Dark Places Page 12

  “I’ve never heard of a school where everyone is dysfunctional. Dr. Phil would have a heyday with these people.”

  “Wait a sec, Black knows Dr. Phil, right? Maybe we oughta have Black give him a call and clue him in.”

  “Maybe Dr. Phil went here, too.”

  We dumped our trays into the trash bin and headed outside into snow glare and lung-burning cold air. We’d already informed Christie the Fox that we’d be back tomorrow for more interviews. She asked us in pure Brooklynese who we wanted to tawk to.

  We headed down to Buckeye Boyd’s office to witness the autopsy of our unlikable, unmourned-as-of-yet victim. I was not exactly relishing the coming hour, even less so when I found my boss, Sheriff Charlie Ramsay, there, all riled up and unruly and red faced.

  “It’s about time you got here, I’ve been sitting around here waiting for ten fucking minutes.”

  Wow, ten whole minutes. One-sixth of an hour. Whew, he must be exhausted. However, I didn’t display my sarcasm or my wit for fear of being sacked royally, cursed out, or both. Actually, Charlie’s a great guy, a good friend, he just likes to cuss if you’re not punctual. Truth is, he likes to cuss if you’re punctual, too.

  “I heard about what happened to this vic, and I want this psycho pervert caught and put away for good. Dadburn freak.”

  Oh, yeah, I forgot, Charlie never uses the Lord’s name in vain, but dadburn and dadgumit and goldangit were quite acceptable. He was a practicing Southern Baptist, after all, and I wondered what he’d think of our new friend Savior Director in White.

  “Hey, Sheriff, you know this guy, G. Richard Johnstone, the director out at the Dome of the Cave Academy for the Gifted?”

  I received a horrid scowl from my superior. I cringed inside but took it standing up.

  “Yeah, yeah, I met him a coupla times. Hell, that’s the stupidest fucking name of a school I’ve ever heard. What’s it supposed to mean, anyway?”

  Bud entered our conversation unaddressed. He does that sometimes. He’s a gutsy sort. “It means all the kids out there are geniuses in training.”

  “Yeah, right, Davis, but would you know one if you saw one?”

  Bud shrugged off Charlie’s question, recognizing a bad sheriff mood when he saw one.

  “Okay, let’s get this thing started.” Buckeye said happily. The victim was stretched out on the steel table in front of us under glaring lights.

  Man, I hate autopsies but guess it’d make me pretty much a sicko if I enjoyed them. Then again, Buckeye and his staff enjoyed their work and they weren’t sickos, not all of them, anyway.

  Grumbling profanely about having to put on protective robe, gloves, and mask, Charlie stepped up to the table. His voice sounded mechanical through the ventilator apparatus. “Good grief, can a spider really make that deep a wound?”

  I said, “Yes, sir. Brown recluses can. And there were at least a dozen of them inside the sleeping bag with the victim.”

  Charlie turned his gaze on me, and he did not look happy. Not that he ever did. But now somebody got killed at Lake of the Ozarks, which was his territory and should be murder free, dadgumit. Actually, our homicide rate was pretty low, except for a couple of really bizarre cases of late.

  “Today is December 17, 2:00 P.M. Present at the Canton County Coroner’s Office are Sheriff Charlie Ramsay, Detectives Bud Davis and Claire Morgan, Criminalist John Becker, and myself.”

  Shaggy was already in place, video camera on and rolling. He was dressed in long, baggy nylon shorts and a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, despite heavy drifts of snow on the ground. He’d decided early in life that he was a California beach bum but never quite made it out to sunny L.A. So he was pretty much just a bum. But a lovable one who was damn good at his job, in fact one of the best in the state.

  “The victim is a Caucasian male, age thirty-four, weight 180 pounds, height five foot ten. Cause of death has been determined to be multiple poisonous spider bites exacerbated by hypothermia.”

