Joe nodded, half to himself. "Well, guess we'd better introduce ourselves to the mystery guest," he said, and moved toward the embankment, where a rope had been rigged to help with the snow's slippery surface.
The ME's rep was Alan Miller, a twenty-year EMT whose primary job was as a carpenter. Joe, who'd worked with him a number of times, had always found him to be a quiet man of peaceful demeanor, and sometimes wished that he'd found a happier part-time occupation. Death investigation seemed a dour way to complement the more optimistic pursuit of emergency medicine.
But Miller clearly didn't see it that way. His face lit up when he saw Joe-or better Sammie, Joe reasonably suspected.
"I didn't see you two hiding out," Miller said, shaking hands. "Find anything interesting?"
"Nothing," Sam responded gloomily, ignoring him in favor of the corpse now being hauled onto the small beach area.
Miller followed her gaze just as the body was rolled over onto its back. "Well," he said, "maybe we'll get luckier here, or at least up in Burlington."
Joe didn't say anything, hoping he was right. Burlington meant the ME's office and Dr. Beverly Hillstrom, a prime example of how a state like Vermont could still sometimes attract the very best professionals. More than once, she'd pulled a miracle out of thin air when Joe thought he had run dry of possibilities.
Miller pulled on a pair of latex gloves as he approached the deceased. "Not a very remarkable-looking guy, is he?"
That was hard to argue. The body was waxy-pale and tinged with the blue typical of cold-weather deaths, but he was relatively fresh, possibly dead for under ten hours, and the rushing water had kindly washed away the seepage that a dry corpse produces in short order.
"Looks like a clerk out of an old movie," Sam agreed.
The man appeared to be in his mid-thirties to early forties, bald with a fringe of hair above his ears and around the back. He was neither fat nor thin, tall nor short, handsome nor hideous. Joe had to agree with Sam-this was a portrait of utter blandness. The Invisible Man in three dimensions, dressed for winter.
Miller was now standing astride him, as if getting ready to squat down and sit on his chest. In fact, he merely hovered so his hands could roam freely just above the man's surface, carefully unbuttoning and unzipping and peeling back layers of clothing, searching through pockets as they were revealed. He didn't actually take anything off, but by the time he was finished, most aspects of the man's anatomy were available for inspection.
But in terms of revelations, despite the treasure hunting aspect of the process, the conclusion matched the introduction-and Sam's opening appraisal.
As Miller reiterated when he finally stepped free and peeled the gloves from his almost numb hands, "Nothing. No bends, folds, or mutilations."
Joe pursed his lips without comment. He didn't like cases like this. It wasn't the extra work they represented-the lack of identification, the absence of a clear and reasonable story. Rather, it was the lingering scent of menace he disliked-the palpable suggestion that they'd ended up dead without ready explanation because somebody else had engineered it that way.
It was possible that this man had fallen off the bridge in a drunken stupor, or suffered a heart attack while taking an evening stroll, but Joe doubted it. This body had been stripped of the conventional identifiers we all carry, and Joe's instincts told him that Hillstrom and her associates would end up telling a tale of homicide. Looking down at this innocuous mystery, he could almost feel the malevolence that had brought it about.
Sam glanced up at her boss, one eyebrow raised. "What do you think?" she asked.
I think there's a nemesis out there, ready to be engaged, he thought, but he actually said to her, "I think we use a fine-toothed comb."
A shout reached them from the road above. "Special Agent Gunther?"
They all looked up at Jeff Dupree, his hand in the air as if waving farewell to a train.
"What's up?" Joe asked, raising his voice above the tumble of the water. "I've got dispatch on the cell phone. Something about a car crash."
Lonely: any hot girl wanna chat?? Hottie: yea Shez: add me Dislove: dude Gangsta: ron how tall r u?? Shez: n u can hav a look Hottie: what is it Lonely: any hot girl wanna chat?? Hottie: kk Dislove: bored Hottie: so u gonna talk me something about yourself Boss: hey all Im Back Whats good? Hottie: yourself Dislove: any guys?… Gangsta: ron r u there?? Hottie: shez u there Shez: em wot u wna no Ron: back yes I am Lonely: boss Lonely: can we chat?? Hottie: I don't know that is for u 2 tell me Ron: im 6'1" Doo: uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Doo: hi Shez: well iv got an 11inch touge n breath frew ma ears Hottie: oh I c
Chapter 3
Joe positioned his chair in the corner, by the window, where he had a clear view of both the bed and the door and where he could stretch out his legs if need be. It was a strategic decision, based on the chance that he'd be spending a lot of time here, which, sadly, was what he was anticipating. Unless things deteriorated even more.
He looked across at his mother, lying peacefully in bed. At least he had that to hold on to. There were no tubes stuck down her throat at the moment, and only a single IV dangling from a metal pole beside her. She just looked asleep, aside from the ugly bruise extending from her left temple. Soon, he'd been told, if she stayed this way beyond some short-term deadline, a feeding tube and oxygen would be introduced. Maybe more. But, right now, her vitals were stable, her breathing deep and regular, her heartbeat strong, and her brain waves energetic.
He had been led to believe that among the overall patient population at the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, his mother was actually in pretty good shape. She just wasn't waking up.
Leo, typically, wasn't quite as enigmatic. Like the man himself, his injuries were prominent, visible, and easily diagnosed, if not so simply set right. Leo had been Joe's first stop in the hospital, once both patients' conditions had been made clear on the phone. For all Leo's much publicized joviality, he was a worrier, always nervously hovering over the target of his attention. It was one of the reasons he was so popular as a butcher, fussing over every customer. Joe knew from the moment he'd heard of his brother's broken ribs, collapsed lung, fractured shoulder, and concussion, that Leo's biggest problem was going to be his inability to get to their mother's bedside. To Joe's mind, regardless of who was in worse shape physically, Leo was going to be needing the most care.
And that wasn't even factoring in the man's guilt.
Fortunately for Joe, his brother was so beaten up that he couldn't give much voice to his concerns. When Joe visited him in ICU, in fact, picking his way through all the monitoring equipment circling the bed, all Leo managed was a halfhearted smile.
Joe wasn't even sure he could talk. "You okay, Leo?"
Leo winced, as if at some joke Joe couldn't fathom. "Top of the world," his brother whispered, adding, "How's Ma?"
Joe slipped his hand into Leo's and gave it a squeeze. He made his voice sound upbeat. "Haven't seen her yet, but you're in much worse shape. They told me she's fast asleep-breathing fine, though, and everything else looks okay. No breaks, no messed-up major organs. The doc on the phone told me not to be overly concerned-that sometimes the body just needs to rest awhile. Sounds pretty good."
Leo closed his eyes, and Joe realized he was fighting back tears.
"Leo," he told him, "it was an accident."
Leo took a ragged breath, reopened his eyes, and murmured, "It was the car, not the road."
He coughed once then, not forcefully, but the effect was telling. His face contorted, and one of the monitors began chirping. A nurse gently moved Joe out of the way in order to adjust something.
"I'll look into it, Leo, and I'll take care of Mom. Just get better, okay? I'll be back in a bit and give you an update."