The Lover

The minute Hensley finished his conversation, Bernie asked, “What was that about?”

“Earl Wheeler found a woman’s body lying in the middle of a dirt road leading into one of his soybean fields,” Hensley said. “That was John. He’s on his way to the scene now.”

“Any idea who—” Bernie didn’t get her sentence finished.

“Earl told John that he’s pretty sure the woman is Stephanie Preston. Said she looked like the woman in the newspaper and on TV who’s been missing for a couple of weeks.”

Chapter 4 (#ufc7b371f-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)

When they arrived at the crime scene, a small crowd had already formed along the roadside and the rutted lane leading into farmer Earl Wheeler’s soybean fields. Jim had seen this happen all too often, thanks to citizens in possession of police scanners. Although several deputies had beaten them there and were doing their best to keep the spectators at bay, Lieutenant Downs was sweating profusely, apparently concerned about keeping the scene secured.

“Look at them,” Hensley said. “Swarming like maggots. Why is it that people are so damn fascinated by murder and mayhem?”

Neither Jim nor Bernie replied since the deputy’s question was obviously rhetorical.

Bernie parked her Jeep just short of the yellow tape marking the scene, opened the driver’s door and hopped out, with Hensley on her heels. She gave the bystanders a hard glare and ordered everyone to keep their distance, then met Downs as he came toward her. Jim, who’d been sitting in the backseat, didn’t rush, allowing the sheriff to take the lead. After all, when it came time to speak to the press, she’d be the one to take the heat. And when the case was solved, it was her right to take most, if not all, the glory. As the new chief investigator, this should be his case, but he wasn’t about to inform either the sheriff or Hensley of that fact.

After he got out of the Jeep, he stood back, surveying the scene. Bernie paused after speaking to Downs and looked at Jim. She motioned to him with a wave of her hand. He nodded, and then joined the others at the edge of the yellow tape.

“It’s Stephanie Preston,” Bernie said. “John called Morris Claunch, our county coroner, and he should be here any minute now. He’ll be able to give us some basic info, but it seems fairly obvious that Stephanie’s throat has been slashed.”

Jim stepped over the tape and moved closer to the body, stopping a good five feet away. Stephanie was young, pretty, dark haired, full breasted and slender. With no apparent signs of a struggle and no blood anywhere on the ground near the victim, Jim surmised that she had been killed elsewhere and brought to this spot. And it was apparent, even to an untrained eye, that she had been posed in a somewhat seductive manner. One arm was draped across her breasts and one hand covered her mound, as if although the killer had wanted to expose her lush body, he’d also wanted to present her corpse with a small degree of modesty. The way he had arranged her limbs and long dark hair said that, in his own sick, perverted way, the killer had cared about his victim. Jim had seen this before, usually in cases where a member of the family turned out to be the murderer and in one case where the perpetrator had been a serial killer and posing his victims had been part of his MO.

Just as Jim noticed several marks on Stephanie’s otherwise flawless skin, Bernie walked up beside him.

“I have to call Sheriff Mays over in Jackson County,” she said. When Jim looked at her questioningly, she added, “Ed Mays is Stephanie’s uncle.”

Jim nodded. “Take a look at those marks on her.” He pointed them out, one by one. “What do they look like to you?”

“I’m not sure. Some look like small burns, as if—” Bernie swallowed hard. “They look like cigarette burns. And the others look almost like bite marks.”

“I’d say the body was placed here recently, within the past few hours, so it’s hardly likely that any wild animals would have caused those bite marks. If they had, there would be deeper wounds, some tearing, some flesh torn away.”

“They’re human bite marks, aren’t they?”

“That would be my educated guess,” Jim told her.

“Someone tortured Stephanie.” Bernie closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, then reopened them and cleared her throat.

