“After your nap.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
9
THIS IS WHAT EMMA KNEW.
Matthew Summerfield IV was a troubled kid from a family that didn’t tolerate imperfection. Mama was Sally, née Middleton, of the First Continental Congress Middletons. Daddy was a Citadel grad and reigning monarch on the Charleston City Council.
Matthew IV tried foot-stepping Matthew III, but got bounced for smoking pot as a plebe. Deciding on tough love, Daddy booted Sonny from the family homestead.
Matthew IV bunked in with friends, made spare change by buying rice and dried beans at the Piggly Wiggly and repackaging them as thirteen-bean soup and hoppin’ John mix for the tourists. On February 28, young Matt left his stall at the Old City Market near East Bay Street, walked to Meeting Street, and vanished. He was eighteen.
Emma’s directions sent me over the Wando River and north to the Francis Marion National Forest, a quarter-million-acre triangle of coastal plain bordered on the north by the Santee River, on the east by the intracoastal waterway, and on the west by Lake Moultrie. Slammed hard in ’89 by Hurricane Hugo, the flora in the Francis Marion had rebounded with all the vigor of a Brazilian jungle. The whole drive I worried about finding the action.
I needn’t have. Vehicles lined the shoulder. Cruisers with their lights flashing. A coroner’s van. A park ranger’s Jeep. A battered Chevy Nova. Two SUVs, their occupants bumper-leaning in tanks and cutoffs, faces bearing identical expressions of eager curiosity, already telling the story in their heads.
I was pleased to see no media trucks, but, given the crowd, doubted that would last.
Besides the gawkers, the only people visible were a uniform and two black kids. Grabbing my pack, I climbed from the car and headed toward them.
The boys had shaved heads and looked about sixteen. Both were gangstered up in enormous basketball jerseys and butt-hanger jeans. From Emma’s report, I guessed this was the lucky pair that had blundered upon the body.
The cop was a small man with brown-black eyes. His name tag said H. Tybee. Despite the oppressive heat and humidity, Deputy Tybee’s creases were razors and his hat sat perfectly squared to his brows.
Hearing me approach, Tybee stopped his interview and looked up. His nose was pointy with a high, narrow bridge. I imagined his buddies calling him “Hawk.”
The kids regarded me with arms crossed, heads canted so their ears almost touched their shoulders. Tybee kept his expression neutral so I could read it any way I chose. I read it as arrogant.
Three boys acting tough.
I introduced myself and explained my connection to the coroner.
Tybee crooked his head toward the woods.
“DOA’s yonder.”
Yonder?
“These homeboys claim they don’t know squat.”
The homeboys shifted their slouches to smirk at each other.
I spoke to the taller of the two. “What’s your name?”
“Jamal.”
“What happened, Jamal?”
“We already tole him.”
“Tell me.”
Jamal shrugged. “We seen something hanging from a tree. That’s it.”
“Did you recognize the person hanging from the tree?”
“Dude’s messed up.”
“Why were you in the woods?”
“Enjoying nature.” Traded smirks.
Hearing a motor, we all checked the road.
A white Ford Explorer with a blue star on the side panel was rounding the curve. We watched it pull to a stop behind one of the cruisers. A man got out, followed by a dog.
The man was tall, maybe six-two, and broad-chested, like a boxer. He wore pressed khakis and aviator shades. The dog was brown and had retriever somewhere in its parentage.
I was beginning to feel underdressed. Next outing, I’d bring Boyd.
The man strode toward us, carrying himself like someone who might speed-dial the governor. The words “Sheriff Junius Gullet” were embroidered on the left of his crisp white shirt.
Jamal uncrossed his arms and shoved his hands downward. Only the fingertips went low enough to take cover in the pockets.
“Afternoon, sir.” Tybee touched his brim. “Lady says she’s with the coroner.”
“Spoke to Miz Rousseau.” Gullet pronounced the name “Roosa.” “And such would appear to be the case.”
The dog moved to the edge of the woods and lifted a leg at each of several trees.
