THEY INTRODUCED THEMSELVES to Walt Southern, the coroner and owner of the funeral home. He was medium height and in his midforties with thinning sandy-colored hair and a runner’s lean physique. He wore tortoise-shell glasses, his dark slacks were cuffed and pleated, and his sparkling white shirt seemed to glow under the recessed ceiling lights.
He looked at them in surprise. “But why is the FBI interested in this case?”
“Wait, didn’t you know we were coming?” asked Jamison.
“No, nobody told me.”
She said, “Well we’re here and we’ve been assigned to investigate this murder. We’ve read your post report. Now we need to see the body.”
“Now hold on. I can’t let you folks do that without checking with the detective on the case.”
Decker said, “Then call him. Now.”
“He might not be in.”
“You won’t know till you try.”
Southern moved off to a corner of the room, took out his cell phone, and made a call. He spoke with someone and then rejoined Decker and Jamison, not looking thrilled.
“Okay, I guess you Feds always get your way.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Decker.
“Well, let’s get to it. I’ve still got a body to prepare for a viewing tomorrow, and the family was real particular on her clothing and makeup.”
“Do you bury people here during the winter?” asked Decker.
“We prefer not to. Have to dig through the snow, and then the ground is iron hard. Hassle even with a backhoe. And who wants to stand outside saying good-bye to a dearly departed when it’s sixty below? Funny how quickly tears dry and people beat a retreat when their fingers, toes, and ears are getting frostbite. But most people these days opt for the quick-fried route anyway over a plot of dirt.”
“ ‘Quick-fried’?” asked Jamison.
“Cremation.” He chuckled. “I mean, doesn’t that mean they’re opting for Hell in a way?”
“Can we see the body?” said Decker with a frown.
Southern led them down a short hall, and they passed through into a small utilitarian room smelling strongly of antiseptic, form-aldehyde, and decomposing flesh.
In the middle of the room was a metal gurney. The bulge under the sheet was what they had come for. Hopefully, the body would tell them a story about who had killed its owner.
Jamison glanced at Decker, who was already seeing the room in electric blue. It was a testament to how many dead bodies he saw that this no longer bothered him. Well, almost.
“This is the first time I’ve done a postmortem on a victim who’d already been autopsied,” noted Southern.
“You’ve been trained to do this, I assume?” asked Decker bluntly.
“I’m properly credentialed,” replied Southern, who seemed to take no offense at the question. “Just because it’s not my main business doesn’t mean I don’t take pride in it.”
“That’s good to know,” said Decker curtly.
Southern lifted the sheet off the corpse, and they all three stared down at what was left of Irene Cramer.
“Cause, manner, and time of death?” asked Jamison.
“The cause and manner are pretty straightforward.” He pointed to a wound in the middle of the chest, appearing a few inches above the bottom intersection of the Y-incision. “Long, sharp, serrated knife penetrated here and bisected the heart. The manner was homicide, of course.”
“Killer was pretty accurate with the knife strike,” noted Jamison as she leaned in for a closer look. “Clean and efficient. Only one stab did the deal.”
“My thinking, too.”
“So, unemotional. No savagery or lack of control,” opined Decker. “Killer might not have known the victim. Or at least had no personal relationship with her.”
“Maybe not,” said Southern.
“And the time of death?” asked Decker.
“Okay, there we get into the speculation zone,” conceded Southern. “Based on what I found out, she’s been dead maybe about a week to ten days.”
Decker did not look pleased by this. “That’s a pretty big range. You can’t narrow it down more than that?”
“Afraid not,” said Southern, looking unhappy. “If this comes down to whether an alibi gets someone off or not, well, my report’s not going to be a bit of help on that. I’m sorry.”
“Insect infestation?” asked Jamison.
“A lot. That allowed me to gauge the week or so. After that, it gets dicey. At least for me. Again, I know what I’m doing, but this isn’t exactly the FBI lab here.”
“Had she been lying out there long, then?” asked Jamison.
