Page 43 of Unnatural Death

I restrain myself from adding that I don’t know what Roxane Dare was thinking. A watered-down version of the Health Department’s division of epidemiology, DEP is a needless redundancy and waste of taxpayers’ money. It’s nothing but a place to park political hacks, suck-ups and empire builders who won’t go away quietly.

“Maggie was asking all sorts of stuff about what was done to the victims,” Fabian continues. “Are there signs they were bitten or clawed, maybe partially eaten by bears or something? Why is it they’re not visually recognizable?”

“And how would she know a detail like that?” I ask.

“It’s all over the internet,” he says. “But hey, how would I know whether it’s true or not? Since I’ve not been included in any conversations?”

“You don’t need to be included,” Marino says, walking off.

I notice Faye Hanaday waiting some distance away from the helicopter, her lab coat over jeans and sneakers. She’s wearing earbuds, no doubt listening to music, her hair blond with hints of blue and purple. Last week it was cotton-candy pink with touches of lavender. She takes the banker’s box from Marino without a word, and they start signing paperwork.

“Will check with you later,” he calls out as she walks back toward our building, and of course she can’t hear him.

* * *

“What’s in the box you just handed off?” Fabian asks when Marino returns to the helicopter.

“Blackbeard’s treasure,” he says.

Seriously.”

“Seriously, none of your business, and don’t go bothering Faye about it even if she’s your girlfriend. She knows how to be professional and not run her mouth.” Marino scowls up at three helicopters hovering high over us with cameras mounted under the noses.

“Nothing is shared without my authorization. I don’t care who asks.” I pull on gloves, raising my voice above the din. “And everyone needs to refrain from speculating or perpetuating rumors. Things are bad enough with all the disinformation on the internet. We don’t want to add to it.”

“I saw the Mansons a couple of times when I was inside their store running errands. Most recently was in June when I’d stopped in to pick up some cleaning supplies,” Fabian says. “They were filming a commercial, dressed up like Indiana Jones, pretending they were camping in a jungle. My impression was that they were really stuck on themselves and rude, bossing around their staff disrespectfully. I could see why somebody might have had it out for them if that’s what happened.”

“I could see why somebody might have it out for a lot of people, but that doesn’t mean shit,” Marino says.

Reaching inside the helicopter, I lift out large paper bags sealed with red biohazard labels. Inside is the victims’ bloody clothing, and I hand the bags to Fabian.

“Under no circumstances are you to open them, and they go directly to the DNA lab,” I instruct. “I’m treating all evidence in this case as a potential biohazard. We also have to worry about toxins.”

“You got it.” He unclips a pen from a pocket of his scrubs, initialing the evidence forms taped to the bags. “And I hope everything goes okay.” He indicates the trailer, a steel ramp attached to the back and leading to the closed cargo door.

“Hopefully everything is ready for us?” I ask.

“I have no idea what it’s like inside right now.” Fabian doesn’t like his turf invaded. “I can’t vouch for everything done by the feds in and out with their geek squad. They’ve not let me back inside since they started storming the castle. I couldn’t set up for you the way I usually would.”

He stares at the four uniformed officers carrying MP5 submachine guns on slings across their chests.

“As you can see, we have limited control over how things are done in a situation like this.” I explain it will be only Lucy and Marino inside the trailer with me.

“I’m sitting out the game again …?” Fabian starts to protest.

“We don’t have much choice about who’s inside the trailer. And it’s close confines, as you know.” I collect my briefcase from the helicopter’s back cabin. “But there’s something I could use your help with.”

Fabian wants to investigate, and I’m going to let him in a limited way. I bring up the Nokesville case from three months ago, the dairy farmer crushed to death after driving his tractor erratically. Fabian was at the scene with me. He transported the body in one of our vans and assisted while I did the autopsy.

“A weird one, right?” he replies too enthusiastically. “I’ll never forget rolling up on the field he was plowing and seeing the tire tracks all over the place. I thought for sure we’d find he was under the influence of alcohol or drugs. Either that or he had a heart attack, maybe a stroke.”

“I’d like you to pull the records we have and also anything that’s been in the media about it.” I swap my satellite phone for the one I usually carry.

“Are you’re thinking it might be connected to these two people?” Fabian indicates the pouched bodies in their rescue baskets. “The dairy farm’s really close to Buckingham Run. Weird to think if they all knew each other, now that we’re talking about it …”

“Nope, we’re not talking about it,” Marino butts in again as he unfastens the straps of a rescue basket.

“Eventually I’m going to have to finalize the manner of death in that case anyway,” I explain to Fabian. “Ideally, I don’t want to leave it pending indefinitely.”

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