“Mr. Trouble,” he said softly.
“How are you this lovely morning?” I asked.
“Why did he call you Mr. Trouble?” Anthony asked from across the room.
“Shut up,” I said.
“I got news,” Danny said, then shot a curious glance at the kid.
“He’s a photographer,” I said. “I thought he was a fruit too, but he takes pictures instead.”
Pearce snorted. The kid turned red in the cheeks.
“Yeah,” I continued, “I think he said his name was Ansel Adams.”
“Anthony,” he said to Pearce’s back as he lit another cigarette. “The name’s Anthony.”
Pearce grimaced at the sound of the match being struck, fished around in his jacket pocket, and came up with a piece of nicotine gum. He tore at the wrapping with a knife he picked up off the counter and popped the tan-colored lump into his mouth. He chewed on the gum like it was a tough piece of steak, or a rubber band wrapped tight around a human testicle.
“How’s that going?” I asked, pointing at his mouth.
“Jesus Christ, Marley, I’m dying over here,” said Pearce as he banged his fist on the counter three times.
“It’s for the best, man. You got a kid now.”
“I know, but Jesus,” said Pearce, and he shot the kid another look.
I shot the kid a look too, and to this he put out the cigarette and put the pack back in his pocket.
Pearce said, “Thanks. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” said the kid, going back to work on the hangnail.
“So what’s the word? You look wound up, Danny.”
“We found Bill Parker,” he said. “At least what was left of him. Out in the woods.”
“What does that mean? Like, he was all chopped up, or animals got to him?”
“I don’t know,” said Pearce. “I mean, yeah, the animals had to have gotten to him. He’s been missing for two fucking weeks. Of course they got to him. But this is all … very interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” I asked. “I mean, obviously the circumstances of his disappearance were very peculiar, you know, considering the abandoned car out on Old Sherman and all …”
“See, that’s the thing right there,” Pearce said. “ ‘Abandoned’ ain’t a good word. That car was full of blood, Marley, and not just one kind. Our lab guy can’t figure out where the blood came from, though he thinks it might be from a dog. But the lab has no clue, and we don’t have the kind of resources to send a sample out …”
“That’s strange.”
“Very,” Pearce said, flashing those teeth.
He’d gotten them cleaned when he stopped smoking.
“Maybe it was a yeti,” I said.
“Don’t joke about that,” Pearce said. “And not only that, we got shell casings. Shots fired. We got blood in the car, on the car, and out on the road. We got a trail of blood going into the woods, but for weeks we’ve had guys scouring those woods, and they didn’t find anything.”
“Was Bill in the same vicinity as the gun you found last week?”
“No. I mean, who knows, man? The thing with bodies in nature is …” Pearce stopped and looked at the kid, then asked, “You got a sensitive stomach at all?”
“Me? No, no, no …” Anthony stuttered. “Please, continue.”
Anthony got up and came back to the counter.
“Okay,” said Pearce, “the thing with bodies in nature is that as a body gets ripped apart, gets lighter, the parts get scattered. Some animals will carry body parts to where they’re comfortable eating, and because of that it gets hard to figure out where a person actually, well, dropped down. A good dog could help with that, or …”
Pearce trailed off, thinking. No one said anything. After maybe a full minute, he continued.
“These two kids found his skull out there in the woods. They had gone out to mess around without their parents finding out. What luck, huh?”
“I guess it killed the mood,” I said. “But that’s all they found? Just a skull?”
“Yup. Well, a couple hairs. That’s how we know it’s Bill. We got claw marks, maybe bite marks, all over the fucking thing. They don’t look like any kind of marks I’ve ever seen….”
“You know, Danny, I don’t know if you’re looking at a murder here,” I said.
“I know, but this ain’t right.”
“Could have been a bear for all we know.”
“I know, but … shit.”
“Let me get this straight,” said the kid, interjecting himself, “and stop me if I’m wrong about anything. From what it sounds like, some guy got in a shoot-out with a wild animal, got dragged into the woods and chewed up. Is that right?”
“No,” said Pearce.
“What’s wrong with the story?” I asked.
“C’mon,” said Pearce, “it’s not like King Kong lives in a little house in the woods. There’s no such thing as a shoot-out with an animal.”
“I don’t know. It sounds good to me,” I said. “Aside from the shoot-out part,” said Anthony. Pearce said, “I know it sounds good, but …”
“But what?” asked Anthony.
“There was only one trail of blood going into those woods. Whatever happened out by that car … I don’t know. It almost feels like what happened at the car was a separate incident. If Parker encountered some kind of animal on the road, where was the body? Why did Parker go in the woods if he was injured? Why wouldn’t he go to a house? Why did he take the gun with him?”
Evelyn wasn’t a place known for its high mortality rate. Hell, it wasn’t known for anything, but Pearce, being the fresh detective that he was, wasn’t exactly Columbo when it came to crime-solving.
“You don’t know he took it with him,” I said.
“True, and with that, it makes this whole thing even a little more fucked up.”
“It could have been wolves,” I said. “Wolves,” repeated Pearce.
“Wolves,” shouted Anthony. “I’m going cross-country, and I step into the fucking animal kingdom over here. What kind of town is this?”
No one said anything.
“I guess this passes for interesting in a small town, right?” he asked me. “I swear, I was planning on passing through here by the end of the day, but seeing how things go around here, I think I’ll stick around awhile. See how this plays out.”
“What’re you? Fucking Angela Lansbury?” said Pearce.
“Priceless,” said Anthony. “This is going in the book, I swear. You guys have got to let me take your pictures.”
Anthony went back to his table and picked up his camera.
“Don’t,” I said. “You’re not taking pictures of anybody.”
“Yes I am,” he said. “Don’t you want to be famous?”
“What’s the story with this guy?” asked Pearce.
“He’s making a coffee table book about his fucking road trip.”
“What is he, Kerouac? I don’t want my fucking picture taken.”
“Maybe you should arrest him.”
“For what? Being a pain in the ass?”
“He’s from Jersey. That alone’s a good excuse.”
“I can’t do that.”
“He tried to put his finger in my ass before you got here. How about that?”
“I’d arrest him for that if it were anyone but you.” Then: “You know what this reminds me of? The Bill Parker thing? Remember when that guy disappeared a couple years ago? Carter? It was the same thing with him. Found a piece of him in the park after he’d been gone a month. Same damn thing as this.”
“We are in the middle of nowhere, Danny. This doesn’t have to be a mystery. Shit like this happens more often than you think.”