Page 23 of Snow Creek

“This is a murder case, right?” Dante asks before turning to leave.

“We don’t know that yet,” I say.

Really, I doknow. I can’t think of a scenario in which the whole thing was the result of a freak accident. Like maybe someone got caught in a carpet roll at Home Depot and a worker found the body and was fearful they’d be blamed. And maybe fired. That’s stupid. Honestly, why else would anyone wrap up a body in carpet and set the thing on fire, and push it off the road? Murder, most likely.

Jerry Larsen approaches. He’s in his sixties. He’s been our coroner for more than half his life. Since the position is very part time, he and his wife run a drugstore downtown. He makes me think of Santa Claus every time I see him. His hair is white, and he has a silky, six-inch white beard. Jerry’s not the least bit fat, but with his twinkly eyes, white hair and pink cheeks, in my mind, I think of him as Merry Larsen. I never say that aloud.

“Detective,” he says, “what have we got here?”

I lead him to where the state patrol has been working the scene. This is our case, our jurisdiction. Even so, the truth is we’re in a kind of no-man’s land here. Our small budget means we rely on the state patrol and the crime lab in Olympia and assists from larger Kitsap and Clallam counties. Jerry Larsen is a coroner, not a pathologist. He’ll transfer custody of the body to one of the counties or the state and retrieve it when cause of death is determined.

The climb down to the scene is steep and I worry that Jerry might slip, yet I don’t dare offer him a hand. He’s sweet, but old-school. Old-school sometimes offends. Sweet is fine. Jerry, I think, is sugarplum sweet.

I recognize the patrol officers and they back off to let me do my work.

“We’ve searched fifty yards around the truck,” one says.

“Let’s do a hundred,” I say.

“VIN removed,” another says. “Plates too.”

I pull latex gloves from my pocket and find my way to the back of the truck. Good, I think. Only the hand is revealed from the carpet. Just as Maddie found it. No one here tried to do my job. I climb into the back of the truck, careful not to move anything anymore than necessary.

Jerry assists me with photos.

“Is there something in her hand?” he asks.

I lean in closer. The putrid scent of the body is overwhelming. I don’t let on. It’s the worst odor in the world and it stays in your nose for a week, particles of the dead clinging to your cilia like parasites that exists to remind you.

Of her.

Or him.

Or them.

The dead who want you to capture their killers.

“Doesn’t appear to be,” I tell Jerry.

I lean in and peel back the carpet very carefully. Some of the victim’s flesh adheres to the backing and it takes a little effort.

Unrolled from her carpet pupa, the woman is nude and partially burned. Her eyes are fused closed and her mouth gives out a silent scream. Jerry turns away for a split second before he resumes recording what’s in front of us with his camera.

She’s thin with pendulant breasts. Her abdomen is a pattern of stretchmarks. She’s someone’s mother. Her hands are claws, but they are calloused at the fingertips from hard work. She wears no jewelry. Her hair is long and blond. I stand still and for a second the woods around me goes silent.

I look over at Jerry. His pink cheeks are suddenly ashen.

In my gut I already know who this woman is.

What did he do to you? And where is he now?

I look over at the men standing around me.

“Everything here is evidence. I know you know that.”

I say that because sometimes they don’t know.

“We need everything preserved for the lab. That means every bit of carpet. Scrap of paper. Gum if there’s any in the cab. Coffee cups. The condition is unimportant right now. If you think anything is trash, then you should get another job. We need to ensure that nothing slips through the cracks here. That means the truck too.”

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