The Red Scream by Mary Willis Walker Page B

familiar from other homicide scenes. She needed no medical examiner to tell her this was a body that had been dead in the heat for many hours.
    Reluctantly she turned her eyes back to the body. The face of the corpse was turned down to the ground, but Molly could see just enough of the profile—the turned-up nose and full mouth—to recognize that this was Georgia McFarland. Yes, it was Georgia, even though the artfully frosted blond hair was all gone.
    Her head had been shaved.
    Just like Louie Bronk’s victims years ago.
    Just like the first Mrs. McFarland.
    Molly held her breath and leaned forward to look closer at the scalp. It had been carefully, cleanly shaved. Someone with a steady hand had done this. She began to tremble. How could any human being keep such a steady hand right after committing a murder?
    Two bloody holes marred the smooth narrow back. She had seen enough autopsies to recognize the entrance wounds made by large caliber bullets. But those ragged torn edges were not typical. She glanced up at the buzzards in disgust. They had managed to get their licks in.
    All that earthly beauty, all that effort to stay young—in the end just food for buzzards that didn’t care whether the flesh was firm and well exercised or old and wrinkled.
    As she looked, she saw a thin red line snaking along the naked rib cage. Ants. She shuddered. When we die we descend the food chain pretty goddamned fast.
    She glanced around the clearing. In the rays from the low western sun, something shiny glinted next to the single wood step up to the gazebo. She walked closer. It was a metal cylinder. She reached out for it, but checked herself in time. This was a murder scene.
    She squatted down to get a better look. It was one of those sleek, stainless-steel Thermoses from Germany that you saw in expensive kitchenware shops.
    Molly rose and took a step backward. She needed to call this inimmediately. She could do it from the phone in her pickup. But the minute she left, the buzzards would be back in force. And she couldn’t allow that to happen. No way.
    She turned around and looked up the hill. Along the ridge two other houses might be in earshot. She called out, “Help. Is there anyone up there?” She raised her voice to a scream. “Help! I need some help down here! Help me, dammit!”
    But no sound came back. No one would be out on this blistering hot afternoon. All the windows would be closed, air conditioners on full-blast.
    She looked up into the cloudless Texas sky. The birds were still there, circling patiently, wings held in a vee, tilting from side to side. Waiting for her to go.
    It was intolerable.
    She picked up another rock and took aim, but let it drop back to the ground when she saw how hopeless it was. Instead, she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted at them, “Ha! Get away, you hags.” Then she waved her hands in the air.
    She jumped when a man’s voice called out from above. “What’s going on down there? This is private property.”
    Molly looked around frantically for the source of the voice.
    “What the hell are you doing down there?” the voice called.
    She looked up the hill to the back of the McFarland house, shading her eyes with her hand. He must be standing at the top of the hill, but it was so steep she couldn’t see the top. “It’s me, Molly Cates,” she called. “Something very bad has happened here. Who are you?”
    “Franklin Purcell. Security director for McFarland Construction. Come up here, please.”
    “I can’t. Call the police. Now. Then come down and help me. Hurry.”
    “What should I tell the police they’re coming for?”
    It seemed all wrong to yell it out, but she didn’t see an alternative. “There’s a body down here, with two bullet holes in it. A woman.” Molly was having trouble catching her breath in the hot, still air.
    “Okay. You just hold on a minute, ma’am.” The voice was calm and competent. “I want to make sure Mr. McFarland’s settled