“That’s both a hard and simple question.”
“Come again?” said Jamison.
“If she’d been out there too long, the animals clearly would have gotten to her. They hadn’t.”
“That’s the simple part, so what’s the hard?” asked Decker. “The insect infestation doesn’t reconcile with that?”
“Bingo. Lots of bugs, but no animal bite marks. And another thing, the lividity was fixed. Shows that after death she was in a prone position.”
“The report I read says she was found supine,” noted Decker.
“Right, but you can see that the lividity discoloration does not jibe with that. Blood won’t collect around parts of the body that are in contact with the ground. But once lividity is fixed, meaning when the heart stops beating and the large red blood cells sink via gravity into the interstitial tissues, the cells don’t move again. The discoloration stays where it was.”
“So she was obviously killed and laid on her face. But then the body was at some point turned on its back because that’s how she was found,” said Jamison.
“Right. After lividity was fixed.”
“Bleed-out would have been minimal, since the heart would have stopped shortly after the knife strike,” said Decker. “But there would have been some, and none was found at the crime scene. That means she was killed elsewhere and placed there, which would also explain the lividity discrepancy.”
Southern nodded. “But with such major insect infestation you would expect animal intrusion as well. I mean, if she’d been lying outside all this time, the critters we have around here would have gnawed her to bone in far less than a week, which is the bare minimum I put her TOD at.” He paused and added matter-of-factly, “Other than that she was in excellent condition. Very healthy. Heart, lungs, other organs, shipshape.”
“Yeah, the woman’s in great shape, except she’s dead,” said Decker grimly.
“How much skill are we talking about with the killer doing his own postmortem?” asked Jamison.
“The incisions were first-rate. I’d say the person had some medical training. And he, if it was a he, knew the forensic protocols. What was the source of that knowledge and training, I couldn’t venture to say.”
Decker pointed to the Y-incision. “How about the tools he used? Regular knife or medical grade?”
“I’d say he had some hospital scalpels and a Stryker saw or something like it to cut open the skull. And the thread he used to suture the Y-incision is surgical grade.”
Decker looked the body over and had the coroner help him turn the woman.
“No tats or distinguishing marks,” noted Decker.
“No liver spots or sun damage. She was too young for age spots, but her skin was not tanned, either. She wasn’t out in the sun much.”
They turned her back over and Decker ran his gaze over her once more.
How many bodies had he stared at in precisely these circumstances? The answer was easy. Too damn many. But if he didn’t want to look at bodies, he’d have to change careers.
“Anything of interest in her system?” asked Jamison.
“Almost nothing in her stomach, so she hadn’t eaten recently. No obvious signs of drug use. No needle marks, that sort of thing. Tox reports haven’t come back yet.”
“Anything else out of the ordinary?” asked Decker.
“I think her having a postmortem done on her before she got to me is enough out of the ordinary for any case.” Southern tacked on a grin.
“So your answer is no?” persisted Decker.
The smile fell away. “Right, my answer is no.”
“Is she from around here? Who made the ID?”
Southern placed his arms over his chest. “Once I put her face back on somebody from the police department recognized her.”
The door opened at that moment and a man around Jamison’s age walked in. He wore jeans, scuffed tasseled loafers, a checkered shirt, and a navy blue sport coat. He was about six feet tall, lean and wiry with a knot of an Adam’s apple and a classic lantern jaw. His hair was dark brown and thick, and a cowlick stuck up in the back like a periscope.
He looked first at Decker and then at Jamison. “Lieutenant Joe Kelly with the London Police Department,” he said by way of introduction.
“He’s the one I called,” said Southern.
Kelly nodded. “I’m with the Detective Division. Sounds impressive until you understand I’m the only one.”
“The only one working homicide, you mean?” said Decker.
“Homicide, burglary, armed robbery, domestic abuse, human trafficking, drugs, and I forget the others.”
“Quite the one-man show,” remarked a wide-eyed Jamison.