Gullet’s eyes flicked me up and down. Then he thrust out an arm, and his hand swallowed mine in a ball-breaker grip.
“You’re the lady doc from Charlotte.” Gullet spoke without intonation.
“Anthropologist.”
“Miz Rousseau usually uses Jaffer.”
“I’m sure she told you, he’s out of the country.”
“Bit out of the ordinary, but it’s Miz Rousseau’s call. She give you background?”
I nodded.
“Kid lived less than a mile from here with a houseful of baseheads.” OK. The sheriff wasn’t one for gushy intros. “Seen the body?” Flat.
“I just arrived.”
“Dude’s worm food.” Jamal’s smirk went wider than his face.
Gullet’s face came around slowly. It was without expression, almost bored. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then, “You get off on disrespecting the dead, son?”
Jamal shrugged. “Man, that dude’s head—”
Gullet hit him in the sternum with one beefy finger. “You want to shut your mouth long enough to listen? That ‘worm food’ is one of the Lord’s own souls, just like the rest of us.” Gullet withdrew his finger. “Maybe even you, son.”
Both boys developed an intense interest in their sneakers.
To me: “Yonder’s a trail leading to swampland. This part of the park isn’t a hot spot for locals or tourists. Nothing much to fish. Too buggy to camp.”
I nodded.
“Hope you’re ready for this.”
I nodded again.
“Nothin’ shocks this old boy anymore.”
The dog scampered ahead. I followed Gullet.
Walking into the woods, I channeled my mind into death scene mode. From this point on I would tune out the extraneous and focus only on the relevant. I would notice every overly lush plant, every bent twig, every odor, every insect. The human melee around me would become white noise.
Here the forest was a mixture of loblolly pine, sweet gum, hemlock, and beech. Dogwood, witch hazel, and sweet shrub packed the understory, tinting the air with sun-baked sweetness.
Gullet set a swift pace. Sun slipped through the lattice overhead, creating a wild geometry of light and shadow. Now and then leaves rustled, tattling on some startled creature. Underfoot, the soil felt soft and moist.
Twenty yards in, the trees yielded to a small clearing. On the right lay a bog, its black glass surface disturbed only occasionally by a dragonfly or some water-striding insect.
Pond pine and loblolly bay rimmed the water. The trees looked stunted, primordial, their trunks disappearing into inky darkness, their roots gnarled and mossy green.
Five yards from the water’s edge stood a single white oak. A body dangled from the oak’s lowest branch, toes barely clearing the ground.
Closing in on the gruesome tableau, I wondered what black vision had led to such an end. What tortured state of mind drove this anguished soul to fashion a noose, tie a rope, and jump?
Men in uniform and civvies stood talking, shooing flies, slapping mosquitoes. Every shirt was limp, every armpit rimmed with a dark sweat crescent.
A woman shot video. Two still cameras hung from her neck. The Charleston County coroner logo decorated her shirt.
I crossed the clearing and introduced myself. The woman’s name was Lee Ann Miller. She was built like a lumberjack, with copper-red curls that came straight from a bottle.
“Mind if I check the body?”
&n
bsp; “Jump right in, darlin’.” Lifting her hair, Miller beamed a smile as wide as Charleston Harbor.
“I don’t mind waiting until you’ve finished shooting.”
“I can’t work around your skinny little butt, I’m in the wrong line of work.” Miller fanned her neck and again flashed the harbor smile.
Despite the circumstances, I grinned back. Lee Ann Miller looked like a woman folks went to when seeking comfort. Or advice. Or just a good laugh.
As I moved to the tree, Gullet spoke to one of the other players. I paid little attention. I was taking in detail.
The body was hung with a yellow three-strand polypropylene rope. The noose was embedded deep in the neck, around the level of the third and fourth cervical vertebrae. Above it, the head and top two cervical vertebrae were missing.