“It’s okay to be upset,” Jim said. “You don’t have to pretend that it doesn’t bother you to know that not only was this young woman killed, but she was probably tortured for a couple of weeks before he slit her throat.” He glanced at Bernie and noted how pale her face was. “It bothers me a hell of a lot, too. I’m just better at hiding my feelings.”

“I don’t have the luxury of crying or screaming. I’m the sheriff. How would it look to my deputies—to anyone for that matter—if every time I’m exposed to something terrible, I break down and boohoo like a … a …”

“Like a woman?”

Bernie blew out a disgruntled moan. “Since she’s naked, do you think that means he raped her?”

“Probably, but it’s possible he didn’t. An autopsy should tell us everything we need to know about what she endured in the what, two weeks since she came up missing.”

“Our coroner, Morris Claunch, is the local undertaker,” Bernie said. “He’s not trained to do the kind of autopsy we need.”

“I figured that. So you’ll recommend that Claunch contact Department of Forensic Sciences, right? Or am I being presumptuous in assuming the sheriff’s department usually calls in the state boys when there’s a murder?”

“You’re my chief deputy, the lead investigator for my department,” she told him. “Is it your recommendation that the DFS and the Alabama Bureau of Investigation be brought in on this case?”

He looked her square in the eyes. Was she testing him by asking what he thought should be done? “Yeah, it’s my recommendation, but you’re the sheriff. It’s your call.”

“Look, I’m more aware than most that law enforcement in many Alabama counties still suffers from a prevailing ‘turf’ mentality, and some sheriffs and police chiefs are reluctant to call in the ABI. I’m not one of those sheriffs.”

“I had a feeling you weren’t.” The corners of his mouth lifted, hinting at an approving smile.

“Adams County simply doesn’t have the resources we’d need to do justice to this type of crime investigation,” Bernie told him. “My only other murder case was simple. Cut and dried. The killer confessed. So I haven’t worked with the ABI, but my dad knows the ABI area commander in Huntsville, and I’ve heard him say that he’s never had a problem working with the Bureau.”

Jim glanced at the cell phone clipped to Bernie’s belt, then said, “The sooner the better.”

“Right.” She removed her phone and scanned through the programmed numbers, then walked away from Jim and farther away from the crowd before placing her call.

Hensley came over to Jim and nodded toward Bernie. “Is she calling in the ABI?”

“Yeah.”

“Morris Claunch just drove up,” Hensley said. “What should I tell him?”

Day one as Hensley’s supervisor and Jim noticed that the guy was already playing by the rules. That was a good sign. “Tell him the sheriff is calling in the ABI and she’ll want DFS involved.” Jim looked directly at his deputy. “How long’s it going to take to get an autopsy report from DFS?”

“Average time? A week to a month. And for DNA evidence, that could be up to six months or longer. Worst case scenario—up to a year.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“The DFS guys are overworked and underpaid, and there aren’t enough of them to go around,” Hensley said. “In the past, we’ve worked with a preliminary draft right up to the trial.”

“Unless the coroner can tell us otherwise, I’m going to work under the assumption that Stephanie Preston was repeatedly raped and tortured before being killed.”

A tall, gangly man with thinning brown hair and a decided slump to his shoulders plodded casually over to them; he spoke to Hensley and glanced at Jim. “You the new chief deputy?”

“Yeah, I’m Jim Norton.”

The man held out his hand. “I’m Morris Claunch, the coroner.”

Bernie replaced her cell phone on the belt clip as she approached them. “A response unit is on its way from Huntsville, along with an agent, a guy named Charlie Patterson.” She looked right at Claunch. “I called Dad and he said you and he had worked with Patterson several years back.”

“Hmm … yeah, we did. Patterson’s okay. As I recall, he’s a team player. He’ll work with you”—Claunch glanced at Jim—“with your chief investigator and his team.”

“Once you take a look at the body, I’d like to know what you think,” Jim said.

Claunch raised one eyebrow, then nodded before making his way toward the beautiful young woman lying naked on a dirt lane in the middle of a soybean field.

* * *