“It’s not by choice. It’s by budget dollars. We doubled the size of the force after the last oil bust went boom again, but it hasn’t caught up to detective level yet. Just uniformed bodies on the streets and in the police cruisers. They’ll get around to promoting a uniform to detective about the time the next bust comes along and we all get fired.” He stared up at Decker. “They grow all of them as big as you at the FBI?”
“Yeah, sure. But the other guys wear shiny armor. I like my denim.”
Kelly took a moment to show them his credentials, and they reciprocated. Then Kelly glanced at Southern. “Sorry I didn’t come straight over, Walt. Little bit of trouble at the OK Corral. Was driving by when it happened and heard the ruckus from outside.”
“Another fight?”
“Another something. Stupid name for a bar anyway. Too much testosterone, money, and liquor. I’m not a fan of that combo.”
“He said someone at the department recognized the victim once she was put back together,” said Decker.
“That someone would be me,” replied Kelly.
Decker hiked an eyebrow. “How’s that?”
“I left out one of the other things I’m responsible for here in London. Prostitution.”
“So Cramer was a hooker?” said Decker.
Surprisingly, Kelly shrugged. “I don’t know for sure.”
“Why not?” asked Jamison. “Seems to be pretty easy to tell whether someone is or isn’t.”
“You’d think. Now, the term ‘streetwalker’ is pretty outdated these days, but up here, we still have them. The guys drive by in certain sections of town and the ladies hook up with them right then and there. With that said, a lot of the arrangements are made online so as to avoid doing any direct soliciting in public.”
“So was Cramer arranging things online?” asked Decker.
“I’m on the computer all the time looking for sites that offer this stuff. I know where to look, at least for the sorts of things that go on here. I found one site advertising ‘consulting services’ for men in the oil and gas field here in London. Even though the site took pains to make it look legit, because these folks know cops are looking, there was one picture that looked really familiar to me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she looked really different, makeup, hair, clothing, but I recognized Cramer. I’d seen her around town,” he added hastily. “So at the very least, it seemed that she was in the ‘escort’ business in some way. She called herself Mindy on the site, for what that’s worth.”
“So it wasn’t a shock when you found out she was dead?” said Jamison. “I mean, prostitution is a high-risk occupation.”
“Well, it was surprising, actually, because murders are rare, at least around here, even for prostitutes. And it was a shock how she was found.”
“I can see that,” replied Decker evenly, watching Kelly closely.
“But what I don’t really get is why you folks were even called in for this. After Walt called me I went to talk to my chief. It was only then that I found out the autopsy and police reports had been sent to DC after a request came in from the Feds. I mean, it’s a weird-ass murder, sure, but there are lots of weird-ass murders, and the locals handle them by and large.”
Decker said, “Why do you think we were called in? You must have a theory.”
“Why should I have a theory?”
“You strike me as the type.”
In answer Kelly pointed to the table and the body on it. “She’s got some connection to something that has you Feds interested. I just don’t know what that is, but I’d sure like to.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” muttered Decker.
THE PAINT IN MY ROOM smells fresh and the carpet looks like they just laid it today,” said Jamison.
They had checked into their hotel on the main street of London and were having dinner in the restaurant off the lobby. Despite the late hour, it was pretty full.
“Comes with the cycle of booms and busts,” responded Decker as he glanced over his menu and frowned. “They have tofu here? In rural North Dakota?”
“Why not?” asked Jamison. “I’m sure people here eat tofu.”
“Yeah, maybe with their bacon and sausage. And elk.”
They ordered, and Decker sat back in his chair cradling the bottle of Corona with a lime wedge the waitress had brought him while Jamison sipped on some iced tea.
“So what do you think of Detective Kelly?” she said.
“I think his talents might be wasted in a place like this. But then again, this might be a hotbed of crime for all I know.”
“Men with too much money,” mused Jamison. “Like he said.”
Decker nodded absently. “Kelly wants to know why we’re here. And so do I. I called and left a message with Bogart but I’ve heard nothing back yet.”