The bones were overlain by fried and putrefied connective tissue. The clothing looked flat, as though hung on a scarecrow. Black pants. A denim jacket, suggesting the hanging had occurred during cooler weather. Brown socks. Scuffed boots.
Boot.
I looked around. The right leg bones lay ten feet east of the body, marked with a small yellow flag.
I walked over. The foot bones and the distal ends of the tibia and fibula remained firmly in the boot. The proximal ends were missing, and the shafts were cracked and splintered. A piece of the femur showed similar damage.
“Explain that.” Gullet was at my elbow.
“Animals are opportunists. Most will scavenge if given the opportunity.”
A mosquito drilled my arm. Slapping it, I moved on.
The skull lay six feet downslope from the tree, nestled against one of the roots snaking from its trunk. It, too, had been flagged.
It, too, had been scavenged.
“No animal climbed up and chucked that down.” Gullet was staying with me.
“In hangings, exposure often causes the head to fall off.” I heard flapping overhead, looked up to see a crow settle onto a branch. “Birds might have helped. And scavengers yanking on the legs.”
As I spoke, I scanned for the mandible.
“Jaw’s missing,” I said.
“I’m on it.” Matter-of-fact.
While Gullet questioned Miller, I squatted for a closer look at the head. For reasons of his own, Gullet’s dog joined me. No way I’d have tolerated a canine compromising “my” crime scene, but this was Gullet’s baby. I knew better than to challenge Sheriff Shock-proof.
Gloving my right hand, I made mental notes. Little hair remained. The bone was sun-bleached, but subtly variegated where rootlets had clung to the surface. Tiny beetles still roamed the geography of the empty features.
Using one finger, I gently rolled the skull.
Patches of tissue clung to the left cheek and temple, mottled by the ground cover on which it had lain. One eye remained, a black raisin in a socket packed with dirt and moss.
As I allowed the skull to settle back into its original position, a lone cloud slipped over the sun. The day dimmed, and the temperature dropped. I felt a chill. I was staring into the remains of overpowering despair.
Returning to the body, I inspected the soil directly below the feet. No maggots, but puparial casings attested to their passing. Pulling a plastic vial from my pack, I collected a sample.
Gullet’s dog watched, tongue drooping from the side of its mouth.
“No jaw.” Gullet was back.
I got to my feet.
“How about having some searchers fan out and check the woods.”
While Gullet gave the order, I stored more detail.
No animal scat. Yellow jackets, flies, beetles, ants. Nicks on the tree trunk, abrasions on the limb. Rope frayed on the ends. Noose knot at the back of the neck.
“Miller wants to know how much more time you’ll need.”
“I’m finished,” I said.
Gullet’s voice boomed, and he circled a hand in the air. “Good to go.”
Giving a thumbs-up, Miller crossed to the point at which we’d entered the clearing and spoke to one of those watching. The man disappeared.
With the aid of another watcher, Miller carried a gurney to the tree. Then she unbuckled and dropped the security straps over the sides, unzipped a body bag, and laid back the flap.
The first watcher joined us with a collapsible ladder. Gullet gestured him up the tree.
Spreading the ladder as wide as possible, the man climbed the treads, steadied himself with his arms, and straddled the branch. Gullet moved in to act as spotter.
The others watched from afar, their eyes silently fixed on the corpse.
Miller handed up a pair of long-handled pruning shears. Then, with her helper, she repositioned the gurney, gingerly eased the victim’s leg into one end of the bag, and raised the other end so it paralleled the hanging body as closely as possible.
The climber looked a question at Gullet.
“Cut him down.” Gullet’s face remained neutral. “Gently.”
“As far from the knot as you can,” I said.
Bending forward, the climber snared the rope between the short, curved blades and compressed the handles.
I stepped in, prepared to direct the body into the bag.
On the second try, the shears severed the rope.
Miller raised her end of the bag as her helper lowered his. I held my arms up, preventing the body from sliding in my direction.
The corpse slithered into place. Sweating and grunting, the two lowered the bag from above their heads to the gurney.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
Miller nodded, wiped sweat from her face with a forearm.
