“Dr. Jones?” he called, starting our way. “Mr. Li? You here in an official capacity?”
Mike nodded to Kolmback, but murmured to me, “You know, L.T., I’m a damned doctor, too—why is it always ‘Dr. Jones and Mr. Li’?”
“I don’t know, Michael,” I answered, lowering my own voice as I took my turn nodding toward Kolmback. “Maybe you need to eat more powdered rhinoceros horn—isn’t that what your countrymen usually do to project greater strength?”
“What fucking countrymen?” Mike answered, reverting to the speech pattern of his native Queens. “I’m as American as you, you WASP son of a bitch, and you know it.”
“I know it,” I replied, “but perhaps these gentlemen do not…” Moving toward the approaching tech, I held out a hand that was quickly and gratefully taken. “Curtis!” I said, in as friendly a manner as I could muster. “You look a little rattled. Uncertain of your findings?”
“I don’t know about uncertain,” Curtis answered, wiping his sweating, balding pate with a rag and shaking Mike’s hand in turn. “But if you wouldn’t mind taking a look, I certainly wouldn’t be averse to any input.” He glanced back at the trailer, and his face, too, filled with a look that was both bewildered and simply mournful. “Dr. Weaver is satisfied with just murder, maybe sexual assault, too, but I—there’s just something…”
Looking at Pete again, I said, “Well. Seems like just about everybody with a brain in his head thinks there’s ‘just something.’ So why don’t we have that look?”
Kolmback nodded, then indicated the ME. “Better talk to Weaver, first. He’s the one certifying wrongful death. And I know how much you two’ll enjoy catching up.” Curtis allowed himself a small grin.
Sighing deeply, I noised, “Hmm, yes. Well, then, no way around it.” And so I began the tiresome walk to pay some sort of homage to the ME, who was busy writing notes on a clipboard full of forms that lay on the hood of his car.
Ernest Weaver was not an uncommon sort of man, in the Empire State, although this fact was far more an indictment of the system (if such it could be called) of medical examiners and coroners that prevailed in New York than it was an acknowledgment of his belonging to any superior class of investigator. County by county, the crazy quilt of ways in which non-medical deaths were investigated and officially determined continued to leave room, as it had since the earliest days of the republic, for abuses of every variety. Some counties still clung tightly to the ancient system of coroners: Albany, employing no fewer than four, was at the rather ironic forefront of this category. And under its terms, anyone from doctors to funeral home directors to butchers could get themselves elected to the posts. It was cronyism at its very worst, for coroners almost invariably tended to be favorites of political and law enforcement officials, and they could currently earn hundreds or even thousands of dollars per death certificate and autopsy (if they were qualified to perform the latter), despite most of them being no better at their jobs than their predecessors in centuries past had been. Precisely how many suspicious deaths had been falsely categorized over the generations because of this method of doing business would have been impossible to say; but it was certainly an enormous number. Only in the late twentieth century had various forces in certain counties risen up against the coroner system, and where these fights had been successful, they had most often been led by an unlikely group: the hospitals in which the actual autopsies of the bodies in question were performed. Tired of having their genuine medical knowledge frustrated by the interference of largely untrained political hacks, the pathologists in many hospital morgues simply refused to do business with the coroners, after a certain point, and submitted their own findings separately. This had led to successful calls by groups of forward-thinking legislators in many counties (remarkably enough, Burgoyne among them) to dispense with the coroner system altogether.
But a further complication then presented itself: the hospital pathologists could not very well abandon their posts every time a body turned up in some distant and very non-medical setting. Sweeping new responsibilities and authority, and far higher salaries, were then allotted to what forensic science had decided were the best candidates to carry on the work of investigating such matters: the medical examiners (or, as men like Weaver liked to be called, “medicolegal death investigators”). Persons both qualified for this post and willing to undertake it were, however, in critically short supply; and so, another inadequate solution was applied, this one allowing MEs to work for more than one county at a time. Weaver himself spent the vast majority of his life on various interstates, moving between Burgoyne, Rensselaer, Schenectady, and Washington Counties; and the particular aroma of McDonald’s grease, both on his person and in his Impala, told of how he sustained his great girth during all those drives to and from places of death. Whether this lifestyle had made the man rather peculiar and ghoulish, or whether only a peculiarly ghoulish man would have been attracted to such a post in the first place, was impossible to say; all that could be judged with any certainty was that he was a very odd duck.
“Dr. Weaver,” I said, hobbling up the slight incline that led to his car.
“Dr. Jones,” he said, his annoyance plainly exhibited by the fact that he refused to even look up from the notes he was scribbling. Fixing a small pair of reading glasses tight on his nose and ears, he let out a blow of exasperation. “I understand that the sheriff has agreed to allow you to view the crime scene.”
“He has. Any objection? I thought the matter was cut and dried, so far as you’re concerned.”
“Not so far as I am concerned,” Weaver answered, with heightened irritation. “It is cut and dried. Murder of a teenage runaway, with possible sexual implications, although that’s the pathologist’s domain. But you’ll no doubt observe all this for yourself.”
