Page 109 of Unnatural Death

I get out with him. He has his pistol, I’m armed with the shotgun, and as we near the door the sound of the snakes striking the glass is awful. Beyond them is a wall of tanks that have been smashed to the floor where two people are lying in pools of blood. From here I can see their pistols next to their bodies, and cartridge cases littering the floor.

“We can’t go in there. Absolutely not,” I tell Benton. “Somebody has to deal with the snakes first. The one striking the door this second is a hooded cobra. God only knows what they were keeping in there. But we’re a long distance from antivenin, and neither of us are getting anywhere near.”

We climb back inside his car, and he’s calling 911 about the two victims inside. Benton describes who we are and what we’re seeing. He says that we’ll wait here until the police roll up, and then he’s talking to Lucy again. He gives her the plate number of the Land Rover in the parking lot, and she confirms that it’s registered to Bonnie Abel. The Tahoe is FBI and assigned to Patty Mullet, Lucy says to my horror.

The two victims inside aren’t moving. I have little doubt that they’re dead, and one of them has caught the attention of an enormous python. We can’t go in to help, and it’s all I can do to make myself watch. My impulse is to avert my gaze. I find the scene that disturbing.

The first marked cruisers are pulling up with their lights flashing. Benton gets out and talks to the uniformed officers. They peer through the glass at the striking snakes, and there’s a lot of profanity.

“What the hell?”

“Don’t anybody open this goddamn door!”

“How do we know who all’s in there? We sure it’s just two people?”

“What’s upstairs? Looks like an apartment or something up there?”

“Nobody’s opening any doors right now … !”

The Prince William County cops are pacing about befuddled and frantic. They’ve contacted animal control, and there’s nothing any of us can do now. Nobody is going inside, and that includes me. I explain that this is a rare instance when no one from my office will check the bodies at the scene. We aren’t transporting them since we can’t know how many snakes were let loose.

We don’t know how many are venomous, and where they might be. It only takes one to be lurking somewhere unexpected, and I’m not having anyone bitten. Including Benton and me. Then a white pickup truck churns through the slushy parking lot, and a short barrel-chested man in jeans and a ski jacket climbs out. Wally Jonas has put on weight and grown a beard since we met at the Mike Abel scene in August.

“Fucking hell.” He stares through plate glass as dozens of mature, well-fed snakes coil and slither, banging the windows and doors.

“Described as animal rescue and apetting zoo?” I ask him incredulously.

“That’s because of the goats they keep in the barn,” Wally says. “In nicer weather they’re in a pen in back and people can feed them. The other animals are rescues from all over the place, somehow ending up in the area because people had them when they shouldn’t. Or they can’t take care of them anymore, and they get surrendered, like that huge python. I sure hope that lady it’s wrapped around is already dead …”

“Well, it seems the barn door is open, because we saw a couple of goats and a monkey wandering around when we first pulled up,” Benton tells him.

“Also, a large parrot that has since flown off.” I point to the edge of the roof where it had been perched.

“I’ve been in here before and know about the snakes,” Wally says. “They sell the venom, and Ledger Smithson helped take care of them. The kid’s a freak.”

“He handles the snakes?” I ask dubiously. “Not just anyone can do something like that.”

“Or would want to,” Wally says, shaking his head as the banging continues. “The owner is involved in all that, selling the venom as a service to the public while also helping with the overhead. They have licenses, everything perfectly legal. It’s sure looking like Ledger has some explaining to do.”

“You’re assuming he killed these two people?” Benton doesn’t show that he thinks Wally is an idiot.

“Hell yeah, I do.”

“It would be good to find him, making sure he’s not another victim.” Benton explains why we’re here, that Ledger wanted to pass along information about his stepfather’s death.

“Well, it’s sure looking like he was here and decided to let all the critters loose after killing an FBI agent and his own mother,” Wally says. “Guess we have to rethink what might have happened to the stepdad. Ledger probably witnessed it, all right. He might have caused the accident.”

“We don’t know who did what at this point,” Benton says.

“And I’ve not gotten close to the bodies.” I stare through glass at the python tightening its grip as the victim doesn’t react. I catch a glimpse of her sun-weathered face and steely gray hair. “And clearly, I’m not going to be able to do anything here. This is what I need from you, Wally. You’ve got an I.R. thermometer in your scene kit?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“When animal control has cleared the scene of any and all hazards and it’s safe to approach the bodies, I need you to get their temperatures with infrared,” I explain. “Take lots of photos and video. That’s the best we can do under the circumstances. Do you have a local funeral home we can count on to get them to my office as quickly as possible?”

“Yes, ma’am. Lightfoot’s in Manassas. They’ve worked with you before.” Cupping his hands around his eyes, Wally peers through the glass at the cobra’s fanned hood and beady eyes.

CHAPTER 41

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