“That’s right. The polychaete worms leave smooth cavities. Those are cut marks from a drill.”
“Jesus!” Instantly Greg conjured up Geoffrey Dahmer-style horrors.
“But it’s not what you may think,” Joe said. “From the angles and the smoothness of the bores, it looks like these were done with very high-speed cranio-blade drills under precision guidance.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning nobody attacked the kid with a Black and Decker. He had some kind of medical procedure. There are no signs of the drill bit sliding on the skull or forced entry. Also, the cutting was fast and controlled—no microchipping or breakage like with a slower handheld instrument. This kid had some kind of sophisticated brain operation.”
Greg looked at him blankly. “Like what?”
“If they were bigger and fewer holes, I’d say they were drainage shunts to relieve internal bleeding—say if he had sustained some kind of trauma such as a car accident.” Joe let out a whimper as if reminding himself of his daughter. “With so many holes, my guess is some kind of biopsy.”
“You mean if he had brain tumors.”
“Or lesions, because something was either taken out of his brain … or put in.”
“Like what?”
“Well, if he were an old man, he might have been treated for Parkinson’s disease—except six-year-old kids don’t get Parkinson’s. Another possibility is he had several tumors. It’s rare, but if that were the case, surgeons might have implanted radioactive seeds.”
“Any way to test for that?”
“I asked Boston to do a radioactive scan. But, like I said, all soft tissue is unfortunately long gone—and no traces were detected in the bone.”
Greg held up the profile enlargements of the two skulls. There were variations in placement, but the clusters appeared identical.
“Another thing,” Joe added. “I checked around, and neurodrill holes are always refilled after such a procedure, either with some synthetic bone or even coral. From all microscopic indications, these were left empty.”
“Maybe they came out in the water.”
“Maybe. But I think there’d still be some signs of bone regeneration, which happens when there’s a fracture or fissure. But I don’t see any sign of the holes closing up.”
“That could have been lost in the water too, no?”
“Sure, but still.”
“If that were the case, it would mean that the kid died from the operation.”
“Or shortly thereafter,” Joe said.
Greg held up photos of the two skulls. “What’s the likelihood of two kids treated for brain tumors being found dead in the waters off the Massachusetts coast?”
Joe nodded and lit up another cigarette. “You’d do better playing the lottery.”
“And how the hell did they end up at the bottom of the ocean?”
“You’re the cop.”
“Do the parents know about the holes?”
“We notified the DA’s office and the CO in Gloucester, who, by the way, has pretty much given up on the case. I guess they hit a dead end and deferred to Tennessee since it’s where the kidnapping took place.”
“And the remains?”
“Sent them back to the parents. We had no further use for them, and they were anxious for a burial. In fact, they threatened the DA with a court order.”
“They could still be evidence.”
“We’ve got plenty of photos and bone samples. And if something unexpected develops, they can always be exhumed.” He coughed a couple times and stubbed out the second cigarette although it was still long. “From what I hear, they’ve hit a brick wall down there, too.”
Greg picked up the card with the child’s name on it. “Coldwater, Tennessee. Never been there.”
“You and six billion other people.”
“First time for everything.”
Joe nodded at the Sagamore Boy shots. “Got anything here?”
“No, but we’re trying to ID with photo superimposition.”
“That’s a good idea,” Joe said. “I’ve seen the software and it’s pretty sophisticated.”
Greg was hoping to match the Sagamore skull to known missing persons registered in the National Missing Children Network. “As backup, we’ve submitted a reconstruction we got made by a forensic artist.”
“We means you,” Joe said.
Greg made a dismissive shrug. He picked up the folder with copies of the photos and ME’s report on the Dixon boy and tucked it under his arm.
Joe nodded at the shot of the Sagamore Boy drawing. “You’ve really got a thing about this kid.”
“He’s some child who ended up a skull on a beach. I can’t sleep with that.”
“When the day is done, my friend, we’re all skulls on a beach.”
“Uh-huh, but before that happens, this one’s going home, too.”
8
Billy had done custody snatches before. But this was the first time he’d used the camo suit, and the first time any of the parents had included with the advance hypodermic needles full of sedatives and instructions on usage. That was fine by him, since it beat all the kicking and screaming. This was also the first time he’d been offered ten grand for a delivery—more than three times the usual fee. The old man must really want his kid back.
Billy didn’t know who the guy was. In fact, rarely did he know his contact. Nor did he give a rat’s ass. That’s how these things got set up. A guy knows a guy who knows a guy who needs a job and has the cash. Billy’s guess was that the old man had lost the custody case and had gone off with another woman and earned the dough to get his kid back—screw the mom. And if he had ten big ones to lay out, then the kid’s probably better off where he’s going, since the old lady lives in a goddamn bug-infested aluminum box in the woods.
About two miles out of Callahan, down service road 108 past the junction of 301, A1A, and U.S. 1 North, Billy spotted the red-white-and-blue Amoco sign.
He had no idea what the kid’s father looked like or what his name was—Something Valentine. (Sounded like a Delbert McClinton song.) And all he’d been told was to bring the kid to the blue shack in a lot about twotenths of a mile past the station on SR 108—which was where the transfer would be made.
He also didn’t know what the guy was driving. But the guy knew what Billy was driving because they had supplied the van, dropping it off in a mall parking lot with the key and an advance of three thousand dollars cash and promise of the balance on delivery.
(It had crossed Billy’s mind to take the money and run, but he was told the guy was good people and true to his word. And ten grand to bag a kid was a piece of cake. Besides, Billy had his professional code. Not good for business.)
He pulled slowly past the Amoco lot, which was one of those gas station /minimart setups that were open twenty-four hours and manned by a couple of kids. He drove on, checking his rearview mirror. Nothing—just black road as far back as he could see.
Around the bend, he saw the lot, and set back under some trees a dark locked shack with a big sign reading BOILED PEANUTS—SALTED AND CAJUN STYLE. They were big in Central Florida with stands dotting the roadsides. But Billy could never understand the attraction. They looked like cat turds and tasted worse.
There were no other cars in the lot, so he backed in, facing the road, and turned off his headlights, keeping the motor running. He was early. He reached under his seat and pulled out his Python. It was fully loaded. He always had it on these jobs—standard operating procedure, whether he knew his clients or not. It made him feel more comfortable about driving off into the night with seven thousand dollars.