  I took a place at the foot of the table. Charlie and Bud stood on either side of me. I stared at the open holes of purple rotting flesh on Simon Classon’s body, some as big as six inches across. A sense of renewed horror assailed me as Buckeye described the wounds. I winced when he started probing inside them with a scalpel. I frowned when he plucked a dead spider out of Classon’s hair and placed the shriveled arachnid on a piece of paper. Charlie said something I won’t repeat.

  Buck said, “There’s a deep wound on the side of his head made by blunt force trauma. I estimate the necrosis from the spider venom took at least 24 to 36 hours to reach this kind of depth and level of tissue deterioration.” He turned to us. “God, I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.”

  I felt sick when I thought of Classon taped up inside that sleeping bag with all those spiders for two or three days. He was tortured to death, and I wanted the guy who did it. I wanted to get him so bad I could taste it. I said, “Have you ever seen a fatal spider bite around here before, Buckeye?”

  “Occasionally, if the victim can’t get himself to the hospital for some reason. But it’s rare. Get more deaths from snakebites, but they’re rare, too.”

  “Are brown recluse spiders prevalent at the lake?”

  “You bet. Probably got some in every house in Missouri. They like to stay out of sight, hidden in dark places, thus their name. Most people get bit putting on clothes that’ve been packed away in a closet or attic. Shoes, too. They like to hide in old shoes. I remember one case where a three-month-old little girl died when the mother got the stroller out of the basement. A brown recluse nest was under the seat but she couldn’t see it. Just a couple of bites, but that was enough to kill the baby.”

  “Damn.” Bud shook his head and looked at me. I didn’t know about him, but I was sure as hell going to shake out my boots from now on.

  Buckeye made a Y incision, but I’d seen autopsies too many times to get queasy. One thing I knew for sure, I’d never forget how Simon Classon had opened his eyes and looked at me, his face stiff and blue and partially frozen. I wonder if he had really seen me, if he had known who I was, if he had tried to move his lips and tell me who had done it. He was a man who liked to push people around but this time he’d pushed somebody a little too hard, somebody who had a screw loose, anyway. Chances were we’d solve this case. After all, we had about a hundred suspects to choose from.

  After the autopsy was finished, I wisely accepted Charlie’s invitation to join him for the short trip back to the station. I also wisely listened to his profane harangue about me catching the murderer quickly before he struck again. Though my ears went numb from my ride with Charlie, I survived and helped Bud set up Simon’s computer, then got down to typing my written reports, which Charlie also happened to mention in his gentle way. I wished now I had my Explorer, but when the snow started in earnest again, we both packed up some work and Bud took me home.

  I’d promised to drop by and have dinner with Harve, so I made Bud stop at a big Kroger’s in Camdenton and help me pick out a Christmas tree. Harve loved Christmas, and it had become sort of a tradition in the last few years that I get him a tree about a week before Christmas. At Harve’s front gate, Bud helped me wrestle the tree out of the back of his Bronco and then I told him to take off, I’d walk the rest of the way home later. I liked walking in deep snow, I told him, which was a big lie, but I knew he was eager to get home.

  Harve was waiting at the open front door. Just over fifty now, he had iron-gray eyes with hair to match, worn in a buzz cut that gave him a military look. He sat in his fancy motorized wheelchair, and I leaned down and gave him a quick hug. He was a good guy, my best friend in the whole world, and he was paralyzed from the waist down. Strong as an ox, he lifted weights daily and could bench-press as much as any man in my department. We’d been partners once upon a time in L.A., and I blamed myself for what had happened to him. As I dragged the big tree inside, I tried not to think about that. It was Christmas. Time for happy tho
ughts, happy, happy, happy. Forget spiders and sleeping bags and necrosis. Ho ho ho.

  “Nick coming over, too?”

  “Nope. Black’s in Paris with all those French maids in little white lace aprons and short black skirts. I’ll probably never see him again.”

  “Yeah, right. Looks to me like he’s got it for you pretty bad.” He grinned as I dragged the six-foot Scotch pine into the window alcove where we always set up his tree. He already had the tree stand in place. “So, Claire, how’d you like the home improvement surprise?”

