Reed looked at his partner. “How long have you lived in the valley, Tanner?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Ever heard the name Dylan Sommer?”
She thought a moment, then shook her head. “Any relation to Sommer Winery?”
“Yeah. Dylan Sommer was the owner’s son. He was abducted from their home back in ’85.”
Reed returned his gaze to the gruesome remains. “It was a huge deal around here. It challenged the valley’s notion about safety. The possible and impossible. The kid was nabbed from his own bed while his two sisters, one of them a teenager, slept right across the hall. Everybody figured it was a kidnapping, but no ransom request ever arrived. He was never found.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear. “You’re thinking this could be him.”
“Yes.”
“This might not even be a-”
“Boy’s remains? I think it is. Check it out.” He pointed. Trapped in a still taped fold of the plastic was a pacifier. A blue one.
“My God.” She sat back on her heels. “Doesn’t mean it’s Dylan Sommer.”
“True. But we’ve got a male infant buried in a wine crate on land not far from the family’s winery.”
She drew her eyebrows together. “The parents weren’t suspects?”
“No. Among other things, they had an airtight alibi.”
“Which was?”
“They were having dinner with their best friends. My parents.”
CHAPTER THREE
Friday, February 12
1:20 P.M.
Reed’s stomach rumbled loudly. Beside him Tanner sympathized. There’d be no chance to eat for a while as this party was now in full swing, complete with contingents from VCI and CSI, the Coroner’s Office, as well as both units’ sergeants.
He and Tanner had conferred with their sergeants, who’d felt comfortable enough with their handle on the case to leave them to it. No doubt, they were on their way to lunch, Reed thought. Lucky bastards.
Tanner’s CSI cohort, Detective “California” Cal Calhoon, chose that moment to arrive. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of a GQ spread-except for the Hazmat booties he wore over his shoes.
Shit. Reed thought. Bye-bye five bucks.
Calhoon stopped beside Reed, and looked up at him. At six foot four, Reed towered over the flashy detective. “Who’s the kid?” Cal asked, motioning toward the anthropologist crouched by the grave.
“Pete Robb, PhD.”
Cal smiled, revealing perfectly aligned, bright white teeth. “Anybody but me think that anthropologist is too young to know his butt from that hole in the ground?”
“He’s a pain in my butt,” Reed said, “I’ll give you that. He finally shows up, then asks us to stand around while he ‘assesses the find.’ ”
“Give the kid a break,” Tanner said. “We all started at the same place-wet behind the ears, over eager, do-gooders.”
“Speak for yourself,” Reed muttered. “Time’s up.”
Cal and Tanner fell in step with Reed. The anthropologist didn’t even look up when they reached him.
“Before I mummify,” Reed said, “you have any thoughts?”
“Actually, a classic example of saponification,” the PhD corrected. “You’ve heard of the process?”
Oh yeah, Reed thought. Really young. “That’s a mighty big word, Doc. Maybe you want to break it down for us?”
Cal grinned and Tanner shot Reed an amused glance. The anthropologist seemed oblivious. “It’s a process aided by moisture, wherein the body’s fat is turned to a soaplike substance called adipocere.”
“Grave wax,” Tanner said innocently. “Right?”
“Exactly!” Robb beamed up at her, the way a professor would his prize student. “It’s great stuff. Really interesting. It can run the gamut from soft and soapy to hard, brittle and waxy. Like this one.”
Reed gave the kid points for enthusiasm-and Tanner props for calling it.
“Under the right conditions-moisture, lack of oxygen, alkaline soil-fat turns to adipocere. Infants are a large percentage fat. They also lack certain digestive tract enzymes, a fact which aids adipocere production.”
“Yet the hands and feet skeletonized,” Cal said. “How’d that happen?”
“No fat, no adipocere.”
“How old was he?” Reed asked. “Best guess anyway.”
“Younger than two.” The kid nudged his glasses higher on his nose. “The skull hadn’t knitted together yet. Obviously, this child was considerably younger than that.”
“Six or seven months old?” Reed asked.
“Maybe. I’ll take long bone measurements back at the lab, that’ll narrow it down.”
“How long’s he been buried?” Tanner asked.
“Years, judging by the decomposition of the crate. At least two.”
“Why’s that?”
“In conditions like these, adipocere begins forming a month or two after death and reaches completion within two years.”
“Could he have been buried twenty-five years?” Reed asked.
“Maybe, sure.”
Reed turned to Cal and Tanner. “I want to find out if that particular pacifier is still being made, and if it’s not, when production stopped.”
“I’ll do the same with the diaper,” Cal offered. “Nasty as it looks, the lab might be able to do something with it through material and design comparisons. Plus, the crate may be marked.”
Tanner looked at Reed. “The lab may be able to extract some DNA from the bones. The adipocere might also be a source.”
“Ditto the pacifier,” Cal added.
“What’s your next move?” Tanner asked.
“I have a pretty good idea who this land belongs to. I’ll confirm and follow up.”
“Sommer?”
Reed nodded and glanced at his watch. “Even if the land’s not his, I’ll need to talk to him.”
“I’m sorry,” she said simply, no doubt understanding how difficult that meeting would be for him, because of his personal history with the family.
“Me, too. Call me when you and Cal finish processing and are back at the Barn,” he said, referring to HQ by its nickname. “We’ll rendezvous then.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Friday, February 12
4:10 P.M.
Reed navigated the steep, winding road that led to the Sommer Winery from memory. He had traveled it hundreds of times, many of them much faster and more carelessly than now. How many of those times had he been under the influence? And not just the influence of drugs or alcohol-but of youth, machismo and his overinflated opinion of himself and his place in the world.
Reed smiled grimly. He barely recognized that person anymore.
He eased off the gas, thoughts turning to the task ahead. He’d skimmed the case files, reviewed statements from Sommer family members and friends and read the various accounts of the events of that day twenty-five years ago.
Some moments, however, had such impact they lingered in the memory, clear as the day they occurred. The morning he’d awakened to learn Dylan Sommer had been kidnapped was one of them.
August 17: a Saturday. He’d been ten, had awakened to sunlight streaming through the open windows. The sky had been a perfect robin’s egg blue and the breeze wafting through the open window sweet.
And carried on the breeze, the sound of his mother crying.
He’d gone to investigate. And found the adults whispering among themselves, their expressions twisted with something he hadn’t recognized. Not then, anyway. Now he would: Grief. Disbelief. Fear.
The police had arrived shortly after, then the FBI. He had eavesdropped-and learned about Dylan’s disappearance, the discovery of blood near the Sommer Winery’s caves, about the expectation of a ransom demand.
A demand that never came.
Life had changed after that day. His parents had begun to turn old. They fought more, smiled less. Their relationship with their friends-particularly the Sommers-had become strained as well. Life had lost its carelessness, certainly its simplicity. Doors were locked. Alarm systems installed. No more night games of hide-and-seek while their parents drank wine and lost themselves in adult conversations.