As Miller moved off to collect the head and leg bones, Gullet began searching the clothing for ID.
Nothing in the pants. Nothing in the shirt.
Then, “Hell-o.”
Gullet pulled a wallet from one of the jacket pockets. The leather was degraded due to runoff from decomposition that had penetrated the cloth.
Using a thumbnail, Gullet pried the front cover open. The wallet’s insides were sodden and congealed.
Using the same nail, the sheriff scraped dirt from the face of the first plastic compartment.
His cheeks may have crimped a fraction of a hair.
“Well. Well.”
10
“DRIVING PERMIT ISSUED BY THE GREAT STATE of South Carolina.” Gullet thumb-scraped the plastic some more, raised his shades to his head, and tilted the wallet this way and that.
“No way this poor fella’s Matthew Summerfield.” Gullet thrust the wallet at Miller.
The coroner’s investigator angled the plastic as the sheriff had done. “You got that right.” Miller offered the wallet to me. “Print’s too small for these old eyes.”
Though the photo was badly deteriorated, it was clear the man pictured was no kid. He had flabby features, black-rimmed glasses, and wispy hair slicked into a comb-over. I strained to make out the lettering to the right of the photo.
“The name looks like Chester something Pinney. Maybe Pickney. Or Pinckney. The rest is too damaged,” I said.
Miller produced a ziplock and I dropped the wallet into it. She handed the baggie to Gullet.
“If you’ve got no objection, we’ll deliver this gentleman’s mortal remains to the morgue. Miss Rousseau will want to find out who he is and make next-of-kin notification as soon as possible.”
Miller looked at her watch. We all followed suit, Pavlovian pups.
“Going on seven,” Gullet said. “Nothing more going to happen tonight.”
Nodding to Miller and me, the sheriff repositioned his shades on the bridge of his nose, whistled to the dog, and set off toward the road.
While her colleague cut free and bagged the remaining segment of rope, Miller and I satisfied ourselves that no further information could be wrung from the site. Vines and moss whispered overhead. Mosquitoes whined. Amphibians chanted from the murky gloom of the bog.
The sky was bleeding into a Lowcoun
try dusk as Miller slammed the double doors on the coroner’s van. Her face was splotchy with insect bites, and perspiration darkened her back and chest.
“I’ll be calling Emma shortly,” I said. “I can fill her in.”
“Thank ya, sweetie. That’s one less chore to worry my mind.”
I dialed from the road. Emma answered after three rings, her voice sounding thin and edgy. I explained what had taken place.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No need,” I said.
“The Summerfields will be relieved.”
“Yes,” I said, with little enthusiasm. A common scenario. One family gets good news, another gets bad.
I heard an intake of air, then nothing.
“What?”
“You’ve done so much.”
“Not really.”
“I hate to ask.”
“Ask.”
A hitch, then, “I have a treatment tomorrow. I—”
“What time?”
“The appointment is at seven.”
“I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”
“Thanks, Tempe.” The relief in her voice almost made me cry.
Again, I arrived home steeped in the smell of death. Again, I went straight to the outdoor shower and stood under water as hot as I could stand, soaping and lathering over and over.
Boyd greeted me with his usual enthusiasm, going upright, then working figure eights around my legs. Birdie watched with disapproval. Or maybe scorn. It’s hard to tell with cats.
After throwing on clothes, I filled pet bowls, then checked the house phone. Ryan hadn’t called. Nor had he left a message on my cell.
Pete’s car was not in the drive. Except for Bird and the chow, the place was empty.
When I unpegged his leash, Boyd flew into a frenzy, racing circles around the kitchen, ending with forepaws down, rump pointed skyward. I took him for a long walk on the beach.
Returning home, I again checked both phones. Nada.
“Call Ryan?” I asked Boyd.
The chow twirled his eyebrow hairs and canted his head.
“You’re right. If he’s pouting, we’ll give him space. If he’s busy, he’ll phone when he can.”