"It shouldn't take long to find," said Cable, ignoring the innuendo. "The iron ore is all narrow streaks, real short runs."
The fire road ran parallel to the path of the searchers marching ahead of him, downhill and deeper into the forest. And this was more evidence against the sheriff. In Oren's experience, even the best-concealed graves of murder victims had been found in close proximity to a road. The volunteers walked at arm's length from one another, some crab-walking sideways to avoid fallen trees and boulders.
As if opining on the weather, Oren said, "I know you're the one who left the bones on the judge's porch." And when the sheriff stumbled, then stopped-dead still-Oren added, "You figured that would bring me home-back to your jurisdiction."
"I never suspected you." Cable Babitt looked up at the sky, as if he gave a damn about the gathering clouds. "But your father was always at the top of my list. A few months ago, I found Josh's skull in my garage. It was sitting on the hood of my jeep. I thought the judge might've left it there. Guilt maybe. Who knows?"
"You knew right away it was Josh's skull?"
"Oh, yeah." The sheriff was silent until the last volunteer was no longer visible through the dense foliage. "I could tell by the overlap of the front teeth and a chip in one back molar. I've had the boy's dental records in my files for twenty years. And that skull was in real good shape, no predator marks. Between that and the soil stains-well, the boy didn't bury himself. You know the parents are always at the top of the suspect list. I had to rule out your father-or make a case against him."
"So you took a soil sample from the skull, but you didn't send it to a state lab." Oren held up the map with its telltale stamp of origin. "You had it analyzed by a university geologist."
The sheriff nodded. "Then I went looking for the rest of the bones on my own time. It took me a while to locate the grave-just a hole in the ground, not very big. And I dug up the-"
"Why would the judge kill Josh?"
"Oren, you know damn well I don't need motive. Who knows what goes on inside of that old man's head? The day you got home, you must've realized your dad had a few screws loose. The way he keeps that house. My God, he even stuffed Horatio." Cable hurried his steps to catch up to his own group of searchers. He glanced back over one shoulder to see Oren dogging him. "Son, you don't want to be here when they find that hole."
True enough.
In U.S. Army terminology, he had exploited too many such holes from Bosnia to Baghdad, gathering evidence of mass murders so cruel that some had encompassed whole villages, and bullets had not been wasted on babies to spare them the slow death of live burial. The graves had always yielded clues to the manner of murder, and he had no desire to be here when his brother's grave was found.
"You want me to go? Fine," said Oren. "Give me the keys to your office and that file cabinet."
Too late.
They ran toward the sound of the scream.
The elderly owner of the dry-goods store, Mrs. Mooney, had found the burial site by falling into it. After treading on a canvas tarp, camouflaged by windblown leaves and dry brush, she had fallen into the narrow trench beneath it. The canvas now covered the old woman as well, almost like a shroud, and possibly that had also been her own thought when she screamed. Her gnarly white hands reached out of the grave to be saved.
Oren dragged out the tarp, then climbed into the hole and gently lifted the old woman up and into the waiting hands of volunteers.
The last time he had stood on the floor of a grave, there had been so many bodies, fifty or more, and a plethora of clues to the cause of death: bullet holes and blindfolds still tied around the skulls, hands bound behind the backs of men and women. Some of the evidence collected for identification had been small toys taken from the skeletal hands of children.
This more barren grave was a greater assault on his mind. He was not ready for this. He stood frozen, looking down at a familiar belt buckle, a shred of his brother's rotted blue jeans and a freshly exposed shard of bone.
Part of a yellow plastic garment jutted out from the loose dirt, and this must belong to the stranger whose remains had been mixed with Josh's in the coffin. Oren and his brother had owned yellow slickers that same color, but both of them were back at the house, still hanging side by side near the kitchen door-exhibits in his father's museum.
The sheriff, to his credit, pretended no surprise at this find, and he called out to one of the deputies, "Get that body bag out of the trunk!"
"Not so fast." Oren kept his voice low as he climbed out of the hole. "You have to call the Justice Department. They'll find you a team for the excavation-specialists."
"No time for that, son." The sheriff slowly turned his head to stare in disbelief. A female volunteer, a tourist in an out-of-state T-shirt, stepped up to the edge of the grave to snap a picture of her summer vacation.
"That's enough of that!" Cable Babitt snatched the disposable-box camera, and a deputy led the souvenir hunter away. "Oren, the reporters must've heard that scream. They'll be here any second. Anyway, there's nothing in that hole but rags and bones."
And evidence of a grave robber." Oren took the camera from the sheriff's hands and snapped a picture of the hole. He raised his voice for an approaching deputy to hear. "See the ridges on the sides? The shovel had a nick in it. Almost as good as a fingerprint." He snapped another picture of that shallow wall of dirt, and then he heard the sound of running feet. The reporters were coming through the woods, and they were legion.
Almost here.
"You don't want to lose this evidence, do you?" Oren pushed the film forward and snapped a photo of Cable Babitt. There was no flash, but the sheriff blinked in surprise.
Unwilling to trust this man to follow any protocols, Oren barked orders, military style, to the nearest deputy. This woman never even glanced at Cable for confirmation, but ran to her jeep to radio a request for an evidence officer on the scene. Oren issued another order to fence off the site with crime-scene tape. "And get these people out of here! Now! No reporters within thirty feet of the hole!"
He turned his back on his brother's grave and walked uphill toward the turnout where he had parked the judge's car.
"Son? Wait up!"
"I'm in a hurry, Sheriff." Oren kept walking, making the older man run to catch up. "Lots of work to do. I have to check out toolsheds for a nicked shovel. Maybe just one shed-yours."
"You're not a cop anymore! You've got no authority to-"
"I think we're past that little technicality." Without breaking stride, Oren glanced over one shoulder to see deputies pushing the reporters back and others stringing yellow tape from tree to tree-all on the authority of a man who was not a cop anymore.
"Son, you only think you know what's going on."
"Well, you tell me when I get something wrong." Whirling around, he faced the startled sheriff. "You tampered with a crime scene." As Oren walked toward him, Cable Babitt stepped backward. "You hand-delivered evidence to the judge, a suspect at the top of your list. You spent six weeks playing ugly little games with my brother's bones. I bet you even know the day when my father bought Josh's coffin… and then you left him more bones. You son of a bitch."
The sheriff had his back against a tree. "I was working this case. I knew I wouldn't have much time before all hell broke loose."
"When you found Josh's skull in your garage, was it in a bag or a box?"