She's Not There - Madison Marla (книги без сокращений .txt) 📗
Eric knew the bodies, if found on the grounds, would quickly be linked to Wilson. The group had speculated that the longer it took for the connection to be made to Wilson, the less likely it would be any of them would be linked to his murder. Eric had his doubts. James might be outed as the killer, but the members of their group would still be prime suspects in his shooting, regardless of the time frame. James had been a member of the Milwaukee Police Department after all, and even though they would be resistant to acknowledging one of their own as such a heinous killer, they’d still be determined to find the person responsible for his death. Or not—Eric realized paranoia crippled his judgment.
They covered the acres of wooded land, watching for anything which could indicate a burial site. Eric’s heart nearly stopped when they saw a matted, bloody disruption in a last drift of snow tucked under a grove of pine trees. On closer inspection, it turned out to be the remains of a deer that had become dinner for a wandering predator. Its rib cage lay in the shadows, a forgotten remnant of what had once been a beautiful animal. The sickening smell of death permeated the air as they left the scene behind.
Straddling the ATVs hours after beginning their search, Eric and Richard rested on a low hill overlooking a small meadow surrounded by tall pine trees. The trees blocked out the setting sun, even though it was barely four in the afternoon. Guided by an aerial map of the land that covered nearly three square miles, this opening in the trees would be their last stop before returning for Claire.
Richard alit from the vehicle, stretching his limbs. “Man, I feel like I’ve been on a horse. I don’t think we’ve covered half of this land. It could take days to go over it all.”
Eric squinted into a ray of sun spiking through the trees. “We didn’t expect to find something right away.” The meadow below, thick with growth, was pungent with the scent of the surrounding pines. Something about the seemingly innocent visage made him uneasy.
Richard turned to him, following his line of sight. “What do you see?”
“I don’t know. Those shrubs in the meadow look like Blackthorn bushes. I had to get rid of some near the house last summer; they have nasty thorns. Not sure I’d expect to find so many of them bunched together in the middle of the woods.”
“Why not?”
Eric squinted in the direction of the meadow. “They’re pretty common, but those look like they’re in a pattern of some kind.” He shuddered at the thought of such a lovely scene being the site of a mass burial. “Come over here and take a look at them from this angle.”
Richard walked over to Eric. “I see what you mean. The outer ones almost seem to form a circle. Too perfect to be random growth?”
Eric tried counting the shrubs. “Hard telling, but that would be my guess.” Eric’s gut told him they’d found the women’s bodies, resting in the meadow, buried under the Blackthorns. Wilson’s private cemetery. His chest tightened with a sickening dread of what they’d find underneath the thorny branches. “Let’s try digging below one of the smaller ones.”
He drove down into the meadow, the trailer behind his vehicle bouncing noisily behind him on the rough terrain. When they reached the meadow, Richard asked, “Sure you’re okay with this?”
Eric sat on the ATV, wondering if they’d find Kayla.
Richard offered, “I can do this, Eric. Why don’t you wait back at the house with Claire?” Richard jumped off the ATV and stood next to the smallest bush. There’d been rain the last few days, making the ground spongy and easily tilled by the spade he retrieved from the trailer. After he lifted out the first few shovelfuls of soil, he repeated, “Sure you want to do this?”
Eric, standing at Richard’s side holding a spade of his own, wasn’t sure. It was one thing to be looking for graves, but knowing one of them could be the resting place of his missing wife was something else. But he’d known what he risked—had gone looking for it—done everything in his power to make this day happen. He started digging beside Richard. The fresh smell of the disturbed soil filled his nostrils, sickening him as if the scent were that of rotting flesh.
The bush itself came out easily, its spidery roots trailing a scent of hewn earth, reminding him of hunting night crawlers as a kid. But they hit frozen ground about a foot down. They unzipped their jackets and continued to work their way into the hardened soil. Forty minutes later, about two feet into the ground, Richard’s spade hit something solid. They carefully exposed a heavy, green plastic tub about five feet long, the kind kept on patios to store things like cushions and gardening implements.
Richard tossed the shovel aside.
Eric said, “Open it.”
“We can’t open it. If it’s what we think it is we might compromise the evidence. It’s time to call the local authorities.” Richard took out his phone and dialed the number of the county sheriff he’d talked to the day before.
“This is Detective Richard Conlin from the Milwaukee Police Department. I talked to you yesterday about the former Morehouse land. We’re on the property now.”
Eric couldn’t hear what the other person said, but Richard’s next words were, “I think we found them. If we did, I’m guessing there’s at least twenty, maybe more. They appear to be marked with Blackthorn bushes. It’s getting dark fast. I’m not sure we can do much more tonight.” He paused, listening. “No, we can’t do any more here until a forensic team arrives. I’ll call in to my people; they’ll get the state crime scene techs to come out.” Then in response to something said on the other end, “We don’t want a media blitz, so keep it quiet. Bring tape and lights. We’ll keep watch until the experts get here, however long it takes.”
Richard closed the phone. “He’s coming over to see what we have. I need to make a couple more calls. Why don’t you go back to the motel we saw in town and check us in. Unless you want to stay here at the house.”
“Sleep here?” Eric shook his head. “No way. I’ll make the arrangements for us at the motel, but I’ll be back. I’m not leaving this spot until they’re all brought up. It’s the least I can do.”
79
Six days later the exhumations were completed and every inch of the grounds examined. The bodies, which had been carefully wrapped in heavy quilts before placing them in their coffin-like plastic tubs, were transported to the state crime lab for identification.
Milwaukee’s new chief of police had stayed in constant touch during the process, and thanks to Richard and the group, submitted the names and photos of the women they assumed to be the victims. The formal ID process, once started, would take weeks to complete.
Because of a four-karat, emerald-cut diamond ring still on her finger, Kayla Schindler was the first to be tentatively identified. The ring, along with the designer dress she’d been wearing the night she disappeared, cinched the ID for Eric, but the authorities wanted conclusive DNA evidence before making a positive ID. With the discovery of her body among the others, they had no doubt that Kayla’s death had been at the hand of the same perpetrator.
80
Lisa walked into Bernstein’s office for a scheduled appointment. Sitting across from him in a recliner—but not reclining—Lisa told him what she’d done. “My problem is, I’m not feeling guilty about what I’ve done. For days, I even felt proud of having pulled it off.”
“Lisa, as you know, I’m not required to report a crime you have committed as long as I’m certain you are not a danger to yourself or anyone else.” He paused and tented his fingertips together, touching the joined index fingers to his lips. “That said, I don’t believe you are either of those things, but if at any point I feel differently, then I won’t be able to retain your confidence.”