“I did too, with the same result. What do you think after looking at the body?”
“It could be some psycho with a forensic fetish, or someone is leaving a message of some sort.”
“What sort of message?”
“If Cramer was killed because of something she knew, and others knew it as well, then it’s a warning not to talk or the same will happen to them.”
“What could she have known?”
“Well, if I knew that, we could make an arrest and fly home,” said Decker.
“Point taken.”
Decker’s expression grew dark. “I don’t think this is a one-off, Alex.”
“Meaning?”
“You heard what Walt Southern said. Medical-grade incisions and tools. You don’t walk into a Home Depot and buy a Stryker saw. And the body was cut up before it was laid out there, otherwise there would have been traces of the procedure and at least some blood. And he had to transport her out there. He evidently picked the spot with care.”
“So that shows he knows the area. Or at least scoped out that particular location beforehand.”
Decker nodded. “That takes planning and patience.” He looked over her shoulder and his eyes widened in surprise. He blinked twice as though to clear his vision and make sure he was seeing correctly.
“Stan?”
The big man who had just come into the dining area glanced sharply over at them when he heard the name. His look of astonishment mirrored Decker’s.
“Amos?”
The man named Stan came over and Decker stood to shake his hand as Jamison looked on, puzzled.
“What the hell are you doing here?” asked Decker.
“Could ask the same of you,” said Stan.
He was nearly as tall and broad as Decker, with reddish hair going gray at the edges, a florid face, and twinkly green eyes. His short, trimmed beard matched the color of his hair.
“Hello,” interjected Jamison as she rose and extended her hand. “I’m Alex Jamison. I work with Decker at the FBI.”
“I’m sorry,” said Decker. “Alex, this big lug is Stan Baker, my brother-in-law. He’s married to my sister Renee. They live in California.” He glanced curiously at Baker. “You’re a long way from home.”
Baker rubbed his thick, muscular fingers, his expression suddenly nervous. “I, uh, I live here now. And soon, well, I’m going to be your ex-brother-in-law.”
“What?” snapped a visibly stunned Decker as he took a step back.
“Renee hasn’t talked to you?”
“About what?”
“We’re getting divorced.”
Decker stared at him in disbelief. “Divorced? Why?”
“Lots of reasons. Blame on both sides.”
“And the kids?”
“They’ll stay with their mom.”
“Are they still in California?”
“Yeah,” Baker said uncomfortably. “The younger kids are in school and all. And Renee has a good job.”
“But you’re here in North Dakota, Stan. How exactly does that work?” he demanded.
“I moved to Alaska and worked there for a while, but that’s slowing down. You know Tim was an oil exec up there. He got me the job.”
“What do you mean Tim was an oil executive?”
“Who’s Tim?” interjected Jamison.
“Our other brother-in-law,” replied Baker. “He’s married to Amos’s sister Diane.”
“What about Tim?” said Decker.
“He got canned and last I heard drives an Uber and does some accounting for small businesses. And then my position got cut, too. I wanted a fresh start. This place is booming. They needed experienced field hands. Been here over a year now. And you can’t beat the money.”
“And your kids?” said Decker again.
“I Skype with them most every day,” Baker said defensively.
“You can’t Skype a hug or teach your son to swing a bat from thousands of miles away. You were in the Army when the first two were born. You were gone a lot.”
“I was fighting for my country, Amos!”
“I’m just saying kids need their dad.”
Baker said in an annoyed tone, “Yeah, well, it’s the way it is for me. I mean people do get divorced. And we did try to work it out. Counseling and all that.”
“Maybe you could have worked harder,” said Decker. “It’s family, Stan. They’re not supposed to be disposable.”
Now Baker’s green eyes flashed angrily. “Look, I know what you’re getting at. We all know what happened to Cassie and her brother, and . . . Molly. It was awful. Never cried that hard in my life as when I was at their funerals. But . . . but that’s you, not me. It’s way different. And I wasn’t looking for this to happen, neither of us was, but it just did. That’s life.”
