T he body was of a woman who appeared to be about five-four, with wispy black hair and a silver cross hanging around her neck. Her eyes and skin were gone, and her mouth was twisted in a horrible smile. I was no expert on pathology, but I saw no signs of bullets or knives or blunt instruments having been used, and I guessed that she’d been killed the same way Piper Stone had died.
The vulture that had been circling overhead had landed on a garbage hill no more than thirty feet away. The Mexicans had taken turns throwing bottles at it, but the bird would not leave. I turned my back on it as I called Burrell.
“You need to get up to the Pompano Beach landfill,” I said when she answered. “Tell the guard at the front gate you know me, and ask for Section P.”
There was silence on the line, and for a moment I thought we’d been disconnected.
“What did you find?” Burrell asked.
“Another victim,” I said.
I heard a sharp intake of breath.
“For the love of Christ,” she said.
I ended the call, then spent a minute petting Buster. My dog had bloodied his paws ripping through the earth, and now lay at my feet, exhausted.
Burrell arrived a half hour later. With her was Special Agent Whitley. They got out, and Burrell handed me a cup of coffee. I thanked her with a nod.
I led Burrell and Whitley to the body. I had covered it with a blanket that I’d found in the trash. I shooed the gulls away, and pulled the blanket back. Whitley took a tube of Vick’s from his pocket, and dabbed some beneath his nostrils. Burrell did the same, and offered me the tube. I shook my head.
“How can you stand the smell?” she asked.
“You get used to it,” I said.
Whitley knelt down to study the corpse. He wore a navy windbreaker with FBI printed in blazing white letters across the back. I wondered if he’d put the windbreaker on to remind me that he was still in charge of the investigation. He pointed at a number of items lying on the ground beside the body.
“Did you put these here?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did they belong to the victim?”
The garbage bag in which I’d found the corpse had contained several personal items. These included a lipstick, some coins, and two pieces of inexpensive jewelry.
“I think so,” I said.
“How can you tell they were hers?” he asked.
“The lipstick is good, and the jewelry is wearable,” I said.
“So they’re not garbage.”
“That’s right.”
Whitley picked through the items. “Anything else you want to share?”
“She’s either a runaway or a homeless person,” I said.
“Did you ID her?”
“I didn’t have to ID her.”
“Then how do you know that for certain?”
I pointed at the victim’s feet. “She’s wearing a pair of cheap Keds. That isn’t a fashion statement. She was dirt poor.”
Whitley examined the victim’s sneakers. One of the sneakers had a slight bulge in it. Taking rubber gloves from his pocket, he snapped them on, and tugged the sneaker off the victim’s foot. Then he held the sneaker up, and gave it a shake. Out dropped a Florida driver’s license and several folded bills. He picked both up from the ground. The victim’s name was Mary McClary, and she hailed from West Palm Beach. I’d dealt with hundreds of missing persons cases as a cop, and names that rhymed had always stood out.
“I remember her,” I said. “She left home at age sixteen. Her father ran a moving and storage business. He called me every day for a few months.”
“So she was a runaway,” Whitley said.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Was she seen around Fort Lauderdale?” Whitley asked.
“Yes,” I said. “That was why I was looking for her.”
Whitley looked at Burrell, and I saw a knowing look pass between them.
“Like father, like son,” Whitley said.
“Do you think Jed Grimes did this?” Burrell asked.
“Yes, I do,” Whitley said. “He’s taking over his father’s legacy. I’ve seen a couple of cases like it in my career. It’s called savage spawn.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Whitley had decided that Jed Grimes had killed this woman, even though there was no evidence linking him to the crime. Worse, Burrell had fallen under his spell, and was going along with it. I exploded.
“Savage spawn,” I said. “That sounds like the name of a movie. Do you think you can get us all parts?”
Whitley placed the driver’s license into an evidence bag, then removed his gloves and tossed them on the ground. His eyes were on fire.
“You’re not funny,” he said.
“And you’re a jackass,” I replied.
We rushed each other at the same time. I got my hands on his windbreaker, and spun him around. Whitley’s legs got tangled up, and he fell onto a pile of garbage, ripping his pants and messing up his haircut. He cursed me.
Burrell grabbed my arm and pulled me over to her car. She wagged a finger in my face. “Stop this or I’ll cuff you, Jack.”
“Whatever you say,” I said.
Five minutes later an unmarked white van came rumbling into Section P, and disgorged a sheriff’s department excavation team consisting of six men. Each man wore rubber gloves and a surgical mask, and carried a black duffel bag filled with equipment.
A flatbed truck carrying a pair of bobcats came in behind the van. The bobcats were unloaded, and Burrell directed their drivers to start tearing apart the hill where I’d discovered the body. I stood off to the side with Buster and watched. My clothes stank of rotting garbage and sweat and death, and I guessed I’d have to throw them away.
Over the next hour, the bodies of five more women were discovered in the hills in Section P. The bodies were lined up next to Mary McClary’s body, and covered with blankets. The scene was starting to resemble a disaster area.
I heard a loud noise and looked to the sky. A helicopter circled overhead, the markings on its underbelly belonging to a local TV news station. Burrell had her hands full, and I didn’t want to be filmed or give her any more grief.
I hustled Buster into my car, and got behind the wheel. As I started to pull away, Burrell ran over to me.
“Jack!” she called out.
I hit the brakes, and made Buster climb into the back. Burrell opened the door, and slid onto the passenger seat.
“I want you back on the case,” she said.
“You do?” I said.
“Yes. I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”
“What about the mayor?”
“Fuck the mayor,” Burrell said.
I looked through my windshield at Whitley, who was helping the evacuation team examine the bodies. During our scuffle, a piece of rotten fruit had gotten stuck in his hair, and ruined the image that he seemed so bent on cultivating.
“What about Mr. Hollywood?” I asked.
“Believe it or not, Whitley wants you back on the case, too.”
“He does?”
“Yes. He thinks you have amazing instincts.”
“Even if I think Jed Grimes is innocent?”
“Yes. The fact that we disagree doesn’t mean we can’t work together. I need you, Jack. Please say yes.”
It had been a long time since anyone had told me that. I looked across the seat at Burrell, and saw that she meant every word of it.
“Okay,” I said.