“You can also say, ‘No te muevas,’ ” David said. “If you say it in a no-nonsense tone of voice — let him know you mean what you say — you’ll get him to set aside his other impulses, even the ones that tell him he was on to something really great and now we’re having all the fun. He’d like to join in, but his notions of amusement wouldn’t be too helpful for our purposes.”
I shuddered.
“I know, I know,” David said. “But in order to do this kind of work, he has to be interested in that smell. He behaves himself for the most part, but the trouble is, Bingle tends to feel a little proprietary about his finds.”
Now, as J.C. approached, Bingle’s ears were pitched forward and he watched the ranger closely. Dogs — natural hunters — see motion better than detail, and Bingle’s body posture said that he was on guard against this approaching figure. Eventually he must have managed to catch J.C.’s familiar scent — although how he could do so over the increasingly intense smell of the grave, I’ll never know — because suddenly he let out a happy bark of welcome.
For a time, work stopped as we greeted J.C. and caught up with one another. He applied some smell compound as he listened to the story of Bingle’s find, and praised the dog, who was happy to bask in his attention.
He had seen the coyote tree, and his disgust over it was plain; he was all for bringing charges against Parrish for it. “Not a big deal to someone going down on a double murder rap, I suppose, but still—” He shook his head, as if ridding himself of the memory of the tree. He bent down to pet Bingle. “So you’ve found Mrs. Sayre, eh, Bingle?”
“We don’t know who or what this is yet, J.C.,” Ben reminded him, handing him a pair of gloves. “We haven’t even opened the plastic.”
“Well,” the ranger said, looking amused, “the plastic seems to rule out an American Indian burial site, and I can tell you that there aren’t any legal cemeteries in this meadow, and no hunting allowed here, either. So whoever or whatever it is, it doesn’t belong here.”
“When will the plane be back?” I asked him.
“Tomorrow, weather permitting. Some rain in the forecast, so they might be delayed a day or so. Did you bring rain gear?”
I nodded.
“We’d better get back to work,” Ben said. “The last thing I want to cope with is a flooded site.”
J.C. had apparently done this work before, but even with his help, things could only progress at a certain pace. Eventually, the top surface of the plastic was uncovered. It was a dull, dark green. It appeared to be of a heavier gauge than the plastic used to make trash bags, more like the type used for ground cover by landscapers.
Thompson paced, muttering none-too-quietly about guys who think they’re working on a pharaoh’s tomb instead of a crime scene; about wishing to God he could bring in a backhoe; damning Parrish’s hide for picking this place out beyond East Jesus to bury a body — and other unhelpful remarks that made life a little less pleasant for everyone within earshot.
Ben didn’t gratify Thompson with a response. He walked over to him, though, while Andy, J.C., and David stood back from the grave to allow more photographs to be taken of the lumpy plastic.
“We want to dig down a little more on the sides,” Ben told the detective, “just to see if we can find the edge of the plastic. We’d prefer to keep it intact. But if we can’t find an edge, we’ll go ahead and cut it open.”
Thompson looked up into the sky and said, “Thank you, Lord!”
“We aren’t being careful just to irritate you,” Ben said. “My guess is that the plastic wrapping, the cool temperatures and altitude here, the lack of animal disturbance—”
“What is it you’re trying to say?” Thompson snapped.
“In terms you’ll understand?” Ben shot back.
Thompson’s face was red, but he said, “As a matter of fact, yes — I’d like the nonegghead version.”
Ben looked away from him for a moment, as if trying to regain his temper. “This body may be — let’s see, in ‘nonegghead’ terms? It may be a little soupy. With this much odor, I don’t believe we’ll be looking at completely skeletonized remains — what we’re smelling is not just the scent of bones. That’s one reason why I’m not sure these remains are four years old — perhaps they are, perhaps they aren’t. If they aren’t — you may have a different victim here.”
“Yes, you mentioned that possibility earlier, but—”
Ben raised a hand, and Thompson — with a visible effort — held his peace.
“There are lots of ‘ifs’ here, Detective — if the remains are human, if this is a homicide and if this is not Julia Sayre — if all those conditions are met, you will obviously have a new set of charges you can bring against Parrish.”
Seeing he had Thompson’s interest, he went on. “Obviously, you can bring new charges only if we can prove that he’s the one who put this body here. We’re going slowly, because trace evidence that will link Parrish — or anyone else — to this crime may have been left in the surrounding soil, and if so, we want to find it.”
Ben paused and smiled, not very pleasantly, then added, “Just think, Detective Thompson, if this is a different victim, you’ll go back to Las Piernas a hero.”
“The D.A.’s deal with Parrish wasn’t exactly popular, was it?” Thompson said. “We weren’t too happy with it.”
“The police weren’t the only ones who were outraged that Parrish was protected from the death penalty. I think the D.A. has regretted it. That’s partly why Ms. Kelly was allowed to join us, right?”
Thompson looked over at me and nodded. “Everybody knows he’s hoping she’ll make his decision look good. She’s been writing about the Sayre case for a long time.”
I knew he resented my stories about Julia Sayre. As far as Thompson was concerned, they were an ongoing, embarrassing announcement that he had failed to solve the case.
“With a new case to pursue,” Ben said, “the D.A. could redeem himself with both groups — he’ll claim he tried to find Julia Sayre, but won’t fail to seek the death penalty for a third murder. And with what may be the resolution of another missing persons case, I’m sure the Las Piernas Police Department would be pleased with you.”
Thompson glanced back toward the camp, where Parrish, surrounded by his guards, stood staring toward us. Parrish was too far away to see us very clearly, or to be clearly seen by us, but he seemed intensely interested in our activities. And even at this distance, the defiance in his stance was unmistakable.
When I looked back at Thompson, though, I saw that Ben’s words had produced the opposite effect of the one he had intended. If Thompson was anxious to proceed before — when he’d thought only of being able to get back home with his mission accomplished — Ben’s vision of his heroic return now only intensified his impatience to achieve it.
“Who else could have left the body here?” he said. “Parrish led us right to it!”
Ben sighed. “Believe me, Detective Thompson, I want to know what’s underneath that plastic as badly as you do. But remember what I told you about the possible condition of the remains? Lifting the plastic out of the grave might cause the remains to shift, and perhaps to be damaged. We need to proceed with caution.”
“Christ, Sheridan, you’ve been creeping along like a three-legged turtle! If what you’ve been doing up to now hasn’t been ‘proceeding with caution,’ we’ll all be skeletons by the time you’re ready to get that body out of here!”
“If you’d like to continue without my help—”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Thompson said, but cooled off a little. “Look, I don’t mean to push you—”