“Any idea why her killer dragged her all the way back home to do it?”
A dismissive laugh escaped him. “No, no, not at all—I leave such things to you profilers. No doubt you will be able to provide a motive for that, as well as for the act itself, and even a family history, just by observing a few simple details…”
And there it was, in record time: the utter contempt that forensic scientists of all stripes had developed for us criminal psychologists, now that trace analysis and DNA typing had become the supposed bedrock of criminal investigation. Before Weaver could embellish on his condescension, however, the radio in his car suddenly crackled to life, and he moved toward and then into the passenger window awkwardly to grab it, making sure to stay in that position so that I couldn’t hear the few seconds of conversation that was exchanged. When he came out again, he announced, “Now, I regret to say, I’ll have to be leaving you gentlemen.”
“What happened?” I asked. “Drastic shortages at your favorite Golden Arches?”
Weaver’s snooty smile vanished. “Droll, as always, Dr. Jones…” Slamming his notebook shut, he made for his driver’s-side door. “Well, anxious as I shall be to hear your contribution to the case, I’ve got to get over to the Northway.” He was speaking of Interstate Highway 87 above Albany, where it morphed from the New York Thruway into a multi-lane express route to the northernmost parts of the state and then Canada beyond. “Someone took a header from an overpass fence, and there seems to be some question about whether or not he had assistance.”
“Oh,” I answered simply, relieved that he was going. “Well, for God’s sake, don’t let that stop you from getting a hearty meal on the way, Weaver.”
Unprepared to continue with such banter, Weaver said simply, “Someone will be by for the body soon enough.” The Impala lurched over to one side as he sat in it, and the door knocked up against the doctor’s fat hip several times before it agreed to close. Waving angrily to the state trooper and telling him to move the FIC van so that he might escape, the ME finally departed, and I turned to find myself facing Mike and Sheriff Spinetti, who had come up behind me to watch the interchange in amusement.
“I swear t
o God,” Spinetti laughed, as the black Impala disappeared. “That guy’s gonna shoot you one of these days, Dr. Jones.”
I could only grunt. “I’ve been shot at by far better. Besides, how would he ever get one of those fingers inside a trigger guard?”
That amused the sheriff still further, and he nodded. “Okay—but remember, whatever you think of Weaver and the tech, it’s still my crime scene. So you’ll remember what I said, right? After all, this ain’t New—York—City.” The sheriff emphasized the last three words with the slow, almost satisfying distaste that characterized the speech patterns of many upstaters.
“Indeed we will, Sheriff,” I replied. “Just give us about fifteen minutes, and then you can send Mr. Kolmback back in to make sure that we’re not creating any problems.”
Spinetti didn’t have to allow us the time inside on our own; but despite his sparring speech and attitude, making use of our services on several similar occasions over the last few years had saved him from the embarrassment of relying too quickly on Dr. Weaver’s opinions, as he’d acknowledged a few minutes earlier. Even so, I knew that fifteen minutes was about all he could safely afford, before someone like the state trooper might take careful note of what was happening and report it to the state lab, which would then back Weaver to the hilt, whether it embarrassed one particular county sheriff or not. Mike and I would need to formulate any thoughts that might best go unshared with Kolmback quickly, for his amiability and fleeting sense of integrity did not take precedence over his desire to please his superiors and rise in the ranks.
Aware of all this, Mike wrangled the trailer door open, holding it as I went about trying to get my legs and cane through. “Just remember our method, Michael,” I said, aware of my awkwardness, momentarily ashamed of it, then angered by the shame. “Always remember our method…”
“I know our method, damn it,” Mike said, quietly and quickly. “Now get your clumsy ass inside, and let’s get some work done…”
Once I was finally through the door, Mike let it flap noisily closed again, and we entered a quiet chapel of dreary tragedy, centered on a nave of heartbreak.
{iii.}
If the outside of the trailer had been battered and unpleasant, the inside was something very different—and very much worse. The initial assault was not to the eyes, but to the nose: mold of every variety—black, green, the highly toxic and the more moderately so—had seized complete control of the structure, dominating its ceiling panels, its damp walls, and its damper floors with its clinging, heavy stench. This was augmented by the different but nearly as dangerous fumes that are peculiar to years upon years of accumulated and aerosolized rodent and bird excrement. I immediately regretted not having considered the issue of air quality, and having left proper breathing masks back at Shiloh. But Mike at least had several surgical masks in his trace kit, and we immediately strapped two of them on: for mold, whether fungal or animal-generated, can addle a brain and cause fantastic headaches within an extraordinarily short amount of time, and we would need our wits very much about us during the minutes immediately to come.
The next problem was darkness: there was, naturally, no power in the trailer, and the plastic apertures that had seemed merely clouded over from the outside were in fact, like the few glass panes that remained, almost completely blacked out by untold hours of cigarette smoking, the collected nicotine stains making a mockery of the word window. Our way was lit mainly by the distant glow of a pair of small work lamps that Kolmback had evidently set up at the far end of the trailer, and which were being powered by lengthy cords that extended through one of many rotted holes in the sides of the trailer and out to the augmented electrical system of the FIC van.