  “What do you think?” I fought with the tree until it stood up, then got it in a half nelson and shoved it down into the red tree stand. “It’s pretty cool. But Black’s getting a little too possessive for my liking.”

  “He gets a kick outta that kinda stuff. Thought you might give me hell for letting him have his way with your house.”

  “Black has his way with just about anything he has a mind to.”

  “True, true. You gotta admit it’s pretty awesome that he went to so much trouble. Besides, the house is yours now. I got a lawyer out here last week and deeded it over.”

  I turned around, truly shocked. “You did what?”

  “That’s right. The cabin’s yours. Free and clear.”

  “Harve, I’m not taking the cabin. It’s been in your family over fifty years.”

  “You’re my family now. I want you to have it. An early Christmas present. Be gracious for once.”

  Jeez. I was starring in a Cinderella story for the last few days. Imagine what Santa Claus was going to stuff down my new chimney.

  Harve’s grin was as cheesy as George Hamilton’s in Dancing with the Stars.

  “I don’t feel right about this, Harve.”

  “I can’t let Black make a big gesture and make me look bad. Let me do something for you for a change.”

  “Well, okay. Thanks. Wish I had something as big as a house to give you.”

  “You give me a lot.”

  We usually weren’t so serious and we both got so embarrassed that we looked away until Harve said, “How about some homemade beef stew and Mexican cornbread? It’s steaming hot on the stove.”

  My stomach clapped with glee. “You got yourself a deal, Harve.”

  The food was great, and over the meal we delved into the facts of the Classon case. I trusted Harve with my life, and he had one of the most brilliant investigative minds I’d ever encountered.

  He said, “It’s interesting that he used spiders to kill his victim. You don’t hear something like that very often.”

  “Yeah, it’s creepy as hell.”

  “He’s got to have some way to capture them and handle them without getting bitten.”

  “Buck says brown recluse spiders are indigenous to Missouri. You seen many around here?”

  “Oh, yeah. My aunt was bitten by one when I was a kid. It still makes me sick to think about the hole it made in her leg. God, I’ll never forget it.”

  “Did she die?”

  “No, but she had a horrible place in her calf where the tissues were destroyed. It took four skin-graft surgeries to get it done.” He sipped some coffee and shook his head. I could identify with his memories of his aunt. I’d seen Classon’s body. “Want me to do some research on indigenous spiders and see what I can find out?”

  Harve ran a web-designing business and also did some research work. He was a whiz at digging up facts, and I jumped at the offer. “You kidding? Thanks. I have some state-of-the-art stuff at home, thanks to Black, but not much time. We’re still interviewing out at that damn academy.”

  “By the way, I’ve seen lots of recluses and black widows down around your cabin through the years. So watch where you step.”

  “Great. Now, that’s gonna help me sleep better.”

  “Maybe you’ll get a visit from the Orkin man for Christmas.”

  Harve smiled, but I couldn’t work one up. Nothing about this case was the least bit funny, especially the way Simon Classon died. I’d never been afraid of creepy crawlers before, I’d left that to Bud, but I’d never seen up close and personal the flesh wounds they left behind, either. I shivered involuntarily, and realized with some alarm that I was spooked. Big-time. And I better get over it fast.

  My purse started a muffled “Mexican Hat Dance,” and I grabbed my cell with more enthusiasm than I liked to display. Black was slated to give me a call tonight, and I knew it was him before I heard the familiar, deep voice.

  “Miss me, Morgan?”

  My heart did a little quickstep jig, which I instantly berated as silly sentiment. “You mean you’ve been gone?”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Just kidding. Sure, I do. Nobody’s around to build additions on my house and fetch me gourmet grub.”

  Harve laughed, and then made wriggling spider motions with his fingers and pointed to his computer out in the attached sunroom. Always the gentleman, Harve was giving me some privacy.

  Black said, “Everything okay with you?”

  “Yeah. I’m at Harve’s house. We’re having dinner, then we’re putting up his Christmas tree.”

  “Wish I was there to help.”