Decker glanced at Jamison and then looked down. “Yeah, okay. I . . . I guess I should call Renee. I . . . I haven’t been all that good about keeping in touch.”
“Well, if you didn’t know your sister was getting divorced or your other brother-in-law lost his job, I’d say you’re spot-on with that observation,” chimed in a disbelieving Jamison.
“So what are you doing here?” asked Baker.
“Investigating a murder.”
“A murder!?”
“You have murders up here, don’t you?” said Decker sullenly.
“Yeah, it’s usually two drunk knuckleheads going at it, or some gang boys fighting over drug turf. Meth, coke, and heroin are like candy up here. Who got killed?”
“We can’t go into that with you,” said Jamison quickly. “But you’ll probably hear about it on the news.”
“Damn. And the FBI got called in for it? Why can’t the locals handle it?”
Decker said, “We just go where we’re told to go, Stan.”
“Would you like to join us for dinner?” asked Jamison.
Baker blanched and took a step back, glancing at Decker. “What? No. I, um, I already ate my dinner.”
“What are you doing here, then?” asked Decker, who was now clearly curious about Baker’s discomfort. “If you’ve been here over a year, surely you’re not staying here.”
“No, I got my own place. I’m here to meet, uh . . .” he mumbled.
“Meet who?” said Decker sharply.
“Stan?”
They all turned to see a woman in her early thirties saunter into the room. At least saunter was the verb that came to Decker’s mind as he watched her move. She was quite beautiful, and he could see many of the men in the room, even those there with other women, turn to stare at her.
“Caroline, hey,” said Baker rigidly, glancing nervously at Decker. “This is Caroline Dawson,” he said to Decker.
“Yeah, I got that,” replied Decker, gazing sternly at his soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law.
“Um, Caroline, this is Amos Decker, and his partner, Alex. Amos is—”
“I’m Stan’s friend,” interjected Decker. “Neither of us knew the other was in town.”
Caroline smiled. “Cool, what a nice surprise. You ready?” she asked Baker before glancing at Alex. “Hey, you guys want to join us? We’re going clubbing.”
“There are clubs here?” said an incredulous Jamison.
Caroline smiled and did an eye roll. “I know. You wouldn’t think, but yeah, there are maybe three good places. Well, they’re more bars than clubs. But not all of them play just country music, which Stan loves and I can’t stand.”
“We’re good,” said Decker. “We just flew in. Pretty beat.”
“Okay, we’ll do a rain check, then.”
“Right.”
Caroline gripped Baker’s hand. “Let’s roll. First stop, the OK Corral Saloon.”
“Do you live in London?” asked Decker suddenly.
She grinned. “Yeah. I’d prefer to live in London, England. Maybe someday. My dad owns this hotel, and a bunch of other businesses. I help him run them. He lives in a big place way outside of town. I sometimes stay there, but I also have a condo in town.”
“Okay.”
“See ya,” said Caroline, and she led Baker from the room. Jamison looked at Decker. “What a coincidence, huh?” Decker sat back down and stared dully at the wooden-topped table.
“Sorry about your sister,” she said.
“She should have called me,” said an obviously stricken Decker.
“Are you sure she didn’t try to contact you?” said Jamison in a suspicious tone.
Decker suddenly looked guilty. “I think there might have been some voice mails I forgot to return.”
“Wow, for a guy who can’t forget anything that is remarkable.”
“I know, I know,” he said miserably. “I’m bad about that.”
“You need to talk to her. Be supportive. Let her tell her story without being judgmental.”
“People work stuff out all the time. And Stan has already found someone else.”
“I’m not sure he’s looking for a permanent companion in this relationship, Decker. And by the looks of it neither is Caroline. I think they’re just two people having fun.”
When their food finally came Decker only took a few bites before mumbling to Jamison, “Sorry, I . . . I lost my appetite. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He headed out without further explanation.