“It would appear,” I whispered (for anything other than a whisper suddenly seemed inappropriate), “that our destination lies that way…” I pointed to the far-off lights that sat on the floor of the last room in the structure, one of which cast some of its beams, fortunately, down the hallway.
As our eyes adjusted to the various if scant sources of illumination within the trailer, Mike said, with a look of deep apprehension, “Yeah, it fucking would appear that way…” His exuberance at a “real case” had vanished, as it almost always did, when he was faced with the realities of human suffering and death—particularly a child’s. “Well,” he went on, doing his best to steel himself, “let’s—”
A sudden metallic crash sounded, and each of us shook visibly: some kind of ancient, battered cooking pot had fallen from an equally aged stove nearby. We were evidently in the trailer’s kitchen, although the pot and the stove were the only real clues, along with a filthy sink so rusted and piled high with rodent nests and droppings that we could have been forgiven for missing it altogether. Just as we were gathering our wits, I heard Spinetti call with a laugh:
“Hey, you two! I said don’t screw things up in there!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mike called, trying to buck himself up. “Watch the city boys freak out, the sport of fuckin’ kings—”
But then we both started suddenly for a second time, as another loud crash came from an equally close spot. It was the door of the kitchen oven slamming open, a disconcerting enough event without the blurred image that came next: a moderately sized raccoon leapt from the oven, and hissed in a savage way as it blocked our path. The masked features of the animal were nearly insane with some kind of unnatural rage; and as I studied its emaciated body in the half-light, I saw several patches of bare skin, where the creature’s heavy fur seemed to have been scorched off. It tried to issue a cry of warning, but evidently could not, and instead sprayed spittle our way with an evil purpose. Its eyes, while not quite red, were utterly lacking in any trace of the comprehension that one expects to find in such ordinarily clever animals.
“Easy, Mike,” I said, standing dead still.
“What?” my partner asked in badly shaken reply: Mike had a deep fear of such encounters, for which his upbringing in Queens had done little to prepare him.
There was, however, no time to explain the situation twice. “Hey, Steve?” I called out. “Were you aware that there’s a rabid raccoon living in here?”
Mike silently mouthed the words What the fuck? as Spinetti answered, very seriously, “What? Kolmback, how the hell did you and Weaver miss a rabid coon, for fuck’s sake?” As Curtis tried to mumble an explanation, the sheriff cut him off and called to us: “You got a gun, Doc?”
“Not at the moment!” I replied; but even as I did, the raccoon sprayed a second salvo of spit, and then obligingly hurled itself through another of the undetectable holes in the wall of the trailer. “He’s out, and coming to you!” I went on, at which the men near the vehicles shouted urgent orders and acknowledgments. Mike and I made no move until we heard the sudden, sharp report of a large-caliber revolver, which was followed by another, then several more. Finally Spinetti shouted:
“Okay. We got him. Watch yourselves, though!”
As we finally began our progress toward the work lights, keeping to a runner of protective plastic that Kolmback had wisely rolled out along the hall of the trailer to protect the floor of the scene, I paused for just an instant by the open oven. Peering within, I saw several close-set pairs of tiny eyes amid vague, writhing shapes: the raccoon had been no “him” at all, and I closed the damaged oven door as far as it would go (which was not quite completely), knowing that the pathetic occupants of the cavity would soon meet a fate to match their maddened mother’s, but wanting no part of that process. Certain that the litter of sickened kits were too small and weak to either reopen the broken door or escape through the narrow gap between the ceramic portal and its frame, I urged Mike quickly past the appliance; and on that rather pointed note, we continued on our way.
An attempt had been made, how many owners or tenants ago it would have been difficult to say, to make the trailer seem what so often passed for homey, under such circumstances: peeling off the walls were various light-colored wallpapers—yellow, baby blue,
a sickly pink—each stenciled with a delicate floral design. On the floor was a patterned carpet, more tasteful than the deep-pile shag that ordinarily covered the particle board platforms of such domiciles, but heavily stained and missing large patches in various spots. The several rooms we passed were all empty, save for one in which a double mattress lay on the floor, its covering riddled with gnawed holes that would have been enough to demonstrate, even had we not seen large mice dashing in and out of them, that at least one variety of rodent was in active residence.
An ugly thought set up shop in my head: “Do you suppose the vermin have been at her?”
Mike nodded. “If she’s been here long enough? Afraid so.”
It was not the kind of thought likely to propel us forward any faster; nor was the fact that we were leaving the front door farther behind, and with it all hope of fresh air. As we crept on, the distinctive smell of the formaldehyde used in the manufacture of various parts of mobile homes rose and mixed with that same, ever-thickening stench of mold, and breathing, even through the surgical masks, became an increasingly difficult and unpleasant task. It was all deeply unsettling, in a way that at least partially explained the unusual expressions of sadness and bewilderment that had flitted across the faces of the seasoned first responders outside; despite this, however, the manner in which the scene was slowing our steps soon began to eat at me.