  “Yeah, that’d be nice.” For the first time, I really, and I mean really, missed him, but I couldn’t say that without feeling ultravulnerable and thus, stupid, so I said, “I hear music in the background. Where are you?”

  “I’m having dinner at the Crazy Horse Saloon.”

  “Really? Must be a late one. Isn’t that the place you told me had all the nude dancers?”

  Black gave a low laugh. “They’re not completely nude. The guy who owns this place is an old friend. I treated one of his dancers once, so it’s sort of a tradition to have dinner with him my first night in town.”

  “Uh-huh. Sounds like you’re having a good time.” And it sounded like I didn’t like it, which made me sound like a real sap.

  “Well, I’ve been at the clinic until now. The patient’s begun to have flashbacks that make everybody a little nervous.”

  “What kind of flashbacks?”

  “Scenes of bloody murder, actually.”

  “No joke?”

  “No joke. The trick is determining if they’re dreams or the real thing.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “It is. What about you? The director called me today about Classon’s death. He called everyone on the advisory board.”

  “Yeah, I know. He kept us waiting while you talked. I hope you didn’t happen to mention that I discussed the case with you.”

  “You know better than that. He said Classon hanged himself.”

  “Not exactly. Get this. We found Classon hanging from a tree limb bound up in a sleeping bag full of poisonous spiders.”

  There was a momentary silence at the other end. I listened to the snappy music in the background and wondered what the dancers had on, probably not much more than a few colored spotlights. Maybe that’s what I should do for a living instead of attending autopsies and cutting half-dead bodies down from limbs.

  “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “Nope. It’s pretty brutal.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Everybody I’ve met so far hated the man’s guts, so we have our work cut out for us.”

  “The director told me they’re going to include a special memorial service for Simon at their fund-raising gala on New Year’s Eve. He’d called to see if I would be attending.”

  “Okay.”

  “I miss you.”

  I looked to see if Harve could hear me. He was hunched over his computer. I lowered my voice, just in case. “I miss you, too.” Actually I hadn’t had much time to miss him yet but I figured that would kick in once I got in the big, king-size bed he got for me and started worrying about spiders hiding out under the black satin sheets.

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “I’m aiming for the 23rd but I can’t pinpoint it.” He paused.
“Have any plans for Christmas Eve?”

  “I’ll probably be working.”

  “Just so you’re home before midnight. I want us to spend Christmas Day together.”

  “That sounds good.” Actually, it did sound good to me. The background music was getting raunchier, with lots of male laughter and applause, and I tried not to envision who was doing what up on that stage.

  “Had brunch on the Eiffel Tower yet?”

  “Wouldn’t be any fun without you to wow.”

  “Well, figure out if your patient’s Jack the Ripper, then jet back home. We could use your thoughts on this one. Somebody really, and I mean really, hated Classon’s guts to subject him to torture like this.”

  “Are there other victims?”

  “Not yet. This looks very personal to me. I mean, Black, the perp made sure Classon suffered in a big way. The vic was in that bag with the spiders at least two days, probably longer, considering the size and degree of the wounds.”

  “My God. That’s vicious. I’ve never heard anything like it before.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s bizarre, all right.”

  “Any gut instincts?”

  “Not yet. I think it’s probably somebody from that weird school of yours. By the way, I think the director is a real jerk. Am I wrong?”

  “I don’t know him that well. Our relationship’s strictly professional. I don’t attend the meetings but I’ve been to their major fund-raiser a couple of times. He’s eccentric, I guess, or he wouldn’t be running that kind of school. I understand they do some good work with the kids out there.”

  “Do you know they teach paganism to their little charges? With discussions on devil worshipping, and other evil doings?”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Bud and I thought it sounded a bit off center, too.”

  “First I’ve heard of that. I guess you’re checking that roster.”

  “Oh yeah, tomorrow, first thing.”

  “Hold on.” Black muffled the phone and I heard him talking to somebody in rapid French. Flawless, too, I might add. The only thing I understood was merci.

  “They’re serving dinner now. Guess I need to go.” He hesitated. “Keep my side of the bed warm.”