New Novel

CHAPTER ONE

        Bobby Odell may have had a pretty good day. Who knew? What they did know now was that it ended when someone bound him to a utility pole and tied a plastic bag around his head.

       "That’s three," Pat Patterson said as the deputies lowered the body to the wet grass. He stiffened when he heard the chief’s voice behind him.

       "Three too many, Lieutenant."

       Patterson didn’t look around right away. He made sure the body lay stretched out, with the handcuffs, neck and leg straps, and other objects placed on the dead man's stomach. He waved the crew away to await the medical examiner, then turned.

       "Chief Goodnight," he said. "Whoever did this changed techniques, but it appears to be the same perpetrator."

       "Spect so, Lieutenant. Spect so. Any identification?"

       "We haven’t searched him yet, but I can tell you who he is: Bobby Odell, starting linebacker for the Demons for the last three years. Big local hero."

       "Holy pass play," the Chief said. He bent, giving the body a close look from head to foot, then rose. He glanced at the sky, then down to the ground. "Still dark. Who found him and when?"

       "That jogger over there," Patterson said, pointing to a thin figure talking to a deputy by the cruiser lights and beyond the crime scene tape. "Somewhere around five this morning. This park ain’t real busy at night, no dark places to park and try your luck."

       "Those police handcuffs?"

       "Won’t know until we run the serials. Not our brand. Anyone can buy them online."

       "People buy all sorts of misery online," the Chief muttered. "Keep me posted." He turned to leave.

       Patterson stopped him. "Did you log into the scene?"

       "Will do. Right now," the Chief said, his eyes locking onto Patterson. He let out a brief smile. "I was just testing you."

       Patterson watched him walk away into the dawn.

       Seargeant Hunt had joined them. He waited until the Chief was out of earshot and said, "Was he kidding?"

       Patterson frowned, staring at the utility pole. "Who knows?"

       Hunt shrugged. “Ain’t this an odd place to commit a murder?”

       ”What’s a normal place?” Patterson said. “It’s what the city calls ‘a neighborhood park.’ It’s quiet, not well lit, and free from nighttime traffic. You have a better idea in mind?”

       Hunt shook his head. “It’s just that Bobby Odell don’t live around here. I happen to know he stays over west in the Kingswood addition, where the rich folks live.” He stopped, and said, “At least he did stay there. My boy played football with him last season and his mom gave the team a party after the last game.” Musta been a surprise when some of our kind showed up there.”

       A thought wrinkled Patterson’s face, and he started to respond when a sharp clicking of footsteps announced the arrival of the medical examiner.

       She pushed through the crowd without slowing. Walking straight to Patterson and Hunt, she nodded, and said, “You guys sure know how to fuck up the end of a nearly perfect date. I thought this one had promise but you should have seen the look on his face when he heard the word ‘body.’ Almost tore the door off the hinges. And I kinda liked him.”

       “Lucky guy, Doctor Bridges,” Patterson said. He shook her hand and nodded toward the body. “He’s not so lucky.”

       She smiled and turned her attention to the corpse. She approached it and took a towel from her handbag. She spread it alongside the body and knelt with her bare knees resting on the towel. She pulled her dress up slightly, exposing a pair of tanned thighs. She smoothed the transparent plastic bag and viewed the face within it. She touched the throat.

       “He’s dead,” she said.”

       She bent forward to examine the small rope binding the bag. Her blouse fell open and ample cleavage appeared. Patterson noticed Hunt staring. He dug an elbow into the sergeant’s ribs and pointed him away. “Go look for clues,” Patterson said.

       Bridges looked up, “What else you want to know?” she asked.

       “Just the time of death and the name and address of the perpetrator if it be thy will.”

       “Up yours,” she said. “I can tell you this: it’s Bobby Odell, aka The Quarterback Terminator. Six feet-one of pure hunk, least ways he was before tonight. It’s Bobby all right.”

       “You sure?”

       “I have a life outside the morgue,” she said. “I have a, uh, an admirer who coaches football. I know things. I’ll tell you something, though.” She fingered the string that tied the bag.

       “What?

       “It’s a good thing I didn’t teach Bobby history his senior year. You’d be investigating the City of Caldonia’s latest teacher-student abuse case.” She bent closer. “I’ll tell you something else,” she said.

       “What? And can we limit it to the crime?”

       She turned and smiled. “Am I getting you worked up?” She stopped. “I’m sorry. You caught me at the end of a nice weekend with a bit of hangover from wine and … whatever. It’s a hell of a way to start a week. I haven’t shifted into Dr. Bridges Elite Medical Examiner mode yet.” She took a breath. “What might you want to know?”

       Patterson shook his head and said, “Something interesting? Important maybe?”

       “Perp may have been a pirate.” She pointed to the string. “Take a look.”

       Patterson stepped over and bent. “See the knot?” she asked.

       “Yes. What about it?”

       “Interesting,” she said. “They call it a bowline, that loop knot on the end. See the way the perp used it to tighten the rope?”

       “Yeah. So?”

       “A bowline. It’s used by a special kind of person. I had this admirer once ….”

       “Who was a sailor,” Patterson said.

       “Claimed to be. I always believed he was … whenever he dropped anchor that is. Anyway, he could whip a mean bowline, among other hitches.” She stopped and turned to smile at Patterson. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”

       Patterson stood up and retrieved a notebook from his pocket. He began drafting a quick line about the ropework.

       She pushed and prodded the body. “I’d say whoever it was that dressed him up for the dance did so a little before midnight,” she said. “Can we move him to the morgue just like this?”

       “Don’t see why not. If you are satisfied that he is no longer a living linebacker, we’ll get our photos and you can get back to,” he paused. “… whatever.”

       She extended an arm for Patterson to help her stand. She brushed against him, smoothed her blouse, and said, “Trust me. ‘Whatever’ split the scene and I doubt he’ll ever come back,” she said. “Thanks to you and Bobby Odell, “I’m unaccounted for now. She looked into his eyes. “I don’t reckon you are showing any signs of interest.”

       Patterson let her comment pass and continued writing.”

       “Afraid you can’t handle a peppy broad?” she said. “Never know ‘til you try.” Seeing no response, she turned serious. “You think this is the same perp?”

       Patterson thought. “I’m inclined to say so. It’s a different MO, but the victim is another high school senior from the same general background.”

       “Let’s see,” she said, “I recall that the first ended up in a dumpster with her throat slashed and missing her tongue.”

       “Yep. A real damned mess.”

       “And the second was found floating in the old Arkansas River absent an ear,” she said.

       “And you postulated she was likely dead before the ear removal,” Patterson said.

       “Listen to that man using words like ‘postulated.’ I like a man who uses big words. It might mean he uses something else that’s big.”

       “And all three were normal kids from stable families,” Patterson said, letting the off-key banter drift.

       She said, “Doesn’t sound gang-related, does it?”

       “Not right off,” Patterson said. “But you never know.” He paused. “Ever heard of ‘class envy’ in any of your medical studies?”

       “We never studied anything but what to do when rich people get sick.” She stopped. “Or die under mysterious —” She stopped and looked back at the corpse, cleaned slightly forward and said. “Did I ever tell you why I became a forensic pathologist?”

       “Not that I recall.”

       “They said I didn’t communicate well with the living.”

       Patterson didn’t respond.

       “So I learned to communicate with the dead.” She stared at Bobby Odell for several seconds. Then she turned to Patterson.

       “A tongue and an ear. Mean anything to you?”

       “What would that be?”

       “Looks like someone took this one’s breath away.”