She frowned at him. “Jamie Devers?”
“He was a big television star back in the fifties-Just Blame Bucky.” On her blank stare he said, “Before your time, I guess… God, I’m getting old.”
“It doesn’t show one bit,” she assured him. “You are still a fine-looking gentleman.”
“Forget it,” he snapped, instantly on alert. “I won’t take another one.”
“But they’re so much happier when they have company.”
“Dirty Harry is plenty happy,” he insisted, smiling at her faintly. “In fact, given the choice, I’d trade places with him in a second.”
They had crossed the bridge and were out on the island now. It was perfectly, incredibly lovely-Des could imagine someone like Martha Stewart belonging here. She could not imagine herself or anyone she had ever known living in such a place.
A trio of blue and white Major Crime Squad cube vans were parked in the gravel driveway outside of the big yellow house. A dozen crime scene technicians in dark blue windbreakers and light blue latex gloves were already on the job. They were top-shelf people. And prepared for anything-each cube van came fully equipped with all fifty-two items of gear recommended in the guidelines drawn up by the National Medicolegal Review Panel in the wake of the O.J. case. Prior to that, unbelievably, no unified system of on-site death investigation had existed among the nation’s three thousand jurisdictions. Some of the items, like bodybags, were obvious. Others, like insect repellant, were less so.
The vegetable patch was behind an old barn. Soave was there, muscles bulging inside his shiny black suit. The technicians were there. And the body of Niles Seymour was there. It was not a pretty sight or smell. Saponification had begun, his fatty tissues reacting with the salts in the soil and turning to a soapy consistency. Bloating had caused the pressure points in the skin to split open, his eyes and tongue to bulge. His clothing was rotting away from his flesh.
Crime scene photos were being taken. Des would need extra copies of these. She would need to sketch this.
“He was shot twice, loot,” Soave informed her, carefully smoothing his see-through moustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Chest and neck.”
“The slugs still in him?” she asked, feeling her stomach muscles tighten involuntarily. She had a hot, bilious taste in the back of her throat.
“The one in his chest is.”
“This the primary scene?”
Soave shook his head. “There’s not enough blood under him. Man was already dead when he was buried here.”
“Do we have a line on the primary scene?”
“Not yet,” Soave grunted. “And this one’s a mess-the gardeners tromped all over it.”
Nonetheless, a forensic archaeologist was launching a dig. He and his assistants skimming off thin layers of moist dirt. Carefully sifting it for evidence. Depositing it on drop cloths. It was no different from a historic dig. Except that in this case the history was very recent. And living.
Meanwhile, a forensic entomologist was collecting samples of the insects and egg masses that had colonized Niles Seymour’s decaying corpse. The body could not be removed until he was done. The extent of insect development-along with the soil temperature, amount of moisture in the soil and the state of the victim’s decomposition-would tell them approximately how long Niles Seymour had been down there. The type of insects might also help them determine the location of the primary crime scene.
Des had seen enough. She motioned for Soave to join her. The two of them and Bliss moved back toward the driveway.
“Tenant also smeared his muddy prints all over the spade and fork he found in the barn,” Soave mentioned sourly. “That don’t look too promising neither.”
“Any of the islanders own guns?” she asked Resident Trooper Bliss.
“Red hunts a little,” he replied, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Jamie keeps a pistol for protection, I believe.”
“Rico, I want uniformed troopers to search every house out here for weapons,” she said, knowing perfectly well that the odds of the murder weapon being around were slim to none. But she had to look. She couldn’t not look. “Make sure you get permission first. If you don’t get permission, then-”
“We have to get a warrant,” he broke in, a defensive edge to his voice. “I know that, loot.”
She knew that he knew it. She also knew that it was her responsibility to remind him anyway. She was the ranking officer on the scene. If she failed to remind him, and the chain of evidence was compromised because of it, it would be her fault. Be accountable. If there was one thing the Deacon had drummed into her, it was this. “Have them search every outbuilding and shed, under every rock. Then meet me back here. We got to take statements from the family.”
“Right.” Soave went heading off, his arms held stiffly out to his sides in the classic bodybuilder’s strut.
“Is that deluxe conference room at town hall still available?” Des asked Trooper Bliss. It had been her command center for three days and nights after the Salisbury killing. She could still remember the smell of the place-musty carpeting, moth balls and Ben-Gay.
“It is,” he affirmed. “I’ll see that they’re ready for you. How else may I be of assistance?”
“You can tell me who else besides his wife had it in for Niles Seymour.”
“Everyone,” Bliss replied bluntly. “Niles was not a popular fellow.”
“Any blue chip prospects?”
Bliss took off his wide-brimmed hat and examined it carefully for a long moment. “Tuck Weems,” he said, running a big brown hand over his bristly gray crew-cut. “He accused Niles of roughing Dolly up a couple of months back when he found some bruises on her arms. He, well, threatened to kill Niles. I got involved at that point. Cooled things down-at least I thought I had. She declined to file any charges against Niles. Assured me there was no need to worry, that the two of them were working things out. Dolly and Tuck, they were tight when they were kids. He grew up out here. Tuck’s not a bad fellow. Just has a slight problem with authority. And more than his share of personal demons. His father killed his mother and himself when Tuck was in ’Nam. Happened out here, in the carriage house. And it was Dolly who found them.” He glanced over at the big yellow house, his face a grim mask. “So, you see, this is not the first time there’s been a violent death out here.”
“When you say he and Mrs. Seymour were tight, do you mean they were lovers?”
“I wouldn’t hazard a guess on that,” he replied carefully.
The resident trooper was protecting his own now, Des observed. Clearly, he was very loyal to these people. How loyal?
He put his hat back on and squared his shoulders. “Tuck has a place up at Uncas Lake. I suppose you’ll be wanting to question him right away.”
“Is he likely to run?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“Then he’ll keep,” said Des, who liked to fully acquaint herself with the principals before she rushed to judgment. “There a new man in Mrs. Seymour’s life?”
“No man in her life, as far as I know.”
“Tell me about this tenant. What was his name, Berger?”
Bliss nodded. “He’s a New Yorker, I’m sorry to say.”
She glanced at him curiously. “Meaning what-he’s a total pain?”
“No,” Bliss said grudgingly. “He seems like a pleasant enough fellow…”
Des frowned, sensing that the resident trooper was trying to give her a small nudge in the tenant’s direction.
“I mean he’s a media person,” Bliss explained. “Writes for one of the big newspapers there.”
“Okay, I hear you now.” She had learned from the Salisbury case that people in Dorset were strongly averse to publicity. They were especially proud of the fact that the vast majority of New Yorkers could not even find Dorset on a map.
“Dolly just rented him the place two weeks ago,” he added.