head for the PG County 37th Precinct building.

***

I park in a designated spot for guests. The front of the building is brick, looks old and warm, but the inside is bright, white, modern and cold. The gentleman at the front desk eyes me like he doesn’t have time for whatever bullshit I am bringing with me – I can relate. I pull my credentials and slide them over, making myself look as unimposing as possible, like we’re long-lost friends, like somehow, he is the only bright spot in my day.

He doesn’t buy it, but he smiles back at me anyway and stamps some form or another before sliding a big red Visitor badge over.

“Mercado and Sawyer are in with a perp,” he says as I slip the lanyard over my head.

“I buzzed Cap, so she’ll show you into Observation Room 3.” He inspects my filled in visitor log for correctness then buzzes the double-doors to the side.


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