the same species and newly hatched, I didn’t worry about separation according to size, merely area of colection: neck, anus, surrounding soil. As with the eggs, one half went into vials with air, food, and perching material. The other half went into hot water, then an alcohol solution.
After netting and packaging adult flies, I gathered representatives of every species present within a yard of the body. My inventory included two black beetles, a long brown crawly thing, and a handful of ants. The yelow jacket got a pass.
Bugs sealed and labeled, I colected soil samples, then made notes about the habitat: freshwater lake, hardwoods and pines, semiacid soil, elevation five hundred to six hundred feet, temperature ranging from midsixties to mideighties Fahrenheit, low humidity, ful sunlight.
Finaly, I jotted comments concerning the body. Naked. Prone, buttocks raised, arms straight at the sides. Decapitation, no blood or bodily fluids at the scene. Head missing.
Incised wounds on chest and bely. Minimal decomp. No aquatic or animal scavenging. Egg masses at neck and anus with internal temperatures of 97 and 98 degrees Fahrenheit, respectively. Unknown cause of death.
It was half past four when I finished. Larabee and Hawkins were leaning on the back of the van, drinking bottled water.
“Thirsty?” Hawkins asked.
I nodded.
Hawkins puled a six-ouncer from a cooler and tossed it to me.
“Thanks.”
We al drank and stared at the lake. Larabee spoke first.
“Slidel’s convinced we got devil worshippers in our midst.”
“Commissioner Lingo wil have a field day.” I couldn’t keep the disdain from my voice.
Hawkins shook his head. “Old Boyce was sounding off less than twenty-four hours after you and Skinny wrapped up in that celar.”
“Don’t you know? Lingo has a hotline to God.”
Larabee snorted.
“Remember that stabbing off Archdale?” Hawkins tipped his bottle in Larabee’s direction. “Lesbian lady took issue with her partner coyoting around? Body bag’s barely zipped and Lingo’s pontificating on the evils of homosexuality.”
“Not a peep last week when that trucker blew his ex-wife’s boyfriend away. That was a righteous heterosexual murder,” Larabee said. “Biblical motive. If I can’t have her, nobody can.”
“If Lingo gets wind of this one, he’l rol it into his current soap opera.” Hawkins tossed his empty bottle onto a Winn-Dixie bag beside the cooler. “The Devil Goes Down to Georgia.”
“He’l be dead-ass wrong,” I said.
“You don’t get satanic vibes from this?” Larabee asked.
“From this one, yes. From that celar, no.”
I described what I’d found.
“Don’t sound like Baptists to me,” Hawkins said.
I outlined what I’d told Slidel and Rinaldi about syncretic religions. Santería. Voodoo. Palo Mayombe.
“Who’s into animal sacrifice?”
“Al of them.”
“Satanists?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your money?” Larabee’s bottle joined Hawkins’s.
“The colored beads, the coins, and the Catholic saint point to Santería. The wooden sticks and the padlocked nganga suggest Palo Mayombe.”
“The human remains?”
I raised my hands, frustrated. “Take your pick. Voodoo. Santería. Palo Mayombe. Satanism. But the celar had no inverted pentagrams or crosses, no six-six-six symbols, no black candles or incense. Nothing typical of devil worship.”
“Nothing like this kid here.” Larabee tipped his head toward the lake.
“No.”
“You think there’s a link?”
I pictured the mutilated body lying on the shore.
The cauldron skul and leg bones.
I had no answer.
Wending toward the highway, I passed two cars. One pleased me. The other did not.
The SUV held the search dog promised by Rinaldi. I wished the canine better luck than I’d had in locating the missing head.
The Honda Accord was driven by the same woman I’d seen outside the Greenleaf house Tuesday night. What had the Observer photo credit been? Alison Stalings.
“Just
After netting and packaging adult flies, I gathered representatives of every species present within a yard of the body. My inventory included two black beetles, a long brown crawly thing, and a handful of ants. The yelow jacket got a pass.
Bugs sealed and labeled, I colected soil samples, then made notes about the habitat: freshwater lake, hardwoods and pines, semiacid soil, elevation five hundred to six hundred feet, temperature ranging from midsixties to mideighties Fahrenheit, low humidity, ful sunlight.
Finaly, I jotted comments concerning the body. Naked. Prone, buttocks raised, arms straight at the sides. Decapitation, no blood or bodily fluids at the scene. Head missing.
Incised wounds on chest and bely. Minimal decomp. No aquatic or animal scavenging. Egg masses at neck and anus with internal temperatures of 97 and 98 degrees Fahrenheit, respectively. Unknown cause of death.
It was half past four when I finished. Larabee and Hawkins were leaning on the back of the van, drinking bottled water.
“Thirsty?” Hawkins asked.
I nodded.
Hawkins puled a six-ouncer from a cooler and tossed it to me.
“Thanks.”
We al drank and stared at the lake. Larabee spoke first.
“Slidel’s convinced we got devil worshippers in our midst.”
“Commissioner Lingo wil have a field day.” I couldn’t keep the disdain from my voice.
Hawkins shook his head. “Old Boyce was sounding off less than twenty-four hours after you and Skinny wrapped up in that celar.”
“Don’t you know? Lingo has a hotline to God.”
Larabee snorted.
“Remember that stabbing off Archdale?” Hawkins tipped his bottle in Larabee’s direction. “Lesbian lady took issue with her partner coyoting around? Body bag’s barely zipped and Lingo’s pontificating on the evils of homosexuality.”
“Not a peep last week when that trucker blew his ex-wife’s boyfriend away. That was a righteous heterosexual murder,” Larabee said. “Biblical motive. If I can’t have her, nobody can.”
“If Lingo gets wind of this one, he’l rol it into his current soap opera.” Hawkins tossed his empty bottle onto a Winn-Dixie bag beside the cooler. “The Devil Goes Down to Georgia.”
“He’l be dead-ass wrong,” I said.
“You don’t get satanic vibes from this?” Larabee asked.
“From this one, yes. From that celar, no.”
I described what I’d found.
“Don’t sound like Baptists to me,” Hawkins said.
I outlined what I’d told Slidel and Rinaldi about syncretic religions. Santería. Voodoo. Palo Mayombe.
“Who’s into animal sacrifice?”
“Al of them.”
“Satanists?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your money?” Larabee’s bottle joined Hawkins’s.
“The colored beads, the coins, and the Catholic saint point to Santería. The wooden sticks and the padlocked nganga suggest Palo Mayombe.”
“The human remains?”
I raised my hands, frustrated. “Take your pick. Voodoo. Santería. Palo Mayombe. Satanism. But the celar had no inverted pentagrams or crosses, no six-six-six symbols, no black candles or incense. Nothing typical of devil worship.”
“Nothing like this kid here.” Larabee tipped his head toward the lake.
“No.”
“You think there’s a link?”
I pictured the mutilated body lying on the shore.
The cauldron skul and leg bones.
I had no answer.
Wending toward the highway, I passed two cars. One pleased me. The other did not.
The SUV held the search dog promised by Rinaldi. I wished the canine better luck than I’d had in locating the missing head.
The Honda Accord was driven by the same woman I’d seen outside the Greenleaf house Tuesday night. What had the Observer photo credit been? Alison Stalings.
“Just
Similar Books
